Phillip hated the look of his own body.

He used to be proud, but he couldn't look in a mirror without feeling bad. He felt horrible.

He regretted the Las Almas incident to a point, and he certainly regretted betraying the 141. If he hadn't betrayed them, if he'd just kept his mind off the money and refused Shephard's command, he wouldn't end up like this.

He blinked back into reality as the cold touch of the lotion on his back. Right. The burns needed to be moisturized, otherwise they just got too itchy. He hated how cold it was though. "Fuck."

He swore under his breath as he gripped the sheets with his hand. He was still getting used to missing an arm too.

It's a miracle he didn't have to retire or quit his job.

He could feel tears welling up in his eyes at the memories still flooding his eyes. The feeling of the scorching metal on his face, the burn of the fire around his body, the feeling of the ground scraping against his fresh burns when he managed to pull himself out somehow...

He couldn't help but break down. He choked on his sob, curling in on himself. He truly was trying hard not to break down every five seconds, but it just all had hurt too much to remember that he had to cry. He hated it, hated crying, but he just couldn't help it.

If stars are meant to burn, he truly wondered if it was worth it.