[ The knife digs into his arm now, helping to undo the work he'd done elsewhere, each little dig drawing out another reaction from him. Perhaps the pain was keeping him aware, and perhaps he wouldn't die so long as it continued to be piled on. Hope is carved into his skin, it's ripped into his flesh and organs, and limbs, and this pain will remain with him until the moment of his death.
To say he was stitched up was generous, as he was only able to manage to get through just a couple of the ten gashes in his abdomen before he ran out of thread. Perhaps it was just as well, as he's too weak to do anything more. But those were the largest and worst of them. Blood spills out once more when they're removed, like a damn bursting, all the liquid that had been kept inside finally free to soak skin and clothes and items. There's no hope in these motions, not in the blood that spills forth, but certainly there could be in the cells that replace them. It could be brighter, more beautiful, more inspiring.
Another kiss, a weaker reciprocation, but it doesn't seem that he's able to respond to those words of love. It's strange, but with those stitches removed, the aches and pains vying for attention on different parts of his body seem to throb a little less. It's numb and cool, and he thinks he might sink into that feeling. If he were to do so, perhaps when his consciousness returned he would be better too.
Time marches on, his awareness barely lingers on, but it won't be long before an ambulance arrives to whisk both of them away. Just a little longer. ]
I'M SURE HE WILL PROBABLY he's just getting destroyed here, his punishment for being hopeless
To say he was stitched up was generous, as he was only able to manage to get through just a couple of the ten gashes in his abdomen before he ran out of thread. Perhaps it was just as well, as he's too weak to do anything more. But those were the largest and worst of them. Blood spills out once more when they're removed, like a damn bursting, all the liquid that had been kept inside finally free to soak skin and clothes and items. There's no hope in these motions, not in the blood that spills forth, but certainly there could be in the cells that replace them. It could be brighter, more beautiful, more inspiring.
Another kiss, a weaker reciprocation, but it doesn't seem that he's able to respond to those words of love. It's strange, but with those stitches removed, the aches and pains vying for attention on different parts of his body seem to throb a little less. It's numb and cool, and he thinks he might sink into that feeling. If he were to do so, perhaps when his consciousness returned he would be better too.
Time marches on, his awareness barely lingers on, but it won't be long before an ambulance arrives to whisk both of them away. Just a little longer. ]