[He doesn't know how much time he has lost staring at the grey shape of a night table beside him. Only that when he finally blinks, his eye feels like it has been rolled around in hot sand, as puffed up and sore as all the soft tissues in his body.
The door across him is open a crack. This isn’t his house. And under different circumstances, he’d have fumbled for the crutches leaned up against the bedpost and armed himself, seeking food and water and an exit after. Determined to mentally map out the place, to be anything but helpless. But he can’t bring himself to move. Hasn't tried short of pulling his arms into his chest and curling up, letting the day or night - whichever it is behind the drapes - move on without him. His legs aren't going anywhere, anyway. They feel so heavy they could be someone else's, if not for the pain deep and sharp in his foot.
He remembers the knife. Then he remembers the gunshot and Ed falling for what seemed like forever, and his throat heaves suddenly; he barely manages to drag himself to the bed's edge before he gags. It's all bile hitting the floor between spluttering, ragged lungfuls of air. But enough of it that he is exhausted by the end, feeling worse when he wipes his chin and drops back into bed.
It's a long time before the throbbing in his skull softens, becoming a sort of white noise. His stomach never does settle - and he’s grateful when the darkness comes back for him. Taking him away, away from the guilt, and from this cold, colourless life he no longer recognizes.]
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The door across him is open a crack. This isn’t his house. And under different circumstances, he’d have fumbled for the crutches leaned up against the bedpost and armed himself, seeking food and water and an exit after. Determined to mentally map out the place, to be anything but helpless. But he can’t bring himself to move. Hasn't tried short of pulling his arms into his chest and curling up, letting the day or night - whichever it is behind the drapes - move on without him. His legs aren't going anywhere, anyway. They feel so heavy they could be someone else's, if not for the pain deep and sharp in his foot.
He remembers the knife. Then he remembers the gunshot and Ed falling for what seemed like forever, and his throat heaves suddenly; he barely manages to drag himself to the bed's edge before he gags. It's all bile hitting the floor between spluttering, ragged lungfuls of air. But enough of it that he is exhausted by the end, feeling worse when he wipes his chin and drops back into bed.
It's a long time before the throbbing in his skull softens, becoming a sort of white noise. His stomach never does settle - and he’s grateful when the darkness comes back for him. Taking him away, away from the guilt, and from this cold, colourless life he no longer recognizes.]