The doctor stood tall. He was over 6ft 4” and he wore facial hair like a musketeer but he was not about saving anything. He was about taking life and prolonging death.
He spoke soft and slow and in a manner where he believed what he said.
I hate him with a passion.
He looked at me with love but not love for me but love for what he had created.
He loved the suffering of things.
His laboratory was filled with the whispers of the dead animals and cries and yelps of his subjects.
He deserved to die and whisper along with the rest.
Months I lingered away…time was not my enemy. He was.
I wish I videotaped his death like he did of all his countless subjects.
I stayed on his cattle for weeks after his death just watching him rot.
It may seem gruesome to you but you still have sense of smell and I do not.
He was a bad man and wanted the animals to feed of him…at least the ones that still lived past his torture
I let them loose and watched them tear things apart.
Art, furniture, clothes…..
And then I opened the door and let them have their freedom.
They never looked back.
Nor will I