Well. Not at first, anyway; it's Sunday that his mocking and stalking finally catch up to him, a friendly face turned murderess in the face of too-harsh malicious cheer and false biology, and when he's finally back in one piece it's to white walls and harsh lights and a wall of exhaustion and he's not supposed to feel like this anymore.
He finds his communicator tucked away in a pocket and absently turns it over between his fingers after fishing it out. He feels like he got run over by a truck and his chest feels like it's going to fucking explode and it wants to keep expanding and contracting like he needs to breathe but it hurts. And on top of everything else he's starving, a gnawing, churning feeling mixed with the unsettled stomach the Toll's already given him but he thinks about opening a throat to fix it but the thought doesn't make him practically drool like it has been. He wants a beer and a cheeseburger and that's fucking ridiculous.
[SUNDAY]
Well. Not at first, anyway; it's Sunday that his mocking and stalking finally catch up to him, a friendly face turned murderess in the face of too-harsh malicious cheer and false biology, and when he's finally back in one piece it's to white walls and harsh lights and a wall of exhaustion and he's not supposed to feel like this anymore.
He finds his communicator tucked away in a pocket and absently turns it over between his fingers after fishing it out. He feels like he got run over by a truck and his chest feels like it's going to fucking explode and it wants to keep expanding and contracting like he needs to breathe but it hurts. And on top of everything else he's starving, a gnawing, churning feeling mixed with the unsettled stomach the Toll's already given him but he thinks about opening a throat to fix it but the thought doesn't make him practically drool like it has been. He wants a beer and a cheeseburger and that's fucking ridiculous.
Eventually he taps out a message.]
[TEXT -- locked to Allison]
your mission statement sucks