The trip back was increasingly horrible, the world swaying and twisting around him. He kept tripping up over his own feet and the flat sidewalk. He cursed his heart for racing the way it was, pumping more blood out of his wounds. His shirt, which he was now struggling to hold against his neck, was nearly soaked. There was no salvaging it at this point.

The relief was palpable when they finally made it through the door. They managed to get her to her room and onto her bed, though he felt bad for the sheets that would no doubt need replacing. Her wounds already seemed to be healing themselves though, and he envied her for it. His skin was pallid and sweaty, and he barely made it back out to the living room before he collapsed face first onto the floor, unconscious.