((Marco Hart Continued From We're Gonna Need A Better Boat))
His fingertips brushed against the plants along the path. It was hauntingly beautiful in here. Whatever had been contained had long fled, but Marco could only imagine why. He hadn't seen the inside of a building since he woke up, and to be invited into one so large by the walkway held some relief. It cradled him in its walls. There was a promise of safety with every curve inviting him deeper and every echo of his footsteps behind him. Unspoken reassurance that there was more than enough room for him, and that anyone else would be heard before they were seen. Nonetheless, he'd never felt so exposed in his life. So much had to go on the way here. The scarf had gone first, he could still see the lake when he pulled it off. Somewhere in the forest the smell and heat had gotten to be too much for him so his hoodie followed, and there were only so many times he could trip over his skirt only to catch an eyeful of it's deep red stains before it was abandoned against a tree trunk. All that left him were his shoes, t-shirt, and grey undershorts. You might say he couldn't remember the last time he wore this little outside of the house, but he could remember it vividly. Not the exact day, but what led to it. The giggling and pointing on the playground. Mom talking him aside for awkward metaphors about blooming, ducklings, whatever else she pieced together between teenage memories and parenting guides. Staring at himself in the mirror, poking at places that had grown swollen. Movement where he had so recently been still. Softness where he had so recently simply been. He hadn't disliked it, not exactly. It hadn't been asked for, though, this new state was an uninvited guest in his body that drew attention. More than attention, expectation that he didn't know how to respond to, which only drew more of it. It was confusing. When he wouldn't stop borrowing his father's sweatshirts to hide under, his mom helped him invest in a larger wardrobe. People still noticed, but they had to go out of their way to do it now. He kind of wondered if that made things worse, if by tacit admission of his shame he drew people who would prey on it to him, but it was a trade. More people would try to hurt him, but that was better than every lingering stare bringing him pain with or without intent.
So much fear was bound up in those memories. There were more of them than he could count, it's not like he'd been keeping track over the years. They all went straight to the part of his mind he didn't touch and when they forced their way out he didn't put effort into resolving them, just packing them back up before they slipped into the real world. He'd never deserved for them to be understood. There was always an easier explanation that pointed towards internalized toxicity. Misogynistic standards of feminine beauty, fetishization of gay expression, untreated mental health issues, poor socialization, pathological catfishing, transtrenderism, the list rattled on and on and on. It was so much easier to assume that he was something wrong than to confront that there was something wrong with him. If he was just a garbage human being he would never change, and there was no need to take any risks trying. Something that could be fixed, though? That demanded effort. Forced him to stand up for himself, to say that he had a self to start with, and make moves. Repeat them. Approach them from another angle. Admit real vulnerability in seeking help with them. Accept that he would probably fail more than he succeeded, and he had to be okay with that. People would abandon him, and he had to be ready for that too. Ready to have The Conversation dozens of times with dozens of people for dozens of reasons in dozens of places for dozens of years for dozens of-
He closed the loop. It wasn't productive. Old habits die hard and anxiety dies harder, but he would make the effort. It wouldn't control him anymore. There would be no more secrets to ignore, because when you confronted the situation head on most of the things that held him back just didn't matter anymore. Most of his friends were going to die. If his family ever had the opportunity to see him again, it was going to be under circumstances where he was sure they weren't going to want to hear his name. And if that name ever mattered to the rest of the world while he was around to hear it?
It was one they would never forget.
It was too soon to say if he wanted that. He, he wasn't ready to die yet, but he didn't know if he could, well, could was the wrong word, after Kayla he-There was time to think. Maybe even time to sleep. He could find a corner to sketch what details he could remember on his map and rest. Everything would look clearer after that, he was sure of it. No need to panic. There never was, and he could feel it at the edges of his thoughts anyway, but he would resist it. He had to be better, whatever that ended up meaning.
Marco stopped far along the path, staring into one of the abandoned exhibits. It was starting to rain outside so others would be seeking shelter soon. If anyone came by they might overlook him far back among the overgrowth. He climbed inside and found a corner with enough room he could stretch out. The pencil he'd scavenged might be quiet enough under the cover of footfalls and raindrops that if anyone approached while he was working he could freeze before they heard him.
i
Day 2, Evening, Open
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Emprexx Plush
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((Nick Ogilvie continued from a place he never wants to go back to.))
They had headed south. Not out of any deliberate purpose - at least not one Nick could ascertain - but more because it was a direction to go. If Nick remembered the map correctly, they were heading to a menagerie. Normally a place he’d be quite interested to check out - even a decayed and abandoned menagerie would likely have some interesting stories to tell and, by its mere existence, provided some insight into the priorities of those who had lived here before. Nick knew that he would normally have been completely beset with an undying curiosity, wanting to find out what happened to the animals, what happened to the humans, why this menagerie was built and why it was abandoned. He would have allowed himself to engage in some amateur historiography, created complex narratives and then tear them apart just to keep his mind sharp, just to distract him from the more pressing problems.
He didn't have the energy to even do that. Through sheer laziness, a complete lack of energy and drive, Nick did not ignore the pain that constantly tugged at his heart, that left him with what felt like the worst migraine he ever had. He should have ignored it. Should have distracted himself. He had a conversation partner - Michael - who was smart and kind and decent and had so much empathy and so much humanity that Nick should have been interested in that, should have wanted to unpack it and discover it. Michael probably would have appreciated the conversation too. But no. Nick didn't have the energy.
It took him a while - they were out of the village by that point, at least - before he was reminded that he still had open cuts. That the patches of blood on his clothes were not drying, only growing. So he had wrapped some bandages around his knuckles, splashed some disinfectant on his face, revelled in the stinging that it produced (and assumed, with what he knew was medical ignorance, that the fact there was stinging meant he was doing something right), and held a cloth on the back of his head until no more blood was joining it. That wasn't all the cuts - he was pretty sure his nose was breaking out in sporadic nosebleeds, that the inside of his lip had caught on a jagged tooth, that somehow a cut on his arm had happened at some point - but he gave only perfunctory treatment to them. Enough to wash away the dirt and make it so he could pretend to care about not getting infected.
As they approached the menagerie - as it became obvious that that was their destination - they paused again. There was a trough. Filled with water. Old rainwater, most likely. Nick took off his waistcoat and his shirt, folded them up neatly even though they were dirty and bloody. Started washing off the blood, more properly this time. Hoping that, in addition to being hygienic, he might discover something therapeutic about this whole ritual.
Nick ran his fingers over his beard, matted and knotted with the coagulated blood - some his, some Jeremiah’s. Maybe he’d have to cut it off to get the stench of dried blood away from his nostrils and the taste away from his lips. Hopefully not, though. It wouldn’t look neat. It wouldn’t look orderly. Having a messy beard was one thing. A messy half-shave, quite another.
The first step - wetting his hands, ready to begin soaking his face and rubbing the blood away - was easy enough. It was actually lifting his hands out of the water that gave him pause. It was tricky. Nick could have sworn that the idea that the first step was the hardest was a pretty common cliche. But it was the second step where he was paralysed.
Finally, he forced himself to pull his hands out. He had no product, nothing to use to make his beard actually clean, no shampoo to make into a lather, but whatever. Still, he massaged his beard as thoroughly as he could, wanting to rub away, scratch away, all the dried flakes and sticky crumbs of blood from his beard. The water was murkier than before. Not enough to turn it red, but enough to make it look even nastier. He sighed.
“Every version, a majority of the kids...stay good. Stay decent. But there’s always some who play along. Who give the terrorists what they want. People like me. We’re the reason this whole damn thing works. The reason it’s happened, what, seven times?” He wasn't sure who he was talking to. Wasn't sure if Michael had even stuck around. Wasn't sure where the nearest camera was, or even if his voice was legible.
“Because of people like me. Stupid, petty, reckless arseholes like me.”
He spoke with his face in his hands. "Sorry mum. Sorry dad. Sorry Will and Jo. Fuck." There were things he wanted to say to all of them - important things, petty things, trivial things like sharing passwords and the like, but he couldn't think. There were other people he needed to talk to. But he wouldn't list them. He'd inevitably leave someone out, something out, cause pain when trying to be decent, steal camera time from someone with something more important and more eloquent to say.
