Memory 03- Gunshot Wounds
The first thing he was aware of was pain. For a moment, he knew exactly what it meant to be searing pain. There was a burst of heat, sharp, something tearing into his abdomen before his senses overloaded and he went numb. He could feel himself stagger, struggling to remain standing. He was sweating, his teeth grit together, and he was very, very aware of the warm liquid ebbing through the cloth of his coat and the dull ache as his mind reeled, struggling to blot out the pain that wouldn't go away. He could feel his breathing grow shallower and more panicked, struggling to remain composed. Even the movement of breathing caused the pain to flare, for the torn muscle and sinew and organs to shift around the tears left by the foreign object passing through his abdomen.
He had been shot. That was all it was.
His hands were shaking as he pressed against his knee, somehow remaining upright. The pain ebbed across his body... somewhere on his side? The right half of his torso, about halfway down, maybe? He wasn't sure why he was bothering to wonder about it. He had been shot, there was no time for wondering where or when or how.
He wasn't sure how long he remained there, breath catching and hitching, limbs shaking with the sheer effort of not falling over. Eventually, though, he lifted his head, eyes wide, though sightless, and moved his mouth. If he spoke, they weren't words he could understand-though he could recognize the dry tasted in his mouth. All facades aside, he was terrified. Still, he forced words out-or so he assumed. He felt his mouth move stiltedly, his breath halting with each word.
Finally, a large, blunt object impacted him on the shoulder-someone's foot? It had been lifted and rested, before shoving him and his rickety balance, the pain flaring up anew from the burning wound in his abdomen. He fell limply, unable to stop himself, and laid on his back on the ground, struggling to regain his breath and he stared up at the sky.
Was he dying? Or just panicking?
Oh god, it hurt so fucking much. His hands finally came to the gunshot wound, meeting the warm, wet fabric over it. His front was soaked with his own blood, and adding pressure to stifle it only added another dull layer onto the pain shooting through him. Finally, though, something clicked in him. He shoved his elbows to the ground, threw himself up into a kneeling position just in time for another sharp, flaring crack to meet him.
Another bullet tore through his back, lodging somewhere in his right chest. His muscles tensed, chin tucked down, one hand grasping the fabric of his own coat over his chestbone, the entire ribcage flaring with agony. He didn't even know what damage had been done anymore. His breathing hitched and there was a strong, potent taste of copper in his mouth-fluid dripped to his chin. Spit? Blood? He had no idea anymore. His muscles seemed to have relaxed, though, giving up on fighting the lead intrusions. There was a hand on his back, supporting. His lips were moving, words coming out, but it was all a blur. He could barely breathe, every attempt of it drawing in air and a heaviness into his lungs.
A small hand rested on his shoulder, and he shoved it off, the one on his back letting go as well. He forced himself to stand shakily, and all went white as the memory ended.
(Senses are Touch/Taste, reference is Persona 3, Full Moon on October 4th. Be warned, there be massive spoilers. Punishment is bunny ears for the next few days. Someone will be buying a hat.)