Timmy

Things were going fine until Timmy ate some of that weird candy he found on the bus this morning. Fine. Then something started to happen. His skin became textured with boils and hives, pain bloomed like fizzing pop inside his flesh. Shimmering lines of pressure snapped in his periphery. Pulse lumbering, breath feeling inverted, black paint flowing through his veins. His hands shaking he lurched forward, the world an obscenity of color and sound, pressing - leaning in on him. He bolted for the washroom.

When he came out they were waiting.

A bunch of the guys, he thought they were his friends - until Chip brought the Axe handle down across his neck. But that was awhile ago now. He's been running for a good forty minutes - the pressure in his skull drawing little attention, compared to the knife wounds and broken glass in his back.  " The dogs, oh man, the dogs - the barking - THEIR BRINGING THE DOGS . . .  Whats wrong with those guys . . . . . . don't they know it's me . . . . . . . .  TIMMY  ???? "