The tea dripped down from the table, still warm, and formed a pool around him. It became a short, grim trail, hinting at his resting place, once he was pulled toward the basement. No coals were lit, and the house was freezing cold. Weakened, laying dying, he wondered whether he would succumb to blood loss first, or if the cold would take him. He could hear the footsteps upstairs, heading towards the door. He would die alone, without comfort, and only he would mourn himself.

As he stared at the ceiling, eyes barely focusing, the rage and despair built within him. As he died, as he rotted, as he was forgotten, he was born again. In his rebirth, he was bound. His contempt and fury his second mother, her womb incubating his desire for revenge.