Two people and one room, or so one person in one house. Three children in one forest, yet thousands of souls mixed in a habitat of guts and glory. Two people in one room have the ability of hearing the only commonalities of buzzing and breathing. Scratching their pulsating eyes and biting the skin woven flesh of eachother. The room consisting of hours and days of being locked away and the clock in which those two inhumane beings cannot read. The trickles of blood that drip from their nose is each day that was spent in the isolation. They crawl on the cut knees of their own because their movements no longer make an impact of walking. Dry blood and slivers of wood sit under their fingernails because day after day they scratch longingly at the walls hoping someone will hear in the middle of nowhere.

    One person in one house , makes up of the one person that used to be. One day he had the love of his life, the next he was sitting in his living room chair with a shotgun across his lap , the remaining blood stains splattered across the walls and her body in the backyard spilling itself out onto the ground.

The three children don't seem to mind though, they run and skip to the backyard ripping her arms and legs off of her own body, biting the thin layer of sweet skin as their teeth begin to stain the color of deep red and fill the small gaps with the left over meat and muscle. The children drag the beloved body into their green kingdom of sorrow and disappear into the darkness. The souls and screams go on throughout the house. The man still sits blank stared not blinking, in his red soaked clothes quiet and already dead.

 The two in the room get worse and more mad dying away with their psychotic impulses.

 Theres one person in one room, three children in one house and two people in one forest. For the souls, they count as still mixing and lost.


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