Hatchetfield.

I don't want to wake up on my own anymore.

They were all entangled. That day, at Greg's request, they were all on the football field in the pouring rain.

All 7 boys, all borderline assaulting each other to see who could grab that football.

That stupid, stupid football.

The game had been going great so far — the teams were uneven, some players were better than others, and they were coated in a good amount of mud.

Henry reaches for it, it grazes his fingers.

Only for a moment.

The air feels heavy.

Humid.

Metallic.

Blood. The smell of blood, the taste- the taste of thick, dark blood, spewing from his insides with such a rage that only electricity could create.

A staticky feeling pricks into his skin, and the air around his friends bodies is somehow hot, and freezing cold. Like ice. Like they were holding death tightly in a stoney grip.

No.

Since he was further to the bottom of the swarm of young men, he was encased in their freezing bodies; their bodies that he was trying to hope were full of life, full of wonder.

They were just resting. Worn out from the shock, just like he was.

It happened too quickly.

There's a 90% chance you'll survive getting struck by lightning — he liked those odds, he loved them, In fact.

But- why weren't they doing anything?

Why can't they get up?

Were they trying to crush him with their weight? Was it a joke?

Was this it?

His heart races.

He feels as if he's going to vomit when Greg's body falls limp on top of him, and he has to use all his strength to push himself out.

He was keeping that dogpile stable apparently, because it collapses as soon as he hauls himself out. The rain blends into his tears.

Blank looks are on their faces. Their clothes are charred. Strange shaped holes are ripping through their skin. Their flesh was turning to leather by the minute.

The heat spreads but Henry feels none of it.

He didn't realise how much he was bleeding. The pain in his back doesn't affect him at all, there are more pressing matters.
They're watching him.

They're all fucking staring, though they don't mean to.

They're staring at him.

He grabs the first hand he can reach — Mark's — pulling on it harshly and dragging him out from the group. He's out of breath, the weakness of his body finally setting in.

That electric feeling hits his hands when he touches marks palm. His fingers slide to feel a pulse on his wrist. Nothing.
Not a single beat.

He's overtaken with a sleepiness of sorts, the feeling of tiredness began to trap him.

He too falls limp, laying on the grass, away from his six favourite people.

The lights in that room were too bright. Agony ripped through his burned skin.

His heart monitor beeps, the nurse in the room is the only one there.

He expected to be in a room with his friends, so he turned his head slightly. Nobody else was there, not even Chad.