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The sheets were icy, the pillow felt hard, the blackness was asphyxiating.

It was silent, the type which was dangerous at some hours before sunrise. The type which allowed grim thoughts to fester and frightening ideas to reproduce into armies of terror.

Bomin lay in bed, awaiting a sleep he knew would not come but he still naively hoped for. His eyelids refused to droop, no matter how heavy they grew, and his mind did all but set anything irrelevant to rest aside.

No, it was five in the morning and he'd been strewn upon the mattress for hours now, yet he was awake and helpless, a frustration mixed with desperation and anger forming a perilous concoction within him that made him wish to scream, cry, lash out at anything, anyone, himself.

He palmed at his eyes, sighing in aggravation prior to flopping his hands back down to his sides.

Life was never fair, he knew, but death was even more unjust. Death seemed willing to grasp all living beings except for those who wanted to be taken into its chillingly blissful grip.

How much easier it would be, if instead of chasing death, death came for him.

⇻•ו⇺

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