((Sarah Atwell continued from Heartbeat Symphony))
Her footsteps pounded through her body as she ran up the slope towards the slowly moving figure climbing ever so slowly towards something unknown. Her mind raced, thoughts torn away from the filming the island. Something hammered at her brain, crying out as if from a great distance. The figure was getting closer. Sarah didn't cry out or yell to get their attention it was, simply, enough to follow for now. The rough brown on brown of the mountain encompassed much of the scenery and soon the figure was in talking distance. Sarah pace slowed, her feet suddenly heavy on the firm ground, each footstep now slow and purposeful, as if weighted down by a long forgotten memory, of a time long ago. The figure hadn't spotted her yet, busy doing something.
"Sarah Atwell I presume?"
"Oh Hey"
Sarah had always liked people. She got along well with most that she talked to and they in return were almost always friendly to her. She always wanted to do something with people and film was an avenue that fascinated her. When you captured someone on film and spent hours looking at their face it was like you truly could see who that person really was. Every line on their face a story, every movement a tale. Things like that help you remember.
Remember.
Her pace slowed again. This time to a halt. The figure had stopped what they were doing and began to turn around. Sarah brushed a stray hair from in front of her face, her features scrunched in an expression of concentration as if trying to remember something very important that kept darting away a second before she could grasp it. Slowly she put her hand up, as if to wave, but paused, her mouth open on the brink of saying something although nothing escaped her lips.
I'm forgetting something. Whatever it is, it's here.
A Moment Remembered
A strong boy dies, a weak girl lives. Fair Trade. PM for entry
A Moment Remembered
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storyspoiler†
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(Alice Boucher continued from Heartbeat Symphony)
Alice huffed up the mountain, holding the gun in a sweating palm. Cock the gun. Shoot her. Cock the gun.
But no. She wanted to catch up with Sarah. She wanted to be with Sarah. Be safe. Have people fear to come near her, because she was with a killer--if Alice Boucher had been alone, who knows what those boys on the cliff would have done--
But was Sarah going lucid? Her running was lopsided. She seemed spacey. What if she went lucid? She would become less dangerous--Alice would be free. But then Alice would be alone. Sarah wouldn't trust her. Killer. And those boys on the cliff might come back, try and kill her, because she had killed Brock, and she didn't look very dangerous alone, with her loafers and her skirt and her prim hairband...
Augh!
Alice could see who Sarah was following now. A boy? A boy. Chris Carlson. Alice didn't like Chris Carlson. He was egotistical and argumentative. A perfect American. The sort of person who would be the-boy-you-love-to-hate on a TV show like this. Either die early or become a hero later on.
Well, if Sarah had her way, "die early" it would be. Alice told herself she didn't mind. He was always an asshole anyway.
Chris Carlson
Something was niggling at the back of her mind about that name. A memory. She could taste the memory. Something was wrong here...
No. She needed to concentrate. Keep walking. Catch up to Sarah. Be her assistant. Make sure everything was okay.
If I'm with her, all I have to fear is her. Then I'm fine.
As fine as one was on the island anyway. As in, assistant to a psycho-killer.
Life is strange. I'll be adaptable.
Still, hurrying with the gun in her hand, something bugged her about the boy.
Alice huffed up the mountain, holding the gun in a sweating palm. Cock the gun. Shoot her. Cock the gun.
But no. She wanted to catch up with Sarah. She wanted to be with Sarah. Be safe. Have people fear to come near her, because she was with a killer--if Alice Boucher had been alone, who knows what those boys on the cliff would have done--
But was Sarah going lucid? Her running was lopsided. She seemed spacey. What if she went lucid? She would become less dangerous--Alice would be free. But then Alice would be alone. Sarah wouldn't trust her. Killer. And those boys on the cliff might come back, try and kill her, because she had killed Brock, and she didn't look very dangerous alone, with her loafers and her skirt and her prim hairband...
Augh!
Alice could see who Sarah was following now. A boy? A boy. Chris Carlson. Alice didn't like Chris Carlson. He was egotistical and argumentative. A perfect American. The sort of person who would be the-boy-you-love-to-hate on a TV show like this. Either die early or become a hero later on.
Well, if Sarah had her way, "die early" it would be. Alice told herself she didn't mind. He was always an asshole anyway.
Chris Carlson
Something was niggling at the back of her mind about that name. A memory. She could taste the memory. Something was wrong here...
No. She needed to concentrate. Keep walking. Catch up to Sarah. Be her assistant. Make sure everything was okay.
If I'm with her, all I have to fear is her. Then I'm fine.
As fine as one was on the island anyway. As in, assistant to a psycho-killer.
Life is strange. I'll be adaptable.
Still, hurrying with the gun in her hand, something bugged her about the boy.
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chitoryu12†
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((Christopher Carlson continued from The Moon is Laughing at You))
I hate this fucking pack.
This was the mantra Chris kept up in his mind for an entire day of walking. It wasn't that heavy, but the balance was awkward and made it uncomfortable to lug around. He felt like a zombie; he barely rested on the third day of his personal hell, just kept walking. He didn't even think to pull out his compass. He figured he would head toward the mountain and try to clear his head up in the cool air. Of course, walking with nothing but a landmark wasn't the easiest way to get around. Without knowing it, he ended up walking in circles in the forest and losing track of time. Then suddenly, it was night.
He fell into a deep, almost dead sleep with his daypack as a pillow. When he got back up, he felt something digging into his skull from where he rolled over. He fished around in his pack, finding a little circular object. His compass.
Motherfuck, I still had this thing?
With his sense of direction firmly set and half a loaf of bread in his stomach, he was off.
He had been in the mountains a couple times. Driven through the Appalachians, hundreds to thousands of feet above the ground. But the Appalachians were nothing like this; it was a lone, brown peak. A sparse rock providing a sharp contrast to the mostly flat grass and treelines he had seen.
The path up was rugged, almost like a well-worn path trod into the ground eons ago that had been vaguely smoothed out by the modern inhabitants, wherever they went. The rocks were murder on his feet, and as he reached the halfway mark he finally stopped, practically collapsing on a rock.
Something whirred.
His head snapped toward the noise, and his eye caught a tiny motion just ahead and above him. Somehow, he had never seen these before. During all his time on the island, he had been so preoccupied that he never once noticed them.
He guessed this one was sensitive to motion, as now the lens was staring straight at him. A single black eye looking him right in the face.
He didn't know where it came from, but a sudden surge of anger hit. In one swift motion, he bent down, scooped up a rock, got to his feet, and hurled it with all his might.
"GRAAAAGH!"
It missed, of course. He was never an accurate thrower, and the rock simply smacked into the stony face a foot to the left of the camera. There was a light puff of dust from the impact, and then the fist-sized chunk of silicate rolled down the slope and out of sight.
Chris paused, panting and sweating. He was exhausted, mentally and physically. He wanted no more to do with this damn contest. Whether by death, escape, or survival, he just wanted off this damn island. He was hot, tired, and drained. He had witnessed one of the most brutal accidental deaths known to mankind. He popped a guy in the head with brass knuckles and barely made a dent. What the fuck kind of chance did he have?
The same rage welled up again, and with a loud grunt he turned and kicked the boulder he had been sitting on. Precariously close to the edge, his powerful legs sent the huge ball of stone over the edge and down to a distant thud below.
And that was that. He fell to his ass, head hanging between his knees, and sighed.
I hate this fucking pack.
