glorious dawn

Until

Chris dies. And then he wakes up.

Somewhere far away he feels his hand go slack, and watches the wooden totem fall into the snow. It rolls over on its side, the hollow, shadowed maw buried into the cold.

Chris can't breathe. He's still... God. God, what the-- what the hell was that How did--

--He starts, jerks his body to the side, and it feels like his body's ripped in half; he can feel nails, hot, bloody nails that explode with cold, too much cold-- they slash into his shoulder and rip into his neck, into the hollow of his throat-- then-- then he's there, in that shed, saw blades in his ears, in his everything while they spin with his pulse and god god Josh is dying there's blood and he's screaming, jesus, Josh, Josh was his friend and--and he didn't make it in time he--

--that man, his fucking throat ripped open blood fucking everywhere gurgling into the snow-- there's monster's behind them he fell he fell down and they're right there, pounding in his head, the whole world slowing down, he can feel its fucking breath on his back the shotgun's not good enough, please, please-- please, god, Ashley please, PLEASE OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR, ASH --

It's too much. He just lived through it, but it's still there, still playing over and over in his head, it--

He throws up. Chris thinks he throws up at least; his mouth tastes tangy and sour, and his stomach cramps. He's leaning over a disgusting, scummy pink splotch of snow and his breath rasps against the rough bark of a tree; one of the branches cuts roughly into his cheek, but all he can feel, hear, smell, taste, be --

Chris blinks. His pulse flares in his ears, whirring in a hurricane of noise, and his hands are clammy, but the more his boiling stomach releases, the more his whole body does. The acid burns while it comes up, the heat of it tearing up his throat and out of his body. It's almost cleansing, but then again "almost" doesn't mean much.

But it's enough for now.

He blinks again, and Chris can actually breathe, which -- he gags, then gasps in a strangled breath, and then nods, in that order -- is good. That's good. Just. Just breathe, come on, Chris. He's probably having a panic attack, or an anxiety attack or something, he thinks. Which is fine. He knows how to get through those; he's helped Josh through them before and it worked out, so. So he'll be fine.

He nearly collapses into the snow but doesn't. He just leans there, in the hug of this solid pine tree which anchors him to the world while he recovers; rasping, gurgling breaths through his vomit, through the vice in his lungs, in his everything. Breathe in for like... five second? That's good. Five seconds. Hold for a couple. Breathe back out slowly.

Eventually he can see clearly again without everything going blurry or toppling over.

When he clenches his eyes shut it only takes him a couple tries to stand back up again. A few more minutes and he can actually think again.

Fuck. Jesus. What the hell was that? He means, he knows what that was; the Wendigos got a hold of him, and-- and that was it, he guesses. The fingers are still burned into his memory, the daggers of icy hot flesh which pierce his shattered throat and rip him open. At least... at least that's what he thinks happened. So where is... how is he not...?

Slowly, achingly slowly, Chris lifts a few fingers to his neck and throat. He probes around with jabs of his hands, looking for cuts or bruises or anything. But- but there's... nothing. He furiously but delicately scrubs at his cold sin, but all he feels are dull pangs, unreal phantoms of skinny monsters with knives for hands, with bloodied razors smashed into their sickly faces as teeth. Not real pain, but he almost feels like he should feel something. There's like, no scratches or anything, so--