franceslievens | the fool

“This isn't possible. This can't be real.” He whispered. His hands clasped around his throat. He blinked and looked at the smirking face – again. “Breath. Come on breath. This is not real.” The world turned upside down when he tried to get out of his chair. He slumped down again. He swallowed. “What you did...” His voice sounded hoarse. “What. You. What did you ... do?” The pain was agony. Shut it down, he thought. Turn it off. Get rid of it. He reached for the reset button at the side of his iMac, while his other hand furiously dug at his throat. The face on the screen looked to its left. “You're bleeding all over your lovely computer, you know that?” He looked at his hand and saw the blood drip on the keyboard. Carmine drops splattered in between the keys. He felt that lovely liquid pour between the fingers of his other hand with every heart beat. He squinted at the monitor, smiled at the face when the screen turned dark. “You,” he whispered, when his head hit the desk and he felt life taking so much time to leave him.