This is my sundown
It was black for a long time.
And it's still dark, and the air should be warm, smelling like canvas and sweat and horse and old leather, but instead he's cold, and huddles down, curling into himself to get warm again. Instead of wiry grass against his skin, there's only a firm softness, and he stretches one arm out to pull Lureen
(Ennis)
closer, but there's nothing there and all he grabs hold of is a sheet--not even a blanket or a pillow.
And he has one fuck-all of a headache.
It isn't until he rolls onto his back and blinks, trying to adjust his eyes in the darkness, that he realizes that the stifling air smells sweet, and warm. Like peaches. And
"Shit!" He sits up, abruptly, and immediately regrets it. Waves of nausea washe through him, his head pounding like he'd drank at least an entire bottle of bad whiskey the night before--
But.
But he hadn't been drinking. He'd been--hell, he'd been on the road, and the goddam truck had taken one final sharp rock to the paper-thin tires, and he'd stopped to fix it, and everything kinda got blurry from there. He remembers shapes, black against the bright afternoon sun, and something swinging at him--
clang
(and it burns burns burns)
He touches the bridge of his nose gingerly, and for a long moment his breathing stops.
(that ring of fire)
Fuck.
And it's still dark, and the air should be warm, smelling like canvas and sweat and horse and old leather, but instead he's cold, and huddles down, curling into himself to get warm again. Instead of wiry grass against his skin, there's only a firm softness, and he stretches one arm out to pull Lureen
(Ennis)
closer, but there's nothing there and all he grabs hold of is a sheet--not even a blanket or a pillow.
And he has one fuck-all of a headache.
It isn't until he rolls onto his back and blinks, trying to adjust his eyes in the darkness, that he realizes that the stifling air smells sweet, and warm. Like peaches. And
"Shit!" He sits up, abruptly, and immediately regrets it. Waves of nausea washe through him, his head pounding like he'd drank at least an entire bottle of bad whiskey the night before--
But.
But he hadn't been drinking. He'd been--hell, he'd been on the road, and the goddam truck had taken one final sharp rock to the paper-thin tires, and he'd stopped to fix it, and everything kinda got blurry from there. He remembers shapes, black against the bright afternoon sun, and something swinging at him--
clang
(and it burns burns burns)
He touches the bridge of his nose gingerly, and for a long moment his breathing stops.
(that ring of fire)
Fuck.