#she spends almost the entirety of season two sitting by the window praying for the best | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

littlecrookedheart · 5 years

Text

Amen, Amen • Like You're Made of Glass

Catch Up : Reckoning | Rum on the Fire

Character(s) : Noah Marshall, Jane Marshall, Matt Pivouz (OC)

Rating : MATURE. THIS STORY WILL NOT BE NSFW, but it will be dealing with mature themes, such as death, possession, mental illness, suicidal thoughts, murder, and other graphic elements. Language warning. Please read at your own risk. I’m issuing a general trigger warning for the entirety of this story.

Time : This takes place 14 years after Jane’s death and roughly 5 years after the events in ILITW. Noah is 22 years old.

Word Count : 5,138

Author’s Note : The perspective switches happen more often in this chapter and will from here on out. Teeny warning for emetophobia. Happy Halloween! 🎃

Key : Perspective switches will be marked with ** | Time jumps will be marked with –

Disclaimer : I do not own any characters other than Ula Santiago and Matt Pivouz (and Remy.) I’ve added a bit of a flare to others for the sake of this piece, but they do not belong to me.

Tag List : @teamtomsato @nuttatulipa @lovethemarshalltwins @europeanguy @spectrelier @breaumonts @fullbeaumonty @choicesatnight

"...Love, soft as an easy chair..."

Noah stirred in his bed, half awake, the scent of cinnamon pancakes wafting through from the kitchen. A gentle, dreamy voice came from the other room, the familiar tune a lullaby for his already wary head. The curtains had been drawn allowing sunlight to fill the room. Noah began to flutter his eyes open, but instead winced and turned over, tucking his hand underneath the pillow.

"....Love, fresh as the morning air...One love that is shared by two.."

Noah's brows furrowed, rubbing his face more into the pillow, drawing the blanket over his head.

"I have found with you..."

He opened his eyes, listening.

"....Like a rose under the April snow.."

Noah darted up, scanning the space around him, heart pounding in his chest.

"Mom?"

"...I was always certain love would grow.."

What the hell? It's eight in the morning. How did she even get a key? How did she - Jane?

"Come on, sleepy head! Pancakes!"

She just...what?

I'm swinging my legs off the bed, it's like a magnet is embedded into my core, pulling me to follow her. God, please don't let this be a trap. Why am I praying? I don't even...

"Mom? Jane?"

"In here, honey!"

Everything shifts, and all of a sudden, in in my parents house again. I hear bassy steps behind me, and it's Jane, running down the hallway, almost tackling me when she crashes into me for a hug.

"Morning, Janie."

"Mornin'!" she says, her hair looks like a rats nest, all tangled up on the back of her head. She's rubbing her nose up and down, a weird quirk she always had. Mom's humming now, that same song. She always sang this to us, especially on Saturday mornings. She'd make pancakes with the season, fruit in spring and summer, cinnamon and nutmeg in the cold months. Only one thing is missing from this picture -

"Hon, come sit down. Breakfast is ready," mom's saying, setting plates in front of Jane and me, Dad still glued to the TV in the living room. I guess nothing's missing after all.

"In a minute!"

"Mama, do we got syrup?" Jane says, swinging her legs off of the chair. These moments are always so weird, seeing her so small and me being....me. Watching it unfold like a film but being inside of the screen. Banging on the surface from within, but nobody can hear me. They're all too focused on the story.

"Noah, you know your shirt got a hole in it?" Jane's outstretching her arm, pointing at my chest. I'm bending down to look, but she flicks my nose before I can see the absence of this 'hole.' She starts to giggle. "I got you!"

I'll laugh, too. "Yeah you did!"

Jane's telling a story, but I don't hear her words. Instead, I'm focused on her movements, how her hands talk with her. She's reaching them up to mimic a dog's ears, scrunching her nose... laughing. And now she's looking at me, chewing her pancakes, asking me something. Okay, okay, let the sound in. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

"Did ya?"

"Sorry Janie...I spaced out."

"You went to space?"

No. I wasn't listening. "Uh....yeah."

"Yeah right Noah! Where are your moon boots then? I said did ya know that Dan's mom is gonna get a bounce house?"

"She is?"

"Yep, for the party."

Dan's mom did get a bounce house for his birthday party one year, I think when we were five. I don't remember this conversation, I don't remember these moments. But how many have I forgotten? How many memories are now just phantoms in my head? I think of Jane in her best moments. She haunts me in my worst. I wonder how many more there are of each of them... One of us will run out of moments before the other. I fear that will always, in every possibility of my outcome, I will run out first.