This was the mantra Chris kept up in his mind for an entire day of walking. It wasn't that heavy, but the balance was awkward and made it uncomfortable to lug around. He felt like a zombie; he barely rested on the third day of his personal hell, just kept walking. He didn't even think to pull out his compass. He figured he would head toward the mountain and try to clear his head up in the cool air. Of course, walking with nothing but a landmark wasn't the easiest way to get around. Without knowing it, he ended up walking in circles in the forest and losing track of time. Then suddenly, it was night.
He fell into a deep, almost dead sleep with his daypack as a pillow. When he got back up, he felt something digging into his skull from where he rolled over. He fished around in his pack, finding a little circular object. His compass.
Motherfuck, I still had this thing?
With his sense of direction firmly set and half a loaf of bread in his stomach, he was off.
He had been in the mountains a couple times. Driven through the Appalachians, hundreds to thousands of feet above the ground. But the Appalachians were nothing like this; it was a lone, brown peak. A sparse rock providing a sharp contrast to the mostly flat grass and treelines he had seen.
The path up was rugged, almost like a well-worn path trod into the ground eons ago that had been vaguely smoothed out by the modern inhabitants, wherever they went. The rocks were murder on his feet, and as he reached the halfway mark he finally stopped, practically collapsing on a rock.
Something whirred.
His head snapped toward the noise, and his eye caught a tiny motion just ahead and above him. Somehow, he had never seen these before. During all his time on the island, he had been so preoccupied that he never once noticed them.
He guessed this one was sensitive to motion, as now the lens was staring straight at him. A single black eye looking him right in the face.
He didn't know where it came from, but a sudden surge of anger hit. In one swift motion, he bent down, scooped up a rock, got to his feet, and hurled it with all his might.
"GRAAAAGH!"
It missed, of course. He was never an accurate thrower, and the rock simply smacked into the stony face a foot to the left of the camera. There was a light puff of dust from the impact, and then the fist-sized chunk of silicate rolled down the slope and out of sight.
Chris paused, panting and sweating. He was exhausted, mentally and physically. He wanted no more to do with this damn contest. Whether by death, escape, or survival, he just wanted off this damn island. He was hot, tired, and drained. He had witnessed one of the most brutal accidental deaths known to mankind. He popped a guy in the head with brass knuckles and barely made a dent. What the fuck kind of chance did he have?
The same rage welled up again, and with a loud grunt he turned and kicked the boulder he had been sitting on. Precariously close to the edge, his powerful legs sent the huge ball of stone over the edge and down to a distant thud below.
And that was that. He fell to his ass, head hanging between his knees, and sighed.
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The rock fell short of camera but the thud of the stone snapped Sarah out of her haze. Her face contorted in a caricature of fury and she whirled on Alice snatching the gun out of her hands. "Give me that!" she snarled, marching towards Chris. Yelling at him while marching furiously forward she bellowed at the top of her lungs. "What do you think you are doing! Those things are expensive." Hoisting the gun up she aimed down the sight and pulled the trigger.
Click.
Sarah's expression changed to puzzlement for a brief second as she turned the gun on the side and let out an exasperated sigh and quickly pushed down on the safety. Chris was less than 100 feet away now and was sitting down, apparently oblivious of the threat he was now facing. A sitting duck. Lining him up in her sights she squeezed the trigger once more.
BLAM
The recoil was more than she expected and pistol jerked upwards sending her stumbling back for a second. Her foot found its grounding, near a ledge, precariously close and she glanced up to ascertain if she managed to hit Chris. He was gone. A now familiar sound of footsteps moving closer made her heart hit the roof of her chest.
"I..."
Click.
Sarah's expression changed to puzzlement for a brief second as she turned the gun on the side and let out an exasperated sigh and quickly pushed down on the safety. Chris was less than 100 feet away now and was sitting down, apparently oblivious of the threat he was now facing. A sitting duck. Lining him up in her sights she squeezed the trigger once more.
BLAM
The recoil was more than she expected and pistol jerked upwards sending her stumbling back for a second. Her foot found its grounding, near a ledge, precariously close and she glanced up to ascertain if she managed to hit Chris. He was gone. A now familiar sound of footsteps moving closer made her heart hit the roof of her chest.
"I..."
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chitoryu12†
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((All GMing approved))
For all his love of guns, Chris had never actually fired one in his life.
He had been around a few gunshots, including a lot of blank guns for stage shows, but he had never gotten the chance to fire one. He wanted to make sure that when he finally bought one or got taken shooting, he would know how to work whatever he was given right out of the car. So he almost obsessively learned the trade; more than almost any kid in Bayview, he could tell you the exact difference between every type of gun, explain how to load and fire anything from an old matchlock musket to an HK416 assault rifle, and be appropriately exasperated when a video game or movie got something wrong.
And never, EVER call a magazine a "clip" around him.
So when he turned at the sound of footsteps and saw, of all people, his prom date running up the hill after him and berating him about expensive rocks, he was caught slightly off-guard at the appearence of a gun in his face. The sheer shock of being threatened threw his body into fight or flight, not giving his brain enough time to express joy, then fear at the sudden coming of a girl he knew so well.
He instinctively ducked to the side as she raised the gun and pulled the trigger. He didn't see much detail; it was a Smith & Wesson Sigma 40P handgun, but unless he actually looked at the slide he wouldn't know. All he could see was, judging from the small size, it was probably 9x19mm Parabellum. Not the top manstopper in the world, but it would certainly stop him.
Needless to say, he didn't expect to see Sarah looking so frustrated with the gun. As she turned the gun to the side at the sudden stiffness of the trigger, he recognized the tell-tale sign of someone flipping the safety off. One of the best things about knowing when your opponent is going to shoot is knowing when to dodge. As the gun lowered to point at his half-bent form once more, he dove to the right, bracing himself against the mountainside.
BLAM
The report of the gun was followed by his ears ringing. He flinched, one hand going slightly up to his ear in pain. It would take another 30 or 40 years to notice, but he had definitely lost some of his hearing. He also knew that he would need to act NOW to keep himself from getting a new bellybutton or nostril. Considering Sarah's aim, probably the former.
He pushed off the rocky face with one hand and lunged forward, passing through the acrid cloud of smoke and aiming for the gun. He had remembered something from a self-defense book that gave the account of Kip Kinkel's rampage at Thurston High School; Jake Ryker -- acting with a bravery almost unheard of at his age -- tackled the bastard. He had tried to push Kip's Glock out of battery by grabbing the slide and shoving it back to keep the gun from firing. He didn't grab it right, but he did manage to push the plastic pistol out of the way and avoid taking a fatal wound.
Chris had MUCH more luck on his side than Jacob Ryker. His left hand shot up and grabbed the shining target, pulling it back as far as it could go. A tiny gold sheen appeared in the corner of his eye; the cartridge in the chamber being ejected and clinking its way down to the base of the mountain.
His right hand, meanwhile flew into Sarah's chest. He felt a twinge of shame and embarassment at copping a feel, but that thought was overridden by the fact that this girl was pointing a gun at him and trying to kill him. A survival grope, if you will.
And thus the prom couple went tumbling to the ground, landing with a thud. Sarah absorbed most of the impact, and was BARELY enough to keep him from knocking the wind out of himself. It wasn't the best tactic to disable yourself while attacking an opponent. Had this been a situational comedy, his girlfriend would have walked in at this point and discovered him in a highly compromising position. Not being a situational comedy, he ignored the fact that he was as close to Sarah as humanly possible and reached over to tug the gun from her hand.
