He clawed at the walls, digging his fingers in deep, clinging tight, pulling himself up near the ceiling.
He dared not waste the energy to turn his head over his shoulder, so hissed with all the venom and bile he had, directly at the wall.
A few quick motions, the movement placing strain on other muscles, a relief in itself, and his fingers were digging into a stud, easier to hold him than the plaster and drywall.
Now, now, he could look back and curse and spit at them, relax his grip and focus on invective.
His mouth opened, wide and vibrant, his words vile and blistering his tongue already, perched on his teeth as they were, and blackening, burning the skin around his lips.
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