He blames himself. He always does. Why couldn’t he be stronger? Why couldn’t he be more resilient? It’s a never-ending battle. His eyes might have betrayed how it felt if he hadn't so steeled himself, if he hadn’t so triumphantly shut himself down over the years in Jamison's beautiful shadow. He tires of Boston and its daily routines. He tires of living a double-life that serves him no real purpose. Occasionally, this happens, and Jason finds he cannot bare himself any longer; he’s been tempted on more than one occasion to claw at his own skin, balling his fists so hard that his fingernails scratch at the bottom of his palms and break open his flesh. He has yet to figure out how to cope with the two personalities clashing within the single shell of a body. It certainly isn’t ideal, though he figures it never will be, no matter how “used” to it he can try to get. He grits his teeth with a tight jaw at the inner demons writhing within. As if he didn’t have enough on his plate, now he must take on the burdens of his supposed ‘perfect’ half. Even still, the two play tug-of-war together and for the most part, Jason finishes out on top. It makes sense since he’s exceptionally dominant, but it always leaves Jamison feeling agitated, groggy and confused to say the least – though Jason reassures him he’ll get over it eventually.

But, the last few weeks had been weighing heavily on his mind. The events from a month prior still haunting him when he lay his head against the pillow at night to try to go to sleep. He remembered seeing the expressions on their faces – the agony and pain that came with their actions afterwards, and the hint of trauma that remained behind in the memories. It’s all so vivid to him, yet still so foreign. His muscles ache and his knuckles burn when he wakes in the mornings, that sense of eagerness to find those who had harmed his friends never allowing him to catch a break. His breathing slows so that it’s ragged and heavy all at the same time, and he mentally curses himself for what seems like an eternity before he can pluck himself out from underneath the covers and pull himself out of bed. Some days are easier than others, though not one day has been the same. He grows restless from the lack of evidence, and moody from allowing the anger and tension to continue to build up. He figures he’s about to break. He feels like a ticking time-bomb, ready to go off.

Jason hits the floor with his knees and braces his palms against the cold marble as something angry, uncontrolled, and unfathomable builds in him. What he has done, he thinks, is not enough – and he drops his head further until he is prostrate on the floor with his forehead on the ground. It takes a minute before he opens his mouth and lets out a scream. There is no focus and his anger is all-consuming, all encompassing. He gives into the hatred, ignoring the hoarse strain of his throat with the taunt reflex of his muscles. Lightning strikes the roof and the sky rumbles so long and so hard that the very foundations shake. And then, when the moment is just right, Jason screams again – body taunt with night-terror sweat and his face slick with tears, … and the lightning screams with him.