Their treatments were only what the Devil's Inferno seven levels of sins. Yet they did it for reason that those who were being under their care, could not understand.
Caring little to nothing, they went on so, for the hidden chance of something anew.
The knowing of what those things were once human into demons fellowship of the past, now, and future.
With broken and tatted fingers, these memories play, mix with what could by another's. Whose is whose cares nothing, but the shiftless chance of just living life, fully and compact, of voices!
The once dirty coats are gone. But these new white coats do a little harder in changing ways. Hurts all the same, but again, they say it's for a good cause.
Bring it wrong, but here it is.
Voices again speak again, that in sweetness and hatred. Hunger comes along, in a tango dance of minds. They to leave, to where, it is unsure, but for wise tones now, follow it.
At the unhinged of a lock, the steel door creaks opens, a yellowing light blesses itself into the dome of a room of stone, a bared window, a military style up bed untouched and lightly dusted, a desk next to it, a man sitting by it, back to whoever open the door. A lone lamp resting by, a paler white than the one outside, a hand hovered closed over a handmade paperback book, handling a coal pencil over the pages, spatters of tears stain unwittingly on the pages.
"Have you gotten sleep? It's good to follow your chore list." A light voice, female and quiet, fearing to scare a small animal or something, to who she was speaking to paid her no mind, even more so when stepping lightly near.
The shoulders straighten upward to every step of woman nearing. By the odd number of footsteps, the person she was speaking to angle the neck her way, eyes vacant but a smirk in place, covered hastily by bars guarding the window, masking most of the face before her.
The smirk fell only an inch, but she took no notice of it, a placed a tender hand on the other's shoulders near her.
"When can I see my friend . . ." A grunt of dried and sandpaper like voice spoke, eyes blank still, but the voice came out with care.
"You mean your figment . . ."
He cut her off with a low growl.
"You know very well who!"
In anger, the man launch from his chair, attacking the woman, hands gripping tightly around her throat. Just as clock work, the alarm goes off. The once dull dome of a room is soon glowed in a bright red. Mixed with heavy uneven breathing, croaking fearful cries from the woman, which end when he placed one hand under her chin, the other on her thin shoulder, ending the results with a pull, his eyes never leaving hers, a smile worthy of a crack came from her.
Blood coated the doorway of the room, the man, with the remains slipping down on the woman, like rivers, as the female body sided down to the ground, with a light thud. The man, still holding the wide-eye woman's head, raising the now free hand to stroke her hair, undoing the lone pigtail it was in, still staring.
Fast footsteps came near. The night had only just started.