"…Wade?"
Robin's voice trembled, thin and hoarse, as though dragged over broken glass. His eyes widened until they felt as if they might burst from their sockets, the pitch-black tears streaming down his face like molten tar, streaking his cheeks.
His very eye burned as though it were rotting away, every blink releasing more of that foul ichor. Yet even through that searing torment, he forced his body to move, his muscles quivering under the strain. With a guttural sound of willpower, he pushed himself upward, dragging his battered frame into a half-sitting posture. He braced against his right elbow, his back hunched, his breath labored.
His vision blurred and decayed, his eyes felt as though they were melting, dissolving into the very darkness they wept. Still, in that moment—just in that moment—he forgot his pain. He forgot his own misery, his ruined soul, the unbearable weight crushing him.
Because what he saw before him was worse.
Wade.
