Drip-drip.

That sound was insufferable, constantly beating on the Gravedigger's skull like a hammer.

Drip-drip.

He wanted it to stop so badly, he wanted just to sleep and to forgot, to forgot his troubles and his worries, to just fall into Charlene's arms and have them protect him from the bad men and their cattle prods and their shotguns.

She was there now, staring down at him, offering her hand to his. He did not take it, and could only mumble his protests. They were coming for him, he needed her to protect him. Charlene, he thought to himself over and over. It was so good to see her once again, but what had happened to her face? It was covered in small red marks, scars, and gashes. She was saying something now, telling him to do something, telling him to wake up.

Drip-drip.

But the Gravedigger did not want to wake up. He wanted to stay here and be with her, to slip into her bubble that would take him away from the torture, to save him from the acid.