Excuse my language. I don't really curse like a sailor in real life, honest. But Sands, well, he does.

Enjoy.

The last thing that he had ever seen were the drills; pointy, fucked up egg beater type contraptions that dug into his eyes until everything was red, and then black. And for some unknown reason, it was the only thing that Sands could focus on at the moment, but then of course it might have something to do with the whole, eye gouging process.

Ohmyfuckinggod. My eyes. No, no, don't think about your fucking eyes. Think about Ajedrez. You killed her, she's dead. The balance is restored. What balance? No balance was fucking restored. I was that piece of good pork to her and now she's dead. And I have no eyes. Ohmyfuckinggod. My eyes. No, no, don't think about your fucking eyes. Think about…

Leaning against the wall, he felt the pain in his left arm throb, like a searing, white-hot fire that shot up his limb and then would pause for a moment, letting his body relish the agony that it was putting him through. His legs felt numb, but pulsated like a wild heart.

He hated the human body.

Listening to the quieting footsteps of Ramirez, he shifted his weight on the sun-baked wall. The whistling of the wind was sharp, like a phantom voice, howling.

"Are you okay?" The Chicle boy asked softly.

Yes, fucking fine, thank you very much, he thought silently. Finding no saliva in his mouth, Sands managed a raspy, "I don't know."

Without a hesitation, he heard Chicle's voice, "You will be."

He could almost smile. Almost smile, because Chicle, bless his fucking heart, thought that he was going to be okay. But he wouldn't dare even twist the corners of his mouth, because Agent Sheldon Jeffrey Sands from the Central Intelligence Agency new only way to smile. And that was to smile with his fucking eyes.

What fucking eyes?

And by fucking God, if he smiled…he wondered how much agony that would put hem through. The flesh around his sockets felt raw and sticky, bruised and numb, but strangely, not as painful as the wounds in his arms and legs.

I throw shapes. I set them up. I watch them fall. I throw shapes, I set them up. I watch them fall. I. Throw. Shapes. I. Set. Them. Up. I. Watch. Them. Fall. Watch. Them Fall.

He's never be able to see them fall again.

Throwing his head back, Sands erupted into fits of shrill laughter that did not match his mocking chuckles. He laughed until his stomach hurt like a mother fucker, where he promptly threw up but did not stop laughing. Dribbles of vomit cornered down the slope of his chin. Fuck, Sands would be crying right now if he had eyes. Which only made him laugh harder, dry heaves sending jolts of pain through his stomach.

He slumped from the wall and fell to the ground, coughing and chuckling. He didn't bother to set his sunglasses straight from the tilt when he collapsed onto the floor, a fading smirk at his lips. The corners of his fleshy, raw sockets burned.

"Senor?" Chicle asked, voice trembling. He shook at Sand's side, but he didn't get up.

"Hey, fucker," Sands said dryly. "Tequila and lime, thanks."

With those few words his head lolled back into a state of unconsciousness. Chicle, mortified, ran on the empty road. "Help, help please!" He said, legs pumping and kicking up orange dirt. "I need help, there is a man…"

The road was abandoned, colorful decorations now smothered in a cake like dirt that trailed along the sides of the lonely path.

Tears streamed down his face, leaving trails of wet brine along the curve of his cheek. The only voice that answered him was the howling of the wind and the flapping of the torn streamers, writhing on the thick, auburn dirt.

Hope you enjoyed my one shot. :] Please review.