By Minim Calibre
Notes: Sunday 100 Challenge, gen, PG.
He can taste his blood mixed with rain water mixed with sweat. It streams down his face, stinging his eyes and invading his mouth (like her tongue like the glass like betrayal). Hands, stiff and half numb, half raw with pain, tighten around the hilt of the knife.
Cradled. Weeping. Alive.
His ears are still ringing from the blows, buzzing with the rising of his pulse. He cannot hear her sobs over the din in his head, yet he can feel Angel’s touch on her hair, on her shoulders, in his gut like a punch.
He lets the knife fall.