"Damn it…" he cursed, his voice weak and feeble. He barely recognized it himself, so twisted by pain it was. He dragged his head along the floor, as he weakly rocked by and forth, searching for any outlet to the mindless savaging pain. No human was meant to feel that, he was sure. He'd felt like he'd been run over by a dozen carts and horses, but without the external injuries to prove it.
Not even a sword had inflicted such pain on him before. It shook every cell in his body, demanding that it tear itself apart.
He coughed again, and looked at his hand. He was sure that he felt something this time. He looked at his hand, again expecting blood. But it wasn't blood. It was some kind of vague gelatinous material, almost translucent, but also solid. In his panicked state of mind, he imagined that it could be nothing other than the flesh of his organs, and they tore themselves apart, and who was there to say that he was wrong?