“And the thing is...I’ll probably kill again. I’m not a murderer. I’m not. Beryl was...suffering. Jeremiah...he attacked me. It was an accident. I hated him, sure, but not like that. He didn’t deserve that.” That image, of Nia crawling over Jeremiah’s body, seared into his mind. They were signing to each other. Repetitive signs. Nick couldn’t know, would never know, what they were saying, but like with all languages, the tone conveyed the meaning.
“But I’m a killer.” If Beryl had been left to bleed out, or if someone else had taken on the burden of mercy killing her, Darlene or Lucas or whoever, he wouldn’t have been...forced into this sort of position. Now he came across as a man settling old vendettas, violently resolving old scores. It terrified him. That was not what he was. He didn’t want to be that. But that’s what his role on the island was now. He hated it.
Nick got up. Dried his face with some kind of towel or cloth or bandage from the first aid kit. He wasn't keeping a tight inventory. Dried his hands on the bag itself. It was going to stay humid and sticky even if it rained like it promised, so he slid his shirt and waistcoat into the bag. His shoes were caked in blood, he noticed. His watch too. Whatever. Wasn't like he needed them clean anyway.
Nick remembered his manners, though.
Knocked on the door as they reached the menagerie. "Hey?" he called out, careful not to repeat the same actions the last time he entered a building, yet laying on his accent thick so people knew who it was they were dealing with.
They had headed south. Not out of any deliberate purpose - at least not one Nick could ascertain - but more because it was a direction to go. If Nick remembered the map correctly, they were heading to a menagerie. Normally a place he’d be quite interested to check out - even a decayed and abandoned menagerie would likely have some interesting stories to tell and, by its mere existence, provided some insight into the priorities of those who had lived here before. Nick knew that he would normally have been completely beset with an undying curiosity, wanting to find out what happened to the animals, what happened to the humans, why this menagerie was built and why it was abandoned. He would have allowed himself to engage in some amateur historiography, created complex narratives and then tear them apart just to keep his mind sharp, just to distract him from the more pressing problems.
He didn't have the energy to even do that. Through sheer laziness, a complete lack of energy and drive, Nick did not ignore the pain that constantly tugged at his heart, that left him with what felt like the worst migraine he ever had. He should have ignored it. Should have distracted himself. He had a conversation partner - Michael - who was smart and kind and decent and had so much empathy and so much humanity that Nick should have been interested in that, should have wanted to unpack it and discover it. Michael probably would have appreciated the conversation too. But no. Nick didn't have the energy.
It took him a while - they were out of the village by that point, at least - before he was reminded that he still had open cuts. That the patches of blood on his clothes were not drying, only growing. So he had wrapped some bandages around his knuckles, splashed some disinfectant on his face, revelled in the stinging that it produced (and assumed, with what he knew was medical ignorance, that the fact there was stinging meant he was doing something right), and held a cloth on the back of his head until no more blood was joining it. That wasn't all the cuts - he was pretty sure his nose was breaking out in sporadic nosebleeds, that the inside of his lip had caught on a jagged tooth, that somehow a cut on his arm had happened at some point - but he gave only perfunctory treatment to them. Enough to wash away the dirt and make it so he could pretend to care about not getting infected.
As they approached the menagerie - as it became obvious that that was their destination - they paused again. There was a trough. Filled with water. Old rainwater, most likely. Nick took off his waistcoat and his shirt, folded them up neatly even though they were dirty and bloody. Started washing off the blood, more properly this time. Hoping that, in addition to being hygienic, he might discover something therapeutic about this whole ritual.
Nick ran his fingers over his beard, matted and knotted with the coagulated blood - some his, some Jeremiah’s. Maybe he’d have to cut it off to get the stench of dried blood away from his nostrils and the taste away from his lips. Hopefully not, though. It wouldn’t look neat. It wouldn’t look orderly. Having a messy beard was one thing. A messy half-shave, quite another.
The first step - wetting his hands, ready to begin soaking his face and rubbing the blood away - was easy enough. It was actually lifting his hands out of the water that gave him pause. It was tricky. Nick could have sworn that the idea that the first step was the hardest was a pretty common cliche. But it was the second step where he was paralysed.
Finally, he forced himself to pull his hands out. He had no product, nothing to use to make his beard actually clean, no shampoo to make into a lather, but whatever. Still, he massaged his beard as thoroughly as he could, wanting to rub away, scratch away, all the dried flakes and sticky crumbs of blood from his beard. The water was murkier than before. Not enough to turn it red, but enough to make it look even nastier. He sighed.
“Every version, a majority of the kids...stay good. Stay decent. But there’s always some who play along. Who give the terrorists what they want. People like me. We’re the reason this whole damn thing works. The reason it’s happened, what, seven times?” He wasn't sure who he was talking to. Wasn't sure if Michael had even stuck around. Wasn't sure where the nearest camera was, or even if his voice was legible.
“Because of people like me. Stupid, petty, reckless arseholes like me.”
He spoke with his face in his hands. "Sorry mum. Sorry dad. Sorry Will and Jo. Fuck." There were things he wanted to say to all of them - important things, petty things, trivial things like sharing passwords and the like, but he couldn't think. There were other people he needed to talk to. But he wouldn't list them. He'd inevitably leave someone out, something out, cause pain when trying to be decent, steal camera time from someone with something more important and more eloquent to say.
“And the thing is...I’ll probably kill again. I’m not a murderer. I’m not. Beryl was...suffering. Jeremiah...he attacked me. It was an accident. I hated him, sure, but not like that. He didn’t deserve that.” That image, of Nia crawling over Jeremiah’s body, seared into his mind. They were signing to each other. Repetitive signs. Nick couldn’t know, would never know, what they were saying, but like with all languages, the tone conveyed the meaning.
“But I’m a killer.” If Beryl had been left to bleed out, or if someone else had taken on the burden of mercy killing her, Darlene or Lucas or whoever, he wouldn’t have been...forced into this sort of position. Now he came across as a man settling old vendettas, violently resolving old scores. It terrified him. That was not what he was. He didn’t want to be that. But that’s what his role on the island was now. He hated it.
Nick got up. Dried his face with some kind of towel or cloth or bandage from the first aid kit. He wasn't keeping a tight inventory. Dried his hands on the bag itself. It was going to stay humid and sticky even if it rained like it promised, so he slid his shirt and waistcoat into the bag. His shoes were caked in blood, he noticed. His watch too. Whatever. Wasn't like he needed them clean anyway.
Nick remembered his manners, though.
Knocked on the door as they reached the menagerie. "Hey?" he called out, careful not to repeat the same actions the last time he entered a building, yet laying on his accent thick so people knew who it was they were dealing with.
((Michael continued from The Commissary))
They walked.
They were already dead but their minds hadn't caught up to it yet.
_____
At one point during the trip from the commissary, while Nick was dressing his wounds, Michael took a break by himself under the guise of 'diabetic stuff'. Nick was out of sight.
The closest thing to privacy that Michael could still get.
He poked his finger with his stabber. Drew blood. Put the test strip in the PDM. Put his finger on the test strip. His blood sugar was okay. He rubbed the blood off of his finger against the inside of his shirt.
He sang. Ending Start by Metric.
His voice was soft.
"All this that is more than a wish is a memory.
All this that is ceases to be.
All is revealed,
the obvious door opens nothing.
Nothing,
nothing left,
nothing left,
nothing left to chance."
He paused. His voice had an edge to it. It was almost wispy.
"When you try to see, we'll watch you.
When you try to leave, we'll keep you.
When you should be dreaming, we'll wake you.
But don't scream, we'll make you swallow your words."
Raw emotion.
"Gave them our reactions, our explosions, all that was ours;
For graphs of passion, and charts of stars.
Gave them our reactions, our explosions, all that we are;
For graphs of passion, and charts of stars."
Quieter. Bitter.
"How ending starts;
Ending starts with answers.
How ending starts;
Ending starts with answers,
Answers."
Silence. Burning, caustic silence.
He lurched forward and then backward.
A sharp inhalation like the noise one made before bursting out into laughter.
Weeping.
He looked through the nearest camera.
His voice was slow and deliberate. Desperate.
"We're not people anymore. Nothing we did before this even matters now. It never did. We're not people anymore. We're just names. We're just a statistic. We're a distraction. We're a news story. We're a political talking point. We aren't people anymore. We aren't people."