Chris had the gun in his right hand, perfectly positioned to shoot anyone in front of him. Sarah wasn't in front of him, though. She was under him. It turned into a lame struggle to point the gun at her head, all the while every nerve in his body screaming NO. And then, the cold steel of the barrel was against her temple.
What do you do when you have to kill a beautiful girl that just tried to murder you? When your prom date goes nuts and shoots at you? When you've never purposefully injured a woman in your life?
Nothing.
And that's exactly what Chris Carlson's trigger finger did.
For all his love of guns, Chris had never actually fired one in his life.
He had been around a few gunshots, including a lot of blank guns for stage shows, but he had never gotten the chance to fire one. He wanted to make sure that when he finally bought one or got taken shooting, he would know how to work whatever he was given right out of the car. So he almost obsessively learned the trade; more than almost any kid in Bayview, he could tell you the exact difference between every type of gun, explain how to load and fire anything from an old matchlock musket to an HK416 assault rifle, and be appropriately exasperated when a video game or movie got something wrong.
And never, EVER call a magazine a "clip" around him.
So when he turned at the sound of footsteps and saw, of all people, his prom date running up the hill after him and berating him about expensive rocks, he was caught slightly off-guard at the appearence of a gun in his face. The sheer shock of being threatened threw his body into fight or flight, not giving his brain enough time to express joy, then fear at the sudden coming of a girl he knew so well.
He instinctively ducked to the side as she raised the gun and pulled the trigger. He didn't see much detail; it was a Smith & Wesson Sigma 40P handgun, but unless he actually looked at the slide he wouldn't know. All he could see was, judging from the small size, it was probably 9x19mm Parabellum. Not the top manstopper in the world, but it would certainly stop him.
Needless to say, he didn't expect to see Sarah looking so frustrated with the gun. As she turned the gun to the side at the sudden stiffness of the trigger, he recognized the tell-tale sign of someone flipping the safety off. One of the best things about knowing when your opponent is going to shoot is knowing when to dodge. As the gun lowered to point at his half-bent form once more, he dove to the right, bracing himself against the mountainside.
BLAM
The report of the gun was followed by his ears ringing. He flinched, one hand going slightly up to his ear in pain. It would take another 30 or 40 years to notice, but he had definitely lost some of his hearing. He also knew that he would need to act NOW to keep himself from getting a new bellybutton or nostril. Considering Sarah's aim, probably the former.
He pushed off the rocky face with one hand and lunged forward, passing through the acrid cloud of smoke and aiming for the gun. He had remembered something from a self-defense book that gave the account of Kip Kinkel's rampage at Thurston High School; Jake Ryker -- acting with a bravery almost unheard of at his age -- tackled the bastard. He had tried to push Kip's Glock out of battery by grabbing the slide and shoving it back to keep the gun from firing. He didn't grab it right, but he did manage to push the plastic pistol out of the way and avoid taking a fatal wound.
Chris had MUCH more luck on his side than Jacob Ryker. His left hand shot up and grabbed the shining target, pulling it back as far as it could go. A tiny gold sheen appeared in the corner of his eye; the cartridge in the chamber being ejected and clinking its way down to the base of the mountain.
His right hand, meanwhile flew into Sarah's chest. He felt a twinge of shame and embarassment at copping a feel, but that thought was overridden by the fact that this girl was pointing a gun at him and trying to kill him. A survival grope, if you will.
And thus the prom couple went tumbling to the ground, landing with a thud. Sarah absorbed most of the impact, and was BARELY enough to keep him from knocking the wind out of himself. It wasn't the best tactic to disable yourself while attacking an opponent. Had this been a situational comedy, his girlfriend would have walked in at this point and discovered him in a highly compromising position. Not being a situational comedy, he ignored the fact that he was as close to Sarah as humanly possible and reached over to tug the gun from her hand.
Chris had the gun in his right hand, perfectly positioned to shoot anyone in front of him. Sarah wasn't in front of him, though. She was under him. It turned into a lame struggle to point the gun at her head, all the while every nerve in his body screaming NO. And then, the cold steel of the barrel was against her temple.
What do you do when you have to kill a beautiful girl that just tried to murder you? When your prom date goes nuts and shoots at you? When you've never purposefully injured a woman in your life?
Nothing.
And that's exactly what Chris Carlson's trigger finger did.
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Chris was fast and strong. Unlike Brock he didn't just charge at her in a rage, his movements were balanced, planned and coordinated. Before she even knew it the gun was out of her hands and pressed firmly against her head. She shut her eyes tightly. This was it, end of the line. Roll the credits. The warm steel against her temple bearing an uncomfortable reminder of her imminent death. She waited, her mind too far gone to think about friends or family, to worry about what others would think or how they would react. Her mind blank, numb, her only regret not doing more.
So she waited
and waited.
It never came.
Sarah's eyes fluttered open. She could hear Chris' laboured breathing and still feel the cooling barrel of the gun pressed against her. Chris had done everything right. Everything but one thing. He hadn't pulled the trigger. Sarah let out a peel of laughter as understanding dawned on her. He didn't have the guts. "Oh sweetie. Chris. That is so sweet." Her hands slipped in to her pocket, slowly, carefully. She had done this before. It wasn't old hat, but something she knew how to do now. The cool comforting feeling of her bloodstained scalpel rushed through her hand, up her arm.
"Chris, darling. Didn't get get the memo?" The scalpel was now gripped firmly in her right hand. The position Chris had her in was great for him apart from allowing her full motion of her right arm.
"I suppose I should tell you." Sarah spun and plunged the scalpel in to Chris' chest, reeling away from the boy, her friend once upon a time, away from the precarious edge of the nearby cliff. She laughed again as she cried out to Chris.
"Baby, Chivalry is dead!"
So she waited
and waited.
It never came.
Sarah's eyes fluttered open. She could hear Chris' laboured breathing and still feel the cooling barrel of the gun pressed against her. Chris had done everything right. Everything but one thing. He hadn't pulled the trigger. Sarah let out a peel of laughter as understanding dawned on her. He didn't have the guts. "Oh sweetie. Chris. That is so sweet." Her hands slipped in to her pocket, slowly, carefully. She had done this before. It wasn't old hat, but something she knew how to do now. The cool comforting feeling of her bloodstained scalpel rushed through her hand, up her arm.
"Chris, darling. Didn't get get the memo?" The scalpel was now gripped firmly in her right hand. The position Chris had her in was great for him apart from allowing her full motion of her right arm.
"I suppose I should tell you." Sarah spun and plunged the scalpel in to Chris' chest, reeling away from the boy, her friend once upon a time, away from the precarious edge of the nearby cliff. She laughed again as she cried out to Chris.
"Baby, Chivalry is dead!"
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chitoryu12†
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The feeling was odd.
It felt like a combination of a punch and a pinprick. At least at first. It was like the time he stepped on a sewing needle as a kid; it went straight through his foot, missing all the nerves. Only caused a little pain.
Suddenly, all the wind was knocked out of him. His breath disappeared in one gasp, and his chest seized up. As he rolled off of the smiling young girl, he felt something rubbing against his ribs. His finger tightened, too late.
BAM
His ears were ringing again. The gun jerked, his hand too numb to hold it, and it limply clattered to the ground. The nine millimeter copper-jacketed piece of lead was never seen again; it smacked into the side of the infirmary far below, flattening into a little pockmark that would barely be noticed.
