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The words from the images:
Time held no meaning, though death always does. As is its way, it refused to visit him, playing its mockery until what was once a man lay quivering, bloodied and broken on the floor of his cell. The door closed and keys clanked.
Death had forsaken him again.
Shallow and labored were his breaths, scarcely visible to the rats that hungrily looked on,
advancing and retreating with ever-growing courage. If he lay there long, their stomachs would overcome their apprehensions.
Slowly he brought his arms underneath him and pushed with all his might. A puddle of crimson pooled beneath him. His weary arms struggled not to slip on the sticky and slippery film until he rolled onto one bruised hip. Several loud sounds echoed from someplace distant, and his hungry visitors scattered. He could hear men shouting, and then several loud sounds. More gunshots, he supposed, but he didn’t dwell on it. How could he, when he knew not a single bullet was meant for him.
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