he’s CRAWLING over dust and metal and ash and FLESH, he clings to REALITY just as desperately as he clings to LIFE, because one is USELESS without the other.
he can’t feel his leg ( the real one ) anymore, but he KNOWS he’s bleeding out quickly, now. he’s FELT this before. he’s BEEN here before. he can’t POSSIBLY get enough air, and he’s sucking in and sucking in but all he’s getting is DUST. flesh. PANIC constricts his throat and his brain. he will die, SOON. he will be trampled. or SHOT. or CAPTURED again. . . CAPTURED again---
his screams ( is he screaming ? does he have a voice ? ) are lost in the crowd. death is stealing everyone away, and he does not discriminate between capitol or rebel. between gunfire or explosion. he wonders if it might not be best for the planet if they all die, here. if they end it all, here. if there is a god, he has not abandoned us. he has PLANNED this.
he is not hallucinating when he grabs the collar of a capitol man ( boy ? ) sitting ( dying ? ) a few feet from the center of the square and points his gun to his face. he will not blame the capitol for this new evil.
“ GIVE. me. your ammo. ”