There were a thousand different ways to describe pain. Each one, as someone experienced it, felt too much like poetry. The only thing crossing Val's mind in the moment is something raw, a fire that he can't quite properly describe as agony. It started as shock, like — like his mind couldn't handle what had happened at first. Then there was a split second of pain that faded quickly, because after shock came the adrenaline, and for a while he hadn't felt anything else. Just the impacts, the noise. Tingling through his fingers and chest, it couldn't have taken as long as he thought it had. Just a minute. Just a minute and he's on the floor.

Red stains bright against his face, his fingers, the reflective yellow path along his jumpsuit's zipper. The cold metal on the cart his dad wheels in. He sits immobile, like clay as gentle hands shift his face every which way, eyes blank and unfocused as they find themselves stuck three hallways over and thirty minutes behind him. His dad's talking, and even if the words themselves fall on deaf ears, he can feel them in his chest. Are you alright? Where does it hurt? What did they say this time?

"What did they say this time?" His head jerks, a sharp pain rocketing through his jaw when the motion ends with his dad's fingers pressed too harshly against his bruised jaw. He doesn't realize there are tears in his eyes until he blinks them away, ducking his head to stare stubbornly at his own hands where they're folded in his lap. What did they say this time? It's what they always say, really, but it doesn't feel important to him anymore. The doctor sighs and goes back to his work with the gentlest hands, telling some story about Catherine, the dreams she had, the things she loved. He's still not listening, but the sound of his dad's voice is comforting. "You know you can talk to me, right?"

"Yeah Dad, I know."