(Let's see how many typos we can spot, shall we?)

It was a hell of a way to die. To throw yourself in the path of a fairly obvious knife because, oh, he was sure to survive and get his own fucking tat because good God he saved the prezz and vice-prezz's kid. But he didn't really think that when he was doing it, only thought nothing. He was blank in his head, like a white canvas, if he were into over-used similes. Which he wasn't, and yes he knew what the fuck a simile was, thank you very fucking much.

And then his body reacted, while his mind was racing so far ahead. He could feel this dead noise coming from his own throat. Shit. This wasn't supposed to end like this, no.

The knife twisted and Sweet Jesus he could see Cherry (because she wasn't Rita, never) right there, smiling at him and telling him she was proud. And he wondered what the fuck she was proud of, because he sure as hell hadn't done anything.

And then the bloody Irishman twisted it again, and now he knew what he had done.

But she was still there, and so he knew, knew in his fucking hemorrhaging bladder that it wasn't right for him to be seeing non-people. God it hurt so much to feel that wet coolness, hot red with this guy's insanity. He didn't know the asshat. He never would see him again (or, really, anyone) but he had to go and fucking stab him.

Tara was screaming. Abel was crying. (Oh shit, innocents!) He wanted to get up, to give Cherry something to actually be fucking proud of. He wanted Clay to pat him on the back, and not because he had tried some fucking shrooms for him. He wanted his family (his real family not his cracked up mom and shit-head dad and little brother who tried to off himself when he was fifteen) to be there, callin' him a hero and shit. And that sounded mighty fine to him, if he could just get the fuck up.

There was an inky electric shock, radiating from his body. Something alien, weird as all fuck. Cameron dropped him to the ground and he non-felt his head bouncing off the non-floor, if that made any sense. (Which he was pretty sure it didn't. He needed some more of those fucking shrooms to work that psychedelic shit out.) Abel was silent, Tara was silent. He wondered if he was just dying, or if they really were quiet. Or if he missed the gunshot that killed him, because fuck that shouldn't happen.

It got real quiet. The kind of quiet he didn't like. That's why he took up 'cycs: needed something loud to keep him from silence. Because silence was stale, silence was his mother's eyes rollin' in the back of her head, body seizin' like some sort of Law and Order shit. She never made a sound, suffered in absolute quiet. He watched TV on mute, wanted to hear every wet punch into his mom from his dad. Wanted to hear their toxic eat each other up.

And it ate Johnny up, too. Ate him up and shit him out. He got put into the system, got admitted into the cuckoo hospital.

But Kip had sat in quiet, watched his shows. Didn't understand jack-shit, but what was there to understand?

And soon he felt the sun warm him, and felt himself go quiet on the linoleum. Very quiet indeed.