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It was cold. The blood - his blood - all over his body was warm. It seared. It burned. It hurt. Oh god it hurt. There was a space in his chest and it ached and it screamed and it dominated his mind and he could barely think about anything else other than it. He was hurt. He was in pain. Everything seared and everything hurt and everything on his body felt so hot and he thought it’d be different from this and he thought it’d be peaceful but it wasn’t and it hurt and it seared and it felt so warm against his skin and he couldn’t think he couldn’t feel anything else because it hurt it hurt it hurt and it burned and he couldn’t deal with it.

But above all, it felt cold.


A feeling, at the edge of his fingertips. On his arm. They weren’t there anymore. There wasn’t any pain. There wasn’t anything searing or screaming there. There was nothing. No feeling. He didn’t have any fingertips anymore. They were gone.

And it was spreading. The feeling was going through his body. Rising up through his arms taking away what was there until there wasn’t anything left for it to take.

Was this how Jasper felt, as he had bled out here?

Was this how Irene felt, after the bullet had hit her stomach?

He didn’t know.

He hadn’t felt the kick, as it impacted against his shoulder. He hadn’t felt anything as his body was turned over. The feeling was dull. Drowned out by everything else.

But the face standing above him brought him back, for a brief second.


She was holding the gun.

She had shot him.

And he didn’t know what was going to happen next.

Breathe in, breathe-




But he couldn’t he couldn’t breathe and he was looking up and she was staring at him and she had a smile on her face and he couldn’t breathe but he needed to breathe- needed to- needed to-


He tried moving his hands. He tried bringing them to his throat.

He couldn’t.


His hands shook, twitched as she looked him in the eyes.

And that was all they could do.
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If That's Who I Am, Then I'll Fight Who I Am · Group Therapy