The sounds of anguish engulfed him. The desperate screams and moans for help flooded his ears. The halls were painted with gold, the floors lined with tiles, in an instant, it was shrouded in a deep red.

There was nothing else on his mind, which was lost. Only a small spark, a gentle breeze, a brush of hair. It ran through his mind and left just as quickly. He knew at once what they came for. Their steps sounded throughout the halls and barreled towards him; he knew they came for him.

Soon all he had seen had vanished, and when he came back to reality, he was staring into a bucket. It was an empty bucket, with rust lining the bottom edges, the paint chipped off of the sides. The wood he laid on was hard and splintered his skin.

He wondered what he was doing here. Where he was and what had happened. But when he looked up, he saw one gruesome, haunting sight. The smell of rot choked him and he wouldn't let himself breathe.

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He couldn't look away from the scene before him. The body was pulverized and barely recognizable. It looked as if someone had squished a berry. The blood of it was melting into the scenery and painting a strikingly contrasting sight.

He couldn't hear the men around him as they shouted at one another. He couldn't feel their muscular hands shoving him on the dry wood. There was nothing more to his mind than what he could see.

He yearned to caress the face of the body, and yet he couldn't find out why. It called him. It's dried blood cracking off of the gentle skin seemed more appealing than he could know.

His eyes were attached to it. Its horror-stricken face seemingly stuck in time.

He was entranced, his mind going blank.

He wanted to be free,

And to laugh,

And to love,

And to cry,

What was wrong with him?

Why can't I think?