Victim Shame

You leach away at the end; your strength, your blood, your dreams. They pool messily; sticky and warm as with timely spurts their muddle blooms around you. There is time to feel that, and room for it, what with the dulling of the pain.

Despair accompanies the ascending darkness, wafting acrid torches espoused with sickly-sweet odors. Who knew how shivering cold that despair could be? Or how malodorous it’s kippering as a final, unexpected, physical sense?

He is thievery, Murder, leaving moneys, keys and cards, but taking the only thing one ever owns, or wants… and you are his shame.