“would you relax? i know what i am doing.”
100+ friends starter sentences / (x)
it feels like a mild concussion the moment he lands against gravel, preceding sequence of events a dim blur in his mind. the scenario comes with peculiar familiarity, but it feels off, something outlandish and distasteful, an unaccustomed vantage point to a rundown he’s gone through one too many times; he’s usually the one knocking people down, not feeling like he’d keel over and collapse if he made the effort to get back on his feet after a solid blow to his body.
every breath feels strangely weighted now, irregular spike in his pulse as his eyes blearily focus in on a minor fissure in the ground.
he blinks once, slow and measured, before opening his eyes to the same fissure, marred with a deep, dark red this time.
fuck, is the first habitual word that crosses his mind, furiously swiping a palm across his temple and coming away with a heavy accumulation of blood. it’s also the first word he grunts out when he shifts restlessly against foreign hands on his body. it’s an ingrained, knee-jerk reaction that has him pushing off of cement, elbow blindly thrusting behind him to create space, body alight with sudden, ill-judged rage–
“off - get the fuck off,” his voice is harsh and low, rumbles in his chest in muted warning. sees nothing but hellish red, all-consuming tunnel vision, and harsh, erratic breathing when he whips around, fingers coiling aggressively into the shirt of the first person he sees – all pink hair, tanned skin, and droopy eyes. the boy speaks then, voice muffled by the grating ringing in his ears, and he’s processing his words belatedly.
the red pales, his fingers unraveling swift, feels the aggravating whiplash in his changing temperament. he rakes in his attire then, regret instantaneously coloring the hardened lines of his face when realization hits him slow; knows this uniform entails he’s a medical student – “shit, my bad,” he pulls back with a jerk, scrambling to his feet despite the nauseating tilt in his atmosphere.
“i’m – good, don’t worry about it,” it comes out rough, somewhat unconvincing, and he knows how strange this looks, rejecting first aid after a collision like that, but he can’t be here, hyper-aware of the accelerated relief that slowly simmers across his open wound. he’s grabbing his bag in the next second then, promptly pulling the hood of his jacket back onto his head and surging past the boy.
