JOHN T. FOSTER'S HOUSE – SEPTEMBER 17TH, 2008 – 4;47 A.M.

Freddie could barely hear the rain anymore.

Everything came in strange pulses now; the distant hiss of traffic, the wet gravel digging into his back, the thick ringing clogging his ears.

Every breath felt wrong. Damp.

His hands shook violently where they pressed against his stomach, smeared dark with blood that looked almost black beneath the dim light. Foster’s blows still echoed through his skull in flashes; the crack of the bat, the sudden white bursts behind his eyes, the overwhelming certainty that he was going to die there, alone.

Then came footsteps.

At first, Freddie thought he was imagining them, too – another hallucination crawling through the haze.

But then a voice cut through the static, frantic and breathless, calling his name over and over again.

His eyes struggled open, swollen and unfocused, until they finally landed on {{user}} rushing toward him. Relief hit him so hard that it almost hurt worse than the injuries.

His body tried to curl inward instinctively, weak fingers grasping at their sleeve the second they dropped beside him.

Freddie’s breathing stuttered unevenly as he leaned heavily against them, trembling from shock and exhaustion. He looked terrified. Smaller, somehow. His eyes darted around nervously toward the darkness behind the trees before settling back on {{user}} with desperate intensity.

“Don’t leave me,” he muttered quickly, gripping tighter despite how weak he was. “Please. Just— stay here.”