Freeze Frame

Chapter 84

Confirming some things about Neito

-He stopped being mentioned a few chapters ago, as in he's been missing 2-3 days now.
-Nobody stays at a parade that long. It wasn't a hate crime.
-It's not a dream
-He did 101% die so don't come at me with that "So did he not die??" 

Third person pov

Neito was hyperventilating, and he knew this. But how could he not? Everything hurt, and it was so cold. He distantly processed himself slipping off the autopsy table. God, he was in a morgue. His entire body felt as though it'd been shredded and glued back together, every shaking step causing a fresh wave of pain to wash over him. He lifted the sheet that had been draped over himself with trembling hands, tears welling in his eyes. His mind felt muddled-- scrambled. He wondered if maybe his brain had taken apart and put back together too.

A part of him wanted to believe this was some sort of sick nightmare, but he knew it wasn't. It was too cold, and it hurt too much. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt. His stomach churned threateningly, sending spikes of stinging pain burning through him. Fire danced across his icy skin. He was so pale, and so, so cold. He didn't want to be cold. He didn't want to hurt. He wrapped himself in the sheet carefully, every movement provoking his already screaming nerves. He wrapped himself up, because he was cold, and because looking at the scar on his chest made him nauseous. So, so nauseous, and so, so cold. 

He stumbled towards the stairs that would lead him away, scrambling to remember what had happened. He strained to recall where he'd last been. What had happened to him, and why it hurt so much. He was just so cold, and he didn't understand. He'd died. He'd died. He knew he'd died, and he was cold, and it all hurt. He knew he was panicking. His thoughts were a panicked swarm that raged through his pounding head without mercy. He thought back, hard, as he somehow managed to drag his weakened body up the stairs and towards the fire exit that would take him out of here. Out of this place, where he'd lied dead, and was cold.

"̴͙̋͐͌̇͑̚ͅY̸͙͎͉̾͗̎̽̿ò̵͉̤͈͕̪ụ̸̢̨̦̈́͌̕͜ͅ ̴̦̝̤̱͔̻̐͂͐̓̓ḑ̶̰̪͍̗͇̠͛ơ̸̜͉̠̘̈͋͂͑̆n̵̛̰͉̬͓̈̈́̀̉͆'̴̲͎͔̹̉̊t̶͕͖̎ ̵͍͈̝̈̅ẃ̸͔͈̲̐͜͝ā̸̡̻͕̀̌ń̶̠̮̟͙̩̲͜ț̵̽͗̕͠ ̶͕̞̳͋̈́͂̀ṫ̸̛̯̖̺̦o̸̦͆̂́͑̏̎̎ ̴͎͉̞͍̈͂̌̽̆͝r̴͎̮͙̖̈́͆̂͐͒̈̕e̴͖͓͈͍̜̗͛͊̏̕m̷̳̹͇̙͋̓̎́͝e̴̢̮͕̻͈̞͙͊̏̈͒̍̃̉m̵̮̮̭̩͐͌̎b̴̧̻̹͕͓̫̃̀e̷̟͌r̷̥̺̬̱̐̅̓͛.̶̛̩̺̲̰̠̳͜"̵͆͆̽́̇͆͜

He choked out a sob, falling hard on his knees on pavement outside. The night air bit at his already frigid skin. What had happened? Why had it happened? Where was he? He wanted to go home. He didn't understand. He never understood. He would never. He couldn't. He didn't want this. He didn't want this, because he couldn't feel his heart beating in his chest anymore-- God, he hadn't noticed it until it was gone-- and he was cold. He was so, so, so cold. 

He hurt.

E̴v͟e̵r̸yt͢h͘ing̢ ҉i̷s w͢r͠ong

E̵̤̹̖̞v̀e̙͟r̡̗y͚t̩̗̀h͈͖̜̱̭̝̫̕į͓͖̪ņ͙͉̖̩g̸̮̰̠̺ ͇̙̬̲͉̻͇͢i̞͠s ̧͈̟w̥̹̤̖r̡͍̘o̥͍̼͇͢n̘̣̲g̥

E̵̷̵̝͉͕̣͉͍̟̝̲̬͟͡ͅV̨̤̣͉̯̥̮͡E̸̵̢͟҉̳̻̹͖͚̝̠͔Ŗ̩̤̤̗͓̥͉͕͎͘͢͠Y͏̴̸̗͇̟̥̤̥̳͚͞ͅT̷͇̖̟̥̙̮͍̘̀H̢҉̘̹̪̱̤͚͍͔͇̭̪͖͝ͅI̪͚̞̼̺̱̘̟͚͎͟͠N͘҉̖͖̩͕́G̡̨̺̞̠͙̳͔̙͈͔͍̀͝͞ ̴͡͠͏̻̳͖͉̜̞̫̼͍̹̲̣̱I͟͏̸̛̮͖͙͍̳̝͡S͏̢̳͔̦̻̥̜̩̜̰̘͖͓̬̝͙̰͇͓͞͡ ̷̨̰̻͖̝̀́Ẁ̪̟̻̲͓̪̥̱̖̝̝̩̟̩̩̺͘̕ͅR͚̜̬̼̲̟̫̩͈̹̬̹̹͘͜O̵̧̪̥̤̳͍̬̕N̢͠҉̢̠͕̹̼͕̪͙͉͈̪̰͇̠̗̕G̴͕̥̩͖̬͇̫͉̰͎̥̤̗̱̲͙̕͢͜͡ͅͅ