#this was technically posted yesterday for srars anniversary but it was super late and i was super wiped

[graffitibible]

The disparity between past and present is throwing him. He remembers the excruciating price that came of detonating the bomb in the briefcase, the way he drowned in debris and how he expected (hoped) it would kill him. He remembers the crater he made of his left hand. A phantom twinge vibrates up fingertips he no longer has at the thought.

The faint, warm breeze picks up around him, lifts the edges of his dirt-stained scrubs and the dark jacket that Jack gave to him. His hair, overlong and stiff with blood and grime, keeps falling into his eyes and he keeps having to comb it back.

His whole body feels like one massive, continuous bruise, a raw, all-consuming ache locked down around bolted-together bones.