We navigated through traffic for the next fifteen minutes. I angled my chin towards the ceiling so that I could nibble on my wrists absentmindedly, gnawing at the wounds that had only just begun to clot. The metallic taste of blood was familiar and thus welcome; I savored it, watching my jailor through narrowed eyes.

His phone call with Josh and the other guy – whose name I hadn't managed to catch – had long since ended, and if I hadn't known better, I might've been surprised at the fact that he was no longer dividing his attention between driving and me, but rather [between] driving and texting, of all things.

My nose wrinkled in distaste. I couldn't recall all the times that the man had almost gotten us killed, indulging in the bad habit that was probably, out of all his various vices, his single favourite. Suicidal fiend. I shook my head, eliciting a tremor from the murky follicles that comprised my shaggy lion's mane.

Most of the fight I'd exhibited earlier had faded; I was nothing but bone-tired now, not to mention cold and hungry. The pain exuding from my wrists all was but etched in my bones at this point, as much a valid part of me as the weary thump thump thump of my heart in my chest. Under other circumstances, I might've been curious about Paranormal's activity; characteristically leaning over his shoulder to peek at what information he was exchanging and with whom.

His earlier threat regarding the spittle I'd left on the upholstery haunted my acoustics, prompting my features to draw taut in a grimace, though there was little feeling beneath the veneer. But I couldn't muster the strength to care. Not anymore. I wasn't sure if it was depression or exhaustion – whichever the two, they were brutal, going about their job well: dragging me down into deep throes of fathomless, inky black, 'til my eyes were drifting closed and I could feel myself slipping, away into slumber.