Noah's body jolted as he awoke, coughing over the side of his bed. No cold sweats or headaches came from this dream, which for him, was borderline miracle material these days. It was still dark out, time lingering around four in the morning. He sat up, blindly feeling around the floor by his feet for his pack of cigarettes, finding them in a pile of clothes. He lit one, taking a long drag while simultaneously shivering. Shaking his head, he shuffled into the hallway to turn the heat on.

He reached over, feeling for the thermostat switch, when his fingers hit ice in the shape of fingers. Noah froze, closing his eyes and counting to seven in his head. With no light in the room apart from the cherry of his cigarette, he reached for the light switch that he'd flipped so many times in the darkness, but couldn't find it.

What the hell?

To his left, there was a shuffling, a raspy groan coming from the living room. Noah caught his breath, reviewing seconds in his head, and thought of the pillow fort. He quickly turned the corner, flicking the lights on.

Nothing. No one.

Noah pressed his back against the wall, rubbing his eyes. He looked around again, enough light in the hallway to illuminate the space where the thermostat was. He turned to flip it on, petrified in place when his finger hit the switch and lined up next to someone else's. This time, though, Noah was face to face with it, staring into sinister, incessant darkness, nothing and everything all at once.

He took a deep breath, his eyes glazing over. He didn't speak, he didn't fight - he just fell to the ground, his knees crashing to the floor, a cracking sound splitting in the air. The darkness encased him, spiraling into his nostrils and throat, holding him down as it filled his lungs.

He gasped, and the room filled with light. Noah choked on his own breath, nearly falling to the floor over the side of his bed.

What in the fuck was that nightmare?

A loud knocking came from the front door, Noah's face scowling in annoyance. He sat up, reaching for his cigarettes. His fingers didn't find them at first, moving to the clothes pile he'd dreamt of. He grabbed the pack and walked out of the room, mumbling under his breath. "Fuck this."

"Um?"

Matt is at my door, holding a coffee out to me. It's still pouring rain.

"Hi. Can I come in? I didn't bring an umbrella and this wind is wicked."

Take the cup, idiot. Move aside.

"Yeah." Double lock this fucking door. Say thank you. Sit down. Act like a normal human being. Breathe.

"You good?" Matt's asking, sitting on the couch. This room is a mess, I wasn't expecting-"Noah?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." No, I'm not.

"What's eating you?"

What isn't? Isn't that where we are now? I want to tell Matt that the darkness is, that Jane is, that this entire world is. I want to tell him that I actually might be scared, but that? That is weak. And me? I'll never be weak again, not if I can help it.

"Fine. Don't tell me. Drink your coffee while it's still hot." He's drinking his, cozy in my house, not a care in the world. What a hand of luck.

Why can't I tell him? This is maybe the one person alive who will hear me, who will believe everything I say. Why can't I trust him? Even enough to say something about the dream. Drink your god damn coffee, Noah.

"I..um, I'm sorry."

"What?" Matt looks at me like I just spoke a language that doesn't exist. "What are you sorry for?"

Sit down. Breathe.

"I haven't talked to anyone about Jane before."

"Better late than never, right?"

Nod. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. I tell him about the dream, feeling eyes on me from the hallway again. I don't have to see them to know exactly what's there.

"It's like I can still feel it curling into my body, like a toxic snake filling me with poison."

Matt's standing up, pacing.

"Talk about some inception type shit. I'm sorry, man. Look, I don't know how, but we will end this. I've got a feeling in my soul about it."

"Get those often?"

"Enough," He's rolling his eyes, smiling at me. "Don't be a smart ass."

Shrug. Drag. Coffee. Is this my life now?

"Do you have any food in this dump?"

"You're a fucking angel with these compliments. I look like shit, I live in a dump."

"Are either of those things lies?" Matt's opening cabinets, letting them bang closed on their own. He won't find anything. I can't remember the last time I was concerned with groceries.

"Do you not eat?"

Shrug. "I do."

"Black coffee isn't a food group."

"I eat."

"Noah, seriously. You aren't doing yourself any favors by starving."

Truth is, I'd rather starve than spend the night heaving in the alley, the watchers feeding on making me barf my guts out. I'd rather have hunger pains than the singing Jane leaves in my veins.

