[ Closed roleplay with @the-wistleblower-waylonpark ]
They didn’t hurt.
In his mind, they actually never did, not even when the warm, fast and little pieces of metal penetrated into his flesh.
The flashes, the noises, that loud, repeating and sharp noise, echoing in the corridor where he was dragging his body in a desperate and pathetic attempt to survive.
He could remember clearly the scene, the agents with their shotguns, the doctor with his static, all with emotionless face, one because of his illness and the other because of a mask.
They got what they deserved.
His finger kept entering and exiting without any problem, smoothly and repeatedly, following the line of the bullet that left the holes in his body.
How can a human survive to 6/7 holes in their chest and wherever else?
You are not alive.
Not anymore at least.
And the finger keeps to go in and out, in and out, through this space into his body, his head wandering inside memories and thoughts, carelessly about anything going around him.
But there were only corpses, not even many. Silence. Nobody. Just him and his holes.
However, anything that would have come with hostile intentions towards him would have been long from being a problem for him, floating over an empty barrel with his legs crossed, one hand keeping his head up while pointed with the elbow on his tight, absorbed by his mumbling.