My name is Tristan, and I am alive.
He's standing in front of a mirror. Or in front of himself. Staring into his own eyes. He raises his hand, and covers the scarred side of his face. And when he lowers it, both sides of his face are clean and whole.
I need help. You'll get it.
He raises both his hands, covers the whole of his face, and hides it from view. Then takes away just his left hand, uncovering just the burnt side. He isn't surprised to be able to see out of the glass eye, and he isn't surprised that everything he sees is darker, dirtier, stained with filth and char.
His other hand (ash on his knuckles and blood... or paint...? under ragged nails) is still covering the right side of his face, he realises after a moment. He starts to remove it --
(You need help. I don't.)
-- and wakes up.
I need help. You'll get it.
He raises both his hands, covers the whole of his face, and hides it from view. Then takes away just his left hand, uncovering just the burnt side. He isn't surprised to be able to see out of the glass eye, and he isn't surprised that everything he sees is darker, dirtier, stained with filth and char.
His other hand (ash on his knuckles and blood... or paint...? under ragged nails) is still covering the right side of his face, he realises after a moment. He starts to remove it --
(You need help. I don't.)
-- and wakes up.