#pascal: deadweight

Caleb had no goddamn clue what was happening — what happened. One second he was yelling at the boy with the daft name then he was under splintered wood and the heavyweight of an un—dead woman. Deadweight was a real thing, something he knew far too from experience. He fought her back until he put a bullet through her face. When she slumped over it almost felt like he couldn’t breathe. The boy had to help shift the body. Then the wood.

And... A shooting pain through his leg, starting below his right knee and slicing through his calf to the ankle. There was no blood but something inside must’ve gone awry. He couldn’t hide the pain from Clem when that boy had to literally carry the Deputy into the general store. 

So he hid himself away like a dog that knows it’s about to die finds a quiet spot to leave this world in peace. Caleb’s not so lucky. He woke up the next morning with a splitting headache and a useless leg. But he woke up, at least. He woke up the next day too, hungry but well-rested, and unwillingly to venture out for help or food. So, Caleb slept some more, even though it was the middle of the day.

On the third night, Caleb woke with a start. In a moment, he would realize exactly what startled him. He’d blame it on a bad dream, but they were commonplace, or he’d blame it on the shooting pain, but he was used to gritting his teeth and bearing it. It was a muffled lantern light that actually startled him awake.

“Fuckin’ piece a shit —” he grumbles and grunts. Eyes watery and furious as he bolts up then hunches over. He presses into his eyes like that’ll wake him up properly. Instead, it only delays the realization he’s not alone and someone's come looking for something in the storeroom.

It seems his grave has been found. Caleb wants to crawl right into the ground. He clears his throat instead. Sits as upright as he can, a hand wandering to his thigh, massaging the soft part of his skin at the back of his knee.