Streita

[Little Boy†]

(("Dutchy" continues from Make Your Own Kind of Music))

B139, known to his classmates as Örn "Dutchy" Ayers, lay against the tree trunk panting for breath. He'd lost count of how long he'd been running for. It seemed like ages since the clearing, since his breakdown. Escape had been the only option.

What now?

He looked up, wiping sweat from his brow and snot from his nose. It might have been mere minutes, but Dutchy had a sneaking suspicion he'd been running far longer. Roland's voice had died out long ago, but not even that had slowed him down. Despite escaping relatively unscaved, guilt was pouring through him. Dutchy looked up into a tree, seeing the tell-tale blinking light of the camera, always watching. He was forced to look back down to the ground, filled with shame, his face red and stained with fresh tears. He'd taken the cowards' way out, abandoned the only friend he had left. Sarah and Bridget were off, lost in the woods, looking for a way out. Brendan had disappeared, Harun , Rashid and Madelyn were AWOL. Vera... Vera was gone. And that wasn't the worst of it. Kimberly had killed someone. Clio had murdered more then he could count, and his stomach did shaky flips on itself as he thought of her, and her demise. He clutched the ground, digging up dirt with his fists. He was going to puke. He should puke.

He'd run like a coward. Roland would have never done something like that, not to him, not to anyone. It was unfair and it made him his stomach churn even more. Such a heroic person, stuck for days with a hopeless waste of space. What had he done? Soaked in the names of the dead, crying like a little baby, unable to do anything, not even be himself... Nothing but a babysitter, waiting while his friends tried to escape, while his sister was-

Dutchy's jabbed his hand down his throat, jabbing at his uvula. Within seconds his gag reflex sent acidic vomit shooting up his throat. Without even managing to pull his hand out of his throat he was puking, doubling over and coughing and vomiting onto his hands and his jeans. Burying his head in the ground, Dutchy continued to cough, spitting vomit and tasting the terrible acid burn in his throat. The smell of his puke wafted up towards him and he groaned in distress.

Oh God... Oh God, what have I done...

He'd left Roland to die. He'd abandoned his last friend, and committed a terrible sin. In the hospital, his Uncle hooked to the wires, more machine then man... Kimberly on the beach, her arm a bloody mess, his open med kit, scattered in the sand. He'd hid and he'd cried and he had done all in his power to avoid what was happening right in front of him, even as it broke him apart. Danya had known all along. Lord knows the monster had heard it a thousand times before. He'd probably laughed at him, his pitiful spiel to the cameras, begging for support and salvation. He'd shut his ears, tried to block out the announcements, the confirmation that his classmates and friends had turned to killers. As if it could have ever possibly saved him from the truth.

Maybe Roland wouldn't forgive him. Maybe, he'd stop looking for him, start looking out for Sarah or Bridget, stronger friends, who wouldn't run at the spectre of death. Dutchy prayed it was the case. He wasn't fit to be saved anymore. Everything he'd been before the Island had been horribly warped, his beliefs irreversibly shattered, right from the first announcement.

Survival of the Fittest? Not my school. Everyone is so nice. We wouldn't ever.

He was alone now. On an Island full of killers, he'd once called friends. He was going to die, a weak imitation of what he'd once been, broken down and scared to death. Roland was going to die without him, all because he'd been too scared to watch. Trembling, Dutchy closed his eyes, shaking and mumbling to himself.

He wasn't who he thought he was. And he wanted to die.

Dutchy rose to his feet, his gut empty, puke staining the knees of his jeans. Absentmindedly he wiped vomit from his chin, walking towards the camera, bleary eyed, in a daze.

One quick tug.

Carefully he sat himself down in front of the camera, his entire body shaking. Nervous, he readjusted his position, making sure his entire frame was in view. He moved closer, his bottom lip quivering.

It isn't bad. It's the escape we were looking for. Just- just do it before he comes looking for you. Before anyone else realizes you-

His hands rose up to clutch his collar, tight around his neck. He gulped; suddenly aware he was sweating profusely. It wasn't right. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. His entire body was shaking so badly he could barely speak.

"M-m-mommy- I know I said we'd get home..."

He paused, blinking tears away, the words stolen from his lips. His mind was going blank, his throat still tasted of vomit.

If I do it quickly enough- it- It wouldn't hurt. It should make the next announcements. Roland won't waste time looking for you.

"It-... It's hard. I made it half way. I can't go mu-much longer... I can't do this after all. You all know I- I can't beat-"

He swallowed again, his hands still wrapped around the collar. He looked down at it, giving it a slight tug, not to hard...

"Can't get it off. I can't get this off, I'm going to die wih- wh- I wanted to see my homeland. It's probably very beautiful right now. Very beautiful people."

Taking a breath he continued, his voice warbling, but for the most part clear and crisp.

"I wanted to see Vestmannaeyjar again, because- because Mom, you always said it was very beautiful, and the people were very nice to us. And I know Dad liked to talk with friends back there- and I wanted to meet them. You'd always send us pictures and I never got to meet you. But- but see- This- On my ne-" He paused again, clearing his throat.

"I'm not going home. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I tried but- but- I can't be me anymore. It doesn't work in a place like this. I... If- if- you find my body- it'll probably be... just, close the casket please, okay? Go... go de Godenzonen! I know you guys can win."

He let out a sigh. This was it. His heart was racing, his mind chaotic, knowing fully well the finality of what he was doing. Death, he was finally going to die. Alone, scared, not even himself anymore. His entire life a miserable waste, all his friends abandoned. He hadn't meant any of it. He prayed that God knew that. Holding his breath to steady himself, Dutchy tightened his grip on the collar, beginning to count down in his head.

1...

You will reach your destination, even if you travel slowly...

2....

An Island in the distance. Not here. It'll never be this place again...

3!

NOW!

"Vertu blessaðu-"

KRAK!

Dutchy jumped, a squeal irrupting involuntarily from his raw throat. His hands slipped away from the collar, leaving it once more against his neck, tight and restricting as ever. His heart was pounding in his chest, sweat dripping from his forehead. He had been about to do it. For real and true, without any looking back.

Gunshot. I heard a gunshot.

Dutchy breathed out, looking at his surroundings. Somewhere in the distance... Someone else had just died. And in doing so, they'd saved his life, however temporarily. Taking shaky breaths, Dutchy let out of pitiful sobbing laugh, wiping tears from his eyes.

"I... Augnablik. Au-Augnablik."

He stood, blinking in the light. Things seemed... slower. He looked around, taking in his surroundings. His vomit had now nearly dried on his pants, and the smell was something awful. Of course, he'd left all his belongings behind in his blind panicky attempt to flee. Dutchy smoothed out his shirt, for what it was worth, taking in more deep breaths, trying to calm himself.

I was going to do it. I was really going to do it. Oh God. What am I going to do?

"Augnablik." He whispered, half to himself, looking off through the forest.

Someone is hurt. No. Someone... someone is dead. I need to know. I need... I think I need to see.

Taking a brief moment to compose himself, Dutchy headed off in the direction of the noise, carefully making his way along the path. He was afraid. He was hungry and his gut was in pain, and what he had just so casually attempted left him in shock, shameful and at a loss for words.

But he had to know the truth. After all, he couldn't fall any lower.


((Dutchy continues in Bloodgarden))