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He shivered, violently. His legs were hugged to his chest as he looked up from having his face pressed into his knees while his vision swam with spots, with shapes and doubled figures. His vision would go black, and then it'd come back, and the pain would freshly erupt in his chest. Clog his head.

It was lasting longer this time.

He didn't know how long it'd been. But this time, when he looked up, there was someone else in the tiny, miserable cell across from his.

His long, strawberry blonde hair covered his face, but he saw his shaking shoulders. He knew better.

He remembered when he couldn't stop sobbing. Then nothing. And all he could recall was the fluorescent lighting and the walls smudged with dirt and dried blood.

But he could smell the wildflowers, and honey, and pine still clinging to the outsider's clothes. He'd been outside.

He knew about outside.

He was outside...They took him. They took him, oh, no. They took him in from the outside! His thoughts were coming slower, sluggishly.

He wanted to get up. He wanted to get him out of that metal hell. He couldn't be here. He shouldn't. He wanted to shout at him to run. He couldn't. He couldn't. He couldn't tell him. He couldn't help him out of there. He couldn't get himself out. He couldn't even think straight.

He watched as the shivering little boy in the cell across from him looked up with scared, watery grey eyes. Grey. Grey like clouds when it starts raining.

Grey; not like white. He hated white.

The scared little boy looked him right in the eyes, and realized he was doomed. He felt sick. He felt so sick and dizzy.

He watched with some air of lucidity as another white mass filled his vision. Sharp, grating noises assaulted his ears; mixed with the fearful cries of the boy opposite him. He pressed his hands over his ears.

The sound was so loud, so so loud.

Then it was over. It was quiet again. He could only hear the sound of his breathing and the blood rushing through his body. He looked up. His eyes widened at the mess in the stall opposite him. He cried out, as loud as he could, at the blood splashed against the wall. He put all his anger and frustration into that one hoarse scream. The boy was gone.

He couldn't get him out. He couldn't get him out. He's dead. He's dead. He's dead. No, no no. No. He couldn't get him out. He needed to get out. His legs wouldn't work...They wouldn't listen to his head. Move, damn you...! He had to get out. He couldn't if his legs wouldn't listen.

He died. The blonde boy died.

He couldn't get out. Oh, he has to get out. He had to smell the honey, and the pine again. He wanted wildflowers to brush pollen against his fingertips. He wanted to lay in the grass and feel the sun. The sun. The sun! He remembered the sun.

He could almost feel it's love against his skin.

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