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Red Rum

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My fingers leave a bloody streak on the wall as I scratch the cold, hard stone. I am desperate. Maybe I have gone mad. That’s what everyone else says. My body shakes and I make dry coughing sounds. Hunger is cutting a hole through me, I swear it is. They do not feed me, they fear me too much. I have done the worst of things. Red rum. I lick my lips and continue digging my fingers into the already crimson trails on the prison wall. It’s been weeks now.

A week passes.

So they think that locking me up until they kill me will solve everything? I laugh brokenly. The damage is done. Those lives lost, they are lost forever. Their lovely screams echo through my mind as I write, and I hum to a children’s song. My blood makes good ink. Red rum, red rum, red rum, red rum. I believe I have written it hundreds of times here, yet another reminder of my triumphs. It is written on the walls. Red rum, red rum. And on the floor. Red rum, red rum. I have days left to live.

My final day.

As they take me away, I glance one last time at my cell. It is streaked with red, everywhere. I have done well. The guards lead me into the night before a crowd that sings for my death. My hands long to shut them up for good. But it is the other way around this time. One thing to do. To say. Red rum. My feet are dragged up rough steps over the shouting people. A rope is tied onto my bloodstained hands. The end is near… there is no fear. Red rum. I feel the deadly weight on the rope thrown over my head. I close my eyes. Red rum, red rum. The leader begins to count. A smile forms on my chapped lips and they form the words, “Red rum, red rum.” A guard shuffles uncomfortably. I giggle. “Red rum is murder backwards!” I whisper with glee, right before the ground is pulled out from under me.
I welcome the darkness.




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