aka Arthur has anxiety
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It doesn’t matter that his throat hurts. It doesn’t matter that he can hardly swallow. It doesn’t matter that a handful of hours ago he’d been slowly dying with a rope tight across his trachea.
What matters is the image of Charles, with the sun burning on his shoulders like a devil, face cast in shadows. What matters is the look of indignant rage that pinches Charles brow, the casual, meticulous speed in which he dispatches Arthur’s captor. What matters is the sweet, dizzying air filling his lungs, and the delirious thought that passed in his head -
I don’t know this man.