His entire life there has never been a place he can call home, an endless life of motel rooms that swell with the responsibility of death.

The chains in his body...anchored him...tied him down so tight he couldn't move without breaking every bone. The blades carving into his skin, the blood welling to the surface (painting a picture so beautiful he can hardly take a breath).
     The flames licking at his soles, the blackness taking over his soul. The laughter that spews from his throat, catching in the blood he spits up. The blade fits so easily in his hand, carves through skin easier than butter.
Home is where the empty heart lies.