He waited and waited.
He would walk to the door and peek outside through the keyhole in search of a flash of car-headlights in the thick, dense woods.

Then he would walk back to the mattress he had laid down on a corner of the room. He would close his eyes and his brain would wander over to the persistent, and ever-poignant six months he had spent, being strangled, forced to eat loaf and ramen noodles. Worse than a prison.

He would rather live in juvie for the rest of his life.

Then, it would be karma.
Did he even have a reason to kill? Alright, they hurt him, they trapped him, they tried to kill him. Whatever he did was self-defence, right?

Then again, he would find that his eyes were sleepy but his body was alert, deprived of the teeniest amount of sleep.

Then he would again go and peek through the keyhole and pant around the room.

It was so useless.
He was useless.

Tori Hastings was dead for good.
She deserved this.

Then he glanced in the little broken mirror hung on the wall. The blue in his eyes was deeper than ever, his hair so rough, his shirt teared and smashed.

He deserved this too.