The skin around his nails was bitten, bloody. He kept his eyes to the ground. The shifting of feet and the frantic, yet futile sigh at the end of life became all he knew. His eyes were blue, but they should have been red. Blood splattered his glasses, slicked his hands, he tasted it in every bite of food, and breathed it into his lungs. He stayed in the dark of the movie that played behind his eyelids. The touch of cold skin on his left him sweaty, a dog drawn across his heaving chest, but he never pulled away.