"Come on," Matt's standing by the door, looking out the window. "There's a corner store a block away. We're getting you some food before the rain starts again.

That corner store is where I walk every day, sometimes twice a day, to satiate my nicotine addiction. But I'm shaking my head, I can't do it. I can't risk it.

"I wasn't asking you." Matt tosses my hat at me, plopping back onto the couch. "Indulge me."

I don't know why I'm saying it, but fuck, I guess I am.

"Fine."

Noah stood up, stretching over his head. Matt waited patiently by the front door, relaxed against the wall. His foot caught in a plastic bag handle, knocking his knee into the corner by the hall. He jerked down, grabbing it, inhaling sharply.

Matt's brows creased, his eyes locked on the deep scarlet and violet pattern down Noah's knee.

Had that been there before?

"Noah, what happened?" Matt pointed at Noah's fresh bruise, wincing. "That looks gnarly, are you alright?"

Noah turned away, quickly continuing to his room. Matt rushed over, putting his hand up so Noah couldn't close the door.

"Dude, back off!" Noah yelled, backing away.

"How am I supposed to help you if you won't tell me what's going on?"

Noah squared his shoulders, seeing red. "Why are you even trying? Why do you even want to? You don't know a single thing about me! You see some guy on the news a couple years ago and just so happen to remember his face exactly? You remember my name? You show up at a bar down the street from my apartment? How did you even know my address? Why did you come here?!"

"Because I don't want you to die, Noah! You're worth something. You need to know that."

Noah paused, grasping the door handle. He looked at Matt, thinking for a second, and closed it.

Matt went back to the front door, lingering for a moment, waiting for Noah to come out of his room. When he didn't, Matt ran a hand through his hair and buttoned his long, black coat, walking out into the rain.

How many cigarettes was that? Four? Chain smoking. I'm a chain smoker, I guess. Mom always said I'd become one, one of her many ideas of who I'd be. Mediocre, sad, unsuccessful. At first I wanted to prove her wrong, but these ghosts had other plans. Now who am I, other than a ghost, myself. A phantom. A whisper. Dressed up as myself, a living shadow of everything I could never become. A poet. A chef. A restauranteur.

I wanted to be a voice, a shout, a resovior of proof for one too many of those wrinkled old flesh sacks who stood around Jane's tulip pink casket, snickering my way, and at eight fucking years old, hearing whispers that the wrong kid died. Pretending not to hear whispers that the wrong kid died.

Instead I became a footnote, a drowned out exhale in a forest fire. I'd fix my tie and fake a smile, thanking the phonies who stood in front of my face and said, "I'm sorry for your loss, Noah. I know how hard this must be."

They never knew. They never could have.

Tell me more about wanting to throw yourself in front of her, take her place. Tell me more about her voice calling out to you, that god damn whistle screeching in your ears. Tell me more about being shrouded around your twin sister's corpse as the light in her eyes faded to black. Tell me how her voice sounded as it broke away. Tell me how she never left. Tell me she loved you. Tell me everything will be okay. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

I need a cigarette.

Noah stepped into the living room, checking out the window for rain. There were dark clouds ahead, but no precipitation, so he stepped out into the afternoon. His foot hit something, almost tripping him. A paper bag sat on the doorstep, a sticky note attached to the side. Noah bent down to grab it, and scoffed as he read it.

Noah

Seriously, please eat something. Take this to the church so nothing bothers you. I'm sorry I over stepped.

- Matt

Noah balled the excess from the top of the bag in his hand, tossing it onto the couch behind him, putting his shoes on as he closed the door.

The corner store was only down the street, visible from the edge of the road where the apartments were, but Noah hated the walk. He used to love them, the feeling of brisk air filling his body, the sound of cars going by, faint bass playing from within them. These days it was just another route full of obstacles, voices to ignore, people to pretend he didn't see. But when you're a chain smoker, you'll do anything for a nicotine fix, that subtle groan of anticipation as the match strikes. That's what he did, anticipate.

Stare at the ground, imagine gray streets, devoid of life and a surplus of blood stained porches. Withered. The flicker of a ghost in an old haunt. The end. The beginning. The road to the fucking corner store.

I hate the way the bell rings when I walk in here. this store is always empty, reside from old stickers line the door like nobody around here knows how to wipe down a surface. Maybe I should take my own advice, since I live in a fucking dump. Fuck Matt.