His hands groped for his chest, blindly searching for an answer to this feeling. They touched warm steel, and he tilted his head to look.
A scalpel.
It had gone in deep; it slid straight through the ribs and into his heart.
Now the pain was coming back. A sharp, twisting pain. Burning. A never-ending fire.
He knew he wasn't going to be coming back from this. He'd never get to his bandages in time, and it would only delay the inevitable. He couldn't do anything but solve the immediate problem.
Kill Sarah Atwell.
Getting up was an amazing feat. It felt like all of his bones were disconnected from the muscles, muscles disconnected from the nerves. Nothing was working right. It was like moving underwater while half-asleep.
Somehow, he made it. The shining handle was protruding from his chest like an exclamation mark on his vanishing life. He knew it was a stupid idea, one that would kill him faster. But he had no choice. You can't kill someone with your bare hands.
The scalpel came out.
More pain, almost dropping him. Blood spurted from the wound, staining his shirt. It spattered into a few red drops on the gravel. He could feel the warm fluid seeping down his chest and stomach, his heart starting to beat slower and slower. Each beat thudded in his ears, pushing more blood from the hole.
"You....."
He stumbled a few steps forward. The blade, already covered in dried blood, was slick with crimson once more. A stain on a stain.
"Fucking......kill you......."
Another step. His knee failed him. Gravity took hold and he fell, barely catching himself on his red palms. He made it back to his feet.
He grunted and fell to his knees once more. The scalpel dropped to the ground, a light thud in his ears. Thought was becoming harder. He was tired. The pain was fading.
He tried to get up again. He failed. He fell forward, landing flat on his stomach. His head tilted to the side, he looked out on the blue sky, level with him now. His eyes started to close.
Darkness overtook him.
Christopher Carlson fell asleep.
B52: Christopher Carlson - Dead
It felt like a combination of a punch and a pinprick. At least at first. It was like the time he stepped on a sewing needle as a kid; it went straight through his foot, missing all the nerves. Only caused a little pain.
Suddenly, all the wind was knocked out of him. His breath disappeared in one gasp, and his chest seized up. As he rolled off of the smiling young girl, he felt something rubbing against his ribs. His finger tightened, too late.
BAM
His ears were ringing again. The gun jerked, his hand too numb to hold it, and it limply clattered to the ground. The nine millimeter copper-jacketed piece of lead was never seen again; it smacked into the side of the infirmary far below, flattening into a little pockmark that would barely be noticed.
His hands groped for his chest, blindly searching for an answer to this feeling. They touched warm steel, and he tilted his head to look.
A scalpel.
It had gone in deep; it slid straight through the ribs and into his heart.
Now the pain was coming back. A sharp, twisting pain. Burning. A never-ending fire.
He knew he wasn't going to be coming back from this. He'd never get to his bandages in time, and it would only delay the inevitable. He couldn't do anything but solve the immediate problem.
Kill Sarah Atwell.
Getting up was an amazing feat. It felt like all of his bones were disconnected from the muscles, muscles disconnected from the nerves. Nothing was working right. It was like moving underwater while half-asleep.
Somehow, he made it. The shining handle was protruding from his chest like an exclamation mark on his vanishing life. He knew it was a stupid idea, one that would kill him faster. But he had no choice. You can't kill someone with your bare hands.
The scalpel came out.
More pain, almost dropping him. Blood spurted from the wound, staining his shirt. It spattered into a few red drops on the gravel. He could feel the warm fluid seeping down his chest and stomach, his heart starting to beat slower and slower. Each beat thudded in his ears, pushing more blood from the hole.
"You....."
He stumbled a few steps forward. The blade, already covered in dried blood, was slick with crimson once more. A stain on a stain.
"Fucking......kill you......."
Another step. His knee failed him. Gravity took hold and he fell, barely catching himself on his red palms. He made it back to his feet.
He grunted and fell to his knees once more. The scalpel dropped to the ground, a light thud in his ears. Thought was becoming harder. He was tired. The pain was fading.
He tried to get up again. He failed. He fell forward, landing flat on his stomach. His head tilted to the side, he looked out on the blue sky, level with him now. His eyes started to close.
Darkness overtook him.
Christopher Carlson fell asleep.
B52: Christopher Carlson - Dead
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storyspoiler†
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No. No. No no nonononono!
Sarah had grabbed the gun out of her hand. For all the talk of how guns were so 2005, she needed one now, apparently, because there was some intruder. Some intruder throwing expensive rocks.
She had eaten up Alice's lie about onlookers, the price being now that she assumed anyone throwing rocks was sabotaging her set. Alice spent too long a time wondering if there was a way to convince Sarah that (because they were, after all, on a set) the "onlookers" were the sort of people you were supposed to chase away and threaten to sue, not shoot.
After all, she thought the 'actors' were wearing prosthetics.
And then she thought of Brock, and her stomach twisted again, and she realized she had been thinking too long. Because Sarah was firing.
"No!"
Too much noise. No one heard her. She took a breath to shout louder.
But now she had to jump back because Chris Carlson had landed on Sarah Atwell, grabbing her breast with one hand and (how did he do that?) ejecting the cartridge with the other. And his hand and her hand were tugging for the gun, both sweating, something grittier and more intense than Alice had ever seen. And she backed away, almost to the cliff's edge, and her only thought was I want to go home!
Marie Boucher had been right. Alice was prey.
But now was no time to think about her mother, because Chris finally, finally had the gun pointed to Sarah's head, metal touching the temple, and for once Alice was glad boys were traditionally stronger than girls, because he was going to kill her. And then Alice would be okay.
Kill her! Kill her please! I don't want to be with her anymore! Please! I don't deserve it! But kill her! She's a danger to everyone!
Not aloud. Too much to say aloud. Not yet. Back away...
And Chris's trigger finger did nothing, and that's when Alice remembered what she should have remembered a long time ago about Sarah Atwell and Chris Carlson.
Chris was Sarah's prom date. And he couldn't shoot her.
No! Please! I need her to die! I can't do this anymore!
But his finger was stopped, and there was this awful, pleading look in his eyes.
No!
Sarah's hands were going into her pocket. "Oh sweetie. Chris. That is so sweet."
Nononononono! She'll kill you! Don't you see?
The scalpel was now in her hand. She had full motion of her right arm.
I don't want to do this anymore! I don't want to do this! You have to kill her, you have to kill her, don't you see what's shining in her right hand?
"I suppose I should tell you." Pretty girl, graceful girl, she spun and plunged the scalpel into his chest. "Baby, Chivalry is dead!"
"No!"
Alice couldn't keep the word from coming out this time. She stepped back again, knees wobbling, bile coming into her throat.
And Sarah was looking at her, and she froze. And watched.
Chris took a long time to die. Bewilderment, first, looking at the scalpel in his chest, standing up shakily, the gun clattering from his hand. Bewilderment to dread, and with resolve Alice couldn't drum up the imaginings of, he pulled the scalpel out of his heart. Walking towards Sarah.
"You...fucking...kill you...."
And Alice let off one last prayer, frozen like a child playing tag.
Please...
And then he fell. And Alice fell after him, her wobbling knees giving out, hitting the ground with a crackling thud that mirrored Chris's own fall. The gun was close to her, so close, and Sarah was looking at her, and the pack swung forward from her back.
