He stared up at the ceiling of his coffin. There were bricks on his chest. No wonder it was so hard to get up. He closed his eyes some more. Darkness. Comforting and stable. He opened his eyes and with a summon of strength, removed the quilt from his body. Sitting up on his bed, he looked past the dingy walls of his room and peered into the mirror ahead. They called him Wolverine. A nickname coined because of his hair, beard and a largely serious demeanour. He stared at the image in the mirror. Lately, the scars had stopped healing. Must be the cold ... He looked at his knuckles. The holes where the claws had retracted, still visible ... He went and stood in front of the mirror and folded his arms to his chest, with his knuckles facing inwards. His claws shot out. Followed by blood. He retracted. There was pain, but what was more profound, and even enjoyable was the adrenaline. The strong rush of adrenaline. He observed as his body washed out all other thoughts from his head, focussing...
Weirdness lies within ... And so do all the internal organs ... But the real question is,
is that statement of any consequence?