Chapter Text
Wake up.
Wake up, Jonah.
Wake up wake up wake u—
His eyes opened to light snowfall, the little snowflakes falling on top of his body, partially covered in snow. He could hardly even feel his body, an incredible numbness in its place. He felt as if he were frozen in place, unable to do anything but stare up at the dimly lit moon. It cast a pretty silver-blue hue over everything in sight.
If he wasn’t bleeding out right now, he’d feel much calmer here.
His head fell to the side, sending waves of pain coursing through his neck. For a split-second, it felt like his skull was imploding, but then it faded, leaving behind an excruciating headache.
He could feel the rough gravel and small, jagged rocks digging into the side of his head, making him wince. His vision suddenly blurred, making him take a few minutes to adjust.
After what felt like forever, he felt the blurriness in corners start to sharpen, and he could finally see properly. He watched a lone car speed by, staring blankly at the remnants of smoke. He couldn’t remember if the smoke got into his eyes or not. His thoughts kept him distracted.
An internal voice was telling him—no, screaming at him. Get up.
Get the fuck up.
It took him a while—he kept collapsing from both fatigue and pain—but he eventually managed. His next problem, though, was walking. He felt like a toddler taking its first steps. It was rather humiliating; at least no one was watching. Slowly but surely, he inched his way to the edge of the road, listening to the satisfying crunching sound.
Glancing behind himself, he found a puddle of blood beneath where he previously stood. It stuck out uncomfortably in the white blanket of snow, as if Mother Nature was mocking him. He grimaced, immediately looking away.
He inhaled sharply, feeling the frigid air enter his lungs. It felt relieving to breathe, but the coolness left a tight feeling in his throat. He swallowed, feeling choked up now. Was it just him or could he taste blood in his mouth?
He looked up at the sky again, noticing the snow was falling much more intensely now, the wind starting to pick up.
Right. He had to move.
Another problem arose—it was like they kept stacking on top of him—that he didn’t know where he was, or where to go. His best bet was to just pick a direction and start walking.
With a reluctant sigh, he took a sharp turn to the right. He took one last glance at the road, watching cars pass by. None of them paid any mind to him. It was like he was a ghost. Finally, he started to walk, keeping his gaze on the road the entire time. Each step was excruciating, as if pins and needles were digging into his skin. It got better with each step, at least, mostly because his focus was entirely on getting back to the county.
The temperature was dropping rapidly, the snowfall was getting worse, and the winds were howling in his ears. He was trembling, unable to do anything to shield himself from the snow. Shit.
He paused for a moment to glance down at his hand. From the looks of it, he had at least mild hypothermia. The absurdity of the situation. How he was alive and now freezing to death in the middle of nowhere. He felt a bubble of laughter in his stomach. Before he knew it, he was giggling, covering his mouth.
Then the reality of his situation kicked in again. Hysteria. Right. He couldn’t do this, couldn’t get hysterical. His life was at stake, after all.
He just wanted to go home.
Swallowing harshly, he again winced at the painful feeling in his throat, that clogged feeling. Another glance at himself. He only just now realized his wounds. The blood was staining parts of his clothing, almost frozen over. The scars underneath his clothing felt uncomfortably warm. He grit his teeth at the sight; he needed medical attention—badly.
After twenty minutes of walking, he found that the pain in his legs began to subside, followed by an annoying fatigue. He preferred that over the pain, though.
He watched as the snowfall practically doubled in intensity, the wind almost unbearable by now. He was starting to lose track of how long it had been. Was he nearing the forty-minute mark? Had it been an hour? And, despite the cold, he felt himself getting warmer.
Trembling, he looked back at the road, his mind wandering. Was he even going the right way? Should he turn around? His heart started to beat faster now, pounding aggressively at his ribcage, yet he forced himself to keep moving. Hopefully, he’d run into something, right?
He found himself at the outskirts of a town, standing by a sign covered in snow. His hand trembled as he uncovered it, ignoring the icy chill that shot through his palm. He noticed the faded green sign, white lettering adorning it. His eyes quickly scanned the large lettering, spelling out the words ‘MANDELA COUNTY’.
For a moment, completely paralyzed, he couldn't tear his eyes away from those two words. It was like the winter storm kept him in place, doomed to stay there until he froze over.
But then he finally managed to look away, to get his body to move away from the sign. He would’ve ran if it weren’t for his fatigue and pain. They were weights, keeping him from getting to the county. They were trying to get him to give up and let go. Part of him wanted to collapse, to succumb to the effects. But he couldn’t, not when he was so close.
The second a building was in reach, he grabbed the edge of it, finding a sense of relief at the rough brick wall beneath his fingertips. He noticed how dead the county was. Of course it was—it was the dead of night—but this? There was no noise other than his shallow breathing. Not the faint whirr of a car in the distance, or even the howl of the wind. It felt eerie.
As he walked further inside the town, he shot glances behind himself. He didn’t know why, but he felt his paranoia get worse with each step. He didn’t know why. Why was he acting like this when he wasn’t before? Surely he was fine, right?
The cold was getting to his head, and he couldn’t think anymore. He couldn’t keep going on like this, so he stumbled into a nearby alleyway, pressing himself against a wall, just trying to shield himself from the brutal wind. He saw his breath, watching it dissipate and vanish. Rinse and repeat. Anything to distract himself.
He pressed a hand to his shoulder, feeling a deep gash. He winced, feeling the fabric dig into his flesh, closing his eyes for a long while.
Looking further into the alley, he noticed a paper, taped to a utility pole that was off to the side. He blinked, forcing himself to move closer to the pole to get a better glimpse. It creased and looked damp near the edges. The closer he got, the more he could make out what it was. An alternate report?
But before he could properly see the paper, however, he slipped on some unseen ice, tripping. He braced himself for an impact, to hit the ground, though it never came. Rather, the concrete felt like jello. And he phased right through that jello. It was like he was slipping out of his body, out of reality. It was disorienting.
Was he dying?