Baby, Chivalry is dead!
How much did she know? How much did she remember? How could she hold these two fantasies at once--these kids she went to prom with, the actors in her movie? Did she think Chris was nothing more than a prop now, a two-bit actor replaced by a rubber dummy and fake blood?
You killed Brock. You aren't human now either.
Did Sarah think of her as an actor too, replaceable when the drama was ripe? Were they actor-directors all? Foucault, fuck you Foucault, I don't need you now with your questions about our roles in the world and your distressing predictions about reality and information, reality isn't what we make it, reality is solid, there are things that are real there is real and in the real world people are dead and I won't--
I won't delude myself, and I won't forget it. I may be a spineless killer, but I know the world around me, and I won't look away now. I can't make this more comfortable for myself by pretending.
Her eyes were warm. She was thinking about the gratuitous violence in American movies (perhaps that desensitized people) and she was thinking about personal weakness and she was wondering if the God she'd never really prayed to was punishing her for ignorance by making her a coward who hadn't managed to delude herself yet.
Coward. Coward. Coward.
Chris's body. Brock's body. You let them die so you might live.
Coward! What are you worth that you aren't they?
And her hands moved to the pack, to take out the camera, and the part of her that wanted to survive was telling her, telling her how to lie, how to be the obedient assistant again, and her hands moved, one hand to the camera, one hand to the fallen gun, and maybe there was a rationale here, maybe there was a plan, but the words didn't come and Alice Boucher didn't say a thing.
Sarah had grabbed the gun out of her hand. For all the talk of how guns were so 2005, she needed one now, apparently, because there was some intruder. Some intruder throwing expensive rocks.
She had eaten up Alice's lie about onlookers, the price being now that she assumed anyone throwing rocks was sabotaging her set. Alice spent too long a time wondering if there was a way to convince Sarah that (because they were, after all, on a set) the "onlookers" were the sort of people you were supposed to chase away and threaten to sue, not shoot.
After all, she thought the 'actors' were wearing prosthetics.
And then she thought of Brock, and her stomach twisted again, and she realized she had been thinking too long. Because Sarah was firing.
"No!"
Too much noise. No one heard her. She took a breath to shout louder.
But now she had to jump back because Chris Carlson had landed on Sarah Atwell, grabbing her breast with one hand and (how did he do that?) ejecting the cartridge with the other. And his hand and her hand were tugging for the gun, both sweating, something grittier and more intense than Alice had ever seen. And she backed away, almost to the cliff's edge, and her only thought was I want to go home!
Marie Boucher had been right. Alice was prey.
But now was no time to think about her mother, because Chris finally, finally had the gun pointed to Sarah's head, metal touching the temple, and for once Alice was glad boys were traditionally stronger than girls, because he was going to kill her. And then Alice would be okay.
Kill her! Kill her please! I don't want to be with her anymore! Please! I don't deserve it! But kill her! She's a danger to everyone!
Not aloud. Too much to say aloud. Not yet. Back away...
And Chris's trigger finger did nothing, and that's when Alice remembered what she should have remembered a long time ago about Sarah Atwell and Chris Carlson.
Chris was Sarah's prom date. And he couldn't shoot her.
No! Please! I need her to die! I can't do this anymore!
But his finger was stopped, and there was this awful, pleading look in his eyes.
No!
Sarah's hands were going into her pocket. "Oh sweetie. Chris. That is so sweet."
Nononononono! She'll kill you! Don't you see?
The scalpel was now in her hand. She had full motion of her right arm.
I don't want to do this anymore! I don't want to do this! You have to kill her, you have to kill her, don't you see what's shining in her right hand?
"I suppose I should tell you." Pretty girl, graceful girl, she spun and plunged the scalpel into his chest. "Baby, Chivalry is dead!"
"No!"
Alice couldn't keep the word from coming out this time. She stepped back again, knees wobbling, bile coming into her throat.
And Sarah was looking at her, and she froze. And watched.
Chris took a long time to die. Bewilderment, first, looking at the scalpel in his chest, standing up shakily, the gun clattering from his hand. Bewilderment to dread, and with resolve Alice couldn't drum up the imaginings of, he pulled the scalpel out of his heart. Walking towards Sarah.
"You...fucking...kill you...."
And Alice let off one last prayer, frozen like a child playing tag.
Please...
And then he fell. And Alice fell after him, her wobbling knees giving out, hitting the ground with a crackling thud that mirrored Chris's own fall. The gun was close to her, so close, and Sarah was looking at her, and the pack swung forward from her back.
Baby, Chivalry is dead!
How much did she know? How much did she remember? How could she hold these two fantasies at once--these kids she went to prom with, the actors in her movie? Did she think Chris was nothing more than a prop now, a two-bit actor replaced by a rubber dummy and fake blood?
You killed Brock. You aren't human now either.
Did Sarah think of her as an actor too, replaceable when the drama was ripe? Were they actor-directors all? Foucault, fuck you Foucault, I don't need you now with your questions about our roles in the world and your distressing predictions about reality and information, reality isn't what we make it, reality is solid, there are things that are real there is real and in the real world people are dead and I won't--
I won't delude myself, and I won't forget it. I may be a spineless killer, but I know the world around me, and I won't look away now. I can't make this more comfortable for myself by pretending.
Her eyes were warm. She was thinking about the gratuitous violence in American movies (perhaps that desensitized people) and she was thinking about personal weakness and she was wondering if the God she'd never really prayed to was punishing her for ignorance by making her a coward who hadn't managed to delude herself yet.
Coward. Coward. Coward.
Chris's body. Brock's body. You let them die so you might live.
Coward! What are you worth that you aren't they?
And her hands moved to the pack, to take out the camera, and the part of her that wanted to survive was telling her, telling her how to lie, how to be the obedient assistant again, and her hands moved, one hand to the camera, one hand to the fallen gun, and maybe there was a rationale here, maybe there was a plan, but the words didn't come and Alice Boucher didn't say a thing.
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Sarah watched Chris stumble and flail silently, every bone in her body aware of Alice standing behind her, once again a silent spectator, taking a part in a horrific act of murder and betrayal. Sarah was reminded in that moment of something Mr Kwong had once said to her when she asked why many film makers just simply watched when tragedies occured. He had turned to her and smiled a sad smile, as if passing on a piece of great wisdom at great cost to himself. "All that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good people to do nothing." Her mind flickered to wondering where Mr Kwong was right now. Her teacher...
Her eyes flickered back to Chris, gasping his last, collapsed, his breathing short and shallow.
Chris.
There's something I'm forgetting.
"Something for the yearbook - the year book?"
What was it. It was something very important, off the set. She wanted to remember, she needed to remember.
"well after I graduate, I'll be hitting a party or two and heading off to the University of Central Florida"
"After I graduate."
There's something I'm forgetting
It was on the tip of her tongue, the memory the key piece of information staring her right in the face. Sarah blinked. It was staring her right in the face. Chris. Chris' body, blood slowly pooling from the wound, a look, not of serenity but of someone fighting for their life to the very last breath. A... actor? No. A classmate... a friend.
"It will be aired at the end of school trip. Sooooo much fun"
Something broke through.
Blood. Gas. Gunfire. Darkness. The Infirmary, her collar. Paige, Robert Jenkins. A Gunshot, the blood.
The Blood.
Eve, the cliffs. The blood.
"Survival of the Fittest Kids!"
