Drip.
We were in a room with walls made of stone and they were strapped into metal chairs in the middle of the room. Besides their whimpers of pain and fear, I could hear water dripping down the walls and landing in rotten puddles on the ground, attributing the putrid smell of the air.
Drip.
My mother's tears had fallen down her cheek to land and splash on the ground as well, but both her and my father's cries fell upon deaf ears, because I was in a trance and unresponsive to any of their begging. A twisted smile lifts my lips at the sight of their pathetic and tearful sobbing.
My head angles as someone else in the room starts to stir and their wide eyes take in my cold, dead eyes and flinch at what they see. Even in the shadows, his blue and yellow eyes manage to pierce into my soul, but this time there is nothing but a withered husk of what it once was.
