Jackson was taking a swig of his flask of illegally obtained vodka, hidden away from Coach's suspecting eyes, when his phone suddenly vibrated in his pocket, signaling an incoming text. Looking at who had sent the text, he knitted his eyebrows in confusion, contemplating whether or not he should read it. What could Stiles possibly want from him?
Curiosity got the better of Jackson. His frown deepened once he read the short text, as he was unsure what to think.
"Help. Lydia and Jamie. Lacrosse Field. NOW."
Even to Jackson, that did not sound like Stiles at all. He and the spastic boys were certainly not friends -- more like acquaintances who begrudgingly acknowledged each other's presence -- but Jackson could immediately tell that something was very wrong. This dreadful feeling, accompanied by the knowledge of everything deadly Beacon Hills was swarmed with, got Jackson to listen to Stiles and for once in his life, actually do as he was told.
He was quick to shove the half-empty flask of vodka in someone else's hands, not sparing them a glance, before he marched over to the closest exit. To his luck, it was also the one closest to the Lacrosse field. There was purpose in his step as he pushed aside whoever was standing in his way but when he reached the door, he had to take a moment to breathe. He had seen and heard enough of the atrocities left in the wake of Beacon Hills monsters to be wary of what was to come.
Jackson's heart was beating harder than in the most tense of Lacrosse games as he placed his hands against the door, forcing his arms to push it open. When he finally laid eyes on the scene before him, taking a few steps and letting the door close, he was overcome by a feeling of unease. It took him a few seconds to realize where it came from: he was expecting to be greeted by the dark night, when in reality, the Lacrosse field was nothing but dark.
Jackson shook his head in a feeble attempt at making his discomfort go away. He swallowed, the action made difficult by how parched his throat was, and walked towards the field. Soon, his anxiousness was replaced by the strong sense of annoyance Stiles' presence usually brought him, only this time, it was the boy's absence that was having this effect. Jackson left a party willing to help and yet Stiles was nowhere in sight. In fact, no one was in sight.
Was this all a very elaborate, stupid prank?
His anger now close to boiling, Jackson checked the text once more. His mood deteriorated even more when he saw Lydia's name on the screen. That Stiles and Jamie would go to such lengths to make of fool of him was no surprise, but Lydia? He was disappointed she sank to their level. Of course, that was doomed to happen with how much she hung out with these tools. Jamie's personality had ended up degrading hers, Jackson thought.
But maybe, just maybe, Lydia really did need his help. Maybe then, she would finally see him for who he truly was, and then she'd forget all about Jamie and be with him instead. This tiny hope was enough for Jackson to take a few more steps towards the illuminated field. The sense of relief he felt when he noticed a dark shape in the middle of the field, proving no one was mocking him, was very short-lived.
Suddenly, Jackson felt terribly cold. He couldn't look away from the shape on the ground as Stiles' words played again in his head, and he soon found himself praying that this dark shape wasn't Lydia, lying on the ground. It was as if he was in a trance, now sprinting towards the center of the field. As Jackson got closer, it grew impossible to deny that what had seemed like an ill-defined shape was exactly what he dreaded.
That night, as Jackson recognized Jamie's face, eerily pale and unmoving, he understood that there is a vast difference between regularly wishing someone was dead, and actually witnessing their death happen. And when he saw Lydia, lying there equally pale, it was as if he had forgotten everything he had ever known.
And then the adrenaline kicked in. He would not let them die, not like this. Yes, his hands were trembling and yes, he was terrified, but that wouldn't prevent him from doing everything he could to save his classmates. He had no knowledge in the field of medicine, only what he had seen in movies and there was no telling how accurate that was, but he knew he had to stop the blood from leaving Lydia and Jamie's veins.
The only problem was that they were both covered in cuts and Jackson only had his own two hands to press on their wounds. Could he save them both? The moment that question popped up in Jackson's head, he already knew the answer. He didn't have to think for a second to know which one of them he would save.
