Pain

"HOLY MOTHEFUCKING SHIT ASS FUCKING CHRIST ALMIGHTY GODDAM IT FUUUUUUUCCCCCKKKKKK" Jacob spewed in agony as he grasped his new wound.

This was the first time he had experienced so much pain in one area. Sure, he'd had scapes and occasional cuts but never a full-on flesh wound.

But one surprisingly rarely acknowledged feature of pain is that the shock of the newfound pain is always the worst.

More importantly, the idea of a 'pain threshold' is entirely accurate, as an individual who has experienced a high level of pain will generally be able to shrug off pain of a lower amount without much trouble.

it was the initial shock of the damage that often forced people to their knees in anguish, after a short period of adjustment a person could generally adapt somewhat, at least to the point where they could think more clearly.

As his mind went over pointless facts like this, Jacob realised his mental faculties were returning and finally managed to look at the wound on his leg.

Only to look away instantly.

What he had seen was not a pleasant sight to behold.

The knife was buried to about 60% of its length in his leg, which could have been worse considering the blade seemed about 12cm long.

He tentatively touched the blade of the knife, almost like he wanted to prove to himself that it was real. 

The sharp twang of pain that came from moving it slightly told him it was.

At least his finger hadn't been cut due to his slightly foolish action.

Luckily, Jacob had a little first-aid knowledge thanks to taking a course while in school. While he couldn't remember most of it, at the very least, he knew how to stitch and bandage a wound.

The problem, of course, was that he had neither a needle and thread nor bandages with him, not to mention antiseptic or even rubbing alcohol to disinfect the wound.

Knowing that taking the knife out before at least having a bandage prepared would just accelerate the bleeding, Jacob slowly maneuvered his body into an upright position. Only to realise the remaining glass from his oil lantern had been shattered when he fell.

For once, luck was on his side as his body was protected enough by his clothing. The glass hadn't given him any deep cuts, only a few surface-level ones, barely even drawing blood.

Despite the news, his spirits were hardly lifted.

Jacob still managed to find a bright side to the sad fate of his lantern as an idea took root in his mind.

The first step was to take off his shirt. The second was to use it to safely grasp the largest glass shard he could before he started towards the dining table.

It was a challenging journey.

He was limping badly the whole way, and every movement made his wound scream at him in protest. His exhausted body staggered step by step towards the dining table that seemed so much further away than it did before.

When he finally reached the table, he was panting in exertion and all but collapsed forward on it, groaning in pain when the knife nicked the edge of the table and twinged inside his leg.

After catching his breath for a few seconds, he began the next step of his plan, cutting the tablecloth.

It was an arduous process and took far more effort than he could afford to spare, but nevertheless, he did it.

Jacob knew that he could have cut up his shirt to make the bandage, but that would have left his upper body utterly defenceless to any number of threats.

He also could have used the knife, but since it hadn't cut him earlier he assumed that the blade was actually dull, despite managing to pierce his flesh easily.

So, despite the difficulty of the task, he elected to do things the hard way in a bid to increase his overall chance of survival even a little.

Finally, he was done cutting out a decent portion of the tablecloth, more than he needed, but he figured he could just cut off the excess.

"This is realllllly gonna suck, isn't it" he mumbled as he prepared for what would be the worst part of his DIY first aid.

Grasping the handle of the knife, he sucked in air deeply before giving it a swift tug. His hope was that the old adage of ripping off a band-aid also applied to stab wounds.

It did not.

Or, at the least, it certainly didn't FEEL like it did.

A long stream of profanity graced the dining room's once noble atmosphere, significantly dampening its elegance.

As he calmed down, he once again stared at his wound. His eyes were wide but focused, sweat pouring down his forehead, his arms occasionally shaking from the stress.

He slowly but tightly wrapped the tablecloth around his leg. Making sure that it would at least slow the bleeding enough to not be fatal too quickly.

He just hoped he could quickly find something to close his wound better.

When he was done, he laid down on the table, stared at the ceiling, and…

Cried.

Yes, he spent the next few minutes sobbing into his arm as he tried to get his emotions back under control.

It should be noted that Jacob was in no way an individual built for this.

Until now, he was a completely normal person.

He had experienced a minimal amount of hardship in his life. This ensured that while he could function normally in a civilised society, his capability in dangerous situations was minimal.

Now he was trapped in a haunted mansion with no idea what he was doing. He hadn't found any of the 'hands' he needed to escape and he may well die of blood loss. 

He didn't even know what he was looking for, not really.

Not to mention that even if he did find each key before he bled out, who's to say that he would be able to leave then? The whole cryptic scavenger hunt could just be a ploy to get him to walk into the spirit's territory of his own accord.

He had done his best so far, but the stress of constantly having his life threatened, the overwhelming fear that had assaulted him each time he had to survive another one of these spirits, and the complete solitude had finally pushed him to a breaking point, the final crack in the dam was the extreme pain he had just endured, the one that might end up killing him despite his best efforts.

He couldn't do this. How could he?

He wasn't a tough guy who could shrug off a flesh wound.

Or a badass who could walk out of a dangerous situation without a scratch due to his sheer skill.

He still had so much he needed to do. He had no idea where these 'hands' were and no idea how many more times he would have to risk his life to find them.

He was just a 19-year-old kid who was in over his head.

Lost and afraid with no one to help him.

Eventually, he lost the energy to even sob as he closed his eyes and lay down on the table.

As he lay there wallowing in regret and lamenting his situation, he felt something.

A small warm hand resting on his own blood-covered palm.

With that sensation was a voice as soft as cotton candy and just as sweet.

"Get up…" It pleaded quietly.

His eyes jumped open as he searched for the first friendly voice he had heard since coming into this nightmare.

But no matter what he did, he couldn't find the owner of the voice. The only proof he had of her existence was in his mind and the fading warmth in his hand.

But that was enough.

As long as there was one person that didn't want him dead, one person that showed him he wasn't alone…

Somehow the terrifying task ahead of him didn't seem as daunting anymore.