If only bad thoughts were just like human waste, and they could be easily discharged from oneself by throwing them up.
If only it was that easy.
His gut, his lungs, his throat; everything felt like they were burning. He poured the content of his stomach until everything that came out was nothing more than colorless liquid, and still, everything burned.
He hacked, he wheezed, he coughed again and again, wishing that everything inside his mind could just be thrown up and flushed away. But they were still there, and now his eyes burned too.
The chamber was cold, and the dry floor was damp. And still, it couldn't get rid of the burn eating away at his soul. Even when his skin got colder and colder.
