[Shit. Shit. His veins feel like they're filled with static, his heart juddering sickly in his chest. Things are always bad enough, bad enough when he wakes up from this shit, without there being ropes. He's tied up. He's tied up and this is, he knows, probably a good thing. It means that he probably didn't hurt anyone as much as he could have. That he was stopped.]
[It just makes him think of someone else, curled on the floor, wrists and ankles bound together with zip ties, snarling for his camera.]
[He deserves that, a little bit. Karma.]
[He knows who's standing over him, and he can tell that there's a knife.]
[The most important things come first: a question that he blurts, frantically.]
no subject
[It just makes him think of someone else, curled on the floor, wrists and ankles bound together with zip ties, snarling for his camera.]
[He deserves that, a little bit. Karma.]
[He knows who's standing over him, and he can tell that there's a knife.]
[The most important things come first: a question that he blurts, frantically.]
Did I hurt anyone?