Throat parched, skin patched, coupled with sudden violent urges to claw away at the very flesh that burdens the failing decrepid structure he once deemed a man. Tongue clammy, coated in a light secretion of the unexplained he maneuvers to swallow at what little moisture remains. He's then overcame in a barrage of sporadic zaps in his conscience catching small grimmaces of the small, yet detrimental choices he's compiled to draw himself to this point. Solicited by the brief thought of his daughter, a vague feeling of hope presents itself.... His spirit dampens and the very thought is suddenly yolked barbarically from the very fibers of his being. He wretches as his stomach drops like a a melted taffy and his throat begins to drown. Failure..... A warrior once admired....condemned, abolished, exiled and sentenced to a torturous treatment made only by his truly, and in a way.... Its never felt so good to be so hurt. As if hes aware that this bed.... is his bed.... He shall find his own warmth in his own hell. Comforted only by the thought of his own absence... A Nefarious bliss