"Jerry."
On the table, scarred with cigarette burns, "fuck"s, and old spilt coffee rings, lay a mangled mass of what once resembled Jerry's hands.
"Jerry, are you listening?"
Bones pointed in all directions, like a fallen Jenga pile.
"Jerry, I'm gonna say this one last fucking time."
Jerry was unable to answer. Besides the duct tape that he had wrapped around wrists, keeping his life juice all bound under his skin, there was a piece placed upon his lips.
"Jerry."
Blood pooled on the table, running over the edges.
Darkness grew in front of Jerry's face.
"Jerry! Fuck!"
The cold began to creep in.
He closed his eyes.
"Mac! Hurry the FUCK up!"
Under the table, the pooled blood began to drip unto the grime and white tile with the ever-discolored caulking.
There, with a sudden introduction of color to the boring floor and willful ignorance, Jerry's daughter began to paint.