His legs are weak and shaky and numb, attacked by pins and needles. He sits up on the edge of the blood-soaked bed, tentatively moves his feet, puzzles over attempting to walk with his hands cupped between his legs.
Minutes go by and the pain plateaus. Legs spread out, he braces himself on the nearby wall with a bloody hand, and tries to stand up. By the bed is a bedside table with a lamp, its bulb flickering dirty shadows on the wall. Across the wall is a door, by its side, a tray of food. A few feet from the tray is the closet, its door closed.
He gains his balance and keeps it centered, despite his phantom limbs. He starts to walk, slowly. He feels all his blood rushing down to his legs. His right thigh spasms, cramps. His legs fold and he holds on to the table and slips, banging his head on the corner, then drops to the floor on all fours. Blood diarrheas out in chunks between his legs, pools around his knees.
He crawls back to the bed, leaving a trail of blood.
