JAMIE KEPT their back flat against a tree, theirs and Spencer's backpack leaning against their legs. He'd left maybe five minutes ago, cradling the folding chairs like a baby, with the promise that he'd come back for them. They'd tried to tell him they could carry both backpacks, but there was also the cooler to consider.
They heard a twig break in the distance, shrinking back against the tree, wrapping their arms around themself. It was so dark, and they could barely see a foot in either direction. All they knew was themself. Spencer's backpack. His phone was in the front pocket closest to their knee. Jamie was alone.
And cold. When did Britain get so cold?
They shivered, gripping the sides of their shirt into tight fists.
Spencer was gone.
Jamie was alone.
Another snap of a twig. The desperate crunch of leaves underfoot, searching. For them?
Paranoia seeped into their blood, turning it thick. It sloshed desperately through their body, roaring in their ears and pouring into their heart much quicker then necessary.
They just—they needed Spencer. His comforting hand around theirs. The way his eyes scrunched when they did something silly. They missed him. He'd been gone a minute, an hour, a day, a week, a month, a year, a century, he was gone.
"Jamie."
Their head banged against the tree as they turned. It stung. There would be a bruise.
A knife was brought to their neck, centimeters, inches, feet, yards away from their skin.
An hand was pushed into their chest, keeping them pinned against the bark that dug into their skin that was too loose. They wanted to pull it off and shake it out, tighten it up, but they couldn't get their arms free.
A body was in front of them, so close they could see his pores. His. A boy.
Jamie opened their mouth to scream (or maybe cry) but he clamped a hand over their mouth, cutting them off. "Shut up."
Jamie was going to die.
Jamie was dead.
He (they were still struggling to recognize him) dug his knife into their neck, drawing blood that poured down their chest, into the bulging crevice of their shirt.
It should've run down their stomach, but—no, that can't be right. Their body isn't right. It isn't what they need. It doesn't serve them.
