Wut da crud was I doing here again?

Pain, so much pain…

Can't see, too dark, arm feels like someone chopped it off, sweat, smell of metal, hoodie getting more and more wet, more and more sticky, pain whenever I try to move my right arm, pain when I try to walk, pain when I blink, pain when I try to focus, red, red everywhere, dark red, seeing red, lights are dim but red, walls are red, hoodie is red, skin is red—

He banged the back of his head against a wall—a metallic wall, he noticed.

He banged his head again, not to cause pain, but to try to ease pa—

Head feels like it's going to explode, eyes going to burst, nose and mouth can't exhale fast enough, ears ringing, something is connecting horrible pain from my arm to my neck to my brain, must clear head, can't think, can't focus, can't walk, can't open fists, just want to crawl and go to sleep—

Wut da crud am I supposed to be doing here?

He pulled up his jeans as best as he could. Something had happened earlier that caused them to droop slightly, but he could only use his left hand to straighten them, and as he did, he felt something in his pocket.

Wut da crud is this? A paper? Cruddy red crumpled paper, can't even read wuts on it, though it looks like it's some instructions about something and—

Wut else is here?

He felt something else in his pocket, and yanked it out.

Hard paper, no, cardboard, no, it's a picture, cruddy red picture, can't tell what's on it—no, wait, there's a shape of something in it, crud, I can't focus, ah, it's the shape of a head, and—perhaps a face, yes, a face, I think I know that face, I've seen it before, it's—