His voice broke.
"We were never people to anyone except ourselves. Nothing we ever did matters. Nothing we ever were matters. We may as well have never existed. This is all we are now. This is all we'll ever be. We aren't real anymore. We aren't real. We aren't real to you. We'll never be real to you. We'll never be people to you. We'll never be real. We were never real. We don't exist now. We don't exist. We never fucking existed."
Weeping.
"I'm not talking to the people who knew us in Chattanooga. I'm not talking to the terrorists. I'm talking to the people watching because they can. I'm talking to journalists and governments too, I guess, but mostly the people watching for fun."
A short pause.
"My name was Michael Froese."
A short pause.
"Abel Zelenovic was a bro. He wore a camo tux to prom. He drove a hummer. His family was on an episode of Wife Swap. He was captain of the baseball team. He was bludgeoned to death."
A short pause.
"Toby Underwood was one of my roommates on the trip to DC. He liked playing Magic: The Gathering. Tirzah Foss was his girlfriend. She shot him in the head."
A short pause.
"Christine Bright got into lots of political arguments. I don't think I ever spoke with her. I regret it. She seemed cool. Someone ripped her throat out with their teeth."
A long pause.
"Beryl Mahelona."
A long pause. Weeping.
"Beryl Mahelona is the coolest - "
A long pause. Weeping
"Beryl Mahelona was the coolest, best, smartest, most unique person I ever met. Her parents died in a car crash when she was a baby. She was diagnosed with narcolepsy. She had schizoid and avoidant personality disorders, neither to my knowledge professionally diagnosed. We had those in common. She was in love with the world. She was inherently incapable of any kind of malice. She was a genius. She just somehow understood the universe. She was the best person on this island. She should have been the sole survivor. I..." he paused, unsure of which tense he should use. "I had a crush on her. I think I loved her, maybe. I - I'm pretty sure I loved her. I'll never know if she liked me back. Sierra Cook said something to her at prom that devastated her emotionally. I don't know if she had time to recover before she died. I just - I just want all of you to know how fucking much Sierra Cook hurt Beryl that night."
A short pause.
"Beryl died after a girl, Darlene Silva, accidentally shot her in the chest. One of her exes, Nick Ogilvie, mercy killed her. Me, Nick, and Henry Sparks buried her at sea. Her death was my fault. I heard it happen. I was hiding when it happened. I didn't know it was her. I could have stopped it from happening. I didn't stop it from happening. When you watch me die, know that my last thoughts will be about how fucking much I regret not saving her. Beryl's death was my fault. I killed her."
A long pause.
"I'll be honest, I didn't know shit about Felix Rees. I know we kind of looked alike. He was snarky. Someone shot him in the chest and then shot him in the head once he was down."
A short pause.
"Yuko Hayashibara was a triplet. I don't - I don't know which one she was."
A short pause. A sob.
"I'm so fucking sorry that I don't. It hurts me that I don't. She was stabbed."
A medium pause.
"Violet Quinn was artsy. Kind of gothy, I guess? We didn't run in the same social circles. She was stabbed in the gut."
A short pause.
"Dante Luciano Valerio was cool. He was nice. He was on the track team, I think. He was shot in the head. Someone won a prize for killing him."
A short pause.
"Benny. Benedict Murray. Benny vaped. He had a Youtube channel where he talked about phones. He died when he wandered into the woods after a panicking kid hit him on the head with a tire iron. I was there when he got hit. The last thing he ever said to me was 'Shut up, Michael. I'm fine,' and then he went into the trees and never came back. Benny's death was my fault."
A long pause.
"That's everyone who died yesterday. I'll talk to you tomorrow morning, if I'm still around. Remember those names. I hope they keep you up at night."
_____
They stopped walking. They stood still.
The menagerie.
Nick took his shirt off. Michael was confused, for a second. Nick dipped his hands in a trough of water. Michael understood.
Washing the blood from his hands.
Michael looked away. Nick deserved privacy.
Stagnant water probably wasn't the best thing to wash oneself with. Everyone was given water bottles. Still, this was Nick's decision to make.
Nick started talking, to himself or to a camera. Michael stared at the ground. He knew the feeling.
Nick finished talking. Michael wanted to give him a hug. He didn't. There was still blood on Nick, it was just... dilute. Physical contact would still get blood on Michael. Another reason was that Nick was shirtless. Physical contact was scary. Letting people in was scary. That part of Michael was still alive and well.
Nick wasn't a murderer but he was a killer. Michael felt it too. He wasn't a murderer, but he had been culpable. He was partially responsible for three deaths now. If he'd been the one pulling the trigger, that'd be enough to qualify him as a spree killer.
He was a spree accessory to murder.
Nick knocked on the door. Michael stood at an angle perpendicular to the entrance, his shoulder against the wall.
Gun up, safety off, hammer down.
They walked.
They were already dead but their minds hadn't caught up to it yet.
_____
At one point during the trip from the commissary, while Nick was dressing his wounds, Michael took a break by himself under the guise of 'diabetic stuff'. Nick was out of sight.
The closest thing to privacy that Michael could still get.
He poked his finger with his stabber. Drew blood. Put the test strip in the PDM. Put his finger on the test strip. His blood sugar was okay. He rubbed the blood off of his finger against the inside of his shirt.
He sang. Ending Start by Metric.
His voice was soft.
"All this that is more than a wish is a memory.
All this that is ceases to be.
All is revealed,
the obvious door opens nothing.
Nothing,
nothing left,
nothing left,
nothing left to chance."
He paused. His voice had an edge to it. It was almost wispy.
"When you try to see, we'll watch you.
When you try to leave, we'll keep you.
When you should be dreaming, we'll wake you.
But don't scream, we'll make you swallow your words."
Raw emotion.
"Gave them our reactions, our explosions, all that was ours;
For graphs of passion, and charts of stars.
Gave them our reactions, our explosions, all that we are;
For graphs of passion, and charts of stars."
Quieter. Bitter.
"How ending starts;
Ending starts with answers.
How ending starts;
Ending starts with answers,
Answers."
Silence. Burning, caustic silence.
He lurched forward and then backward.
A sharp inhalation like the noise one made before bursting out into laughter.
Weeping.
He looked through the nearest camera.
His voice was slow and deliberate. Desperate.
"We're not people anymore. Nothing we did before this even matters now. It never did. We're not people anymore. We're just names. We're just a statistic. We're a distraction. We're a news story. We're a political talking point. We aren't people anymore. We aren't people."
His voice broke.
"We were never people to anyone except ourselves. Nothing we ever did matters. Nothing we ever were matters. We may as well have never existed. This is all we are now. This is all we'll ever be. We aren't real anymore. We aren't real. We aren't real to you. We'll never be real to you. We'll never be people to you. We'll never be real. We were never real. We don't exist now. We don't exist. We never fucking existed."
Weeping.
"I'm not talking to the people who knew us in Chattanooga. I'm not talking to the terrorists. I'm talking to the people watching because they can. I'm talking to journalists and governments too, I guess, but mostly the people watching for fun."
A short pause.
"My name was Michael Froese."
A short pause.
"Abel Zelenovic was a bro. He wore a camo tux to prom. He drove a hummer. His family was on an episode of Wife Swap. He was captain of the baseball team. He was bludgeoned to death."
A short pause.
"Toby Underwood was one of my roommates on the trip to DC. He liked playing Magic: The Gathering. Tirzah Foss was his girlfriend. She shot him in the head."
A short pause.
"Christine Bright got into lots of political arguments. I don't think I ever spoke with her. I regret it. She seemed cool. Someone ripped her throat out with their teeth."
A long pause.
"Beryl Mahelona."
A long pause. Weeping.
"Beryl Mahelona is the coolest - "
A long pause. Weeping
"Beryl Mahelona was the coolest, best, smartest, most unique person I ever met. Her parents died in a car crash when she was a baby. She was diagnosed with narcolepsy. She had schizoid and avoidant personality disorders, neither to my knowledge professionally diagnosed. We had those in common. She was in love with the world. She was inherently incapable of any kind of malice. She was a genius. She just somehow understood the universe. She was the best person on this island. She should have been the sole survivor. I..." he paused, unsure of which tense he should use. "I had a crush on her. I think I loved her, maybe. I - I'm pretty sure I loved her. I'll never know if she liked me back. Sierra Cook said something to her at prom that devastated her emotionally. I don't know if she had time to recover before she died. I just - I just want all of you to know how fucking much Sierra Cook hurt Beryl that night."
