what was there to regret? the fact that he’d agreed to wear the mold && mildew scented sweater of jason’s deceased mother that they’d managed to find in some sort of shack outside the camp, or the fact that he was now actually wearing said mold && mildew scented sweater of jason’s deceased mother that they’d managed to find in some sort of shack outside the camp? personally, he believed they were long past anything as emotionally aware as feeling regret when it involved putting blind faith in the person his father had called crazy && violent in the years prior.
❝ no. are you? ❞ is he really trying to start shit with the only person here who seems to know what’s going on? maybe. is it because he’s scared shitless && filling the air with something makes the tremor in his voice disappear for just a little bit? another maybe. ❝ listen man, if i’d known this was how i was gonna be spending my weekend, ❞ digits curl harshly into fraying hem of mrs. voorhees’ sweater, pulling it farther apart as his mind fights a similar fate in such strenuous circumstances, ❝ i’d rather it be me than someone else, y’know? ❞ he glances down at the flare gun in hand, turning it over as blood ( his own? someone else’s? who’s to say. ) leaves crimson smudges, darkening bright orange plastic. finally, he finds the strength to look tommy in the eye, wide gaze searching for some kind of reassurance in survivor’s own. ❝ just tell me this is gonna be enough to beat him — that’s all i need to hear. ❞
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