"Same as usual, Noah?"

Remy owns the store, and weirdly enough is the only person I've ever seen behind the counter. His beard is long, full, matches his mane of hair. I wonder how he moves so freely, that much hair would weigh me down, probably. More than I already am.

I'm fucking starving.

"How much are these?" I'm pointing to candy bars, as if sugar could help me in any way.

"Two thirty nine," he says, playing on his phone. Does he even know what I'm pointing to? Does he care? Or is he like me, zoning out, auto pilot switched to 'on.' Think he sees his dead sister? Think he wants to suffocate, too? $2.39 is a rip off. Plus, I don't really have extra.

"Uh..yeah, the usual." I hand him a fiver, he slides me my pristine new pack of Camels. Perfect transaction.

"Noah?" coming from the isle behind me. Do I dare? Should I give it the time of day?

"Noah? I'm scared."

But I can't ignore her. Not when she says that.

Jane stands in the isle closest to the door, her hands behind her back. I'm kneeling down, my knees feel like gravel. Push it away. One, two, three-

"Noah? What are you doing here, niño?"

An instant. One second before my shoulder becomes a cesspool of nails, digging through my muscle and embedding into my bone. Ula's hands are blades in my skin. Clench my jaw. Stand up.

Say something, fucker.

"I dropped a quarter, it's no big deal."

"Oh! You had me worried, Noah. Here, let me give you..." Ula pulls out a ten dollar bill. "I thought I had one but I don't!" She's laughing. Her laugh is wholesome, like a mother's should be. Like my mother's used to be, before the death of her precious daughter and the divorce from her hell bent husband. Before she lost her sunshine. She always reminded me that I was rain, dark, cold, desperate. Somber. Exhausting.

I'm shaking my head. "Thanks Ula, but I'm fine. I just came for these," I'm holding up the pack. She nods, smiling sweetly.

"You like the empanadas?"

"Empandas!"

"Yeah, they were delicious. Thank you."

"Would have been better with that spicy sauce of yours. You'll make this again for me soon, yes?"

I haven't made it in two years. I hardly remember what even goes in it. But I nod, because Ula has become a beacon of hope for me. Maybe in another life, she'd work with me at Baby Jane's. In another life, there'd be a Baby Jane's.

Back at his apartment, Noah plopped onto the couch, nearly smashing the paper bag of food that Matt had left on his porch. He yanked it out from beneath him, peeking inside. He checked the clock on the wall, laced his shoes back on, and headed out to the church.

I could stare into this bundle of trees for hours. When I look just right, I can see Katai. I can see Jane. I can see the memory of my group of friends, young and fearless, stamped into the air in cinders and smoke. The images always dissipate, but they also always burn, a brand in my arm. Ignite in my veins. Boil my blood. Just walk through. Just get it over with.

How do people run marathons? For me, even taking steps across a clearing is heavy, as if cinder blocks are tied to my ankles. Therapy will teach you cool new tricks about taking steps. Just work it out, they say. One foot in front of the other is prosperity, you're moving, as long as you're moving forward, you're not living in your past. Don't live in your past. They don't teach you how to walk on glass.

My dad used to say that our eyes are the window to our soul. That seems pretty fragile. If we all crack, become pieces of stained mosaic, if we all cut our hands on the shards, will we crumble? It only takes a gust of air to make a paper man fold. What's your kryptonite when you're made of glass? A pebble? A marble, crafted of your own material, spun with color and beauty. Souls are all just glass fragments, pieced together by bandaged hands and one too many scars. God, I don't want to shatter.

What is it about these woods that makes them normal? Just bark, leaves, whistle of the wind. What makes them less dreary? Here I feel almost weightless, here I feel whole. This church is like an anchor, one with broken windows and crumbling bricks but one that feels like a home. It feels inhabited, by more than just my bones, perhaps the thoughts and fears Matt has left here.

That's another thing you'll never be told in therapy or in school, souls leave traces. I can sense my own traces leaving me, my soul becoming less and less full. They stay on sidewalks slick with rain and the hallway in my apartment, they get left behind when Jane appears. They're consumed, taken, just like me. Just like me.

Push the door open, close it behind me. The air in here is fresher than outside, and drier, somehow, despite the raindrops trickling in from the storm earlier. There are four pews remaining, broken and splintered, all spaced apart. I wonder what happened to the rest, why only these remain, why someone came in and selected the others. Were they cleaner? Newer? Were they whole?