A short pause.
"Beryl died after a girl, Darlene Silva, accidentally shot her in the chest. One of her exes, Nick Ogilvie, mercy killed her. Me, Nick, and Henry Sparks buried her at sea. Her death was my fault. I heard it happen. I was hiding when it happened. I didn't know it was her. I could have stopped it from happening. I didn't stop it from happening. When you watch me die, know that my last thoughts will be about how fucking much I regret not saving her. Beryl's death was my fault. I killed her."
A long pause.
"I'll be honest, I didn't know shit about Felix Rees. I know we kind of looked alike. He was snarky. Someone shot him in the chest and then shot him in the head once he was down."
A short pause.
"Yuko Hayashibara was a triplet. I don't - I don't know which one she was."
A short pause. A sob.
"I'm so fucking sorry that I don't. It hurts me that I don't. She was stabbed."
A medium pause.
"Violet Quinn was artsy. Kind of gothy, I guess? We didn't run in the same social circles. She was stabbed in the gut."
A short pause.
"Dante Luciano Valerio was cool. He was nice. He was on the track team, I think. He was shot in the head. Someone won a prize for killing him."
A short pause.
"Benny. Benedict Murray. Benny vaped. He had a Youtube channel where he talked about phones. He died when he wandered into the woods after a panicking kid hit him on the head with a tire iron. I was there when he got hit. The last thing he ever said to me was 'Shut up, Michael. I'm fine,' and then he went into the trees and never came back. Benny's death was my fault."
A long pause.
"That's everyone who died yesterday. I'll talk to you tomorrow morning, if I'm still around. Remember those names. I hope they keep you up at night."
_____
They stopped walking. They stood still.
The menagerie.
Nick took his shirt off. Michael was confused, for a second. Nick dipped his hands in a trough of water. Michael understood.
Washing the blood from his hands.
Michael looked away. Nick deserved privacy.
Stagnant water probably wasn't the best thing to wash oneself with. Everyone was given water bottles. Still, this was Nick's decision to make.
Nick started talking, to himself or to a camera. Michael stared at the ground. He knew the feeling.
Nick finished talking. Michael wanted to give him a hug. He didn't. There was still blood on Nick, it was just... dilute. Physical contact would still get blood on Michael. Another reason was that Nick was shirtless. Physical contact was scary. Letting people in was scary. That part of Michael was still alive and well.
Nick wasn't a murderer but he was a killer. Michael felt it too. He wasn't a murderer, but he had been culpable. He was partially responsible for three deaths now. If he'd been the one pulling the trigger, that'd be enough to qualify him as a spree killer.
He was a spree accessory to murder.
Nick knocked on the door. Michael stood at an angle perpendicular to the entrance, his shoulder against the wall.
Gun up, safety off, hammer down.
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
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Emprexx Plush
- Posts: 1678
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 3:37 pm
- Contact:
The map was coming along nicely. He hadn't made much progress on food, but he could remember the wells he'd stopped at throughout the day. Water wouldn't be an issue as long as he kept them on his route, two bottles would always be more than enough to reach them or one of the streams. Shelter seemed easier, there were buildings all over the map. Exploring them could b a priority, right? It'd be smart to figure out their layouts. If he came up with a bunch of paper he could try to sketch them out as he went. Not just them though, there was also that cave they'd passed coming down the waterfall and any other hidey holes like that. Those would be even more valuable than the buildings, fewer people would stumble on them. Marco wasn't very fast, and he wasn't going to win any long distance races, but if he could disappear into places the others didn't know to look for he could swing thing in his favor for-
For...
There was the hang up. He still hadn't decided what this was all for, beyond the vague feeling that he wanted to live. All that determination and he was still just looking for ways to run away. The act of mapping things out was itself a kind of escape if he was really honest, it occupied his mind with straightforward problems without nuance. 'Can I find a dry place to sleep?' was a linear question. 'Could I hurt someone again, even to go home?' wasn't so simple.
No. He retracted that line immediately. 'Could' was one of his anxiety's favorite words, though it was even more fond of 'couldn't.' Once Marco was certain he couldn't do something he could give up. It was an absolute that did not accept modifiers, it held no hope that one day he might be better or circumstances might be more favorable. He couldn't do something, so he didn't, and the energy conserved avoiding failure was reassigned to more productive tasks like loathing his inadequacies. It was an abusive mindset, but it's not like he didn't get anything out of it. There was absolution in inability, and that had never been more true than now. If Marco decided right here that he couldn't hurt anyone else, it made what he'd done a fluke. Heat of the moment insanity that had overtaken his better judgement because of extreme stress. It wouldn't change anything about him as a person, he would never be capable of anything like that again. The consequences remained, but it would be one out of character outburst. Which wasn't true. Marco wasn't sure he even wanted it to be true.
Everything he'd done to Kayla he'd done because it accomplished something for him. Every cut had been a decision. Thinking about them made bile rise in his throat, but the horror he felt was not the detached disbelieving shock that came when you saw something horrible happen at a distance. The disgust it inspired was intimate, accusatory. What he'd done wasn't an outlier. Whatever it meant to be Marco Hart, however long or short that existence was, he would always be a murderer. 'Could' was no longer a relevant question, whether he hurt anyone else or not wouldn't change what he had already done. There were better questions to ask that were more honest about his nature. Before he could ask them, though, a voice echoed down the path.
Nick Oglive probably wouldn't have said that they were friends. Marco would have been surprised if he remembered his name. Well, not his name anymore, the name he used to use that wasn't really his name then either but he was too anxious to use his name because what if people who already barely tolerated him decided that was an understandable last straw and cut him off and then his parents found out and disowned him and wow. You know, the human brain reacts to audio stimuli in about .17 seconds and it took no longer than .19 before he collapsed into nervous habits again. Exactly the sort of thing that made him useful but forgettable to someone like Nick. They mostly hung out during group projects, though even that was a generous description. What usually happened was they chatted about their ideas, Nick fed him some smooth lines about what a good head he had for whatever they were working on, and the next thing Marco knew he was doing the whole thing himself. It wasn't like Nick was the only one who did it, though when he complimented him after their grades came in Marco always felt...worthy, as pathetic as that sounded in his head? Somehow by the end of it all it ended up like Nick had done Marco a favor rather than the other way around, so he didn't mind working with him whenever he asked.
That was probably how he ended up designated driving for him after so many parties too. His panic levels were usually so high by the end of a party it was hard to remember who dragged him there in the first place and who clung along for a ride home when it was all said and done too, but he was sure Nick had probably floated him an invite after a presentation or two with smooth gratitude that made it seem like a thank you instead of more work. if Marco was being really honest, though, the nights where he ended up with Nick were kind of worth it for one event. Sometimes it'd kick up when they'd already been riding along awhile, others it would start up before Marco could corral everyone into his mom's van, but every time without fail Nick would start to sing. He wasn't great, in Marco's opinion. He was always drunk, so his voice was sloppy. Loud. Sometimes off key and usually off rhythm. Nobody was gonna pay to listen in, you know? But when Nick sang he brought this energy to the group. Maybe it was just looking back through rose colored glasses, but it seemed like everyone with them who still had the presence of mind to hear him would eventually join in. He could hear it now, rolling down the road at one in the morning with Nick leading the backseat in a roaring rendition of "Mr. Brightside," every voice in the van making some kind of vaguely musical sound. Under it all was Marco's own trembling harmony. Not great, in his opinion, and never loud enough that any of the others would have picked up on it, but there mixed in with their cries like he was one of them. As long as the music kept up, he could pretend he belonged as a person rather than a service.
Marco wasn't lying to himself anymore, so he didn't move out of any misguided belief they were actually friends. They could have been, though. Right now alone with his darkest thoughts Marco desperately wanted to be, and maybe in a place as awful as this Nick would want him too. "H-hey," he shouted back, "Nick?" Marco stumbled his way out of the enclosure. "You can come in, it's..."
Oh.
Time for his first Conversation.
"It's safe," he settled for instead of a name.
For...
