Ezra kicked and squirmed, struggling to breathe. He needed air. He managed a strangled groan as the writhing tentacles bound his legs and arms. He couldn’t move. He was utterly helpless.

The tentacle around his throat tightened further, cutting off what little air he’d been getting. His mouth opened in a silent scream. Tears stung his eyes. He was going to die. There was no escape. He’d always known he wouldn’t live a long life, not with his condition, but he’d never expected death to take him so suddenly.

He’d never gotten to tell his mother how he truly felt about her. He’d never gotten the chance to say that her words had hurt him – that they’d cut him more deeply than any knife could. He’d never been able to tell her that, although he knew she meant well, he never felt she’d truly loved him. As darkness closed around his vision, he realized that he never would.

Would she mourn his death? Ezra didn’t know. Perhaps, she wasn’t capable. He’d never learn, now, why she’d chosen him over Connor. So many words he’d never said to her out of what? Fear over the answers he’d receive? It seemed a trivial thing now. Then, again, anything would seem trivial in the face of death.


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