[ah, the blood. Kit really seemed to be fixated on that, didn't he? the observation coaxes a silent wave of amusement to ride across his face for a brief moment.

it's timed impeccably well to coincide with his companion's investigative gaze, and that's perhaps for the best. at some point during the long hours of Kit's absence his injury has finally stopped bleeding; however, in that time he's also made absolutely no attempt to clean it up, leaving a face streaked and smeared in dried blood. he must look absolutely ghastly.

it's a pretty comforting thought.]

Internal injuries are always worse. They let you fool yourself into thinking you're fine.

[and then they let you hang yourself by moving forward as if nothing had happened, pulling the noose tighter with each energetic step of illusory life. it was one of the cruelest ways to fall.]

I'm not made of glass like some people; I won't bleed out from a couple scratches.