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Mr. Danya
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Nate screamed. He jumped and span around. He tripped on his bag and fell over. He smacked into the bench ahead of him on the way down, and caught his shoulder at a painful angle.

In that moment, he was so focused on pleading with God to save him, to not condemn him to this hell that, as far as he knew, he didn’t deserve, that he had lost sight of everything else. No, rather, he was shutting himself out to his grim reality, taking solace in prayer to protect himself from a terrible fate. What was actually happening was unkind, though, and was not going to let him sit there in silence.

He groaned and rubbed his shoulder, a sharp pain resounding through him. He eventually came to his senses, grabbing for the pew to pull himself back up to his feet, before poking his head over the back of the seat.

Nate didn’t recognise Matt, beyond being a familiar face from the school hallways. They moved in different social circles, different year groups; they had nothing in common, and no reason to trust each other.

When thrown into a ilfe or death situation with a trigger around his neck, though, who was Nate to complain about company?

“H-hi…” he replied, still hiding behind the back of the seat. He gripped the wood, every muscle in his body as tight as steel.

“Who are you?”
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Dear God · Crematorium Chapel