One two three here we go!
I'm probably going into this NaNo thing again all wrong. One, I'm not redoing any of the stories people might actually like to see revamped and all pretty sounding. Two, I have no ideas (takes me back really). Three, I haven't been reading at all unless you count the stupid amount of fanfiction I read (and you probably shouldn't).

OH WELL THOUGH.

This'll probably work like many a NaNo before it. I write bits until I lose interest/run out of ideas of where the scene is going. Beware for Engrish, half finished thoughts, sentences with very little sense and a complete and utter rape of anything with sense.

Woohoo.

working title: I Hope There's Cake
word count: 1,735
Mid is: slacking off to write this, what

Let's start magnanimously and introduce our main character (who, as an author, I swear not to try to kill off until next week). His name is Jack. Well, Jack is what we're going to call him at least, since "magnanimously" used up most of my big word quota for the day, so we're not going to call him anything more complex.

Anyway, enough of this "I'm an author babbling in my own story" crap, onto Jack.

Jack is just a guy, and an unfortunate guy seeing how he's the main character of a story. This isn't the absolute beginning of him, as that was probably birth and that's just way too gross to get into. We're not even at the middle part of the story of his life since, knowing my habits, we're probably sitting near the end. It's needless to say that this all is probably the most interesting stuff about dear ol' Jack that everyone will ever hear, cause up to this point he's lived a pretty below the radar life.

Or, at least, he thinks he has.

We'll get into that. First, proper introductions. Jack is just a guy (oh, I covered that?). He doesn't look different from anyone else. He's got one of those faces that you see every day, though his eyes are a bit more shadowed cause sleep and him don't agree most days. He stands average height and his a bit over the recommended weight for it. His hair is getting kind of shaggy around his ears. When he speaks, he sounds like the typical American on TV with only a slight slur (from being from Eastern Canada) and a slight grind of a Irish accent, both of which most people don't notice unless he's very tired or drunk cause otherwise they don't really show themselves. His eyes are a cross between gray and green, though probably more gray then green, and at this moment (for the sake of starting the story off at an interesting point to keep you the read sitting here and reading) his shoulder and upper torso are ripped apart and he's laying in a pile of bloody snow.

And it hurts like a bitch (however that hurts).

Jack isn't really sure how he got to this point. Selective forgetfulness or whatever the pretty word is (he can't think of it at all) maybe. Pain blocking out things like memory and how tos and why tos as well. Jack figures, really, he doesn't care cause he's in pain and he's cold and that's got to be the worst combination ever.

It's night, obviously cause that's when all good and bad stories that involve a lot of blood happen. Jack looks up at the sky and sees three stars and no moon but an obvious cloud. He thinks thats important, but for the life of him (which, hey, seems to be still seeping out only a bit faster then slowly) obviously doesn't know why.

He rolls his head to the side (right) and sees nothing but trees. He looks the other way (left and a little north west) and there's a deer. Not a live one. It looks like a mimic of how Jack feels, only worse cause Jack knows he still has all his guts on the inside. For a moment Jack lays and wonders if this all happened as some epic fight against a deer. Just another hunt gone wrong. You hear about those all the time. But, a buck would impale him rather then make ribbons out of him, right? The antlers are hard, but not knife sharp. And anyway, that's a doe.

Jack's eyes start feeling droopy. His mind leaves the deer. He's pretty sure he's dying.

Now, you must realize, Jack isn't a very old guy. He might just have hit twenty in fact. He is one of those people who usually feels older then they are from a lack of sleep and a surpass of things that need to be done. Jack is young for the sake of clarity in this narriation, really, so he's really never thought about how death must feel (I can tell you as the author, even though Jack can't remember, that he was never one of those kids who thought of suicide or death, he was always quite happy with the breathing thing). Really, the feeling seeping into all his muscles is strange, not unlike absolute exhaustion except for the expanding numbness. Jack never thought of how death must feel, but death is the only thing at the moment he can think of that could feel like this.