There was the hang up. He still hadn't decided what this was all for, beyond the vague feeling that he wanted to live. All that determination and he was still just looking for ways to run away. The act of mapping things out was itself a kind of escape if he was really honest, it occupied his mind with straightforward problems without nuance. 'Can I find a dry place to sleep?' was a linear question. 'Could I hurt someone again, even to go home?' wasn't so simple.
No. He retracted that line immediately. 'Could' was one of his anxiety's favorite words, though it was even more fond of 'couldn't.' Once Marco was certain he couldn't do something he could give up. It was an absolute that did not accept modifiers, it held no hope that one day he might be better or circumstances might be more favorable. He couldn't do something, so he didn't, and the energy conserved avoiding failure was reassigned to more productive tasks like loathing his inadequacies. It was an abusive mindset, but it's not like he didn't get anything out of it. There was absolution in inability, and that had never been more true than now. If Marco decided right here that he couldn't hurt anyone else, it made what he'd done a fluke. Heat of the moment insanity that had overtaken his better judgement because of extreme stress. It wouldn't change anything about him as a person, he would never be capable of anything like that again. The consequences remained, but it would be one out of character outburst. Which wasn't true. Marco wasn't sure he even wanted it to be true.
Everything he'd done to Kayla he'd done because it accomplished something for him. Every cut had been a decision. Thinking about them made bile rise in his throat, but the horror he felt was not the detached disbelieving shock that came when you saw something horrible happen at a distance. The disgust it inspired was intimate, accusatory. What he'd done wasn't an outlier. Whatever it meant to be Marco Hart, however long or short that existence was, he would always be a murderer. 'Could' was no longer a relevant question, whether he hurt anyone else or not wouldn't change what he had already done. There were better questions to ask that were more honest about his nature. Before he could ask them, though, a voice echoed down the path.
Nick Oglive probably wouldn't have said that they were friends. Marco would have been surprised if he remembered his name. Well, not his name anymore, the name he used to use that wasn't really his name then either but he was too anxious to use his name because what if people who already barely tolerated him decided that was an understandable last straw and cut him off and then his parents found out and disowned him and wow. You know, the human brain reacts to audio stimuli in about .17 seconds and it took no longer than .19 before he collapsed into nervous habits again. Exactly the sort of thing that made him useful but forgettable to someone like Nick. They mostly hung out during group projects, though even that was a generous description. What usually happened was they chatted about their ideas, Nick fed him some smooth lines about what a good head he had for whatever they were working on, and the next thing Marco knew he was doing the whole thing himself. It wasn't like Nick was the only one who did it, though when he complimented him after their grades came in Marco always felt...worthy, as pathetic as that sounded in his head? Somehow by the end of it all it ended up like Nick had done Marco a favor rather than the other way around, so he didn't mind working with him whenever he asked.
That was probably how he ended up designated driving for him after so many parties too. His panic levels were usually so high by the end of a party it was hard to remember who dragged him there in the first place and who clung along for a ride home when it was all said and done too, but he was sure Nick had probably floated him an invite after a presentation or two with smooth gratitude that made it seem like a thank you instead of more work. if Marco was being really honest, though, the nights where he ended up with Nick were kind of worth it for one event. Sometimes it'd kick up when they'd already been riding along awhile, others it would start up before Marco could corral everyone into his mom's van, but every time without fail Nick would start to sing. He wasn't great, in Marco's opinion. He was always drunk, so his voice was sloppy. Loud. Sometimes off key and usually off rhythm. Nobody was gonna pay to listen in, you know? But when Nick sang he brought this energy to the group. Maybe it was just looking back through rose colored glasses, but it seemed like everyone with them who still had the presence of mind to hear him would eventually join in. He could hear it now, rolling down the road at one in the morning with Nick leading the backseat in a roaring rendition of "Mr. Brightside," every voice in the van making some kind of vaguely musical sound. Under it all was Marco's own trembling harmony. Not great, in his opinion, and never loud enough that any of the others would have picked up on it, but there mixed in with their cries like he was one of them. As long as the music kept up, he could pretend he belonged as a person rather than a service.
Marco wasn't lying to himself anymore, so he didn't move out of any misguided belief they were actually friends. They could have been, though. Right now alone with his darkest thoughts Marco desperately wanted to be, and maybe in a place as awful as this Nick would want him too. "H-hey," he shouted back, "Nick?" Marco stumbled his way out of the enclosure. "You can come in, it's..."
Oh.
Time for his first Conversation.
"It's safe," he settled for instead of a name.
-
General Goose
- Posts: 731
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:02 pm
Nick was, of course, already conditioned to expect hostility from his classmates today. Today and every other day he had left until he died, however many days that was. So when Nona called out to him, told him to step past the threshold, referred to him by his name in a way that wasn't dripping with fear or hatred, he didn't know how to respond, at least at first. One thing Nick had not accepted was a warm, casual, polite invitation to come in. That it was safe. The implication being that he deserved safety, that his conduct on the island meant that he deserved any form of safety and respite.
The paranoid thought flashed through his mind that it was a trap, but though the motive was undoubtedly there, he couldn't see how a trap could have been set up. Unless it was a trap generally, designed to catch out anyone who stumbled through the area. In which case, well, Nick was taking one for the team. That macabre thought process played out in the back of his mind, the decision to functionally ignore the hypothetical threat taken almost automatically.
Michael was ready, gun ready too. Nick wasn't sure what Michael would do if the situation went awry. He was even less sure what he would have wanted Michael to do. Run for his life? Stick around and fight? Put himself in danger? Linger behind some shrubbery so he could come out and inflict the coup de grâce on Nick once things had died down? Nick wasn't sure. It wasn't a conversation worth having, not at any point, but Nick could not help but admit to a small degree of morbid curiosity about what option Michael would opt for, if it turned out that things weren't safe.
Nick took a step in, saw Nona stepping out from the enclosure. She looked bloody, muddy, dishevelled. Better than Nick, of course. Nick's eyes instantly caught the eye of her weapon. "Nice weapon," Nick murmured. His tone was casual, nonchalant, just to make it clear to Michael that it wasn't currently being used to threaten or eviscerate him. "You think they got copyright clearance for that?" The prospect - absurd and ludicrous yet enough to soothe his nerves slightly - of Danya being brought down, Al Capone-style, for the white collar crime of copyright law violations flashed through his mind.
"Hi Nona." Nona was alright. They had done history projects together, been at parties together, all that good stuff. Friendly. He wasn't sure if they counted as friends, but definitely friendly. Even now, apparently. Nick felt that too good to be true. "You...sure you want me here? Because, like, did you not hear on the announcements?" He wasn't sure how else to broach the subject.
The paranoid thought flashed through his mind that it was a trap, but though the motive was undoubtedly there, he couldn't see how a trap could have been set up. Unless it was a trap generally, designed to catch out anyone who stumbled through the area. In which case, well, Nick was taking one for the team. That macabre thought process played out in the back of his mind, the decision to functionally ignore the hypothetical threat taken almost automatically.
Michael was ready, gun ready too. Nick wasn't sure what Michael would do if the situation went awry. He was even less sure what he would have wanted Michael to do. Run for his life? Stick around and fight? Put himself in danger? Linger behind some shrubbery so he could come out and inflict the coup de grâce on Nick once things had died down? Nick wasn't sure. It wasn't a conversation worth having, not at any point, but Nick could not help but admit to a small degree of morbid curiosity about what option Michael would opt for, if it turned out that things weren't safe.
Nick took a step in, saw Nona stepping out from the enclosure. She looked bloody, muddy, dishevelled. Better than Nick, of course. Nick's eyes instantly caught the eye of her weapon. "Nice weapon," Nick murmured. His tone was casual, nonchalant, just to make it clear to Michael that it wasn't currently being used to threaten or eviscerate him. "You think they got copyright clearance for that?" The prospect - absurd and ludicrous yet enough to soothe his nerves slightly - of Danya being brought down, Al Capone-style, for the white collar crime of copyright law violations flashed through his mind.
"Hi Nona." Nona was alright. They had done history projects together, been at parties together, all that good stuff. Friendly. He wasn't sure if they counted as friends, but definitely friendly. Even now, apparently. Nick felt that too good to be true. "You...sure you want me here? Because, like, did you not hear on the announcements?" He wasn't sure how else to broach the subject.
A voice from within, calling Nick by name.
