After Micah's final, resounding hit, Trenton slumped against the coffee table. Still spitting blood, still so fucking out of it that he almost had it in him to laugh. But it's probably a good thing he didn't work up the energy to try. In his current state, it was a little difficult to really be worried about anything; even death felt like an abstract concept. A word with no meaning. He was bleeding fresh from a busted lip and quite possibly a broken nose, and if Micah hadn't hauled him back to his feet, Trenton might not have even been able to have gotten up on his own. When Micah asked if Aaron or Boyd had asked for it, Trenton's eyes burned with so much malice that the hate should have burned them both.
But Trenton didn't say anything, he knew that he wasn't getting away, but he didn't protest. It had taken claws and a knife to get the protests, the pleading explanations, out of him last time.
Besides, who were these two? A couple of fucking do-gooders who didn't have the faintest idea of what had gone down that night, or the dreams that kept Trenton awake. When Cole closed in on him, Trenton mustered up the courage and miserable fucking verve that it took to put on a most lecherous grin, hoping that Cole would hit him hard enough that he just might not ever wake up.
Because he knew that in the coming darkness, there wasn't even going to be a memory of pain. And when it finally came, he was right.