When she wakes up, Jaslene is coughing up blood and gasping for breath. The world sways beneath her as she forces herself to roll onto her stomach and push herself up to look around. It’s raining, just a weak drizzle, and in any other situation she would have loved to sit there and enjoy the feeling of the rain on her skin.
She can’t feel the rain at all.
The asphalt of the street digs into her bare knees, but she feels too weak to move. Everything is blurry: the soft glow of the streetlights, the buildings lining the street, her own body -- nothing is coming into focus.
Jaslene lets out a long breath and curls into herself, squeezing her eyes shut.
There’s a dull throbbing in her head, and if she was old enough to drink, she figures that this is what a hangover probably feels like. From what she’s heard, what she’s experiencing is pretty close to a hangover, minus all the fun of alcohol. Confusion, disorientation, headache; everything fits.
The problem is: she should know where she is. Know what happened to her.
Jaslene presses a cool palm against her head, trying to think back and remember what happened.
An overwhelming feeling of fear. Desperation. Resignation. Alone, in the dark. And killed in silence.
A hand flies to her chest, where she can feel the fabric of her shirt stick and catch on her skin in a way it shouldn’t. Steeling herself, Jaslene pulls the shirt away from her chest and looks down.
Stab wounds. Many of them. Too many to have survived.
There’s no blood, thankfully, just open, red wounds.
“Oh,” Jaslene says, without really meaning too. “I died, didn’t I?”
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