The girl watched the sleeping figure on the bed, her shadow carried around by the flickering bulb above on far white walls.
The black veins running along her deathly pale skin thickened.
Her weathered hand stretched out, a match box as old and dark as her soulless eyes shifted into existence.
All she could hear were the screams. The scream of pain. The scream of a shortened life. The scream of anger.
The glimmer of images brushed by her skin, each carrying a deadly tale that unfurled, casting more blame upon the man that lay, untethered to conciousness.
The girl struck the match against its box three times.
The girl disappeared at the dawn of his screams.