R.I.P Casey Jones

R.I.P Casey Jones

Agony, with mikey and casey?

Mikey’s return to the conscious world was sensory overload at its finest, a swirl of snowflakes—or were those stars?—and glaring white lights and noise, noise, noise. The thundering of his pulse first, then a tinny ringing, and a disjointed shout somewhere beyond.

“—key! C’mon, dude, say someth—!”

Hands were pawing and patting all over, obviously trying to hold back from full-on shaking him awake. As soon as he inhaled to acknowledge them, a lightning bolt shot through his skull and a thick, hot slurry of blood and saliva clogged his throat.

Someone overhead cursed colorfully at this turn of events, hastily pushing him onto his side as he gurgled and coughed, reflexive tears streaking to be lost in the fire that licked up his face.

“Okay, okay, never mind, don’t say nothin’! Let’s just stay still!”

That would be easier if everything around him stopped spinning. His stomach lurched with every throbbing jolt of pain. A garbled sob escaped him, threatening to bring bile with it into the puddle of blood staining first the ice and now the glove that slid gingerly under his head for support.

“Geez, this is why real hockey players wear mouth guards and all that…You definitely got a concussion and your jaw is…beyond busted.” A terse, anxious breath. “So am I. Your bros are gonna straight up kill me for this. I-It was an accident, I swear; I’m so sorry, man.”

Mikey was too, sorry for waking up to this in the first place. Maybe it would be better for everyone involved if he slipped back into the blessedly numb darkness for just a little while longer.