There's a Party at Your House, part 3.

You can fall back against the lawnmower as a blow strikes you in the side of the face. Struggling to right yourself and pull up your jeans, you stumble again onto dusty unidentified shed clutter. You’re pulled up by the scruff of your jacket whilst a girl screams in the background. The music is still thumping out of the living room. You wonder how the police have not been called as you’re beaten down onto the cold concrete. All you can taste is blood and dust.

You gently pull up your trousers. The light from the party is shining into your hideout. You can see a rake. You leap up towards it, grab it, and swing. For a moment, you think you hit the girl, but she’s just on the floor crying hysterically because the guy is out cold in a crimson splatter.

You can think that you should really be getting out of here. You can grab your headphones from the floor, and leap over the back garden wall.

You can pause to check if you’re being followed. No one is even looking at you. The door is open but people aren’t spilling out with their mouths open, pointing at you incredulously.

You can see an unconscious girl wearing very little laid out on your carpet, her shiny brown hair covering her face.

You can decide that it’s time to get out of here before the guy wakes up, and to hell with the rest. It isn’t your party.

You can run off down the road and not stop until you reach the 24-Hour Tesco where you can buy sweets and batteries and a bottle of orange Lucozade and spend the rest of the freezing night watching your breath steam around your face, cocooned in metal.

Or.