Small little drabblish thing. Enjoy.
Counting ways to die.
The younger ones, they count the easy ways. Being stabbed. Being shot. Being torn apart. Easy ways, ways that end, eventually.
Those who are older. Those who have lived it, have taken the hits, and have the scars to prove it, they count the more inventive ways. Like the boy who comes in, constantly shaking as his body tears itself apart. Or the girl who watches him, holds his hands steady, and prays that this is fixable. The old man, who flinches at everything, and asks safety questions because monsters wearing the faces of those he loves have tried to kill him before. They count the ways that destroy them.
People who have been broken by the lives they live, who do what they do only because some basic instinct tells them they have to, they count the tiny cuts that never heal, the long waits before the end, the crippling knowledge that they will fall. And even then, they've counted so many little injuries, some many tiny deaths already that they just don't care anymore.
They younger ones, they count the easy ways. The older ones count the little ones.
So there you have it. R&R, please.