I hope that bitchass Rieder chokes on his own breath, clawing at his fuc**** throat like an animal, while his fuc**** nails tearing through skin, lungs collapsing under the weight of panic. I hope every fuc**** every gasp feel like fire, every heartbeat a hammer against his ribs. Let the bones snap one by one, not cleanly, but jagged—sharp enough to tear muscle from the inside out. And yet I hope the pain doesn’t knock him out, not right away. Let him feel it all the tendons tearing, the blood pooling, the raw grind of flesh trying to hold together something that’s already broken. Let the silence around him feel endless, pressing, a grave with no dirt. Eyes open the entire time, watching the ceiling or the sky or nothing at all, paralyzed in that final moment when the body wants to live but knows it won’t.
No help. No mercy. Just twitching fingers, bitten tongue, bile on the floor, pi** down the legs, stench filling the air like a warning to anyone who ever loved him. Let the ground take what’s left — not gently, but violently, like it wants to spit him out. No peace in death. No dignity. Just wreckage. Ruin. Remains no one bothers to name. Let the world keep spinning like he was never in it. Let that be the punishment. Let that be the truth.
Just how he made him suffer.
No help. No mercy. Just twitching fingers, bitten tongue, bile on the floor, pi** down the legs, stench filling the air like a warning to anyone who ever loved him. Let the ground take what’s left — not gently, but violently, like it wants to spit him out. No peace in death. No dignity. Just wreckage. Ruin. Remains no one bothers to name. Let the world keep spinning like he was never in it. Let that be the punishment. Let that be the truth.
Just how he made him suffer.
