[It's late. Jason would be readying himself for bed if he could, but — he can't. Or maybe he won't. There's a defined difference between can't and won't, and he's not willing to examine what is due to a lack of interest and what is due to his fucked up shoulder. Antiseptic, numbing cream, congealing serum and a fresh roll of bandages have all been used to tend to his wound. That counts for something, he supposes. Busying himself is better than letting his mind go through a list of shit he should have done, as opposed to what he actually did this weekend.
So. He's laying on the top bunk, still wearing the same clothes he wore throughout the day (sans shoes), when he gets her message. He responds through text, typing up a response with his uninjured arm.]
You make it sound like I was upset. And I did. Don't worry, Mom.
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So. He's laying on the top bunk, still wearing the same clothes he wore throughout the day (sans shoes), when he gets her message. He responds through text, typing up a response with his uninjured arm.]
You make it sound like I was upset.
And I did. Don't worry, Mom.