The room was dark, but he never dared turn on the light. Curled and trembling in the corner, hugging himself, naked as when he was born.
The room he was in only contained a rusty pendant lamp and a cold metal bed, neither of which helped him in his pitiful state. His fingers are now purple due to the decreasing temperature of the room.
He wants to cry, but he never dared to do so. Crying is for losers, and he's not one of them. They're fucklooser, that's why if they should've shut their mouths, then they should be here with him too.
Even with his constant shaking, his eyes never missed. It says it all: very incoherent emotions.
Pain, fear, hatred, helplessness, and betrayal
Pain for his freezing-cold body.
Fear, for who knows what's more excruciating that's coming?
A pure hatred for the person who brought him into this situation.
helplessness, as he was fully aware that he was left to suffer the wrath of gradual death.
He's itching to kill someone, but what can he possibly do? Perhaps they are laughing at him now, leaving left to be a laughing stock.
Slowly, the door is pushed in, bringing along the lights from outside, which illuminate the other half of the room. It didn't last long when a man wearing a mask walked in, dragging along a sledgehammer with traces of dripping blood. Their bloods.
He knows that behind the mask a grin was plastered, grinning just like how he was addressed, a pyscho. The grinning psycho
It was clearly said that losers will always be left behind.
Now they are the only ones left in this room.
"Shall we start now, hun?"
Who's the real loser?