Nick went in. Michael stayed out.
He wouldn't let this end like it did last time.
If he heard gunshots from inside, he'd get the fuck out of dodge. If he heard a commotion, he'd pop in and shoot.
"Nice weapon," Nick said, having not been immediately murdered. That was either a good sign or a really bad sign.
Copyright clearance. Weapon. Oddly specific. Chainsaw arm? GEICO gecko costume? Plenty of possibilities.
Nick gave the voice a name. Nona. Michael knew of her. She was smart. He respected her. He'd never told her that.
Nick asked the obvious question. It was a good question. It was an important question.
Michael still stayed outside, gun drawn, ready to fire in case things went to hell.
Nick went in. Michael stayed out.
He wouldn't let this end like it did last time.
If he heard gunshots from inside, he'd get the fuck out of dodge. If he heard a commotion, he'd pop in and shoot.
"Nice weapon," Nick said, having not been immediately murdered. That was either a good sign or a really bad sign.
Copyright clearance. Weapon. Oddly specific. Chainsaw arm? GEICO gecko costume? Plenty of possibilities.
Nick gave the voice a name. Nona. Michael knew of her. She was smart. He respected her. He'd never told her that.
Nick asked the obvious question. It was a good question. It was an important question.
Michael still stayed outside, gun drawn, ready to fire in case things went to hell.
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
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Emprexx Plush
- Posts: 1678
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 3:37 pm
- Contact:
The glove had been on his hand so long he'd sort of forgotten it was there. It had to come off when he sketched on the map, but when the pencil came down it slipped right back. Not a habit he'd thought about much. It just felt, well, the filler conclusion to that thought was that it felt right but that was a lie too. If it felt right he never would have invited Nick in here. What he did had to feel wrong unless he came up with some very compelling arguments the other way, otherwise he was just trading in for more self deception. It would be like pretending the blades were clean rather than stained red past the point anything left here could clean them. It didn't seem to frighten Nick though, and as he continued Marco put together why. Nick had been on the announcements. If he was standing here, that meant he'd killed someone. Someones, even. There was no way for Marco to be sure, he could have just invited a spree killer in with him without any warning.
It was comforting. Maybe rash to draw that kind of conclusion after fifteen seconds of interaction, but Nick was still a person. Not either of the images of him that Marco was most familiar with, but he acted like a human. They could have a conversation in addition to The Conversation. One that Nick might be uniquely positioned to have with him. "I, I didn't. I didn't want to hear them, I thought maybe if I..." How could he explain it to him? It sounded crazy just bouncing around in his head and with the way he spoke the details wouldn't sound any more rational. The corner of his eyes stung. It got worse whenever Marco tried to look up at him, so he left his gaze on the ground. "I messed up a lot, Nick. I can't, what I mean is that I'm not, I-" His mouth was getting dry. The spiral was forming in his head again, pulling him farther and farther from coherent thought. Any moment now he'd give in and be swept away.
"I hurt somebody."
Everything snapped back into clarity. Frozen, horrified clarity. The patter of the rain seemed deafening next to his voice. "I didn't mean to, but she's dead." Pressure welled in his chest. He did his best to force the tremor out of his voice. "If you hurt somebody, and they said your name, I know...I mean, I like to think you didn't do it because you wanted them to die, and maybe we could both use somebody who understands that. But, um..."
There were no tears in his eyes when he glanced upwards.
"My name is Marco. Not Nona. Please."
Marco Hart did not deserve to cry.
It was comforting. Maybe rash to draw that kind of conclusion after fifteen seconds of interaction, but Nick was still a person. Not either of the images of him that Marco was most familiar with, but he acted like a human. They could have a conversation in addition to The Conversation. One that Nick might be uniquely positioned to have with him. "I, I didn't. I didn't want to hear them, I thought maybe if I..." How could he explain it to him? It sounded crazy just bouncing around in his head and with the way he spoke the details wouldn't sound any more rational. The corner of his eyes stung. It got worse whenever Marco tried to look up at him, so he left his gaze on the ground. "I messed up a lot, Nick. I can't, what I mean is that I'm not, I-" His mouth was getting dry. The spiral was forming in his head again, pulling him farther and farther from coherent thought. Any moment now he'd give in and be swept away.
"I hurt somebody."
Everything snapped back into clarity. Frozen, horrified clarity. The patter of the rain seemed deafening next to his voice. "I didn't mean to, but she's dead." Pressure welled in his chest. He did his best to force the tremor out of his voice. "If you hurt somebody, and they said your name, I know...I mean, I like to think you didn't do it because you wanted them to die, and maybe we could both use somebody who understands that. But, um..."
There were no tears in his eyes when he glanced upwards.
"My name is Marco. Not Nona. Please."
Marco Hart did not deserve to cry.
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General Goose
- Posts: 731
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:02 pm
Of course it was bad news that Nona, too, had joined the club of the killers. Nick was curious about who it was that Nona had slain. If she'd used that same glove that he'd found oddly amusing only seconds earlier, and he didn't look at it because he was scared to see if it was still dripping with blood. If it was one of those few classmates that Nick could now view as more than just a vague collection of memories, rumours, and superficial descriptions. He would need to ask, of course.
But she was right. That they were both killers - both mournful, upfront, sombre, honest killers - created a certain kind of camaraderie between them. There was a logic to what she said. They understood each other. They couldn't afford to heap scorn and judgement on the other. They wouldn't drag down others, force others with more innocent records to make a judgement call about trusting them, wouldn't traumatise a complete innocent with their mere presence. He had hung out with Nona, had good things to say about her, knew her well enough to have said hey and stopped for five minutes of catch up if they saw each other in the street, but that shared experience instantly created a bond between them.
Nick had no idea what to do with it. Nick was used to hostility. The encounter at the commissary - the experiences in DC, the time at prom and everything else, hell, going back all those years to when he'd fallen out with Ryan - had swiftly conditioned him to accept that. Nick turned to point behind him. "I'm with Michael," Nick replied, instantly, deciding that was a more important thing to say than to mention Jeremiah, whose name would doubtless come up before the announcements began, and more tactful a topic of conversation than seeking to further unpick what it was that Nona had done.
"Michael Froese. He can..." What? Vindicate his virtues? Authenticate his story? Serve as backup for if Nona tried anything unsavoury? "He's a good egg."
Then Nona said something else, and Nick had to repeat it. "Marco?" His first thought was if he'd misremembered. Had he accidentally gotten the wrong person? Associated the person standing before him with the wrong memories? But no. That was ridiculous. He knew N-Marco too well to make that mistake. Within a second, he'd realised what he'd just been told. "Oh. Cool. I get that."
"And...uh. Pronouns?"
But she was right. That they were both killers - both mournful, upfront, sombre, honest killers - created a certain kind of camaraderie between them. There was a logic to what she said. They understood each other. They couldn't afford to heap scorn and judgement on the other. They wouldn't drag down others, force others with more innocent records to make a judgement call about trusting them, wouldn't traumatise a complete innocent with their mere presence. He had hung out with Nona, had good things to say about her, knew her well enough to have said hey and stopped for five minutes of catch up if they saw each other in the street, but that shared experience instantly created a bond between them.
Nick had no idea what to do with it. Nick was used to hostility. The encounter at the commissary - the experiences in DC, the time at prom and everything else, hell, going back all those years to when he'd fallen out with Ryan - had swiftly conditioned him to accept that. Nick turned to point behind him. "I'm with Michael," Nick replied, instantly, deciding that was a more important thing to say than to mention Jeremiah, whose name would doubtless come up before the announcements began, and more tactful a topic of conversation than seeking to further unpick what it was that Nona had done.
"Michael Froese. He can..." What? Vindicate his virtues? Authenticate his story? Serve as backup for if Nona tried anything unsavoury? "He's a good egg."
Then Nona said something else, and Nick had to repeat it. "Marco?" His first thought was if he'd misremembered. Had he accidentally gotten the wrong person? Associated the person standing before him with the wrong memories? But no. That was ridiculous. He knew N-Marco too well to make that mistake. Within a second, he'd realised what he'd just been told. "Oh. Cool. I get that."
"And...uh. Pronouns?"
"I messed up a lot, Nick. I can't, what I mean is that I'm not, I-" Nona said. Michael knew the feeling. The verbal flailing. The regret.
