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The morning after was always just as bad as the night before.
It was always dark and cold and lonely.
It hurt and hurt and hurt.
His limbs were oft torn with muscle and sinew ripped apart, his bones broken and his blood everywhere.
He could smell the blood. It was so strong, that tangy, tinny, metallic smell. He craved it the night before – that's why it was there – but now it made him sick.
Whatever hard, unforgiving surface he'd managed to finally succumb on was always sticky and he had trouble rolling over (of the times he was sprawled on his back) to his side so he could sick up.
More blood. More blood came up; and acid and flesh – his flesh. He would retch until there was nothing more to give up and then he would continue heaving uncontrollably as his body shook from the morning-after fever.
The hurt would tire him out again soon and he would rest until that gracious, kind, wonderfully, saintly matron would come and heal his wounds.
The soft, warm, crackly magic would right his bones and knit his muscles and sinew back together. His blood would be banished away from the floors and the walls and from his body and he would drink that wonderfully bittersweet potion that filled him right back up again.
She would take away his hurt and give him warm, salty broth to get rid of that awful rusty taste in his mouth as she sewed him back together again, muttering under her breath and doting on him like the motherly matron she was.