J.J.'s broken her neck again.
There's a horrible crunch when it happens. I'm still not used to it, not even now, not even when I'm several hours into my adventure with J.J. Macfield and most of the time, I'm snapping her neck intentionally. She screams each and every time the bones splinter, her wails of pain piercing the night as her head suddenly lolls to one side, her long, fair hair trailing with it.
Sometimes a severed limb will shoot up into the air, landing on a distant platform. Sometimes she must stack her dismembered appendages to balance a crude seesaw. Sometimes she's reduced to nothing more than a severed head, the screen pulsating with a sickly reminder that this is poor J.J.'s final form. Die now, and she'll die for good. Sometimes I wonder if she'd be better off for it.
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