Lily, Miranda, A spurt of blood. Brock, pain in the ribs, a gunshot, ears ringing. More Blood.
Chris, A Scalpel.
Chris.
""Since I don't have a date for prom, do you think I could go with you and your friends?"
Chris.
Everything seemed jumbled for the briefest of instants. Out of place, making no sense, and then as if a switch was flipped it came together, forming a picture, horrific and monstrous in its clarity and somewhere behind a figure laughing evilly. Sarah's face fell, her eyes wide open in realisation and abject horror. Her mouth opened and she screamed.
A hot flood of tears rushing down her face, falling to her knees.
Sarah Atwell, now back in the realm of the sane screamed.
Her eyes flickered back to Chris, gasping his last, collapsed, his breathing short and shallow.
Chris.
There's something I'm forgetting.
"Something for the yearbook - the year book?"
What was it. It was something very important, off the set. She wanted to remember, she needed to remember.
"well after I graduate, I'll be hitting a party or two and heading off to the University of Central Florida"
"After I graduate."
There's something I'm forgetting
It was on the tip of her tongue, the memory the key piece of information staring her right in the face. Sarah blinked. It was staring her right in the face. Chris. Chris' body, blood slowly pooling from the wound, a look, not of serenity but of someone fighting for their life to the very last breath. A... actor? No. A classmate... a friend.
"It will be aired at the end of school trip. Sooooo much fun"
Something broke through.
Blood. Gas. Gunfire. Darkness. The Infirmary, her collar. Paige, Robert Jenkins. A Gunshot, the blood.
The Blood.
Eve, the cliffs. The blood.
"Survival of the Fittest Kids!"
Lily, Miranda, A spurt of blood. Brock, pain in the ribs, a gunshot, ears ringing. More Blood.
Chris, A Scalpel.
Chris.
""Since I don't have a date for prom, do you think I could go with you and your friends?"
Chris.
Everything seemed jumbled for the briefest of instants. Out of place, making no sense, and then as if a switch was flipped it came together, forming a picture, horrific and monstrous in its clarity and somewhere behind a figure laughing evilly. Sarah's face fell, her eyes wide open in realisation and abject horror. Her mouth opened and she screamed.
A hot flood of tears rushing down her face, falling to her knees.
Sarah Atwell, now back in the realm of the sane screamed.
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Nothing is more important about the quantum principle than this, that it destroys the concept of the world as 'sitting out there', with the observer safely separated from it by a twenty centimeter slab of plate glass. Even to observe so minuscule an object as an electron, we must shatter the glass.
Alice picked up the gun.
Not doing this anymore. I am not doing this.
And looking down at Chris Carlson, she knew she had done something right.
She wasn't sure if the gun was loaded. The chamber could click. This would have to be enough. Maybe it would scare her away, even if it wasn't loaded. Maybe she'd try to shoot, and nothing would happen, and Sarah would grab her, and there'd be a scalpel--
It's better than what I've been doing until now.
And that, sharp as glass in her throat, was true.
She was glad whatever bravery she had had decided to make a resurgence. Better late than never. Of course, if it could have done it when Brock was still alive she would have been grateful--
Don't think about that.
Thinking about Brock just made her stomach twist even more. Unfortunately whatever bravery she had did not come with detachment, and the blood--no!
Chris was in front of her, right now. And Sarah. Sarah who she had to stop.
Somehow...
Raise the gun. Do it. Do it. You are not the assistant. This is no movie. And you are not prey. You will not sacrifice others to save yourself. Not now, not more. You will not help this monster.
You are a human, and you will remain so.
And other thoughts. Drifting around her head, fast and unmoored. Mama, Papa...the last time I saw you will be the last. I know that now. I will not survive. I killed a boy. I'll understand if you can never forgive me. But I will try and earn your forgiveness. I will earn it through this.
And looking at Chris, simply looking at Chris, seeing the blood, and seeing him die, seeing the blood, and seeing him die, killing him like barbarians there will be no more violence like this. This is unacceptable.
Mama, Papa, whatever gods protect the secular now, give me strength...
And she raised the gun.
"No more of this."
And Sarah screamed.
Alice picked up the gun.
Not doing this anymore. I am not doing this.
And looking down at Chris Carlson, she knew she had done something right.
She wasn't sure if the gun was loaded. The chamber could click. This would have to be enough. Maybe it would scare her away, even if it wasn't loaded. Maybe she'd try to shoot, and nothing would happen, and Sarah would grab her, and there'd be a scalpel--
It's better than what I've been doing until now.
And that, sharp as glass in her throat, was true.
She was glad whatever bravery she had had decided to make a resurgence. Better late than never. Of course, if it could have done it when Brock was still alive she would have been grateful--
Don't think about that.
Thinking about Brock just made her stomach twist even more. Unfortunately whatever bravery she had did not come with detachment, and the blood--no!
Chris was in front of her, right now. And Sarah. Sarah who she had to stop.
Somehow...
Raise the gun. Do it. Do it. You are not the assistant. This is no movie. And you are not prey. You will not sacrifice others to save yourself. Not now, not more. You will not help this monster.
You are a human, and you will remain so.
And other thoughts. Drifting around her head, fast and unmoored. Mama, Papa...the last time I saw you will be the last. I know that now. I will not survive. I killed a boy. I'll understand if you can never forgive me. But I will try and earn your forgiveness. I will earn it through this.
And looking at Chris, simply looking at Chris, seeing the blood, and seeing him die, seeing the blood, and seeing him die, killing him like barbarians there will be no more violence like this. This is unacceptable.
Mama, Papa, whatever gods protect the secular now, give me strength...
And she raised the gun.
"No more of this."
And Sarah screamed.
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Everything had flooded back to her. Sarah felt disgusted, horrified, sick. She couldn't of done those horrible twisted things. Sweet, shy Sarah Atwell would never hurt another human. She felt sick just thinking about it. Yet she had and she had done so with a smile. That creature that lurked beneath her surface had reared its head and destroyed everything she thought good about herself. She couldn't live would that. She shouldn't live. She spun around, her hair whipping furiously in the wind, the blue lackey holding it in a ponytail spinning away in to the air. She took a step back, her foot faltering for a second, sending pebbles tumbling down the ledge in to the mine far below. Alice stood before her, gun out safety off.
Sarah didn't deserve to live. She knew it in her gut. "Kill me!" She yelled, furious at herself and at Alice. Alice had watched, she had done nothing to stop her. She could of stopped Sarah but she hadn't. "Pull the trigger. Do it!" She roared out her voice hoarse as the wind blew around her. "You could of stopped me! Why didn't you stop me." Sarah choked out the words. Sobs now wracking her body. "Why?"
There was no way to be redeemed. Nothing she could do to atone for the horrors that she had put her colleagues, her friends through.
"...Maxwell Lombardi..."
There was that name again. On the announcements. She had heard it a few times now - he had killed. As many as her? A Glimmer of hope flickered past her eyes. Could this be her saving grace. It was too late for her now, but what if she stopped Maxwell, saved other students. Surely that would redeem her, make up for some of her mistakes.
and appease the monster lurking within.
Her legs were shaking and she took a look behind her, watching another pebble plummet in to the mine far, far below. She looked back up and glared at Alice for a second, her hands tight around the pistol. The pistol Sarah had given her. There was no way the French girl could miss at this range. All she needed to do was squeeze the trigger. Sarah's jaw became resolute. If Alice shot she would die, her body tumbling to the rocks below, her misdeeds remembered, Sarah Atwell, the psychopathic killer. If she didn't, then she would hunt Maxwell Lombardi, try to save others from a similar fate, and perhaps, in the eyes of the watchers, redeem herself.