I sit in this seat, on this particular pew, and I wonder. Run my hand along the back, with the grain, lean back. Open this bag and eat the sandwich Matt gave me. There is nothing but silence. Nothing but what is. There are no eyes on me. There is no Jane. There is no retching. Screaming. Blood. There is nothing, here on this pew, except me, and the chips in my hand. I can't remember the last time I could eat without counting. Maybe Matt was right. Maybe I can beat this thing.

Noah gathered the trash from his meal and crumpled it in the paper bag, pushing it aside. He propped his feet up along the pew, pulling his beanie off and leaning back, closing his eyes. He jumped at the sound of what could be a rock hitting the window, walking over to check for vandals. He questioned why, knowing that the church wasn't his property of his responsibility, but he felt a need to protect it, if he could. Nobody in sight, Noah began to head back to his seat on the pew, when a loud clank came from the window again. He turned, a look of confusion on his face, and peeked out the window again. He jumped back in surprise and winced as a larger rock smacked into the glass, leaving a wide chip exactly where his face had been.

"What the fuck?" he whispered to himself, carefully stepping over fallen beams and puddles, grabbing his beanie and pulling it back onto his head. Two more rocks smacked into the window, one of them cracking the pane, making way for the next to shatter a corner. Noah looked back, his face twisted into a puzzle, rolling his eyes as the final rock broke through the glass.

"God damn it, Jane."

What? What could she possibly want? To terrorize me some more? Rhetorical. Of course that's what she wants. And I am gullible, like a fool, a mouse crawling back to the same trap repeatedly to get his taste of cheddar. I know the wire is going to snap. I know it will kill me. But fuck, if I don't always go back.

There's nothing out here. No people, no Jane, no idea where those fucking rocks came from.

"Noah?"

What? That voice is unmistakable. It's like being transported back in time, a voice I never expected I'd hear again.

"Katai?"

"Over here, Noah."

Katai is standing in an overgrown garden, I think? Just beyond the church. My feet can't move fast enough. I can't reach them before they're gone, nothing remains when I'm there, when I finally break through this gate, thorns pricking my skin as I shove it open.

"Katai? I'm here! Come back!"

Nothing. Just cement covered in ivy, so much dirt and a weathered bench. Fuck it, I'm sitting. Maybe they'll come back. Maybe this isn't a trap.

Noah's feet rested on cement slabs, copper and death colored leaves blanketing the ground. Mud caked to the bottom of his shoes, a cold breeze whipping his hair in the wind. Noah looked around, his thick eyelashes fluttering in the wind, the red around them seeming to heal. He glanced down for a moment, a trace of movement having swept by, his eyes catching on carved words near his feet. He stood up, crouching down to move leaves and mud away from the ground. His body went cold, a moment of shock encasing him. Below his feet, under mud and caked cicada casings, under years of wear and leaves that had settled, was a flat cement headstone.

Noah Marshall

Dear brother, beloved son

2000 - 2008

....No. I'm..I'm not dead. Am I? I didn't...what?

There are more. Dirt, mud, my broken fingernails. Blood, breathe one, two, three, four, five, six, seven - Mom. Dig, dig, breathe. Dad. What? Katai. Andy? No, no, no, no, Stacy? No. Ava, Lucas, Lily. Dan. Me.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Did...that say I died fourteen years ago? I need to read them again. Go back, check again.

They're gone. How could they be gone? Grind my jaw. Scrub my face. Clear my fucking head. I'm not crazy, I didn't imagine that. I couldn't have, I wouldn't have. Fuck, did I? Fuck, fuck, fuck. One, two, three, four, five, six-

"Hey."

Katai. A trick of the light? My mind? Jane's idea of a joke? Don't look up, bury my hands into my eye sockets, seeing splotches is better than seeing red. Better than seeing blood. Better than seeing Katai crumble into ash.

"Do you remember that day you needed help on your language arts project in middle school?"

....What? Katai is sitting next to me. The world is gone. Just pale ivory, warm light surrounding the two of us. It feels like we are on the inside of a lightbulb, radiating a gentle glow.

They put their arm around me, smile. I smile, too. Nod.

"I was in that obscure literature phase." Katai laughs, a small smile on the edge of their lips, "I told you my favorite quote. 'If you get to hell, go down all the way : there's heaven-"

"Everything returns."

"I miss you, Katai."

