There was nothing, and then there was violence. It arrived the only way violence did: rudely, somehow an interruption even though nothing had come before it. A careless and invasive disruption. His body, still a moment ago, was at war with itself now. His insides seized, his stomach twisted. He should have thrown up, but it was as though nothing in his body was connected any more. His stomach couldn't get the message across to his throat and as a result all the bile in him leaked out to the empty spaces between his ribs. He coughed — uselessly, because if air had made it to his lung yet his lungs didn't know it; they had nothing to expel. The first thing he became aware of external to himself was that someone was holding him. That was good — if there hadn't been someone to hold him together, his body might have torn itself apart. He felt as though he were already in pieces, if the pieces were were angry and forced into a container too small to hold them.
There was a voice. Don Juan was in too much pain to make sense of words. There was a hand on his cheek. He opened his eyes to search out the face of the person it belonged to but his vision wasn't cooperating yet. His eyes rolled uselessly. He felt dizzy. Somehow his hand had risen to rest against the outside of the man's hand. (Man — that was right. He knew where he was, he knew who this was. It was just that the world hadn't resolved enough yet for him to find that information in his head). His body was convulsing — at least his insides were. He didn't know if it carried through to the rest of him or if it was contained inside his skin. He was impossibly grateful for the fact of being held.
Mouth open. He knew that was what he was meant to do now. Possibly that was what the voice had told him. His mouth barely felt like a mouth at all; too dry, like every drop of moisture had already been wrung out of his body. He managed to part his lips slightly, but then ruined it by coughing again. Dying, he thought — the verb, tenseless, enveloped him. He was dying, had been dying, would be dying, is at this very moment dying. One or all of the above.
There was a voice. Don Juan was in too much pain to make sense of words. There was a hand on his cheek. He opened his eyes to search out the face of the person it belonged to but his vision wasn't cooperating yet. His eyes rolled uselessly. He felt dizzy. Somehow his hand had risen to rest against the outside of the man's hand. (Man — that was right. He knew where he was, he knew who this was. It was just that the world hadn't resolved enough yet for him to find that information in his head). His body was convulsing — at least his insides were. He didn't know if it carried through to the rest of him or if it was contained inside his skin. He was impossibly grateful for the fact of being held.
Mouth open. He knew that was what he was meant to do now. Possibly that was what the voice had told him. His mouth barely felt like a mouth at all; too dry, like every drop of moisture had already been wrung out of his body. He managed to part his lips slightly, but then ruined it by coughing again. Dying, he thought — the verb, tenseless, enveloped him. He was dying, had been dying, would be dying, is at this very moment dying. One or all of the above.
![[Image: 0hYxCaj.png]](https://i.imgur.com/0hYxCaj.png)
MJ made this <3