Then there is the burnt one. He has been on hospice now for seven years. His charred, blackened corpse should not continue, but it does. His screams fill the night, and he writhes in the darkness of his room until morning returns. Then the passions die, and he lies dying in the sun. There’s nothing we can do for him. Whether he was mad before they were all brought here, I can only assume that the ceaseless agony he suffers has driven all reason out of his mind. At least I hope that that is so, that he knows nothing.
The Three Patients
Tale Told 