Miller sat, isolated by the circumstances. He glared blankly at the white washed stone wall of his prison cell. He had a craving inside of him, a growing need for the luxuries he once had, in what now feels like another life to him.
"You know, John this world is crazy to me." Miller had spoken with a irritated edge in his voice, as if his own mind was mocking him.
"How d' ya' mean, Miller?" Jonathon questioned, blankly.
"Well, it's all this exercise. These kids are being praised for spending God knows how many days exercising. I bet they don't even enjoy it."
Miller's tone had started to grow.
"And then there's guys like us. We live our lives and let others live theirs. We enjoy our time and we ain't getting praise for nothing."
"Well, they do think we're murderers, Miller."
"Ta' hell with it!" Miller exploded, "I didn't kill her and you know it!"
Miller's voice lowered. His tone became more, unsettling.
"If they wanna add years to their life, then they gotta' take the life outta' those years. We add life, not time. Wouldn't wanna live forever anyways."
As Miller said this he rolled over onto his bunk. Eager for the arrival of the new day. Miller had not been tired as such, he just had little interest in staying awake. Quietly, Miller listened to the thumping of rain drops, hitting against their window. He pressed his pillow deeply against his head, so that he could hear his own heart beating. He liked to imagine that the beating were footsteps, as if someone was walking towards him.
After around four hours of restlessness, Miller decided that he couldn't sleep. Cautiously, he stepped out of his bunk, careful as to not wake Jonathon. Raindrops, crashing against the window now seemed only too clear to Miller, as he listened in the dead of the night. Steadily, he clambered through the window. The rain pours on him, with the rhythm of a icy waterfall. It had gotten to the point now where the pain of the cold is warming him, more than his nightwear ever could. The warmth of his breath, fights through the bitter darkness of the evening, only to be beaten back by the unrelenting force of the wind, against his face.
The night seemed different, bleaker. The frigidness of the workhouse at night, with the shining twilight radiating down onto it. Restless waves of depression and regret filled Miller's veins as he remembered the little girl's expression. Blood filling the patterned cracks of her face. And how her body had been gutted, with all her intestines violently scraped out. He remembered the large, talon like fingernails. Scratching against the stone floor, as the beast fled. It had a human's body, but distorted. Bones visible through the stretched skin. It had fought like the devil, dressed as a man. But the one thing he remembered most of everything, was the vile face of the beast. It had defined bone lines, and tight skin. Its large gaping mouth stretched up to where the creature's ears should of been placed. It had small scrawny eyes, filled with nothing but hatred and pain, staring deeply into your very soul, illuminated by a subtle glow, emerging from its eyes.
Miller then remembered one vital thing, he had vowed to himself to never forget. As the monster had initially walked up to Miller, it spoke. Miller had gagged at the smell of its foul breath, smelling of rancid onions and vomit. Its voice was high and shrill, it had screeched
"I'm going to kill everyone you've ever held dear to you. Starting with your close friends."
As Miller recited the words, he sprinted back to his window, the breath of the wind and the force of the raindrops smacking into his face. Pure adrenaline and fear had filled every vein in Miller's body. He shoved his head through the window and stared in. What Miller saw, was vile. Jonathon's face had been completely torn off, a mixture of blood and sweat had submerged his stomach. Whatever had killed him, had put a lot of effort into it. Shocked, Miller pulled himself to tear away his close friend's duvet.
A single, white piece of paper sat there, drenched in blood. Shakily, Miller picked it up, with a tremble in his grip. The note read:
"I don't want to live forever either."
The last thing Miller could remember, before going completely insane, developing schizophrenia and multi-personality disorder. Was a scrawny, skeletal body, crawling out the window hastily, its chest pressed closely against the wall, almost resembling an overgrown spider. That is, of course; if Miller wasn't already insane.
Credited to Lyweb