Immediately, Jackson's eyes found Lydia and for the second time that night, he became aware of the abyss that separated thinking about doing something, and actually doing it. He could barely handle the sight of her, motionless, and the very idea of the gashing wound on her throat and the blood oozing from it made his insides churn. To bring his hands against the wound was the hardest thing Jackson ever did. Now he simply had to keep his hands there and wait.
Wait for the help he never called.
Panic rose to unprecedented levels in Jackson's chest as he momentarily forgot how to breathe. His eyes grew wide and he finally grasped the severity of the situation, and how he had somehow managed to make it even worse. Jackson wasn't ready for any of this; he was just a teenager at a party that had gone horribly wrong. He felt small, and completely alone. What was he even doing? His hands were pressing against Lydia's throat in an attempt to stop the bleeding, but was he pressing hard enough? Or was he pressing too hard, and preventing her from breathing? And what was he thinking, leaving Jamie to die like this?
"Help!"
The cry that left Jackson's throat was weak, so weak that anyone human hearing it would have been nothing short of a miracle, and Jackson had stopped believing in those a very long time ago. And so he tried again and when it didn't work, he raised his voice and shouted even louder, until his lungs were hurting and his throat was parched.
And finally, help arrived. A man and a woman were running towards the field, but neither of them was going at full speed. There were weapons in their hands and the way they held themselves revealed how they thought the wailing sounds they heard could very well be a trap, something to lure them straight into danger. However, the man suddenly dashed forward, until he was only a few feet away from Jackson.
The man recognized him from a Lacrosse game, but whatever bad first impression the teen had made on him no longer mattered. When he gently put his hands on Jackson's shoulder, careful not to scare him, the teen whipped around and came face-to-face with Chris Argent. Never would he have thought he would one day be relieved when greeted with the sight of Allison's father. Behind him stood Kate, who was gazing down at the teens with an undecipherable expression, her arms crossed over her chest. Why she wasn't rushing to help was beyond Jackson.
Instead, the woman grabbed Jackson by the shoulders and led him away from the scene in a manner that was more forceful than it was gentle, and proceeded to thoroughly ask him at least a dozen questions. It was no use, as Jackson showed absolutely no interest in saying anything. His head kept turning to the side, where Chris was on the phone and tending to his classmates' wounds better than he ever could. He didn't seem to hear a single word that left Kate's mouth, nor did he seem to notice how much she despised being ignored.
The only thought that occupied his mind was that he was a useless failure and utterly incapable of saving anyone, himself included. That thought didn't leave his head even once the ambulance arrived, and it stayed with him the entire ride. He had lost all track of time, making it impossible for him to tell how long ago someone had ushered him inside the small waiting room he was still in. At some point, Jamie's father found him and while he half expected a punch to the face, Jackson had found himself in the man's arms. Henry had spoken to him, telling him not to blame himself, that he was just a child, and that none of it was his fault. Jackson could only nod in response, and even that had felt like a lie.
Lydia's parents were there, sitting next to Jamie's father in worried silence. Stiles had joined the picture as well, although Jackson couldn't tell how or when. He had immediately started pacing around the small waiting room and when the sight of him made Jackson dizzy, the Lacrosse captain simply closed his eyes shut. Stiles was also mumbling incoherent sentences that had a ring of hope to them, until he suddenly stopped talking and pacing altogether.
The atmosphere became so thick with anticipation that Jackson could almost taste it, making him snap out of his daze and bringing him to open his eyes again. As Jackson blinked, the soft noise of the waiting room door closing could be heard, followed by light footsteps. Everyone in the room only had eyes for the nurse who had joined them, and Jackson couldn't help but carefully peer at her in the hope of finding the trace of good news on her features. He felt his lungs constrict in his chest when he noticed that she was slightly frowning, and that the smile she wore was strained. As she glanced down at her clipboard one last time, she cleared her throat.
"I have some news for you."