![]() He’s done, and he knows if he had the energy, the knowledge would devastate him. He’s pushed his body too far, past the point of no return and his tank is empty, reserves totally depleted, well drained dry. It’d be so easy to give in, to lie down and accept his fate, but he’s never managed that before and he doesn’t want to start now, though he’s not sure he has any say in the matter. He can hear the strain in his own breathing, the rasp of each spent breath catching in his throat. There’s a river of blood winding down his forearm in a sticky trail from a nasty slice across his bicep. ![]() Knife work is down and dirty, and he's paying that price right now, though falling through a plate-glass window hadn't done him any favours, either. His arms and shoulders and back are gashed too, in more places than he can count. He grinds his teeth, the lactic ache at his temple building until it forces his lips apart, a breath easing out of him that sounds more like a sob.īlood trickles from the cuts on his cheek, his scalp, the gash on his temple, pattering onto the concrete like soft summer rain. His life for their freedom is a sacrifice he’ll make willingly, even if he wishes it didn’t have to hurt so fucking much on the way down. The team is safe he made damn sure of that, and he’s hoping they don’t do anything stupid like come back into the compound for him. It sparks something in him, a last surge of adrenaline that gets him to one knee, bad leg stretched out behind him, both fists on the ground as he tries to get his feet under him. The team are calling his name through the earbud, and he can hear the panic in their voices, but he can't sort out the words past the ringing in his ears. Every time he moves, it engulfs him in agony, like he’s being sandblasted, dipped in acid, dragged behind a speeding truck going down the road. There’s a knife buried to its hilt in his right thigh, the tip of the blade grating against bone, and the sensation makes him want to puke. ![]() His mouth tastes of burned sugar, sour with exhaustion, and he licks his dry lips, longing for a cool drink of water. His already bruised cheek smacks into the ground again, making his head ring like a broken bell. Just fucking get up, he thinks, and shoves at the rough ground with his good arm, overworked muscles screaming with the strain, a quiver running through his forearm before the burst of strength leaves him.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |