don't threaten me with a good time

Everest

With shades of purple dotting his eyelids and jawline, the bruising on Ever's face is not nearly as complimentary as the makeup Mateo had put there just a week or so before. He looks small in the hospital bed, with his ill-fitting gown and various IV lines. Some art show is playing on mute, and there's an unopened plastic container of jello next to Ever's bed.

Groggily the paramedic opens his eyes (one more than the other), and stares blankly up at Mateo. It takes a few painful blinks for the florist to come into focus, and a few more for Ever to claw through the thick fog of sedation to be able to speak. "—m fine." He croaks, and though he very much isn't, reassuring Mateo is top of mind.

"so—ry I...d—nt come home."

I was a dead man walking,
with bloodshot eyes—right place, wrong time.