Murphy doesn't know how long he's actually been here. A long time, that much he gathers. When the bed becomes too hard to sleep on, he realizes that the floor is an easier place to lay down. He lays there for what feels like hours. Then the time seems to shift and change.
Changing...
Hours turn into days. Days turn into weeks. Weeks turn into months. Months fade into years and at that point, the length he's been stuck seems to be neither here nor there.
Time brings truth. What a load of bullshit. There is no truth in this. Lying here, waiting to die, be it of thirst or starvation or exposure.
One thing's for certain: Murphy Pendleton should have been dead a long time ago. Why he isn't remains another mystery, and it gets even stranger. He doesn't feel the need to eat. He also wouldn't touch the water in this cell if his life depended on it. When that doesn't seem to be the case anymore, he just abstains from it altogether.
If it's one thing that's going to kill him, that he's sure should kill him above all of these things, it's the loneliness. Christ, he wishes somebody were here. He almost didn't care who anymore. An angry prison guard, or somebody... When Murphy had endured this back at Ryall, he at least had someone come by on occasion. A chaplain who had faith in him. Told him that he could change.
The comfort that chaplain provided felt more like a terrible death sentence. Irrational as it might have been, accepting the man's kindness would have about guaranteed his demise. So Murphy kept quiet. For awhile, people talked to him, but Murphy didn't talk back. Before long, they would just give up on him.
It's strange to think about these things now. Memories are all he has. He thinks about movies on loop. Loops the diner scene between the group of criminals at the beginning of Reservoirs Dogs more times than he can count. Imagined up a better ending to Blade Runner. Replayed Jackie Brown at least four dozen times, and then many more movies after that. Murphy was starting to run out of films he had memorized by heart.
After awhile, he also got tired of trying to make casual conversation with the moving shadows, and got sick of his own damn self talking all of the time. Murphy got sick of a lot of things.
Maybe it was his sick that came to the conclusion that there's only one way to end this. It dangles from the ceiling, and has been for years. The choking sounds filling the prison cell is the final come hither before Murphy tries it. In the end, maybe that's what he was supposed to do all along. Made sense, right?
Well, of course it made sense.
Moving the cot over, Murphy holds onto a stable groove in the wall with one hand, and reaches for the hanging noose with the other. The bed, rustic and unstable, is already in a precarious position here. Though, suppose if he were to fall and break his neck, that would be that. He tries not to think about it so much. Head trauma would be a terrible way to go.
He takes deep breaths, pulling the noose towards him while balancing on the edge of the cot. The metal whines. The rope pulls over his head, round his neck. Snug and tight, like it should be. Maybe. Murphy's never been hanged before, so he doesn't know.
With a deep breath, he kicks the cot over.
For awhile, he's suspended. Legs dangle, then kick. His own shadow seems to move with a mind of its own. He tries not to think too hard. That only makes things worse. Makes him nearly regret...
Makes him regret that he's breaking the promises he's made.
Not like it's the first time...
At first, it hurts like hell. He can't imagine why anyone would want to do this.
It'd be quick. No pain.
However, falling so unexpectedly hurts even worse than dying. He's sure of that.
Murphy screams when he feels a snap in his leg, and doubles over onto his side. Curled up on the floor, the broken noose still wrapped around his neck, he gasps and yells in pain, gripping his leg after falling on it wrong. His ankle must've sprained.
Great. Just great. Stuck here, unable to eat or drink, alone in solitary confinement, possibly for forever... Now he couldn't even die the way he would've wanted to.
Panting, gasping for air, Murphy blinks hard through his misty vision, and curls up on the floor, stifling his cries.
{God I Sure Hope You Are Dead... | Part II.}
Murphy doesn't know how long he's actually been here. A long time, that much he gathers. When the bed becomes too hard to sleep on, he realizes that the floor is an easier place to lay down. He lays there for what feels like hours. Then the time seems to shift and change.
Changing...
Hours turn into days. Days turn into weeks. Weeks turn into months. Months fade into years and at that point, the length he's been stuck seems to be neither here nor there.
Time brings truth. What a load of bullshit. There is no truth in this. Lying here, waiting to die, be it of thirst or starvation or exposure.
One thing's for certain: Murphy Pendleton should have been dead a long time ago. Why he isn't remains another mystery, and it gets even stranger. He doesn't feel the need to eat. He also wouldn't touch the water in this cell if his life depended on it. When that doesn't seem to be the case anymore, he just abstains from it altogether.
If it's one thing that's going to kill him, that he's sure should kill him above all of these things, it's the loneliness. Christ, he wishes somebody were here. He almost didn't care who anymore. An angry prison guard, or somebody... When Murphy had endured this back at Ryall, he at least had someone come by on occasion. A chaplain who had faith in him. Told him that he could change.
The comfort that chaplain provided felt more like a terrible death sentence. Irrational as it might have been, accepting the man's kindness would have about guaranteed his demise. So Murphy kept quiet. For awhile, people talked to him, but Murphy didn't talk back. Before long, they would just give up on him.
It's strange to think about these things now. Memories are all he has. He thinks about movies on loop. Loops the diner scene between the group of criminals at the beginning of Reservoirs Dogs more times than he can count. Imagined up a better ending to Blade Runner. Replayed Jackie Brown at least four dozen times, and then many more movies after that. Murphy was starting to run out of films he had memorized by heart.
After awhile, he also got tired of trying to make casual conversation with the moving shadows, and got sick of his own damn self talking all of the time. Murphy got sick of a lot of things.
Maybe it was his sick that came to the conclusion that there's only one way to end this. It dangles from the ceiling, and has been for years. The choking sounds filling the prison cell is the final come hither before Murphy tries it. In the end, maybe that's what he was supposed to do all along. Made sense, right?
Well, of course it made sense.
Moving the cot over, Murphy holds onto a stable groove in the wall with one hand, and reaches for the hanging noose with the other. The bed, rustic and unstable, is already in a precarious position here. Though, suppose if he were to fall and break his neck, that would be that. He tries not to think about it so much. Head trauma would be a terrible way to go.
He takes deep breaths, pulling the noose towards him while balancing on the edge of the cot. The metal whines. The rope pulls over his head, round his neck. Snug and tight, like it should be. Maybe. Murphy's never been hanged before, so he doesn't know.
With a deep breath, he kicks the cot over.
For awhile, he's suspended. Legs dangle, then kick. His own shadow seems to move with a mind of its own. He tries not to think too hard. That only makes things worse. Makes him nearly regret...
Makes him regret that he's breaking the promises he's made.
Not like it's the first time...
At first, it hurts like hell. He can't imagine why anyone would want to do this.
It'd be quick. No pain.
However, falling so unexpectedly hurts even worse than dying. He's sure of that.
Murphy screams when he feels a snap in his leg, and doubles over onto his side. Curled up on the floor, the broken noose still wrapped around his neck, he gasps and yells in pain, gripping his leg after falling on it wrong. His ankle must've sprained.
Great. Just great. Stuck here, unable to eat or drink, alone in solitary confinement, possibly for forever... Now he couldn't even die the way he would've wanted to.
Panting, gasping for air, Murphy blinks hard through his misty vision, and curls up on the floor, stifling his cries.