Blood spilled over the hands clutching uselessly at the gaping wound in his side as the wailing grew louder and death drew closer. As soon as the hands managed to get a good grip on the edges of his wound they pulled, splitting the skin and tearing into his flesh as he weakly scrabbled against the unseen attacker.
His vision was fading fast, breath wet and staggered in his bruised lungs as the floor beneath him grew slick and warm from all the life he was losing. The hands, now apparently satisfied with his rapid decline, gently patted the wound and retreated back into the shadowy mass of limbs he'd tried and failed to run from.
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