[ the carpet leeches off the red of his blood and paints itself a nice burgundy color, even as tetora feels himself getting a little pale from the internal hemorrhaging going on under his skin. the injuries are starting to heal, as he can feel them stitching back together slowly, but the pain remains. even dreams operate by their own logic, and this one has decided to stick to approximations of reality when it comes to handling pain.
breathe in. breathe out. one, two, three.
something - someone - falls next to him and he turns his head to see the girl, her shadow covering his eyes from the overhead lights. he only has the one thing to offer her in lieu of words: a weak hand, raised, fist loosely curled into the shape of a gun.
no subject
breathe in. breathe out. one, two, three.
something - someone - falls next to him and he turns his head to see the girl, her shadow covering his eyes from the overhead lights. he only has the one thing to offer her in lieu of words: a weak hand, raised, fist loosely curled into the shape of a gun.
and a wink. ]
Don't feel too bad about him. He deserved it.