Mitchell moves as if on auto-pilot, managing to get those items on and untangle his plaid shirt from where it was tossed nearby --although only the one sleeve goes on.

Somewhere in his mind, he decides that the bed is too much of an open space and scrambles into a corner of the room. The distortion and the effects of the blood are starting to get too much.

"What is--why is this happening to me?" Even in this addled state, his mind wanders back to ideas of guilt and punishment. Then again, something like this only exacerbates what's already there.