Don't move. It's for your own good.

You can smell the acrid smoke from your own bones.

Don't move. It's for your own good.

A thick, burning liquid trickles drop by drop down your throat.

Don't move. It's for your own good.

Your mouth fills with blood until it begins to pour out in thick clotting chunks.

Don't move. It's for your own good. 

A patchwork web of numbness and bone deep ache spreads across your face.

Don't move. It's for your own good.

Your muscles scream with the act of stillness, beg you to grant them mercy.

Don't move. It's for you own good.

Don't.

Move.