Patroclus had made it out of the tunnels, at some point. Half-dead, he clung to a pair of red sunglasses and with his other paw, grabbed the gas mask that hung around his neck. He collapsed near the base of a tree, closing his eyes against the memories. "Stop." Pain. "Just go. I'll stay." Pain. "Fight" "I can't." Pain. How long has he stayed there, curled up, waiting for the next hit? How long before he had opened his eyes, only to find his brother-in-law dead? Patroclus felt a wave of nausea. Whether it was from the pain or the memory, he was unsure. He got sick, shoulders heaving and body trembling. "I swear it. The games won't change us. We're good people." Patroclus had whispered to Achilles one night, as they lay curled up on one another in the dark cave. He had been so sure of it then. Even if Achilles wasn't. Patroclus didn't know what to believe anymore. All the blood on his body was his own. Not a speck of Brad's. Yet, he might as well have been soaked. He bit his lip and sobbed for the lost lives. How wretched it was to continue to exist.
Haa angst. Patroclus currently carries around red sunglasses and a black gasmask. These are on him at all times, but I can't figure out how to draw them.
