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by Rob Hicks in that inside room and we fed him scraps of meat but his claws dulled themselves looking for escape. We could hear him roar. Oh, yes. We could. He roared and roared and his hair began to fall out because we didn't listen to him and his ears began to bleed busted by futility. He aged, sat down, whimpered like a kitten in a garbage bag and without knowing it we beat him against a wall until only blood smears remained. Now nothing waits down the hall in our inside room; it is merely dust and disease. Let's hope next time, it gets a little easier. Copyright 2013. All rights reserved.
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