#ethan replies

"Poor thing," was snickered mockingly, and then Ethan was shoved facedown into the floor.

Jack then stood and backed up towards the door, before crouching down with the pop of joints, leaning on his shovel as he set a familiar green bottle on the ground with a tink. Ethan could hardly see, but the shape and color was distinct enough. "You can use this to fix your leg! You can do it...!"

Ethan just laid there, listening to the man's jeers through the ringing in his ears. The pain made his eyes roll, vision blackening at the corners as every sensation but the agony grew dull and numb, like he wasn't quite really there. Wasn't quite really touching the floor. He could hear his own groans and whimpers of agony, but they were muted and muffled, like he'd been dunked underwater.

For a second, he could imagine he was drowning. He struggled to breathe just like he was.

But then two fingers suddenly hooked under his chin and tipped it up.

"C'mon, sonny boy, don't kick it on me like that! It'd be an awful shame if you broke that easy."

He blearily shifted his gaze back forward, meeting the blurred image of the old man in front of him with that leering grin and his glasses catching the light just right to glint and conceal his eyes. Jack patted him twice on the cheek so rough it was just barely not a slap, then tilted his head and cooed at him when he saw the slight focus return, like he was a cute pet rather than a man bleeding out on his floor. He pulled away and went back to the door again, nudging the bottle over with the toe of his boot, pushing it slightly closer.

"C'mon. Come an' get it."

Ethan swallowed hard, uncertain he could even move at all.

"Come. An'. Get it."

Ethan shook his head and just barely bit back a sob. Jack audibly sighed, then stood back up and walked over to him. He flinched, but all Jack did was pass by him - a hand brushing over his head, filthy fingers briefly carding through his hair far too gently in passing - before coming to a stop behind him. He heard the head of the shovel thump against the rotten floorboards. "You can do it," Jack encouraged.

Ethan shuddered, then groaned and slowly reached out, planting a hand on the floor, dragging himself a few inches forward. A few inches towards the first aid bottle. A few inches further away from Jack.

It took an astronomically long time of slowly army crawling his way towards the bottle, and it seemed to take years, but eventually, he reached out with a shaky hand and felt cold glass against his palm. He closed his fingers around it, and the idea of finally getting some relief to his pain bolstered him to move - sitting upright and tugging his legs to his front. He reached over and grabbed his severed foot from where it had landed, leaking blood into the wood.

Holding his own limb, separate from his body, was such a surreal feeling. He didn't dwell on it. Couldn't dwell on it, lest he want to give into the urge to vomit.

Not thinking, Ethan just lifted his leg and set his foot against the jagged cut where it had been severed from his calf, and, uncapping the bottle with his teeth, he dumped the liquid over the wound.

The relief was immediate and flesh near instantaneously knit itself back together like nothing had happened. When he was able to wiggle it as if it had been attached to him this entire time, he could've cried in relief, if it weren't for the instant reminder of Jack's presence.

"Atta boy!" Jack chuckled coldly, and Ethan looked up and back at him. The pain was ebbing, but the first thing he felt in replacement of it was dread. "Now you better start runnin' again!" Jack snarled and slammed the shovel into the floor hard enough to splinter wood. Ethan scrambled upright, immediately shoving the door open and darting away on two legs, one of which shouldn't logically be functional.