She was resolute. Sarah Atwell stared directly at Alice, her face wet from the tears. "Alice. Kill me for what I did, but remember you helped too. We can redeem ourselves or it can end now. Make your choice."
Sarah stood resolute , her hair whipping around, trapped on the ledge, a gun pointed at her, on the precipice of life and death.
Let fate decide
Sarah didn't deserve to live. She knew it in her gut. "Kill me!" She yelled, furious at herself and at Alice. Alice had watched, she had done nothing to stop her. She could of stopped Sarah but she hadn't. "Pull the trigger. Do it!" She roared out her voice hoarse as the wind blew around her. "You could of stopped me! Why didn't you stop me." Sarah choked out the words. Sobs now wracking her body. "Why?"
There was no way to be redeemed. Nothing she could do to atone for the horrors that she had put her colleagues, her friends through.
"...Maxwell Lombardi..."
There was that name again. On the announcements. She had heard it a few times now - he had killed. As many as her? A Glimmer of hope flickered past her eyes. Could this be her saving grace. It was too late for her now, but what if she stopped Maxwell, saved other students. Surely that would redeem her, make up for some of her mistakes.
and appease the monster lurking within.
Her legs were shaking and she took a look behind her, watching another pebble plummet in to the mine far, far below. She looked back up and glared at Alice for a second, her hands tight around the pistol. The pistol Sarah had given her. There was no way the French girl could miss at this range. All she needed to do was squeeze the trigger. Sarah's jaw became resolute. If Alice shot she would die, her body tumbling to the rocks below, her misdeeds remembered, Sarah Atwell, the psychopathic killer. If she didn't, then she would hunt Maxwell Lombardi, try to save others from a similar fate, and perhaps, in the eyes of the watchers, redeem herself.
She was resolute. Sarah Atwell stared directly at Alice, her face wet from the tears. "Alice. Kill me for what I did, but remember you helped too. We can redeem ourselves or it can end now. Make your choice."
Sarah stood resolute , her hair whipping around, trapped on the ledge, a gun pointed at her, on the precipice of life and death.
Let fate decide
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Sarah screamed, and her eyes were wide with horror.
She's sane.
Something had happened. Something to do with Chris Carlson, her prom date--something had snapped Sarah Atwell back to sanity.
And Alice, gun pointed, safety off, didn't know what to do.
Kill her. Kill her. Kill her kill her kill her!
She wasn't letting the panic in her mind decide for her again. The last time she'd done that, she'd let Brock die.
No. Hold the gun. Hand on the trigger. Stay steady. And let Sarah, panicked Sarah, say her piece.
"Kill me! Pull the trigger. Do it!" Sarah screamed, and the wind bounced her voice against the mountain. "You could have stopped me! Why didn't you stop me?"
And she was sobbing now, her body wracked, curled against herself. "Why?"
Why?
I was scared. I wanted safety. I wanted to be part of your delusion. I thought you were stronger than me. I wanted to be protected by being in your shadow. I thought if I just obeyed your rules, I could last.
I was wrong.
Wind bit at her hair. Sarah, Sarah sobbing before her, looked so helpless.
And who am I to judge you, you who cracked before even I? Who am I to say, now, in your sanity, that you don't deserve to live? I was a killer too, and I knew what I was doing. I sacrificed others to save myself. I don't have delusions to hide behind. And yet, I'm holding a gun to you, as if I have the right to pass judgement.
And suddenly Sarah was speaking, looking up, her voice fierce and broken.
"Alice. Kill me for what I did, but remember you helped too. We can redeem ourselves or it can end now. Make your choice."
Sarah's eyes--were they desperate and thoughtful, or was Alice imagining it? Redemption was a foreign word on Alice's tongue--she'd grown up secular, and guiltless, in France. Even her screaming rants at American tourists hadn't made her feel guilty; she simply regretted the consequences. But here, now, having killed, a body up here and a body down below, she was foreign to herself. She was a killer now, less of a human.
Who am I to judge?
Sarah's insane hope--it was tempting. Yes, Alice wanted hope. It made her mouth dry to think how much she wanted it, not life anymore, but this strange word, redemption--forgiveness. She wanted to go out a good person. She wanted to make Mama and Papa proud.
It's a trick. You'll let her up, and she'll kill you.
That was a possibility, yes.
But will you really shoot her through the head, simply because you're scared? You've seen where scared gets you, Alice Boucher. Two corpses who needn't have died.
A pebble skittered down the mountain, and Alice Boucher made her choice.
"Tell me about your redemption."
She's sane.
Something had happened. Something to do with Chris Carlson, her prom date--something had snapped Sarah Atwell back to sanity.
And Alice, gun pointed, safety off, didn't know what to do.
Kill her. Kill her. Kill her kill her kill her!
She wasn't letting the panic in her mind decide for her again. The last time she'd done that, she'd let Brock die.
No. Hold the gun. Hand on the trigger. Stay steady. And let Sarah, panicked Sarah, say her piece.
"Kill me! Pull the trigger. Do it!" Sarah screamed, and the wind bounced her voice against the mountain. "You could have stopped me! Why didn't you stop me?"
And she was sobbing now, her body wracked, curled against herself. "Why?"
Why?
I was scared. I wanted safety. I wanted to be part of your delusion. I thought you were stronger than me. I wanted to be protected by being in your shadow. I thought if I just obeyed your rules, I could last.
I was wrong.
Wind bit at her hair. Sarah, Sarah sobbing before her, looked so helpless.
And who am I to judge you, you who cracked before even I? Who am I to say, now, in your sanity, that you don't deserve to live? I was a killer too, and I knew what I was doing. I sacrificed others to save myself. I don't have delusions to hide behind. And yet, I'm holding a gun to you, as if I have the right to pass judgement.
And suddenly Sarah was speaking, looking up, her voice fierce and broken.
"Alice. Kill me for what I did, but remember you helped too. We can redeem ourselves or it can end now. Make your choice."
Sarah's eyes--were they desperate and thoughtful, or was Alice imagining it? Redemption was a foreign word on Alice's tongue--she'd grown up secular, and guiltless, in France. Even her screaming rants at American tourists hadn't made her feel guilty; she simply regretted the consequences. But here, now, having killed, a body up here and a body down below, she was foreign to herself. She was a killer now, less of a human.
Who am I to judge?
Sarah's insane hope--it was tempting. Yes, Alice wanted hope. It made her mouth dry to think how much she wanted it, not life anymore, but this strange word, redemption--forgiveness. She wanted to go out a good person. She wanted to make Mama and Papa proud.
It's a trick. You'll let her up, and she'll kill you.
That was a possibility, yes.
But will you really shoot her through the head, simply because you're scared? You've seen where scared gets you, Alice Boucher. Two corpses who needn't have died.
A pebble skittered down the mountain, and Alice Boucher made her choice.
"Tell me about your redemption."
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Sarah exhaled her breath. It felt like she had been holding it in for hours and the blood came rushing back to her head. She was alive, fate had decided. She would have her chance at redemption.