They don't say anything, they're just smiling at me. Soft, warm hands, rays of light shining through their body.

"Everything you can imagine is real."

Katai goes transparent, and so do I. My hands feel metal, but I can't see anything. White. Blinding.

I'm back on the ground, back against the wrought iron fence. There is no bench. There are no gravestones. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. What is this place?

And was it fashioned by good or evil? God or his best friend, Satan? The one who needed the most prayer, who never received any, who would do anything for you so long as you'll burn with him, I'm already burning, I'm already boiling, I'm already red hot fucking branded with Jane's claws at my throat. Maybe he can cut me a deal. Maybe he feels sympathetic for me. Maybe he returns, too.

There's someone here.

Noah stood up, nearly falling over as his feet lost their balance. His hand gripped the iron, leaving prints of black reside on his palm. He wiped it on his pant leg, spitting on his hand to clean it off. He jumped over the fence, grimacing as he landed on his left knee. He quickly maneuvered to the other side of the church, where he stopped short, staring in dismay.

A towering derelict building stood in the center of a courtyard, surrounded by statues and small monuments. A cemetery, one that stood for ages, and to Noah's delight, not an illusion. The wind carried leaves across the ground, tangling them in the dense, formerly overgrown, dead grass. The air suddenly chilled, the scent of decay and sulfur in the air. In front of a backward facing stone statue of a praying angel stood a man, his unearthly wailing breaking the silence.

As he grew closer, he noticed the man's black bracelet, his posture, his height. He observed the outfit, the uncanny chestnut hair, the beanie. Extending his arm out, he gripped the shoulder of the man, forcing them to face one another. Noah gasped before stumbling backwards, crashing down to the ground, his back colliding with a tall, ancient headstone.

He rushed his gaze back upward, and for the first time in twenty two years, Noah Marshall locked eyes with himself.

The sound of his wailing was deafening, blood pumping harder in Noah's ears as he drew closer. He forced his eyes open, walking with uncertainty, his mouth agape, lower lip trembling. Ice filled his lungs, his eyes, his heart. His body felt warped, as if it weren't his own. He tried to hold back a sob, choking on emptiness, nothing coming or going.

He watched himself turn toward the backwards angel, hitting his knees in prayer. Noah stared in utter disbelief as the otherworldly, crestfallen, completely oblivious version of himself ran his hands along the angels wings and gown, unintelligibly mumbling to her.

That's when he heard it, the humming. The song his mother sang, low and hypnotic, the sound of a deep growl underneath the poetic tune. Noah slowly circled around to the front of the angel, attempting to drown out his alternate and the volume of his cries.

His vision blurred, when he saw her, his body uncontrollably trembling, chest aching, eyes darting for an out.

The angel's gown, her hands, her hair, all recognizable to Noah, the features he'd know anywhere. Jane. Her face had been crushed off, as if he'd taken a sledgehammer and obliterated it.

GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE! One, two, three, fuck counting, left isn't clear, four, five, six, right is jammed, seven-

The angel statue doubled in height, and like a glitch, it's arm darted out, clasping a stone hand around Noah's throat. She dangled him in the air, her laugh like the crack of a whip and the outcry after, her faceless head turning to the side.

Noah kicked his legs, his shoes scraping mud onto her cement dress, her screaming and growling a high pitched drill in his head.

Is this how it ends? I die at the hands of a statue? I die outside of the only place I've felt safe since I saw her in the facility? I never thought I'd last this long. I never thought I'd be everything I dreamed, anyway. No friends. No life. No Baby Jane's. Now it's here, in front of me, fading away. Maybe when this is over, Katai will be there. Maybe Jane will be, too. The real Jane. Not this monster.

I'm coming for you, Jane. Amen.

-- **

"Noah? Noah! Noah, wake your ass up!" Matt's hands slam down on Noah's chest, compressions and breaths clouding the air. "Breathe, Noah. Please!"

Noah's chest raised, a loud cough erupting from within. He rolled to the side, clutching his ribs, coughing still. Dark, vein like imprints on his neck and bloodshot eyes, his left eye clouded with broken vessels. Noah sat up, catching his breath. Matt handed him a bottle of water, which he snatched, trying to down it.

"Slower." Matt reached his hand out, pulling Noah to his feet. "Can you walk?"

Noah did a quick assessment of his stature, finally nodding at Matt.

"Let's get inside."

#amen amen #noah marshall #it lives in ths woods

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