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Chuck Shurley: that beardy dude with the laptop. (capriciousgod) wrote in wariscoming,

For a second he was kind of confused, hearing an unfamiliar female voice join in his own litany of terrified and hurt words, and he trailed off, one hand pressed to where he could feel heat and wet (blood, his mind helpfully supplied, you’re bleeding. Because you were shot. That’s what happens, this is what it really feels like) leaking out, the warmth escaping and getting away in the cool air, and he felt sick and cold and terrified, oh God this was really it, wasn’t it?

There was someone standing over him. It was hard to see, and he waited a second but they didn’t move towards him anymore, or shoot him again, and he really didn’t want to die but he didn’t know what else to do. He fumbled for a second with the flashlight, one hand slick with blood and both of them shaking but he finally got it on, but he wasn’t exactly feeling strong enough to point it in any specific direction.

“I, this is, oh God... Jo?” It wasn’t Jo. He knew it wasn’t Jo. She’d said she was going to be in camp looking around, and the voice that had spoken wasn’t hers (he’d know hers anywhere, he loved the sound of her voice, and this wasn’t that), and he knew, logically, that she wasn’t here, and she was better off not being here, it was better, but...

...but he was dying, and he was scared, and he really wanted her here, to tell him it was all going to be fine.