Waiting for instructions is tedious. He counted and recounted cigarettes, smoked and unsmoked, as tar crawled through his blood. He remembered an earlier conversation:
"This will kill you eventually..."
Yeah, right. Another blast of grey. It began to descend as the letters fell. Bills and a package, which was postmarked Europe. A small snag of barbed wire and a handwritten note.
"Turn yourself in."
Hardly what he'd expected. He picked up the barbed wire. It had been sharpened, enough to draw blood. Before he went to get a plaster he took a few of the foam peanuts they used for packing and impaled them one by one.
"This isn't over, but it will kill you eventually..."
It was just as grey outside. A grey world waiting for a little colour. In another life, perhaps he'd have been a painter.
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