The ragged scrape of rusted nails on gypsum. Footsteps like a mad zombie.
Oh Christ. C’mon, James. It’s dark. There are things out there now.
The footsteps stop. The rustle of an emaciated shoulder inside nylon.
I told you to stop doing that.
Hh-what? What?
The ****** blasphemy. You’re laughing at me.
No. No I’m not. Listen, you think I care anymore about your ******* religion? You think I give any kind of **** about what you believe in? I’m too… (okay fine you’ve made your point) I care too much about what’s going on inside my own head. I don’t dream good dreams, ma- (okay i’m sorry jesus) I dream about losing my hands. I dream about you losing your hands. You know (****, man, you’re freaking out, calm the) you know what? I don’t think I even saw the bloodstain. I don’t even think the manhole was crusted up with anybody's ******* brains. I don’t think I saw the imbecile trying to eat smoke. I think it’s all in my **** head. I’m juh-hust –
His voice cracks. Guttural gasping sobs.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
A sigh. Rustle of clothes and the heavy thud of muscle against gypsum.
‘S alright.
Sobs that sound like laughter.
It’s alright. Look, see? I won’t go outside. Are there even things out there?