The wormwood sways back and forth,
Restless in the wind.
The sky is gloomy,
The wind is pregnant with rain.
The wormwood is buffeted by the wind.
Torn apart and scattered,
Blown, blown away
Wormwood was not sure if he wanted to die or not. With half of a bottle of bourbon in him, Wormwood had the courage to try and take his life. He punched a hole in the ceiling and looped a rope around a beam inside. When he was sure it was secure and would not come undone or break from his weight, Wormwood placed a chair underneath. His noose was ready for him.
Wormwood watched the rope sway suggestively back and forth. A quick death was for the best he decided. He knew if he left this room he would be torn apart by the monsters outside, and waiting for them to find him or starving to death were both undesirable options. So there he stood, observing the noose flit about . His savior from the end.
The monsters had just appeared. Horribly, twisted things, all of them. No one could stop all of them. The sound of people, screams and crashes and fighting, had stopped two days ago. The sound of the monsters had not. There was nothing that would make Wormwood go out there with them.
He took in a breath and stepped onto the chair. Sweat freely dripped off his face, his heart thundering away. He focused only on his breathing. In. He grasped the rope. out. He pulled the noose over his head. In. He took a long drink from his bottle. out. He leaped from the chair.