(no subject)
There are worse things in the world at the moment, Jim knows. Fuck if he can think of any right now, but there are. He's not dead, for one.
He's not dead, because apart from being on a magical fucking island in a fucking winter wonderland, he's killed two people. He's helped kill seven more. His stupidity got Mark killed, he's the reason Hannah lost her dad, and the reason she and Selena are probably both dead by now.
Most of all - and this still sticks with him, this is what keeps him up at night - he's beaten an infected boy to death with a bat.
A bat that's lying across the path Jim's on.
He's stopped dead in his tracks, hands loose at his sides so the long arms of his coat trail past his gloved fingers. His coat, his boots, his hat aren't keep him warm anymore; there's a chill that's worked its way into his fucking bones, and he shivers violently with every resounding smack he hears as he replays the scene in his head again.
And again.
And over again.
It's not even wiped clean, like he'd done when he was finished, when he could still convince himself it was him or it was the kid. There's blood dripping off it into the pure white snow, with a bit of something clumped together here and there, too thick to be just blood.
Jim wants to throw up or something, but all he can do is let out a feeble sound that dissolves into the air when his breath blows away, and he slowly gets his feet moving until he's standing over the bat, until he's picking it up by the grip like it's going to come alive and bite him. He knows that isn't true; the only time the fucking thing's been alive is when Jim's gripped it between both hands and swung. Sometimes that feels like a nightmare a lifetime away, sometimes it feels like yesterday.
What Jim doesn't really think about is how easy it is for him to slip his hand around the grip again, and how part of him never gave up Selena's mantra. In a heartbeat. About how he's so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he'll have the bat up and swinging the moment he hears something.
He's not dead, because apart from being on a magical fucking island in a fucking winter wonderland, he's killed two people. He's helped kill seven more. His stupidity got Mark killed, he's the reason Hannah lost her dad, and the reason she and Selena are probably both dead by now.
Most of all - and this still sticks with him, this is what keeps him up at night - he's beaten an infected boy to death with a bat.
A bat that's lying across the path Jim's on.
He's stopped dead in his tracks, hands loose at his sides so the long arms of his coat trail past his gloved fingers. His coat, his boots, his hat aren't keep him warm anymore; there's a chill that's worked its way into his fucking bones, and he shivers violently with every resounding smack he hears as he replays the scene in his head again.
And again.
And over again.
It's not even wiped clean, like he'd done when he was finished, when he could still convince himself it was him or it was the kid. There's blood dripping off it into the pure white snow, with a bit of something clumped together here and there, too thick to be just blood.
Jim wants to throw up or something, but all he can do is let out a feeble sound that dissolves into the air when his breath blows away, and he slowly gets his feet moving until he's standing over the bat, until he's picking it up by the grip like it's going to come alive and bite him. He knows that isn't true; the only time the fucking thing's been alive is when Jim's gripped it between both hands and swung. Sometimes that feels like a nightmare a lifetime away, sometimes it feels like yesterday.
What Jim doesn't really think about is how easy it is for him to slip his hand around the grip again, and how part of him never gave up Selena's mantra. In a heartbeat. About how he's so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he'll have the bat up and swinging the moment he hears something.