For a month, he dies.
He strips off the layers of rot and shoves them into the dark corner of his closet. Pretends he can't smell anything. He needs to be someone else.
It isn't a choice. It's his only chance of survival.
His jaw and his brain and his veins are sore. His dick is sore. Some nights he can't breathe.
He breathes anyway.
When you die, and you become something, someone else, you learn how to breathe again. And it always hurts.
He remembers the feeling. A lifetime ago. A childhood ago.
A flame erupts in the sky, trailing behind a body under starlight. He can still smell the sweetness of her. Taste it and choke.
He doesn't like the color red much anymore. It isn't the color of the morning. Or a Robin's egg.
