[Palm to his chest, blood spilling bright, and his head, it spins. The world is turning blackredblack and there's a lurching dizziness in him the likes of which he's never experienced before. Everything hurts. Pain is all there is.
He's holding on though, the hand attached to his uninjured arm moving to grasp the edge of the table in a whiteknuckle grip as though he's clinging on to consciousness through physical effort alone. He hadn't known. Hadn't known that it could feel like this.
This time, he does laugh, a sound that bubbles up from him like the blood from his wounds.]
No one. No one wants to live like that. It isn't really living at all its a long and bloody march to the grave but monsters like us, like Heine and I, that's the very best that we could hope for. And we enjoy it because it's what we are, hammered down into bones, into blood, until its the only thing left to enjoy anymore, the only thing that transcends the horror and the knowledge that you're slowly falling apart, coming undone, piece by bloody piece.
[Drunk on pain, on loss of blood. A near-delirium is right, but he holds all the same. Doesn't scream, or cry out, or slide blank-minded into unconsciousness.]
Trying to die. You're not wrong. I hope he kills me. Kills me like he did Lily. Kills me like he should have done all those years ago. But that's why I can't die here, do you see? It wouldn't be right. Not like this.
no subject
He's holding on though, the hand attached to his uninjured arm moving to grasp the edge of the table in a whiteknuckle grip as though he's clinging on to consciousness through physical effort alone. He hadn't known. Hadn't known that it could feel like this.
This time, he does laugh, a sound that bubbles up from him like the blood from his wounds.]
No one. No one wants to live like that. It isn't really living at all its a long and bloody march to the grave but monsters like us, like Heine and I, that's the very best that we could hope for. And we enjoy it because it's what we are, hammered down into bones, into blood, until its the only thing left to enjoy anymore, the only thing that transcends the horror and the knowledge that you're slowly falling apart, coming undone, piece by bloody piece.
[Drunk on pain, on loss of blood. A near-delirium is right, but he holds all the same. Doesn't scream, or cry out, or slide blank-minded into unconsciousness.]
Trying to die. You're not wrong. I hope he kills me. Kills me like he did Lily. Kills me like he should have done all those years ago. But that's why I can't die here, do you see? It wouldn't be right. Not like this.