Jason laid in his plush bed with his oversized robe pooling around him like a river. His fingers brushed back his blonde hair as he wrote in pretty, and coherent cursive in his secret n’ worn down journal.

He was delicately writing down events he remembered in the book he had been reading, the book he was now in.

His memories of his past life, his real life, were blurring but he faintly remembered his death. It was a freak accident, really. Not that he liked to remember.