He lies there, hardly a mark on him. Just a small graze on his forehead. Not much at all. And yet...
And yet, the car windscreen is shattered
And yet, he has a GCS of 4; eyes closed, no verbal response, limbs extending
And yet, when I lift up his eylids, his eyes tell all.
Pupils widely dilated, eyes diverging.
His eyes, windows to the soul, fortellers of death