He had just arrived after hearing about the deaths of his family from a message left at his apartment.
His life was in ruins. His family was all that he had left.
His guilt felt as heavy as the pain from his wounds. His feet moved in silent, slithering movements, and the air chilled by his lack of mobility.
By now his wounds were starting to bleed again, but by now they were only slight. 
He had too much trouble moving his hands, and he couldn't even put his right hand on his right leg without getting a hand numb.
A pitiable sight.

Even the distant sounds of his apartment door opening and shutting sounded muffled in his head.
His mind seethed with a weakness that could not be helped, and his legs made a faltering attempt at a slight, slurred gait.
He knew he would need to say a last goodbye to his family.

He held his breath.
He needed a final time to calm his mind and take his mind back into its appropriate state of being.
After the momentary pause, his throat opened and he spoke.
"Thank you."

The words resonated as a bellow of relief from the massive ducts of his voice, sending a surge of pain, fear, and grief.
The pain was unmistakable and left him to wince in its intensity.
The fear was also both gruesome and terrifyingly familiar.
He remembered it all so well.
His throat itched, and he felt the tears.
But his lips began to move again, as he spoke;

"Thank you for everything."