Ice. It felt like his entire body was slowly growing rigid with ice-yet not completely providing relief once the knife was jerked unceremoniously out of his back; when he finally became aware of exactly how much blood was pouring out of him, running down his shirt and jeans. It felt as though his body were being ripped in two entirely different directions—as though he weren't slated for either life or death, but instead, somewhere in between. He was starting to lose his mind, barely becoming aware of his knees crippling underneath him as he slid down the door of his car, covered with the piss of the two drunk Lakehurst kids. They'd already ran off, that was sure. Although, in the corner of his eye before he collapsed, he could see one of them, the one with the long hair and the brown baseball cap, stare at him in shock, before running away at the sound of someone's voice. That same voice was coming closer, and louder, deafeningly louder; he thought his brain was going to split in half.
"J.T?!"
Suddenly he felt himself being lifted up with someone's arms—familiar arms, carrying a familiar scent. A light frown graced his pale lips as the girl—Liberty—cried for help desperately, cradling his head, and smoothing his hair back from his eyes with her hands. He didn't realize his eyes were closed until he noticed how dark everything was, and how light he was feeling—as though he could float carelessly in midair. And then suddenly, a laugh emerged from somewhere deep in the back of his throat, turned quickly into a choke without relent. His comeback line, much too late, came out as a whisper.
"I hope those two goofs realize they've completely ruined my best shirt. I wore it just for..."
He never got to finish his joke, for his eyes had closed again without his permission and he lost feeling everywhere, yet felt searing, white-hot pain all at once, as he slumped forward, relinquishing himself to his injury.
"J.T.! Wake up! SOMEONE HELP! PLEASE!"