He could taste the hot copper of spilled blood; it ran over his cheek and joined with the runnel caught in the edgecurve of his nose, then split again, one river brightly glistening over nostril and philtrum, while the other pooled against the corner of his mouth, puddled against his lips, and ran down in slow, thick drips — if he opened his mouth to breathe any better, it would pour in.
He closed his too-blue eyes; it was dark anyway, and trying to see through the black was only giving him a headache that felt like an army wearing spiked shoes was walking across the backs of his eyes.
The keen of feedback had turned into a droning pulse, a throb that echoed in the back of his throat, itching his eardrums. He hadn’t heard anything new in so long, he wasn’t sure he still could hear.
He wasn’t sure he had any senses left, except for taste, and that might’ve been stuck on ‘pennies.’
He only knew the gun was in his hand because now and then his finger slid against the trigger as he kept the warm metal tucked close.
Cracked ribs, scorched skin, bullet wounds aplenty, and a hiding place that involved more than three freshly expired hookers.
I hate my job, he thought, and held his breath just a little longer.
Leave a Reply