"Alice," she began, "I'm not sure how I feel right now. I'm horrified at what I did; what you helped with. Rest assured that we're in this together, there's no two ways about it, but we can still make up for it." Sarah paused to catch her breath and let her mind form the sentences she was trying to say. Her brain was still a little scrambled and really if she let the panic take over again, well who knows what she might do. All in all she was definitely still quite unstable, the difference now is that she knew it. She couldn't let that.... other take control again.
"There is a way we can save others, well at least give them a fighting chance. We need to hunt down those that have killed before, save as many as possible. We'll give them a quick death, nothing as barbaric as what has happened, but we have to make sure our classmates... our friends get a fighting chance. Think of it like." Sarah stopped, thinking of an appropriate analogy. "Like we're vigilantes. We should only kill those who are doing the same and we'll start with the one at the top of the list."
Sarah brushed herself off and walked over to Alice, looking her straight in the eye. She placed her hand on Alice's shoulder in a gesture of camaraderie and whispered a name in her ear before heading off.
"Maxwell Lombardi."
((Sarah Atwell continued in Just a Kid, Napping))
"Alice," she began, "I'm not sure how I feel right now. I'm horrified at what I did; what you helped with. Rest assured that we're in this together, there's no two ways about it, but we can still make up for it." Sarah paused to catch her breath and let her mind form the sentences she was trying to say. Her brain was still a little scrambled and really if she let the panic take over again, well who knows what she might do. All in all she was definitely still quite unstable, the difference now is that she knew it. She couldn't let that.... other take control again.
"There is a way we can save others, well at least give them a fighting chance. We need to hunt down those that have killed before, save as many as possible. We'll give them a quick death, nothing as barbaric as what has happened, but we have to make sure our classmates... our friends get a fighting chance. Think of it like." Sarah stopped, thinking of an appropriate analogy. "Like we're vigilantes. We should only kill those who are doing the same and we'll start with the one at the top of the list."
Sarah brushed herself off and walked over to Alice, looking her straight in the eye. She placed her hand on Alice's shoulder in a gesture of camaraderie and whispered a name in her ear before heading off.
"Maxwell Lombardi."
((Sarah Atwell continued in Just a Kid, Napping))
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storyspoiler†
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"Alice," Sarah began, "I'm not sure how I feel right now. I'm horrified at what I did; what you helped with. Rest assured that we're in this together, there's no two ways about it, but we can still make up for it." The older girl was breathing hard. Her face looked ragged, her eyes unstable. Alice still held the gun; if she becomes murderous again, I'll kill her. I swear I will.
"There is a way we can save others, well at least give them a fighting chance. We need to hunt down those that have killed before, save as many as possible. We'll give them a quick death, nothing as barbaric as what has happened, but we have to make sure our classmates... our friends get a fighting chance. Think of it like." Sarah paused. "Like we're vigilantes. We should only kill those who are doing the same and we'll start with the one at the top of the list."
She walked up to Alice, stiff Alice, frozen with fear, and put a hand on her shoulder, a gesture of camaraderie. Her eyes locked on Alice's--Alice felt hypnotized. They say staring at a cobra can do this to you...
"Maxwell Lombardi." Sarah whispered. And suddenly she was heading off the mountain.
Alice stood frozen a few seconds longer. She's crazy. She's still crazy. She's just crazy in a different way now. She's got this morally shaky way of playing the redemption game--even if we kill other killers, we're not heroes. She knows that, right? We're murderers. Still.
Uneasiness played in her mouth. Has she really bought into the concept of island justice? She was so tired. She didn't want to walk this island anymore, try and figure out what was wrong and right in a world where everything seemed upside-down. But I should watch her. But I should watch her and make sure she doesn't go crazy and kill people again.
I stuck to her when she was insane. Because I thought she would keep me safe. There's no way I can't stick to her now.
Yeah, she was tired. Too tired. There was death on the mountain. And she was sticking to Sarah, and going along with her insane plan, because she had nowhere else to go.
Chris's corpse lay on the rocks, bloody and cold. Disgusting. With a heave of her loafer, she kicked him over the side, and stared, morbidly, as he flopped brokenly on the rocks below. I hate this place.
And even now, Sarah's words piqued her. I'm horrified at what I did; what you helped with. Did some serial killer think she had the right to judge her?
Her father's voice, filtering into her head. You're a bit judgmental yourself, Alice, dear. The voice (surely her real father couldn't be feeling this way?) sounded dry and jovial. Like he'd just finished a particularly good cigar.
Memories in her head, clouding out the sight of Chris's broken body. The fat American woman, spilling coffee all over her good new Chanel shirt. Clumsy pig. Alice springing up, screaming in the woman's face, French and broken English mixing in a torrent of scorn. Her friends joining in, shrieking, shrill, until the woman stumbled away, weeping.
Alice hadn't felt any guilt after that. Only satisfaction.
And who are you to judge, Alice? Are you really going to trust yourself to make decisions?
Sarah was insane, but maybe she had something to go on.
Alice turned, followed her down the mountain.
(Alice Boucher continued in Just a Kid, Napping)
"There is a way we can save others, well at least give them a fighting chance. We need to hunt down those that have killed before, save as many as possible. We'll give them a quick death, nothing as barbaric as what has happened, but we have to make sure our classmates... our friends get a fighting chance. Think of it like." Sarah paused. "Like we're vigilantes. We should only kill those who are doing the same and we'll start with the one at the top of the list."
She walked up to Alice, stiff Alice, frozen with fear, and put a hand on her shoulder, a gesture of camaraderie. Her eyes locked on Alice's--Alice felt hypnotized. They say staring at a cobra can do this to you...
"Maxwell Lombardi." Sarah whispered. And suddenly she was heading off the mountain.
Alice stood frozen a few seconds longer. She's crazy. She's still crazy. She's just crazy in a different way now. She's got this morally shaky way of playing the redemption game--even if we kill other killers, we're not heroes. She knows that, right? We're murderers. Still.
Uneasiness played in her mouth. Has she really bought into the concept of island justice? She was so tired. She didn't want to walk this island anymore, try and figure out what was wrong and right in a world where everything seemed upside-down. But I should watch her. But I should watch her and make sure she doesn't go crazy and kill people again.
I stuck to her when she was insane. Because I thought she would keep me safe. There's no way I can't stick to her now.
Yeah, she was tired. Too tired. There was death on the mountain. And she was sticking to Sarah, and going along with her insane plan, because she had nowhere else to go.
Chris's corpse lay on the rocks, bloody and cold. Disgusting. With a heave of her loafer, she kicked him over the side, and stared, morbidly, as he flopped brokenly on the rocks below. I hate this place.
And even now, Sarah's words piqued her. I'm horrified at what I did; what you helped with. Did some serial killer think she had the right to judge her?
Her father's voice, filtering into her head. You're a bit judgmental yourself, Alice, dear. The voice (surely her real father couldn't be feeling this way?) sounded dry and jovial. Like he'd just finished a particularly good cigar.
Memories in her head, clouding out the sight of Chris's broken body. The fat American woman, spilling coffee all over her good new Chanel shirt. Clumsy pig. Alice springing up, screaming in the woman's face, French and broken English mixing in a torrent of scorn. Her friends joining in, shrieking, shrill, until the woman stumbled away, weeping.
Alice hadn't felt any guilt after that. Only satisfaction.
And who are you to judge, Alice? Are you really going to trust yourself to make decisions?
Sarah was insane, but maybe she had something to go on.
Alice turned, followed her down the mountain.
(Alice Boucher continued in Just a Kid, Napping)
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler storyspoiler. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.