Kildeer Rest cigarette daydreams

He can't say anything as Zamael's words cut into him through the haze of pain in his head. His breath catches a little, and it takes all his effort to hold in the tears that finally appear, drawn up slowly as if from dry desert floor. He blinks and they're gone, if only because he doesn't have the energy to cry right now.
I — what. Delight has thought, He says slowly, haltingly. That I've been avoiding him. He swallows hard. I'm sorry, alright? I'm sorry I'm shit — that I can't pay enough attention to you, or anyone else apparently. If his head would only stop aching so horribly, if he wasn't so tired, he could move — he could leave, run because that's what he does best, do some sightseeing himself. Instead he stays rooted, suffocating. I'm just tired — all the time. I'm sorry.

He doesn't know what else to say; he doesn't have the energy for anger or tears right now, but he knows this wound is deep. The blood will come later, he thinks.