He needed to breathe, but he can't. He needed to say something, anything, but all that came out was a gargle. He looked up at Clara as she let him down, looking more like a frightened kid than the crazed, hallucinating threat he'd been before. But, then again, he still was, in comparison to Clara, a kid.

His hand still held onto his neck as all the blood left his body, until, at last, his hand loosened and went limp, his eyes staring up at Clara with an unspoken fear and shame that he would carry with him to the grave. He died at last.

Again. Again, and again, and...