39
I still taste garlic.
But old, metallic, crusty blood’s in there too.
Bitter, aged puke.
Cold hard floor under my cheek. Concrete?
Dirt. Cold clammy damp hard-packed dirt.
It’s under the rest of me, too.
I’m naked. Filthy.
It’s hard to care.
Complete silence presses against my ears. My heart is thunderous, my breath a hurricane. And each breath digs a dagger-tip into my flank.
The unexpected plonk of a drop of water.
A rounded stone, pressing against my gut.
Assembling myself takes just about long enough to successfully press criminal charges against a billionaire. I find one hand and drag it through the dirt towards my face, then go to find the other hand, only to find that the first hand has vanished. The bruised knee sending its aches up to my shattered mind, complaining
