The JereMike Collection

Mangled

Jeremy screamed as a long winding cord whipped across his back, gliding down his shoulder blade to his waist. He felt his shirt dampen with blood as the wound stretched, sending him to his knees. With his hands outstretched in front of him, green eyes shut tightly as pain shot through his spine. He doubled over, the wire leaving long, deep gashes deep in his flesh.

A sensation bolts trails from his upper back and down his arms, tingling at his wrist. But his mind is too overwhelmed to notice.

A shadow suddenly appeared, hovering over him as he withered. There was a yell, someone calling his name, something being smashed and the sound of metal on metal. Most likely Mangle being forcibly stuffed into the vents, giving one last sputter of screech of static as she crawled away.

Somewhere in the chaos, the bell chimes 6AM.

"Fucking hell...." Mike's hands reached out to steady the teen, only to retract as the night watch gave pained yelp. He stands over him for a moment, unsure what to do. Jeremy's at his feet, aware the guard was standing protectively over him, but in to much agony to care. There's a winding sensation of knives digging into his skin as he whimpers.

"M-Mike...." He's shaking. There's blood staining his name tag. "Mangle-"

He doesn't finish his sentence, a lump forming in his throat. A tear gathers at his eye as he turns to the side and spits, blood swirling in his saliva. The sight of the liquid makes Mike's own blood boil.

He runs a hand under his cap, accessing the situation. He had to stay calm; not panicking, but calm. Right now, there's no telling to how bad Jeremy's actually injured, but if the guard doesn't act quickly, there wouldn't be a debate on whether it was a just a scratch, or a life or death countdown.

His gaze follows the trail of red seeping through the teen's shirt, pooling onto the floor. They needed to move. Now.

Jeremy whimpers something incoherent as he's lifted, biting his lip as his knees wobble. "Wha...W-what's going on...?"

"Locker room" His answer is quick and blunt, but he can sense the fear in Mike's tone. "Shit....How bad are you?" The older man swings Jeremy's around around his neck, leading him a few steps forward. "And don't lie to me"

The opened mouth Jeremy prepares shuts, looking down at the ground. He wheezes as they turn the corner, pulling himself closer to Mike for support. "I-I'm not dying..." He answers, "It just....hurts"

Mike swallows guilt down to his stomach as he steadies the teen into the locker room, slamming the door behind him with his foot. There's a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling, casting faint shadows in the dim room. The guard curses under his breath as he eases Jeremy to the nearest bench, gently setting him down.

He gives his bloodied back another glance before rushing over to the employee's trunk. He flips it open, sneering as he pushed uniforms and mask away from each other. "Motherfucker...."

"Mike..."

"Just a second"

He picks out the first-kit from among the mess, giving a sigh of relief. Shutting the trunk shut, he bolts back over to Jeremy. The nightwatch has his eyes closed and his arms hanging down in front of him, sitting in a painfully slopped position. Mike grime at the realization that he's going to have to sit straight to treat his wounds.

Jeremy peeks open one half lidded eye at the sound of the first-aid opening. "I'm not dying"

"Quiet"

Mike quickly picks out the essentials: a small bottle of alcohol, medicated pads and two rolls of gauze, hopefully enough to cover the torso fully. He sets them to the side as he cleans his hands in shaky, spastic movements.