Chapter Text
Jason came back wrong.
He knows it, lives it with every stolen breath, every heartbeat counting down to something that happened years ago. He feels like Wile E. Coyote, pulling off more and more dangerous stunts, just waiting for the other anvil to fall, waiting to die.
Again.
He's not sure if he even can, but part of him wants to know, wants to know it now just pull the trigger and then it’ll be over no more games just do it, you idiot.
Part of him is a coward.
He stares into the mirror and his fingers dig into his forearm, pull, nails scrabbling, tearing, ripping, come on boy wonder surely that old man o' yours taught you some tricks to make sure you weren't completely useless he doesn’t recognize the face he sees.
He catalogues his features until he can rattle them off from memory: two eyes (blue); a sharp nose; a flat mouth with pale lips; a sharp jaw, covered with a thin layer of stubble. He has no scars on his face, save one just under his hairline that stretches to the tip of his ear. The crowbar had smashed there, he remembers, cut through the skin and he'd heard something crunch and thought this is it. He traces the line with trembling fingers that slip easily through black hair cropped close to prevent the inevitable curls.
His reflection blinks and his lashes spike, dark and thick. He looks like he’s crying, like he's going to cry any minute now.
His lips twist into a disgusted snarl; he looks weak.
Fingers card through his hair. A voice, low and rough, says, "Pretty".
He glances away from the mirror, fingers clenching around the edge of the counter. There's a jagged edge from the cheap cut and when his palm presses against it, there's a brief spark of pain. He breathes out shakily.
For a second, he wishes he never had to look at his reflection-the reflection of a man he doesn't know, doesn't recognize, who looks too much like his father and not enough like his mother. His real mother.
Then he looks back at the mirror because he needs to shave.
After he’s washed the last of the cream away, his fingers tighten around the handle of his razor. It’s cheap, one of the disposable ones, he got a pack of twelve from a gas station convenience store. The blade’s sharp enough.
He puts it against the inside of his wrist, and-
His heart pounds and-
He presses down and-
He swallows and-
The razor goes back into the paper cup he keeps by the sink.
Another day begins.