( this isn't the first time jason has gotten stuck here. this is a reoccurring nightmare, an event he gets himself tangled into far more than he truly ever would want. but it's--the first time it's happened quite like this. he bitched at joel for it being fake, for him being able to throw himself out of it if he wanted but jason--is stuck inside of it. doesn't know how to push the part of his head that recognizes this is just a dream to the forefront and--shift the narrative.
it hurts just like it always had. something has punctured a lung, a few ribs are definitely cracked, maybe broken. his arm is fucked up. the side of his skull is smashed. there are several smaller fractures and he's--definitely not living long without immediate medical attention that he won't get for months and months to come. joel ends joker, and jason--lets out a wheezy cough, presses his cheek against the ground because he remembers. all the bits and pieces after this, who he became, who he is. but the memory isn't enough to shove him out of it. )
—told you. ( another breath in, but it wheezes uncomfortably. it's fake, it's a dream, this isn't real, he can get rid of the pain any time he damn well wants to, he doesn't have to be stuck here. but repeating it to himself doesn't fucking fix it. ) 's a dr— ( another breath. a little steadier. not without the wheezing. ) dream. Fuck.
( eyes screwing shut as he tries to breathe through it. knows better. knows he doesn't get out of this, and that really isn't helping to set his nerves. to help him figure out how to change the scenario, push himself/them into something different. with less blunt objects that break skin. and it's hard as hell to center himself when he doesn't feel like he can fucking breathe. like the world is crashing down around him, like he's moments away from the building going up in a giant blaze and searing off a good bit of his flesh as he kicks the bucket.
there's the casket after. that moment, when he'd pulled air into his lungs for the first time. the nails tearing at the top of the casket, digging through layers of cushy fabric then the hard wood he'd been buried in. the broken fingers, nails torn from nailbeds, barely making it out on top before he'd run out of air and—
that's not where they want to go with this either. another breath, and he shoves himself over onto his side. purposefully. pulling himself back into this moment rather than throw them into a shittier nightmare. )
no subject
it hurts just like it always had. something has punctured a lung, a few ribs are definitely cracked, maybe broken. his arm is fucked up. the side of his skull is smashed. there are several smaller fractures and he's--definitely not living long without immediate medical attention that he won't get for months and months to come. joel ends joker, and jason--lets out a wheezy cough, presses his cheek against the ground because he remembers. all the bits and pieces after this, who he became, who he is. but the memory isn't enough to shove him out of it. )
—told you. ( another breath in, but it wheezes uncomfortably. it's fake, it's a dream, this isn't real, he can get rid of the pain any time he damn well wants to, he doesn't have to be stuck here. but repeating it to himself doesn't fucking fix it. ) 's a dr— ( another breath. a little steadier. not without the wheezing. ) dream. Fuck.
( eyes screwing shut as he tries to breathe through it. knows better. knows he doesn't get out of this, and that really isn't helping to set his nerves. to help him figure out how to change the scenario, push himself/them into something different. with less blunt objects that break skin. and it's hard as hell to center himself when he doesn't feel like he can fucking breathe. like the world is crashing down around him, like he's moments away from the building going up in a giant blaze and searing off a good bit of his flesh as he kicks the bucket.
there's the casket after. that moment, when he'd pulled air into his lungs for the first time. the nails tearing at the top of the casket, digging through layers of cushy fabric then the hard wood he'd been buried in. the broken fingers, nails torn from nailbeds, barely making it out on top before he'd run out of air and—
that's not where they want to go with this either. another breath, and he shoves himself over onto his side. purposefully. pulling himself back into this moment rather than throw them into a shittier nightmare. )
—a sec. ( as in, give me one. )