"I hurt somebody. I didn't mean to, but she's dead." Nona said. Michael knew the feeling better than he wanted to.
"If you hurt somebody, and they said your name, I know...I mean, I like to think you didn't do it because you wanted them to die, and maybe we could both use somebody who understands that. But, um..." Nona said. Michael didn't understand what the words meant, but he thought he maybe knew the feeling behind them. He wasn't sure.
"I'm with Michael, Michael Froese. He can..." Nick said, destroying any chance that Michael had of getting away if this was a trap. Michael was cognizant of the fact Nick trailed off and that Nick didn't actually know what Michael could do. Michael knew the feeling.
"He's a good egg." Nick said. Michael instinctually disagreed, but he didn't know if it was actually wrong.
Michael stepped through the door, gun raised. There was no point in him waiting outside anymore.
"My name is Marco. Not Nona. Please." Marco said.
Michael understood. He flicked the pistol's safety on and pointed it at the ground harmlessly. He inhaled sharply. He smiled an honest to God smile. His eyes looked alive. He started crying silently. They were tears of joy, maybe. At the very least, they were tears of sentiment.
Someone was okay with really being themself around Michael. Spiritually bare. Someone felt that Michael was worthy enough for them to just exist around him. Someone actually let Michael in. It -
- It was a foreign feeling. It was new. It was completely unfamiliar. Nobody had let him in before. Not for real. Not himself. Not his parents. Not Morgan. Not Clay. Not Bree. Not Kelly.
Not Beryl.
Not even Beryl let Michael in.
Beryl was the only person he'd ever let in.
And even Beryl hadn't let him in.
She never showed Michael her true true self like he had her. He let her feel him but all she'd ever let him do was calculate her.
It hurt inside. It burned at him inside. It made him scream inside. It killed him inside.
It killed him.
It was what killed Michael Froese.
It hit him that Marco hadn't let Michael in. Marco had let Nick in. Michael's presence was just incidental. Michael's presence was an accident.
He tried to push it down.
He couldn't push it down anymore.
He smiled with his mouth closed. His eyes were empty. There were no more tears of sentiment, just tears.
He looked at Marco and softly nodded his head. His voice was blank; morose. "I... hi, Marco."
The safety was off again.
"I hurt somebody. I didn't mean to, but she's dead." Nona said. Michael knew the feeling better than he wanted to.
"If you hurt somebody, and they said your name, I know...I mean, I like to think you didn't do it because you wanted them to die, and maybe we could both use somebody who understands that. But, um..." Nona said. Michael didn't understand what the words meant, but he thought he maybe knew the feeling behind them. He wasn't sure.
"I'm with Michael, Michael Froese. He can..." Nick said, destroying any chance that Michael had of getting away if this was a trap. Michael was cognizant of the fact Nick trailed off and that Nick didn't actually know what Michael could do. Michael knew the feeling.
"He's a good egg." Nick said. Michael instinctually disagreed, but he didn't know if it was actually wrong.
Michael stepped through the door, gun raised. There was no point in him waiting outside anymore.
"My name is Marco. Not Nona. Please." Marco said.
Michael understood. He flicked the pistol's safety on and pointed it at the ground harmlessly. He inhaled sharply. He smiled an honest to God smile. His eyes looked alive. He started crying silently. They were tears of joy, maybe. At the very least, they were tears of sentiment.
Someone was okay with really being themself around Michael. Spiritually bare. Someone felt that Michael was worthy enough for them to just exist around him. Someone actually let Michael in. It -
- It was a foreign feeling. It was new. It was completely unfamiliar. Nobody had let him in before. Not for real. Not himself. Not his parents. Not Morgan. Not Clay. Not Bree. Not Kelly.
Not Beryl.
Not even Beryl let Michael in.
Beryl was the only person he'd ever let in.
And even Beryl hadn't let him in.
She never showed Michael her true true self like he had her. He let her feel him but all she'd ever let him do was calculate her.
It hurt inside. It burned at him inside. It made him scream inside. It killed him inside.
It killed him.
It was what killed Michael Froese.
It hit him that Marco hadn't let Michael in. Marco had let Nick in. Michael's presence was just incidental. Michael's presence was an accident.
He tried to push it down.
He couldn't push it down anymore.
He smiled with his mouth closed. His eyes were empty. There were no more tears of sentiment, just tears.
He looked at Marco and softly nodded his head. His voice was blank; morose. "I... hi, Marco."
The safety was off again.
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
-
Emprexx Plush
- Posts: 1678
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 3:37 pm
- Contact:
"He and him, please." Voice a little louder. The edges of a smile at his lips. It had been so easy, and there was an immediate urge to ruin that. Why had he waited so long? Years of living in orbit because he was too much of a coward to put in the absolute minimum. Lie after lie denying him the life he'd wasted fantasies on instead of living out, and all it took was a few words. It would have been that simple every time, every place. There must be something wrong with him to assume that everyone would turn on them, he'd projected that malice on people, it was his fault, all of his misery was on him because he was worthless, worthless, worthless, worthless, worthless-
The loop continued, but it would have to get someone else to follow it. Marco wasn't hearing a word. The euphoria running through him couldn't be touched by his insecurities yet. Nick had accepted him without question beyond how to do it better. He didn't have to, especially here where Marco had next to nothing to offer him. Even if he did there wasn't some elaborate show, Nick wasn't aiming to manipulate him. It was just...cool. That was the word he'd used. It was cool, and he understood. Despite all the panic trying to break through his thoughts, Marco believed him. For the first time he could stand acknowledged as himself in someone else's eyes. He didn't have to know who that self was yet to feel the indescribable joy flooding all of his anxiety to the unseen, unheard corners of his mind.
The sort of person he was, or at least the sort of person he could be, came a little more into focus when Michael stepped through the door. They knew each other less than Marco knew Nick, which was kinda saying something given their respective places in the GHHS social fringe. They'd talked a few times. Marco always found him sweet in a space-y sort of way. He never reached out to him, though, and wasn't that typical? He met someone, he liked them, they had an okay time around each other, and then he did nothing about it. The pattern could continue here. Michael said hello in tearful monotone that showed how much pain he must be in, and Marco could turn away from that. It didn't seem like Michael would press if he did, and there was plenty for Nick to talk about instead.
The glove had already start to come off talking to Nick. He didn't need it right now. He'd intended to hold on to it, take Nick on the tour of what he'd figured out here already seen. When the metal thunked against the ground, though, Marco was no longer next to it. His arms were wrapped gently around Michael, his face down in the other boy's chest. "Hey Michael. I'm really glad you're both here..."
His heart was pounding. The alarms were blaring loud enough to be heard under the validation he was swimming in. Michael could reject him any second, or Marco could have made whatever he was feeling so much worse by engaging. There was no guarantee he was doing the right thing, but he was doing something for someone in pain he should have tried to been a friend to long before now. That was the person he wanted to be right now.
The loop continued, but it would have to get someone else to follow it. Marco wasn't hearing a word. The euphoria running through him couldn't be touched by his insecurities yet. Nick had accepted him without question beyond how to do it better. He didn't have to, especially here where Marco had next to nothing to offer him. Even if he did there wasn't some elaborate show, Nick wasn't aiming to manipulate him. It was just...cool. That was the word he'd used. It was cool, and he understood. Despite all the panic trying to break through his thoughts, Marco believed him. For the first time he could stand acknowledged as himself in someone else's eyes. He didn't have to know who that self was yet to feel the indescribable joy flooding all of his anxiety to the unseen, unheard corners of his mind.
The sort of person he was, or at least the sort of person he could be, came a little more into focus when Michael stepped through the door. They knew each other less than Marco knew Nick, which was kinda saying something given their respective places in the GHHS social fringe. They'd talked a few times. Marco always found him sweet in a space-y sort of way. He never reached out to him, though, and wasn't that typical? He met someone, he liked them, they had an okay time around each other, and then he did nothing about it. The pattern could continue here. Michael said hello in tearful monotone that showed how much pain he must be in, and Marco could turn away from that. It didn't seem like Michael would press if he did, and there was plenty for Nick to talk about instead.
The glove had already start to come off talking to Nick. He didn't need it right now. He'd intended to hold on to it, take Nick on the tour of what he'd figured out here already seen. When the metal thunked against the ground, though, Marco was no longer next to it. His arms were wrapped gently around Michael, his face down in the other boy's chest. "Hey Michael. I'm really glad you're both here..."
