Simms kept wheezing, trying to take a breath, but each time he felt like he was just pumping blood into his mouth. He tried to seal up the wound with his hand, and to grab the napkins out of Tobias' hands and fix himself, to hold every wound closed. Everything was wrong. This was wrong.
As he started to feel weaker, and he room started to spin, he fell again, propped up against the cabinets. The front of his shirt felt wet and sticky, and warm, but he was starting to feel cold. His head was swimming. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to get rewarded for what he had done here. He had given Them a show, and performed splendidly. He was supposed to have a chance to hide in the tunnels under the house before they came to string him up. He was supposed to have his son's photo in his pocket. He was supposed to be able to see his face again.
His arms felt too heavy to keep trying to keep them up at his throat, and and his vision was more fuzzy and black than not. He tried to spit up the blood that had filled his mouth, pointlessly. The air wasn't coming. He gurgled as he tried to find something to say to Tobias, but his thoughts were as heavy as his arms were. He looked up at his killer, and maybe it was the lightheadedness, but he could almost respect that the jackass had managed to hide the knife, and get such a fucking luck shot. Almost.
Really, he just hoped that he traumatized the fucker.
Everything went black after that. Simms twitched as his body tried to get oxygen, and kept losing blood, but he stayed there, leaning against the cabinets, as the floor became redder with blood, until his heart stopped pumping it out of him. Simms was dead.