John leaned against the wall, panting like a rabid dog. The world spun. He could hardly stay upright. One hand rested one his ribs. He could feel his bones pressing against his skin, aching with the weariness of purgatory clinging to them like a parasite.

He could barely see. Everything was blinding white, a sickening play on the soft blankness he'd imagined heaven to be. It hurt his eyes. But he couldn't close them, couldn't block it out. He had to keep moving. No matter how the exhaustion weighed him down like a ball and chain. The only way to defy this place was to never give in, never let it conquer him. Not matter how much it hurt.

Reprieve was his own master; he belonged to no one but God. And he'd be damned if he let this place be his downfall. He'd faced worse, he convinced himself, putting one aching foot in front of the other. He felt so nauseous, so tired, that one more step would have him retching into the void. Vulnerable. Weak. Exhausted.

John wouldn't have that.

He couldn't have that.