A Message to Scott Cawthon: Reimagined

Chapter Eighteen

Rhys groaned and shook himself awake as he heard footsteps walking towards him. He opened his eyes and sent nervous glances in all directions. No one was coming. With a groan he pushed himself off of the puddle he had landed in and shuffled slowly to his feet, already feeling a head rush coming. He had to wait a few seconds for his eyes to readjust to the darkness; the single lamp post wasn't helping the matter much. Will was still by the wall, appearing a lot more pale in the face and a lot more red around his chest. The musician pointed desperately towards a figure on the floor. He saw Ryan.

The younger man lay there, clutching at his chest and gasping with tears rolling down his face. He was looking at the Scotsman with a pain filled gaze, his lips trembling in unspoken words. The message was clear: "Help me."

Clasping a hand over his head as it throbbed like a beating drum, he staggered towards Ryan. "What? What's wrong?" he whispered, falling to his knees beside his younger friend. Ryan couldn't speak, it hurt too much to try. He could just about breathe, but that air wasn't going anywhere. It just sank in his lungs, a stationary weight that wouldn't move.

The Scotsman couldn't understand what was happening, and you couldn't blame him. Who would presume that because someone was in pain and struggling to breathe, it meant they had been struck in the ribs by a young, currently insane British man and that had caused their heart stopped beating? It wasn't exactly a logical conclusion to make. Nevertheless, Ryan pointed to his chest in a feeble gesture.

"Do you think this would make a good spear?" a shaky voice asked from behind. Rhys spun his head around, already knowing what sight would await him. Lewis stood in the darkness. He was sweating, shaking and panting, his dark hair sticking to his forehead and his lip cracking with congealed blood. Rhys looked at what he held in his hands: a rusty, metal spike that had clearly come off a fence long ago. "You're the last one y'know," he murmured. "Just one more left."

"Lewis, come on..."

"Nah, I don't think so," Lewis giggled, stepping towards the Scotsman, "I've had enough of that s*** for one night." The tip of the fence spike shot towards Rhys's chest which the Scotsman narrowly dodged; his right sleeve became impaled with the rusty metal. He pulled away causing his sleeve to rip and fray, flecks of rust sprinkling onto his arm. Lewis pulled away his makeshift spear and swooped it around in a deadly movement which Rhys could not escape from. The spear dragged across his face and tore at his skin.

Will watched with blurry eyes as he the sights unfolded before him. But while his oldest and youngest friend fighting, he was focused on Ryan. His breathing had decreased to a critical slowness and he wasn't moving any of his limbs, his eyes drooping closed and then being pulled back open by nothing except the younger man's will power to live.

But before long, Ryan couldn't keep his eyelids open. His head felt heavy and his body was numb, except for the terrible pain that struck his heart. Deciding that he simply needed a break, he let himself rest. He breathed a deep sigh, watching the air condense into a cloud above him. The next time his eyelids drooped closed, he let them stay there.

His eyes never opened again.

Rhys was struggling to keep his distance from the rusty spear that his younger friend wielded. He was scrambling backwards in circles, never having the time he needed to get to his feet. With each passing second, Lewis became angrier and more aggressive, his movements speeding up and becoming more forceful. You could hear the metal swoop through the air with each pass; a taunting hiss of triumph. He kept trying to talk some reason into his younger friend, but to no avail. Rhys's hopes were falling fast.

The outlook for both of his friends looked dull. The musician looked down at his chest. His outlook didn't look too good either. The shock was wearing off to be replaced by a burning sensation. Will's throat felt clogged and he coughed. Blood droplets flew through the air, glinting mockingly in the lamp post's light.