he felt himself being pulled upward. as if someone helped him to his feet. only, he wasn't sure if he'd been sitting or laying on the ground. as blue eyes flutter open, he's standing in the middle of an unknown place. unrecognizable to him at first glance. what happened? where was he?
he took at look at himself, downward, he was still in last night's clothes. nervous blues detect an alarming sight; blood. there was blood on his hands. some of it, drying. from his fingertips to - he assumed - up his elbows, trailing under the sleeves of his jacket. his hands began to shake, or maybe he was now noticing it. was this his blood? the usual sting of his arms, absent, disagreed. what did he do?
looking like he'd crawled out of his own grave, chris felt exhausted. as if he could collapse at any given moment. swallowing heat, he began to feel the soreness of his entire being. as if he were a walking bruise. his hair, soaked and drying. his clothes, damp. his face, he could feel the flaking residue of faded face paint. an instinct to touch and wipe it off was disrupted by the dark red reminder on his hands.