Remote ControlThis story starts not at the begginingbut the endAs we rewind back the lengthy hands of timeIn reverse the scene seems strangeAfterwards each piece will take its placeThis limp son liesMotionless, but a twitchThe liquid surrounding him is slowly soaked upA mother's tears rise to her faceShe rises to her feet and takes a step backHis body sits upright and rigidEyes open wideThe burning metal cone exits his skullThe hole, no longer red, or existantThe cold steel jumps from the floor to her handHer finger, clenched, is released from around itHands travel behind her backThe sheets float over himTears fly to her eyesThe door is pushed shutSilenceStop.The clock is at zeroPlay is pressedIt goes by too fastsilence. click. swish. yawn. plod, plod.