It wasn't the end this time; it felt different from last time. The last time, the pain had been overpowering, yet numbing at the same time; this time the pain was sharp, and instead of leaking slowly through his body like a poison, it stayed in one spot, searing as hot as a lick of flame from hell's deepest pit itself.
The last time, all his senses were fuzzy, the only real thing he could feel was the pain, this time though, everything was perfectly clear. His ears, though perfectly capable to pick up even the slightest noise, heard nothing but the sound of his ragged uneven breaths in the damp warehouse. His nose smelled the blood, but it also detected the faint odor of mildew on the walls. His sense of touch, had he encountered this in a situation where he wasn't gambling with death, would have worried him. His blood, though should have felt warm, felt eerily cold as it soaked his shirt and slowly made its way down the leg of his pants. His vision was perfect; through the cracked, dirt-stained windows he could see the first rays of morning creep in, the only warmth in the warehouse.
But he knew that he'd see those rays of sunlight, which now were inches from his pale outstretched hand, retreat into the darkening summit of the twilight sky. He knew because he felt all the rage, all the pain from his life, heighten to its climax, and not call it a draw like last time. He knew, because, though his breathing was becoming softer and less frequent, the pounding of his heart was loud and steady in his ears.
And so he lay there, the blood slowly clotting, and the pain residing in no hurry whatsoever, alone. He knew that no one was rushing to him this time, and that even though he was going to make this, the constant battle of living would only be harder from this point.
Perhaps the pain was making him delusional, or maybe it was stripping the barrier of lies he constructed to protect himself from the truth, but he found himself smiling. He was smiling, because it seemed no matter how many times death came and tried to claim him, he managed to find a way to trick her. He should be called a Con Artist, considering the number of times he's cheated Death, even the times where she had every right to take him for herself.
This time Death had barely missed him, skimming his soul by just a few centimeters. Or maybe it was the fact that Death had already had her go with him, and she would have to wait a long time to redeem herself, and claim herself worthy enough of snatching his soul once and for all.
Whether it a curse or blessing, Jason would just have to continue breathing for now, every breath a defiance to the order of the earth, heaven, and hell.