Hands are useful things, wonderfully useful. He loves his hands. Loved, he corrects. He watches his fingers twitch as the red seeps into the blue fabric making it a deep, dark brown, the bloody overflow is driven into the mud by the rain that is stabbing at him, the drops hit the skin and bore their way into his flesh, freezing him from the inside out.
The mud under is almost warm in comparison, holding him in a caring embrace, the foliage brushing against his skin, wiping the rain and sweet from his face as a fever of shock starts to pull at his insides.
He wonders dully how much of the arm he will loose as the fingers continue to twitch. He inspects the trap that bites his flesh and that has torn and ripped muscles from bone as he fell, the trapped twisted snapping the fragile bone underneath and now he lays here, ignoring the fact his legged don't ache and he can't answer his brothers shouting for him, begging him to answer. He focus on his twitching fingers and how tired he is, wondering if he will keep his hand.
