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Late Jay death day short fic

Notes:

I know I'm a bit late to Jay dying, but I got sudden inspiration to write about what could've been going through his head as he was dying! Not very long, just a short and sweet (sweet may not be the right word though, heh) little drabble that came into my brain. Not my best or longest work, but I hope y'all enjoy!
(and no I couldn't figure out a title either)

Work Text:

Jay Merrick was going to die.

He knew it was the end. Alex had shot him, and the pain in his side was worse than anything he'd ever felt before, as he stumbled away and ran from Alex, adrenaline being the only thing to keep him going.

He made it to a room off to the side, shutting the door and locking it, trying to keep Alex away, even though he knew it wouldn't matter.

Nobody would find him. He'd be dead before anyone could. He could feel the blood draining out of him, staining his jacket and running out of his wound too quick for his body to handle.

He managed to push himself over to a nearby wall, before collapsing on the floor, his hand not holding the camera pressed tightly into his side in a feeble attempt to try to put pressure on the wound. That's what you're supposed to do with gunshot wounds, right? Try to put pressure on it, to stop it the bleeding? So why wasn't it stopping?

Even though he knew he was going to die, he didn't want to accept it. He couldn't. He couldn't die here. He still had to stop Alex, find Jessica, stop that Thing, figure out what ToTheArk was trying to tell him, and Tim...

He still had so much he wanted to tell Tim. He didn't want to leave him alone. He didn't want to leave him with any of this. God, he didn't want to leave Tim. He didn't want to go to whatever Afterlife there is, if there even is one, without him.

It's ironic, really. He had tried to stab Tim not that long ago, and had felt like he hated him, then went right back to loving him when it was too late. It doesn't even matter, Tim probably hates him, especially after that stunt he pulled. He'd never get to tell him anything about how he felt.

He kept trying to think, keep his thoughts on Tim, but it was so difficult to keep thinking anymore, so difficult to keep holding the camera, so difficult to keep his hand pressed against his wound, he could feel himself slipping.

He lowered the camera down into his lap, his hand barely holding onto it anymore, as he tried to keep his eyes open and head, which has become very heavy on his shoulders, from tilting down, and tried to keep his eyes open, but it was so hard to do.

The last thing he saw in the corner in his eyes before they shut for the final time was that Thing in the corner.