the first thing eddie wakes to is pain. blinding fucking pain, in almost all of his body. he's weak, he can feel the blood below him, seeping into his ripped battle garb. he shifts, just so, grunting as the gravel below him pricks into his skin.

"oh fuck man, oh fuck." yeah, that's not good, like so far down on the list of wins eddie munson's has had this past year, it's barely fucking registering. his head is spinning as he picks it up, glancing down at his lower half and oh shitty shit.

"that's not fucking good, munson, c'mon, c'mon." he bites to himself, chewing against the inside of his lower lip and his mouth swells with the taste of copper. he's bloody, bitten and shit, is he alone?

there are no more bats circling the skies, there's no more henderson cradling him, and he's pretty sure the elder teens aren't hiding in the house anymore. oh fuck, fuck, he's alone. he's alone. more alone than staying at reefer ricks and hiding by skull rock, kind of alone. there isn't any coming back from this. is there?

"you're done running man, you gave that up. you're a fucking hero, now act like one you fucking idiot." he chides himself, squaring his jaw, tensing it as he shifts himself up on his elbows just slightly to really assess the damage that has been done.

tears burn his eyes, sliding down dirt stained, bloody cheeks, and against madded, knotted hair. "fuck me man, jesus h christ." he's not going to make it out of here, not like this. there's not going to be a happy ending, not for eddie the fucking freak munson.

he doesn't know how long he lays there, looking down at giant bites that span across his chest and body, and there down along his thighs and shins, and, and - and bile is suddenly bubbling in his quickly closing throat. he throws himself onto his side, pain surging through him as his eyes screw themselves shut.

he vomits nothing but bile and blood, and fucking tears. he pukes up everything that is swirling in his stomach, every emotion and thought; every fucking hopeful daydream he's ever had.

this is were dreams die, he thinks, this is hell. this is worse than hell, this is.... this is, eternity. this is red and black twirling, upside down, fucking living trees and demon bats. this is fucking, this is eddie munson's luck. if the man didn't have bad luck, he'd have no luck at all.

or at least, that's what uncle wayne always said. his heart pulls in his chest at the thought of the elder male, the only family he's ever had that gave any sort of shit about him. he needs to get back, for wayne's sake. "fuckit old man, i'm trying here. i'm trying."

he rolls onto his stomach, using tired elbows to pull his body forward. flesh scrapes against the dirty earth, tearing new wounds and old ones alike, his breath coming out in loud, shallow pants. his curls are matted together with blood, sweat and tears, the bandana doing little to keep it from seeping into his brown eyes.

"bitch," he whimpers, ripping it off his head and holding it in a tight closed fist as he pulls himself towards the dilapidated trailer in front of him. he's so close, so close and yet so fucking far. literal feet feel like fucking miles. he leaves a trail of blood along with him, and just thinking about it as he pushes against the chainlink he and henderson put around the trailer, make him queasy.

he doesn't have anything left to upchuck from his stomach though, so he settles for coughing, and gagging, and, and. "please. please." he begs. to whom? he doesn't know. if there ever was a god, he abandoned eddie a long time ago. and it's not like there's anyone else around to hear his pleads. so maybe, maybe he's begging himself. maybe, for once...

eddie is looking to save himself, to be his own damn hero. maybe, just maybe. he doesn't really get that far as he drags himself inside the makeshift cage. he props himself up on the stairs leading in and lets out a shaky breath. he can't feel anything from the waist down anymore, and that's not good now, is it? black is bleeding into the corners of his vision, his line of sight narrowing as he struggles to calm himself.

"c'mon munson, c'mon. just a little farther." the heels of his palms press into the ledge of the stairs as his arms struggle to push himself up to be sitting on it. his legs are twisted inward, useless and dead fucking wait. he's pretty sure he's looking at his actual fucking bones, and he gags as the realization flashes across his mind. "alright, alright. rest, just a moment, just... a moment."

he tells himself, his fist holding the bandana swiping across his face to clear it of well, everything as he stares ahead of him. he's never going to get out of here. he's never going to get back, is he.