A Sweet Revenge double drabble.
It falls, drop by drop. Like rain, or tears. It drips down, through a tube, into my arm.
They call it a painkiller, but that’s bullshit. The pain is still there, clawing and ripping, every time I try to move, every time I fucking breathe.
But when that drug slips through my veins and hits my brain, I no longer care about the pain; about anything, really. All my hurt, my problems, my worries: They’re all wrapped up in a hazy narcotic cloud that floats away. It’s not a painkiller, it’s a mind-number. It makes me numb to the echoes of gunfire and the agony of three bullets in the back, numb to the scurrying of the doctors and nurses around me, numb to damn near everything.
Everything—except a pair of worried blue eyes. Eyes that call me back to life and the living, that plead with me to stay and fight. It’s the unspoken promise in them that keeps me in the here and now. That, and the thought of what would happen to those eyes if I let go.
So I hold on. When the drops stop falling, he’ll be there, and I won’t be numb anymore.
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