"his blood was fused with turnip juice and sunlight"

thomas edward britton wakes up from a coma and stumbles down the stairs, iv's in tow. "what the mother fuck is this?" he says, dragging rusted pipe and tubing behind him. his legs give in in halfway down the spines of the building and he collapses in on himself like an accordion. "where are my keys. where are my goddamn keys." he exclaims, gripping what remains of his left arm. "you mother fuckers." he spits into a cylinder at the base of the steps and waits for the ping sound of saliva on metal to judge just how far up he really is. thomas edward crawls along the floor, shuffling as best he can, hoping to find someone to scream at. "asshole," he says into reflective tiles. a roar comes from the south end of the building. thomas edward spins around, the force of it tearing needle from arm, a dark liquid cascading down the floor. "what is the time? what is the time?" he spews. once. twice. and slips back into a coma.