a row of stringed cursing became more and more audible as you approached the entrance of what used to be Curly’s and Jimmy’s room, along with a continuous stream of metal banging against an odd, hard material.

the emergency foam, under the axe, crumbling to pieces torturously slow, as it desperately worked to free as much as he could of the once to be sleeping barracks of the pilots. Jimmy sweating over the task, fueled by frustration, madness and somewhat—somehow; genuine worry.

the painkillers were running out, Curly would have no fix for his unbearable existence soon, leaving them all sleepless with the screams of agony, and in Jimmy; a putrid mouth taste of guilt in his throat that he neither knew how to process, nor deal with.

digging up in the foam was an tedious thing, but if he could get to that box of painkillers he had stolen and hidden under his bed…Curly would shut the fuck up for one night more, that was enough motivation.

he didn’t hear you coming, too busy diving in his own pool of madness.