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Penworth paced across the room, shuddering nervously, paranoid by the slightest breath. The marine was armed with a worn M1 Garand rifle, and was splattered with the blood of his fallen. Mareth watched from the dark corner, watching his best freind paching, wondering why he was worried. The Asylum was a great place for Mareth, there was meat in the kitchin, he knew everyone there, but Penworth didn't enjoy it there. He paused, detecting his best-freinds movment, poised as if to pounce, before discarding it as a mere owl. Mareth felt concern for his freind, who was sat in a corner, tearful, solem eyes fixated on Mareth. He felt the need to embrace Penworth, and got to his feet, shuffling across the dingy room towards his freind. Penworth screamed, scrambling for rifle, only knocking it further, Mareth recoiled, confused by his freinds hostility. By now Penworth was up, aiming down his trembeling sight at his ex-comrade. He pulled the trigger. Mareth moaned, but he felt nothing, his left arm had been severed at the elbow, but he didn't stop, he continued forwards, the embrace turning to blood lust, Mareth tried to pull back, but a voice urged him on, "Go on," She wisphered, "Do it" With a moan, he launched forward, barelling his freind over. Penworth franticlly clawed at his eyes, trying to force Mareth off, he shouted in pain as Mareth bit into his neck, tearing at him till he bled no more. He stood up, looking at his severed limb. The bleeding was unstopable. His time was done...

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