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His mouth stings, aches, stabs with pain. It feels like he ate glass, then decided to chase it down with lemonade and barbed wire. Every breath of air he sucks in feels like a swarm of cold, sharp needles pricking into every little crevice of his gums. His mouth tastes like iron, and he has to cough up or spit out blood every few minutes.
Stanley just chewed his way out of the trunk of a car.
His skin is hot and clammy, his limbs weak and heavy, merely sitting up having become a cumbersome task. Everything hurts, aches, but his attention can't tear away from the agony of his mouth. He runs his tongue over the sharp, shattered shards of his teeth.
He should be dead.
He should be rotting away in the searing, dark, cramped trunk of his own car. Should be tied up with no way to get out. Should have suffocated, or died of blood loss, or dehydration, or heat stroke.
"Vamos. Hemos terminado aquí," Rico says, his voice muffled from outside the trunk.
His stomach drops, a pit of dread swallowing him whole. They're going to leave him here. He's going to die.
A fresh wave of terror washes over him.
"Wait! You can't- ¡No puedes dejarme aquí! Please, por favor, wait- ¡Puedo compensarte! Please!" Stan's begging, desperate, as he listens to their fading footsteps.
He's going to die.
He's going to die.
His throat tightens with the thought of it. He feels shaky, all shaky. His breath rattles. He shakes his head, and it makes his headache worse. It's a welcome distraction from everything else. He can't think about any of it right now.
He's banging on the inside of the trunk, now. It's so hot. He's going to die in here.
"Please, déjenme salir! ¡Puedo conseguir más dinero, please! ¡Por favor!"
Tears are starting to stain his face now. It's getting harder to breath. His skin is clammy.
It's so hot.
He looks up to the bright, sunny sky, and he can almost pretend it reminds him of a beach.
He wonders what Ford would think of him now.
Maybe he would look at Stan with that old concerned look, the one he always gave him after another fight with Crampelter. He'd grab the first aid kit and they'd sit together on the bathroom floor as he patched him up.
Maybe he would say he missed him. Maybe he'd remember it was supposed to be them forever. Maybe he'd forgive him.
He looks away. He ruined Ford's life, and he ruined his own. Everyone knows it. He's always been the stupid twin, the useless twin. At best, they would look down at him with pity. At best, he still wouldn't deserve it.
Stan slowly pushes himself up, off of the ground he collapsed down onto after he was finally out. His legs feel weak, and he has a limp from one of the injuries they gave him, but he knows he has to get up. The last thing he needs is for them to come back and find him like this.
He turns around, looking at the open trunk. Just the sight already makes his skin crawl. He slams it shut with nobody inside, and he slowly walks over to the driver's side. Opening the door, he looks around at his messy car, shame bubbling inside of him. Couldn't even take care of the Stanleymobile right...
Stan ignores the mess. It's nothing new. He sits, and he leans back with exhaustion, wincing at the pains of it. Some of it'll take a while to heal.
He grabs his shabby little first aid kit from the passenger seat. Opening it, he works slowly to patch himself up. If he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine the hand holding the supplies has a sixth finger.