The Company

Chapter Thirteen- There's More Than Smoke on the Water

It took maybe two hours to go through the cliffs. Before we knew it, we were in the woods again, not to mention in the clear.

We decided to take a break next to a small body of water, something like a pond. The rain had stopped, and I was more than relieved to be on solid, low ground.

I sat down, my back leaning against a shaded tree. I heard a bunch of guys laughing, then some splashing.

I looked over to see what was going on, and I saw that a bunch of shirtless guys were splashing around in the lake, just having a good time.

"Hey, Michael!" someone called over. "Pop off the shirt and hop in! The water feels awesome!"

I put the hat on the floor and jumped in with a loud whoop. The water indeed did feel awesome. Despite the rain, it had stayed a nice temperature. My shirt billowed out underneath me, making me look almost fat.

"Dude, is that an undershirt?" Lionel asked, poking at the white tank top-looking thing under my shirt. "What are you, my grandpa?"

I chuckled. "Sure. That's definitely what it is. Nice, comfy undershirt."

"Well, what else would it be?" another guy asked.

"Never mind that," I quickly said. "Doesn't matter since you're a target!"

I launched myself forward at Lionel and tackled him down. He let out a surprised yelp as we toppled down with a loud splash. Another guy splashed some water at me as Lionel jumped up, yelling some kind of battle cry.

I went to go splash him back when my hand hit something warm.

Oh no, I thought, closing my eyes. It actually happened. Someone Caddyshacked the pool.

I looked down, fearing what it could possibly be, but what it was definitely overthrew the severity of what I thought.

"Blood!" I yelled, lifting up my now red hand to show everyone. "There's blood in the water!"

The other guys stopped what they were doing and bolted out of the water with me in tow. I scrubbed my hand in desperation to wash it off.

Fun fact: blood is pretty easy to wash off. Use that at your next murder session.

Oh great. Now I'm condoning murder. No, I'm not actually. If you murder, you go to prison. It's not good. We've all heard "You Know What They Do To Guys Like Us In Prison," so we know how that goes. So don't murder. Murder is bad.

My body shook as I saw the blood disperse across the water. It didn't spread like Kool-Aid powder. No, it was more like oil. It floated around on top, then spread around. It was almost peaceful to look at, but emotionally scarring at the same time.

That was my only regret. The blood. The smell, the way it felt, the blood. I was so uncomfortable with it. It hurt like a happy nightmare.

I scrambled back to the tree, slipping my jacket back on and shoving the hand that used to be bloody into a pocket. I sat in a ball on the grassy ground, shell-shocked. My mind was elsewhere, thinking. I put my headphones into my ears to drown out any thoughts, although it didn't work. The melodic drones of Dan Reynolds and Gerard Way were normal audible therapy, but not today. Especially since "Blood" had decided to play.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, breaking the stupor. I looked up to see a blurry Lionel with a look of regret.

"Michael?" he asked. "You okay?"

"Okay?" I asked frantically. "Am I okay? Am. I. Okay? Sure, sure. I'm fine. I didn't just run away from the Academy getting knives thrown at me, I didn't just cross the cliffs blindfolded and I didn't just swim in a pond where I got blood on me and I don't know if it's mine or not!"