With one hand, Marcus pulls down the brim of his hat; with the other he holds his side like he has a stitch. He’s not limping, exactly, but there’s a definite arrythmic stutter to his gait. It doesn’t slow him down. He curls his lip, tucks his chin into his chest, and keeps on going. Until, paused on a corner, he makes the mistake of looking. His black shirt hides the stain but when he peels his hand away it’s red.
It’s not the blood that makes his head swim; he’s familiar enough with that. It’s the sudden incontrovertible proof that he should be in serious pain. He sees it and then all the adrenalin abandons him and he is. It’s a nasty, gnawing, spreading pain, makes him weak at the knees and tight in the chest. “Oh, come on,” he pants, teeth gritted as he sags back.
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It’s not the blood that makes his head swim; he’s familiar enough with that. It’s the sudden incontrovertible proof that he should be in serious pain. He sees it and then all the adrenalin abandons him and he is. It’s a nasty, gnawing, spreading pain, makes him weak at the knees and tight in the chest. “Oh, come on,” he pants, teeth gritted as he sags back.