Creeping back up his vertebrae like retrograde memory loss.
splattered fear across the kitchen floor.
he can feel little claws at the back of his brain, ticking again. Its happened. That chemical smell back on his breath and stinging his eyes. The reaction is a specific one, with no room for free will, no room for mercy.
The flies drip down in crisscross patterns, and his shadow glistens black on the floor with a look that feels disturbingly familiar.