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Summary
Over the past two weeks, every time they've thought they finally hit rock bottom, here comes this prick with a fucking shovel. Maybe V could just lie down here and let themselves die. Maybe this is the best they'll get.
Johnny takes a drag of his cigarette, puffing smoke down at their face.
"You wouldn't be so kind as to save me the trouble."
The mere sound of his voice makes the pain substantially worse.
Their jaw clenches, and the fabric of their shirt saturates further with various hues of reds and pinks. V wishes desperately for a moment that Johnny were warm flesh and blood, with a healthy beating heart, so that they might place their hands on either side of his sternum and rip him open.