005☠ commentlog [closed]
[It was an odd thing when you don't realize you're dying. Jim hadn't realized it at the time. He probably should have, but his head had been so clouded with the pain and exhaustion that it hadn't quite hit him as it happened.
So it came as a shock when his eyes snapped open to look up at his room's ceiling and not the empty sky in Carnival that he'd vaguely remembered seeing. ...Right. Carnival. Azula. He sat up, taking quick note that his clothes were missing. More specifically, they weren't on him. He looked down at his hands while he tried to piece together what happened, only remembering small snippets of after Azula left Carnival, left him there in a crumbled heap. Jim could only just barely recall Sokka having been there afterward and he'd--
Oh.
Oh God.
He'd--
Jim slid out of bed to find an extra pair of pants on his floor. He was starting to sweat and shake and he wanted to wash his face to try and calm himself down.
He'd died.
Another shaky breath, a splash of cold water on his face. He had to wake himself up, had to snap himself out of this.
He'd been an absolute idiot and chased Azula into there. If he'd thought more clearly at the time, he would've realized where he was going into before it was too late. He knew what he was doing, even in the heat of the moment, knew Azula was planning something through all the anger. She'd pushed all his buttons at once knowing full-well what he'd do. And he knew it too, just ignored it in favor of going after her. It'd been so easy for her. Jim had died so easily.
"I don't want to lose you."
He'd promised his mom he'd be okay. That she wouldn't lose him, not like she lost dad. But he'd--
He watched himself in the mirror, utterly disgusted at his own stupidity. The longer he stared at himself, the angrier he got at his actions. He let out a growl that soon turned into a yell, fists slamming into the mirror. He didn't want to look at himself. He didn't want to look at anything right now; the image was already getting blurry as tears started welling in the corners of his eyes. The glass cracked and he hit it again, wanting to break it. The shards cut into his knuckles and the larger pieces started falling onto the counter and into the sink, other pieces bouncing off and onto the ground around his feet.
He gave up. He hates this boat. He hates the people on it. He hates what it's done to him and the few friends he's made. Jim slumps down in the bathroom's doorway, leaning against the frame and leans his head against his knees, arms over his head as he sobs. He doesn't care anymore.]
So it came as a shock when his eyes snapped open to look up at his room's ceiling and not the empty sky in Carnival that he'd vaguely remembered seeing. ...Right. Carnival. Azula. He sat up, taking quick note that his clothes were missing. More specifically, they weren't on him. He looked down at his hands while he tried to piece together what happened, only remembering small snippets of after Azula left Carnival, left him there in a crumbled heap. Jim could only just barely recall Sokka having been there afterward and he'd--
Oh.
Oh God.
He'd--
Jim slid out of bed to find an extra pair of pants on his floor. He was starting to sweat and shake and he wanted to wash his face to try and calm himself down.
He'd died.
Another shaky breath, a splash of cold water on his face. He had to wake himself up, had to snap himself out of this.
He'd been an absolute idiot and chased Azula into there. If he'd thought more clearly at the time, he would've realized where he was going into before it was too late. He knew what he was doing, even in the heat of the moment, knew Azula was planning something through all the anger. She'd pushed all his buttons at once knowing full-well what he'd do. And he knew it too, just ignored it in favor of going after her. It'd been so easy for her. Jim had died so easily.
"I don't want to lose you."
He'd promised his mom he'd be okay. That she wouldn't lose him, not like she lost dad. But he'd--
He watched himself in the mirror, utterly disgusted at his own stupidity. The longer he stared at himself, the angrier he got at his actions. He let out a growl that soon turned into a yell, fists slamming into the mirror. He didn't want to look at himself. He didn't want to look at anything right now; the image was already getting blurry as tears started welling in the corners of his eyes. The glass cracked and he hit it again, wanting to break it. The shards cut into his knuckles and the larger pieces started falling onto the counter and into the sink, other pieces bouncing off and onto the ground around his feet.
He gave up. He hates this boat. He hates the people on it. He hates what it's done to him and the few friends he's made. Jim slumps down in the bathroom's doorway, leaning against the frame and leans his head against his knees, arms over his head as he sobs. He doesn't care anymore.]