Re: [(After)Life] Lear felt like shit. His hair was limp and in his face, his shirt was practically in fucking tatters, open at the throat and bloodied down the front from an earlier nosebleed, and his jeans were muddied to the knee and soaked the rest of the way. He didn't have any fucking shoes and he'd been spitting out fish bones and other small-as-shit shit that was stuck in his teeth the entire ungodly walk to Nel's shop.
He was tired and angry, and he had no alcohol, no coke, not even a cigarette to try to take the edge off. Bruised, battered, and otherwise worse for wear, he elbowed the door to his sister's place open. His mind, which had been fucking ringing nonstop, cleared at least a fucking little as he crossed the threshold. He could smell smoke and he could smell his sister, and he just trudged miserably toward her. His fingers were tipped with blood and he smeared it on his cheek as he tried to swipe some hair out of his face.
He collapsed on the leather sofa next to Nel without being careful at all about that balancing ashtray. His long legs were out in front of him as he sank down, and he glared at his sister. "Fuck."