The drill descended, constant whirring noise, towards Stan’s mouth, screaming nighttime fears into his skull. This was the fourth time this week, the fourth time in as many hours. He needed this done, desperately. When one leaves something to fester for so long one becomes almost immune to it, it’s rot a part of you and homely, in its way. But it had to go.
She’d screened him for decades, waiting for him to come to
his decision. The drill descended, constant whirring noise, and cracked: a
slight scream and silence. Blessed where those who took the rot, took it and
held it, nurtured it and kept in fresh, virulent and ready. Drill descends,
drill cracks and makes whole again.
Stan felt fresh, renewed and reformed. He was to be a mighty
warrior, a crusader for the world, for she and decades forever after. Stan
descends, makes the world ready: cracked, with a slight scream.
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