#95 Martyr in Waiting
He looked in the mirror and something from a horror movie stared back at him. His eyes gazed out from sunken holes in his emaciated face. His eyesight was beginning to fail, but he could still see well enough to count every single one of his ribs. If he had eyes in the back of his head, he could have idled away a few more minutes counting his vertebrae had been so inclined.
“What frail creatures we really are” he mused.
“Flesh and bone, so weak and powerless, reduced to nothing by little more than a few missed meals.”