It's time to go (2) - short

You see him holding something as he walks towards you. A sudden flash of pain rushes over you. Where's your arm? Where's your left arm? He has it. Oh my god, he has it. He took it. He teared it apart. You can see the strings where the nerves should connect, but they don't. Not anymore. You can see the blood and bone in a beautiful mess of harmony. Why is he doing this? He's mumbling something. You can't make out the words. Something. You feel it's important to hear him. He's close enough for you to smell him, but all you can sess is blood and bile and the taste of iron. He keeps stumbling over words you can't describe. You start to puke. You try to cover your mouth as if that would be enough to keep your insides inside where they belong. You move your right arm, but nothing happens. That's because your right arm is gone. It hits you right there when he slouches and his face is but a couple of centimeters away from yours. He owns both your arms. The pain you feel is enough to knock a large animal out, but you endure it anyhow. You refuse to give up. Not with him like this. He has your arms. Will he give them back. You ask, but he doesn't listen. It's like he doesn't see you. You try to move. You fail. He notices your effort and he hugs you. You feel a contradictory relief. For a second nothing hurts anymore. He holds you in your arms and whispers.

It's time to go.

You smile when he snaps your neck. No more pain.