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John body was racked with pain. Every movement felt like a sword was being stuck in his gut. He left a trail of blood. It took all of his determination not to retch at the smell of it drying. His hands scrabbled against the concrete. He tried not to rip his stomach open further as he dragged his wound-ridden body along.
The boy's friend were long gone. He watched as they were tortured, basically torn apart. Tears fell from his eyes, but John was too empty inside to actually feel sad. The only noises he made were not that of mourning. The moans were from pain by itself. The only feeling left was regret, bitter bitter regret.
This was all his fault. He was the one who wanted to play this damn game. All John wanted was to fix this somehow. Was it possible to alter the timeline? Everything seemed like it happened as it should like this horror was planned. Who could be so twisted and cruel to craft a fate like this.
No matter who had done this, he knew he had to undo it. If it was with his dying breath, John would change something. Fear decided to show it's face to him once again. It raced throughout his veins as he realized that is how it would probably end up. John would spend the last moments of his life trying to change this. Even if it was possible to rewrite this horrid fate, would it matter? What would really change? No one would thank him. No one would know this timeline existed. He'd be a hero, yet he'd be forgotten.
The sight of the metallic hulk looming in front of him ended his train of thought. The sendificator! It was a sight for sore eyes, or at least bloodshot and puffy ones. His hands fumbled with his sylladex, searching for a paper. John decided that the last GameBro magazine would have to suffice.
The only problem was that he had no pencil. Even the marker he had pocketed a while back was gone. The marker's original purpose was to doodle a mustache on Dave. He smirked at the thought, and felt his pranksters gambit fall due to not having any victims. The idea stung, but the task on hand was more important. There was no telling when he would pass out.
John shut his eyes tight as he stuck his hand inside of his stomach. A chocked cry squeezed out of his raw throat. He gagged when his own intestines that were previously dragging on the ground found themselves in his hand. He weakly drew his hand out and scribbled onto the cover. The only thing manageable, which basically meant what he could do with puking, was to smear the words 'SBURB KILLS'.
As his vision blinked in and out of focus, John groaned. He tried to drag himself towards the machine. A wave of nausea forced him to stop. It was only minutes before he either blacked out or died. He grabbed onto the seat of a chair, hauling himself up. Legs wobbled underneath him, and he tottered. "Please, let me. Let me just.." his cracking voice trailed off. John's face contorted into a picture of fury as he collapsed. Tears fell from eyes that blinked in and out of consciousness.
"Please," John said with a final, shaky breath.