lacrimosa
his fingers are smearing red on the white walls that surround him, pulse thrumming in his ears like the backbeat of an angry rock song—and for what? he can’t remember—but it’s still there like the ever-present, adolescent aggression he’d suffered with for years. but this time, he can’t shove off the blame to someone else.
this time, kai knows it’s his fault.
he’s short of breath and black screens have replaced his vision six times over since he’s returned to the shatterdome. he’s losing his buzz, intoxication fading from his system faster than the colour that drains from his cheeks.
he’s already lost too much blood.
perhaps if he tries hard enough he can force the recollection, praying for a memory like it’s the closest thing he has to redemption. he already knows that he screwed up, but he needs the truth. he needs the ability to tell fact from fiction, details from drunken mishaps, and he can’t apologise for something that he forced himself to forget. one shot of liquor after another.
“sol!” he attempts a shout but is given barely a groan, slamming his fist against the door and splattering it with blood on each hit.
there are cuts along his knuckles, glass shards littering his skin in places he’s yet to realise are even bleeding. but kai can count on one hand how many people he’d trust to patch him up.
he hopes he’s made the right choice among the few options.
“open the damn door!"