Turns out its easiest to ignore the world when you’re in too much pain to stay conscious. Except that when you’re ignoring the world, sometimes bits of things you never wanted to remember like to slip out of the dull, black places in which you drowned them, and float up to the surface of that place behind your eyes.
He twitches in the cab, in the back seat, as he takes them across town. He can’t speak; if he opened his mouth, blood would run from his lips — he’s dimly aware of that, of the taste of it, thick and sweet and wrong.
He tips his head back, lets it rest on the cushion, feels the warmliquid copper run down his throat. Salt. Red. There are tears uncried crusting around the edges of a heart that had thought–had hoped–it had forgotten how to feel.
The driver’s not perfect. She hits a small bump; he bites his tongue and gags on the blood he’s passively swallowing. It’s all done without expression, without lines on the drawn, pale face, without sound, without movement detectable to the outside world.
He can feel the warmth of the young woman sitting near him, and wishes it would burn him up.
He’s still smiling.