The Sentinel says Goodnight.

A fat tongue rolls over dry lips, swollen from dehydration. They taste like novocaine and spearmint. His tongue makes another run over dry lips. Just get up! Move you fucking crumb bum! GET UP!

Another run over the lips, this time his tongue rests for a bit, tickling the corner of his mouth, before ducking back in.

He could feel a tired burn sitting on his eyes. Or was that blood? Crusted, and scabbed? Maybe both.

Get up. On three. One..two…tongue darts out, looking for something to latch onto…threeee.

The only thing that moved were the muscles in his neck, now strained and sore. His head didn’t even make it off the floor.

The floor. His head was on the floor. His head was the only part of his body he was aware of. Wipe your eyes! Nothing. Move a toe and the world would be set right. Nothing.

He could move his tongue. He clung to that. Licking his lips, pulling his bottom lip into his mouth for a hug. He would have slobbered over it like a boy in heat, but he didn’t have the saliva for it.

He lay disembodied from himself. Though he could see the blurred outline of his feet, and the shadow of his arm, they were only memories now, no longer his.

The fight was coming back to him, in all its horror.

As the last heavy breath forced his chest up, and his tongue made one final walk along the parameter of his mouth, his last thoughts were, Why?

Why? He would never know. His tongue ended its watch there in the corner of his mouth. Forever perched and on guard.

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