Not with you.
The courtyard is a blur around him.
Not with you.
His feet pound the grass in dull clumps, smack against stone and echo in time to:
Not with you.
Almost-warm air slaps his face, assaults his hair.
Not with you.
Clusters of voices ooze in and out of the blood pumping in his ears.
Not with you.
He sees the door to his flat coming into view, he feels the air ripping his lungs apart, hears the fragile pounding of what’s left inside.
The keys fumble and clank but they fit in the lock and he pushes it open with his shoulder as hard as he can because he just
needs
to go inside, he needs this door to open
right now
