For once, we arrive at a particular moment in our story.
This is the part that happened later. You know, the one you remembered—no, not that one. Here, let me remind you.
This may or may not have been something familiar or comforting. Instead, the bends had hit you like a surfer’s thrust, 63 mmHg of oxygen bubbling within the crystal walls of your carotid artery. Thick within a K-hole of your listless subconscious. Neurons and dope leeching from your pores. Immersed within a tunnel of myopic disarray, you attempted to decide your next move.
You’re awake, or at least you think you are. Shit, he could really hit hard. Where am I. I’m crawling over there, barely. Is it blood or ethanol on this surface, or something else. Awareness is limited now, reduced to binary functions of existence.
What is this game. Why does he want me.
No fighting, puta. He vuelto.
Time to play.