The growling subsided but we've not moved. We've stayed still, stopping in our hunched places. Only our hands moving from time to time, eyes flickering and dancing across the room we sit in. All is quiet, save for the few feral grunts and yellings and the gasps, which come from none of us. We're observers in this.
The voices change, low, old, slow. Each breath, like the wind through dead trees. When the rage comes, the slowness sinks away and the pace becomes almost lethal. It doesn't seem possible. In fact, it's not. It's not happening, not really. But still, we make no noise. Only our hands move from time to time and our eyes flicker less.
The voices change, low, old, slow. Each breath, like the wind through dead trees. When the rage comes, the slowness sinks away and the pace becomes almost lethal. It doesn't seem possible. In fact, it's not. It's not happening, not really. But still, we make no noise. Only our hands move from time to time and our eyes flicker less.
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