Blackfoot Forest come be the new string on my broken guitar

Wretched and wounded, Taylor muscles his way through the forest, his strides quick and unnatural. Smashing the plates into the dishwasher, slamming the door shut on his way out, filled with an erratic rage spinning towards entropy— driven by dollar signs and the thought of being seen.
More and more, the dark coming back. Be quiet, Taylor.
burn sear pain tick tick tick 
Taylor is a silhouette in the night glow, hunched over, a dying fox under his hands. A gaping hole in its chest, like seeing a .45 caliber bullet wound from the other side. It screams and screams and the noise fills his head. Bouncing off the walls.
His face is what can only be described as utter calm. He wipes blood off of his cheek. The fox has just died or it has been dead for several minutes. He struggles to grasp onto time.