All in all, it sucks.

In his last moment, or what he calls his last moment, he wishes he has someone to think about. He can't think of anyone, can't remember anyone. He knows he must have had a mother, maybe a father too, but he can't remember either of them. So he makes a mother up. He thinks of a woman with nice brown hair and kind wrinkles around her eyes. Maybe she bakes pie, and it's really good pie. He tells this made-up mother "Love ya, mum" in his head a moment before he closes his eyes and waits.

And waits some more.

Then waits a little more.

After a little more, he feels his heart just for a moment stop, and at the same moment he breathes out finally. It's the briefest moment of peace and stop looking at me like that, I said I wasn't going to try and kill him and I didn't. He's not dead, and Jack realizes this as quickly as a guy who is sure for he's just felt his heart beat for the last time can. Like I said, his heart only stopped for a moment and after that moment it gives a hard thump and another hard kathump and then his lungs are burning slightly from the need of air.

Jack inhales hard, coughing up a little spit or slime or whatever was stuck in his throat at that moment. It hurts, but then everything else does. It sucks, but we covered that already.

He's alive.

What the hell, he thinks. He was so ready for death a moment ago.

Now he's alive and what is he suppose to do? He's still ripped apart, or thinks he is. When he looks down at himself (the best a person can without lifting their head too much), the wound is no longer bleeding. They're not healed, but they don't look too bad. They look manageable at least, which is strange cause he could have sworn they were bad enough for him to lose several pints of blood.

So let's tally things up:

A) Jack isn't dead and this is weird. His back feels wet against the snow, and he thinks this might be a combination of body heat melting what is under him and blood. Or least he hopes.

B) Jack isn't dying, or at least, he feels like he isn't dying anymore. Sure, he's tired, he could use a good sleep, and everything in his upper torso hurts worse then he has words to describe, but none of it feels life threatening.

C) There's still the matter of how he ended up like this. With the whole "I'm bleeding to death or something here" thing, he hadn't really spared many brain cells to figure out what the hell happened. He kind of left it at the whole thing being a blank thing.

D) For that matter, he can't remember much. He's not entirely sure who he is.

E) If he keeps laying here, he might just die from exposure. It's cold, it's winter, it's a winter night. This adds up to needing to get warm or become a popsicle. And he doesn't even what to think whether someone would find him before or after time came for him to thaw in that case.

So he needs to get up, he figures.

But the idea is harder then the action, and sitting up causes his skin to pull every which way. It feels like fresh blood is starting to leak out, and Jack feels a little dizzy from it. But it needs to be done, so he doesn't flop back down.

Sitting, Jack can see two things. For one, the deer better, which is all kinds of ew. He really didn't need to see the inside of an animal like that. And two, a car and the brown of a dirt road. The car sits, red and shiny and a strange beacon of hope, in the vast snowy wonderland Jack and the deer has bloodied up. Jack wonders if that is someone come to rescue him (cause that would be awesome timing there) but he sees no one.

Plus, in his left pocket of his jeans he can feel something poking his leg. Slowly he pulls it out to discover keys.

Hey, if it's not a rescue party, hopefully it's his car.

Standing up is a whole new world of pain and dizziness, but Jack figures dragging himself along to the car is probably worse as a whole then standing and stumbling to it. He doesn't remember walking to the car, and doesn't realize he does until his cheek is resting against it, and he's trying to look in the windows. It's full of junk, piles of stuff, but he sees blankets and a comforter in the back and those look like a plan.

He opens the back door (unlocked, strange) and climbs in. He wraps everything fabric he can find around a body he now really feels as being freezing. The back seat is too short for him to lay out properly and without a pain in his neck later, but he closes the door behind him and lays. Sleep seeps in and Jack thinks for a moment that if death is still coming, now is a good time for it to jump out. The thought is weird, but Jack is out like a light before he can start thinking about it.

I keep my word, he's not gonna die. Yet.