A nightmare. This must be a nightmare.
This must be it. This couldn't be real.
It couldn't.
This can't be happening. Not really.
It was weird enough they woke up in the same body, but a different place in the same world. Just another dimension. Just an alternative universe.
They took the place of themselves and a complete different person at the same time.
And all of this happened because of one little thing missing. One tiny fact to be different.
But this time it was different.
Jericho scrambled to hide in a corner, legs pulled to his chest, more by the force of his arms than their own. He only hoped some god would make him not see the trail of blood that would lead him directly to Jericho's poor shelter. Just a corner.
Face drowned in dirt, blood, sweat and tears, but none of hard work – god no – fear and pure fright created them. Disbelieve and lack of understanding and thus more fear.
His angel-like blue eyes were wide, pupil barely visible anymore and just as vague as his thoughts. Not useful at all.
Just fragments, just pleas, just regret and stupid questions. How and why.
His breathing must be ragged, he must be shivering because droplets of pure, shining red blood jumped from his chin, lips and nose, made part of his open and messed hair wet and sticking to the left side of his face.
He must be breathing, but he couldn't tell. He couldn't feel it. He shouldn't breath. He could hear him..!
His tattooed body was shaking like a leaf, like muscles so weak without bones to hold onto.
Maybe Johnny didn't had to die.
Maybe it could have all been different – fuck it WOULD have been all different..!
The living proof was after his throat right now! But Jericho wouldn't have want to turn into… this!
Yet still… maybe he could have saved Johnny. He should have never done that to him- not without knowing the whole story. He felt guilt weighing on his shoulders from the moment on he just ran away, thinking he could just go to visit him as soon as they were all back in their world. But he couldn't.
He couldn't just go to his place and say sorry. Because Johnny never returned.
The tattooed teen started to shake even harder, hands rising without control, fingers gripping into his own hair, clenching to his throbbing scalp peculiar numb and painless as his heart frequency increased to an almost inhumane rate.
His cheek piercings where like pins to his skin, as if they were eyes on their own, eyes of a fallen angel crying blood. When he actually just got beat up pretty bad, lip torn open as well, his tunnels probably lying somewhere near that window in the other room of whatever lonely place he was here.
Why – why was he thinking about this now why was he thinking about him now why couldn't it stop?! Why couldn't it just stop?! Why does it never stop?!
This was not a punishment! This was not his fault- it wasn't! It was an accident he never meant to happen!
Johnny did not come back a day after everybody returned, not in a week, not in two, not a month.
And nobody cared. Nobody noticed why did nobody notice?! Why was it just him why wasn't he able to sleep probably one single night Johnny was dead he must be dead he knew it it couldn't be different he saw it! Jericho saw him dying. Every night. Every single night he couldn't sleep.
He killed him.
He wrapped his hands around Johnny's throat until the struggling stopped. Until his breathing stopped. Until his heart stopped. Letting him die with unheard last words from trembling lips as the static in Jericho's ears got louder the shorter Johnny's breath broke through his lips.
Until there was nothing than mute screaming. And he woke up in his bed.
He wanted to wake up now.
Get away from this place, wanted the horrible static in his ears and throbbing to stop, didn't want to feel the pain in his limbs, his stomach, the sting in his chest.
Why couldn't he wake up …?
"Having ffun down there?"
A deep voice, sound of heavy footsteps and suddenly the pierced teen realized there were legs in front of him.
His heart, thoughts and blood froze for a painful long moment. Eyes wandering up the now even taller seeming body belonging to those legs covered in boots and black ripped jeans. Knife clenched in one of his fists, the other just hanging down on his side. Scars covering his tanned arms, leaving ugly white stains, like a faded painting.
And Jericho honestly didn't know where he took the time to stare that long. Either he was just standing there in front of him still for too long or his brain wasn't able to measure time accurately anymore. But it seemed so long.
Until Jericho stared into the dark hollow eyes of a porcelain white mask, delicately splattered with red dots. One hollow eye. The other just as blue as his own.
So this was him.
This was Jericho Chavez.