Blood on his face. Blood streaming down. Blood on his hands. Blood in his hair. It was warm, and tasted of rust. He soaked in it, and it was his comfort. Faces blended together and things in front of him expressed regret and told him they didn't want to fight, and he didn't understand that. Such things were all cut down all the same.
He couldn't remember when, or who, or what. He knew what he did to live, at least until the next time he had to do what he did to live.
The first words he heard brought to him the meaning of it.
" How much?"
And money trading hands.
And when he faced the blood, he did the same as he always had.
A hand on his head.
" You won."
More words that made him realize what exactly it was that he was doing. So then, he was living for other people, and not himself?
But he wanted to live only for himself.
But what worth did his living have?
He couldn't help but laugh at that, and the one with the hand looked taken aback.
When cold water washed it all away, he wished the blood would come back and coat him.
It was warm.