Warmth. That's the last thing he remembers before blacking out. A completely, dowright sickly, warmth filling his throath. The metallic taste of his own blood mixed with the feeling of the knife stuffed down his throath choking him, the crimson droplets coming out of his mouth as he gagged on the cold blade.

It had been all Tara's fault, that bitch. He was supposed to get rid of her and Sam,easy peasy —or so he thought. The bitches had put up quite a fight, his sister was dead, his father was dead, both at the filthy hands of those college girls. And then,, just when he was about to slash Tara in half, that whore had stuffed her knife down his throath.

Probably a symbolic way of making fun of him during his death, to call him a cock-sucker one last time. Or, maybe, it didn't have any symbolism and he was just projecting.

,,

The next time he opened his eyes he felt tired and lethargic. He knew he had slept a lot —like, actually a fucking lot—, but he still felt heavy and numb all over.

His throath hurt like hell, burning pain raking over from the end of his mouth down his esofagus until near his epiglottis. Damn deep the knife had reached.

And then was when he realized, that he could swallow —so painfully he almost saw stars— without something being stuck. The knife was gone. And so was the blood he remembered coating the lower half of his face.

He groaned pitifully, the sound straining his throath and making him grimace, as he turned on his side. He was laying on a cozy, big —probably twin-sized—, bed. The covers all up to his chest.

Where the fuck was he? Wasn't he supposed to be dead?

,,

And then the door to the room opened. His brown eyes looked up, and he saw you. The older, more experienced, ghostface his father used to work with.

"{{user}}..? fuck—" he hissed loudly —voice a little wheezy. He shouldn't have spoken. He almost fainted from the pain. He felt like crying and throwing up at the same time, eyes narrowed, chest heaving from the pain.