coreliot
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Summary
The world hits Eddie Diaz with sharp jabs; punches to the gut, chest, face.
And he’s caught, trapped, between the blows—that are fast and hard like snipers to his left, like Greggs with a bullet in his chest, like Shannon bloody on the ground—and relief.
Relief that comes quick and far between, like Christopher in his arms, like the 118 by his side, like a cold beer in his kitchen, just him and Buck.
He’s always alternating between the two, never not ready for the blow, never not waiting for relief to end.
That’s all he’s known, all he’s ever known.
Or
Eddie’s been the man of the house since he turned 11 years old.
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Title from “Placing the Blame” by Self.