[Almost anything else the voice so much like Oscar's might have said inside the confines of Paul's skull would have left him still becalmed. He expects nothing of his own mind anymore, in all its scattered, untrustworthy fragments. The illusion of a dead (we're friends, aren't we?) boy's words wouldn't come close to the strangest echo that had consumed his thoughts.
But it says I'm not going to hurt you, and Paul flinches. It's a minuscule thing, a tiny wince and snag of his thumb on the fold of his bandaged hand, but it's enough to trigger a cascading return to self-awareness. He tucks his chin and draws his knees closer, eyelids slipping to nearly closed.
Barely more than subvocal, easily lost in the rumbling of the truck and hidden by all but motionless lips, Paul says to what must, somehow, be himself:]
no subject
But it says I'm not going to hurt you, and Paul flinches. It's a minuscule thing, a tiny wince and snag of his thumb on the fold of his bandaged hand, but it's enough to trigger a cascading return to self-awareness. He tucks his chin and draws his knees closer, eyelids slipping to nearly closed.
Barely more than subvocal, easily lost in the rumbling of the truck and hidden by all but motionless lips, Paul says to what must, somehow, be himself:]
You should.