set haphazardly to the beat of hellogoodbye's homewrecker.
This, Holland thinks, is not how dying is supposed to happen. His eyes slide open and the brown-haired girl is still there.
"What the fuck." Only it comes out more like a croaky whadafmsuraf, until he swallows and tries again.
"You should be fucking dead, is what," she snaps, and then he figures out that it's not just some kid leaning over his casket; she's got a black jacket and hard eyes and actually seems sort of scary. "This is the third time I've tried to put you down. I really didn't want you to be this big a part of my life."
He closes his eyes again, because what the hell is happening here. "I." There we go, throat a little less sandpapery now. "Sorry," whispers Holland, because that's the word that kept him alive the longest, and really, what else would you say with this girl cracking her knuckles above you?
"No, you stay awake. Don't pull any of that zombie shit on me, it gets old fast."
And it's not like he's going to argue with this little monster, so he sits up when she pulls on his arm, even though it feels wrong. Like his skin is too tight, or his bones too large, or something.
"We need to go, okay?" Holland's pretty sure she's just talking to herself at this point, but whatever. "Get you out of here. I'm going to be in so much trouble, oh my god. Shit. Okay. No."
Once he's on his feet and they've left whatever room he was originally in (he sees a table covered in candle wax, but can't summon the brain power to think about what that means) he stops, digging in his heels. He's got dress shoes on, he notices. He's never worn dress shoes in his life.
And he looks down at his fingernails, which are tinged sort of blue, and his arms, which are actually pastier than usual, and the stitches-
Oh. Right.