[It's a swimming sea of words that catches him off guard.]
Gone?
[Why would he...
...
The taste. The foul taste. And Lobelia...
He can feel his stomach turn despite its demand for food, and his hands dig into his shirt.]
I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Nona. [It's slow and hoarse. He doesn't sound sick or hurt, but the dig of hunger is agonizing, and the disgust of the memories that start to flood back tinges it sourly.]
no subject
Gone?
[Why would he...
...
The taste. The foul taste. And Lobelia...
He can feel his stomach turn despite its demand for food, and his hands dig into his shirt.]
I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Nona. [It's slow and hoarse. He doesn't sound sick or hurt, but the dig of hunger is agonizing, and the disgust of the memories that start to flood back tinges it sourly.]
Food. Anything. I'm so hungry.