To him, the burn in his mouth and his throat is the same burn that grips his injured leg.
He takes another sip.
It's hot, hot hot hot, too fucking hot- but the curses only pile up in his mind [he thinks of their bodies, too, piled up in the carts, had they not been abandoned] and not a single word comes out [no grave for them, only a soundless requiem]. Unblinkingly, he stares into the cup; he is annoyed to find that the downward tilt of his head makes his eyebags sag a little heavier.
The longer he stares, the more faces he sees, glistening on the dark surface. [No longer coffee, but now oozing blood.] He stiffens; the thought of flinging the cup away crosses his mind, but then he imagines the shattered pieces, the splattering of liquid [their spilled blood, his mind mocks], and the hassle of cleaning up a dirtied floor.
And so he sets his cup down upon his desk instead, but still he continues to stare.
He is not sure how long he has been at it, but his coffee has gone cold, and the corners of his eyes are beginning to water. Glowering, he blinks it away; surely enough, they disappear, but the sting does not.
He is still burning, everywhere- in his fucking leg, his fucking mouth, his fucking eyes and nose. [He'll have to wipe down his desk again; the dust is beginning to creep into his brain.]
The bitterness in his throat is still not bitter enough, and so he takes another sip.