His heart was pounding. The alarms were blaring loud enough to be heard under the validation he was swimming in. Michael could reject him any second, or Marco could have made whatever he was feeling so much worse by engaging. There was no guarantee he was doing the right thing, but he was doing something for someone in pain he should have tried to been a friend to long before now. That was the person he wanted to be right now.
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General Goose
- Posts: 731
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:02 pm
Nick had been a cruel child. Cruel in that lazy, thoughtless way, bluntly and callously picking up on differences, both real and perceived, turning even a mere statement of them into an insult just through tone and repetition. It was funny, in an effortless way. A manner by which he could fit in, integrate himself with an ingroup that he was drawn to for no reason other than laziness and lack of imagination. That included using the wrong pronouns as if that were somehow witty, thinking that anything outside the gender binary was worthy of ridicule.
Nick was, in many ways, a better person now. Still cruel. Crueller, even. But there was self-awareness now. Effort. Creativity. Nick would do many senseless and thoughtless things, often while knowing he was doing them, but one flaw that he had grown out of was bigotry. That was one place where he could give himself, well, not credit, the absence of a flaw was not something that deserved praise, but at least a respite from the endless volley of self-loathing that he otherwise subjected himself to. Nick would forget Marco's new name. Nick would slip up on pronouns. Nick would get things wrong, mess up on the etiquette, and, even if he got all the gender things right, probably find a dozen other ways to hurt and upset Marco.
But he would try.
Marco seemed happy to let them both in. Taking a step back to pick his bag back up, he walked past the threshold more comfortably, more casually, too tired to give any time to paranoid thoughts that were probably rational to listen to right now. Dumped the bag in a small alcove. Slumped against a wall. It was cold against his bare back. Nick sighed. "If you wanna talk, I'm here."
And if not, well, that was his decision. Marco was well known enough for Nick to, well, know him, but not too well known that it required a great break from habit to get the pronouns right.
"I...I killed someone else today. Jeremiah. I think he's dead, anyway. He attacked me." Nick shrugged.
Nick was, in many ways, a better person now. Still cruel. Crueller, even. But there was self-awareness now. Effort. Creativity. Nick would do many senseless and thoughtless things, often while knowing he was doing them, but one flaw that he had grown out of was bigotry. That was one place where he could give himself, well, not credit, the absence of a flaw was not something that deserved praise, but at least a respite from the endless volley of self-loathing that he otherwise subjected himself to. Nick would forget Marco's new name. Nick would slip up on pronouns. Nick would get things wrong, mess up on the etiquette, and, even if he got all the gender things right, probably find a dozen other ways to hurt and upset Marco.
But he would try.
Marco seemed happy to let them both in. Taking a step back to pick his bag back up, he walked past the threshold more comfortably, more casually, too tired to give any time to paranoid thoughts that were probably rational to listen to right now. Dumped the bag in a small alcove. Slumped against a wall. It was cold against his bare back. Nick sighed. "If you wanna talk, I'm here."
And if not, well, that was his decision. Marco was well known enough for Nick to, well, know him, but not too well known that it required a great break from habit to get the pronouns right.
"I...I killed someone else today. Jeremiah. I think he's dead, anyway. He attacked me." Nick shrugged.
Michael saw the Freddy Krueger glove. It was a murder weapon.
The girl Marco had killed was definitely a shock video now. She was a video titled Girl Gets Freddy Krueger'd. That was all she would ever be. Michael didn't even know her name yet. It hurt. He dreaded knowing her name. He dreaded knowing if it was Bree or Kelly or any of his friends or just someone he knew through information osmosis.
The safety went back on as the glove dropped to the ground.
Marco was
what was Marco doing
what was -
Michael felt Marco's arms wrap around him.
no no no no
a hug
oh no
woah
oh my god
woah
oh no oh no oh no -
Marco's head against his chest.
Michael's eyes widened. "W-woah wait oh my God woah I - wow -" he quietly sputtered out.
Marco was hugging Michael like Michael wanted to hug Beryl.
nonononono
Michael wasn't
Michael wasn't Beryl
He wasn't strong
He was going to fall over
He didn't know how to be strong for someone
He wanted to hug Marco like he wanted to hug Beryl
He wanted to sink into Marco
but Marco was too short
and Marco was already sinking into him
and if they sank into each other they would just fall over and Michael didn't want to fall over
and Marco had blood on him
and now Michael had blood on his shirt
he liked this shirt he didn't want to get blood on it and
"Hey Michael. I'm really glad you're both here..."
And Marco let Michael in.
Tears of sentiment.
Michael's brain zoomed out. It unfocused. He stuffed the gun back into his pocket and hugged Marco back. Squeezed him tight.
This... this felt nice. It felt nice. It felt really really nice.
It was all okay.
His voice was calm, soft, normal. "I - I... I'm glad I'm here too. I'm glad we're here.. I think."
Michael and Marco were the only people who existed. They existed.
Michael existed. He was real. He didn't need to try to exist. He didn't need to try to be someone. He didn't need to be anything. He didn't need to try to be himself.
Michael Froese, if only for this one moment in time, just was.
Words. Scottish accent.
"I...I killed someone else today. Jeremiah. I think he's dead, anyway. He attacked me."
Nick.
The rest of the universe faded back in. The real real Michael faded back out.
Michael's brain zoomed in. It focused. He felt his hug on Marco loosen a bit.
God fucking DAMNIT
Michael suddenly snapped his head to face towards Nick. His face remained blank.
He stared through Nick.
The proverbial safety was off.
He was going to hurt Nick.
His voice was slow and deliberate. "Nick, he's dead. Jeremiah is dead. You crushed his throat. I saw him die. I saw the way blood came out of his mouth when he tried to breathe. I saw the way he convulsed. I saw the way his brain never really caught up to the fact that he was dead. I saw too much blood. You know there was too much blood, and -" he paused. " - and it's just as much your fault as it was Jeremiah's. It wasn't like Beryl. It wasn't a mercy kill. You and Jeremiah both made the conscious decision to goddamn flail at each other until one of you died, instead of like, I dunno, actually trying to work your shit out. You're one murder away from literally being a spree killer..." He trailed off.
Proverbial safety on.
He wanted to hurt himself.
"...and you know what? I'm almost a spree killer too. I'm partially responsible for three deaths, at least. We'll see in the morning if it's more. If I was the one credited with those deaths, I actually would be a literal spree killer. You already know about Beryl. Jeremiah's honestly more my fault than it is yours or his. I fired the gun. I'm why nobody was able to step in and stop the fight. This next one's probably news to you; Benedict Murray's death is on me. One of the very first things I did after waking up on day one was let Benny walk into the woods alone with a traumatic fucking brain injury and then I lied and told everyone I was going after him when really I was running away to... try to find Beryl? I don't - I don't even fucking remember why I let Benny die. I'm a bad person. I am a bad person. On the beach, I almost shot Henry. I almost shot you in the back of the head. I thought about injecting you both with insulin overdoses while you slept. If I had actually found Benny, I probably would've shot him. I almost shot Jeremiah while he was dying. I almost shot Nia while she was crying over his corpse. I almost shot Alexander - I almost shot a fucking blind dude for fuck's sake. I nearly shot you at the commissary. I won't shoot you. I can't shoot you, I don't think - but I'm not a good person. I don't know what I am, but I know I'm not a good person. I'm sorry. I'm just sorry, I guess."
It hurt.
It hurt so fucking much.
And it hurt so fucking good.
His gaze flitted back down to Marco. He didn't want to hurt Marco. His voice was soft, quiet, quick. "It's okay. I understand. Whatever you did, I understand. I get it. I wish I didn't, but I do."
Back up to Nick. Eyes empty. A grimace, a nod, and a shrug.
The girl Marco had killed was definitely a shock video now. She was a video titled Girl Gets Freddy Krueger'd. That was all she would ever be. Michael didn't even know her name yet. It hurt. He dreaded knowing her name. He dreaded knowing if it was Bree or Kelly or any of his friends or just someone he knew through information osmosis.
The safety went back on as the glove dropped to the ground.
Marco was
what was Marco doing
what was -
Michael felt Marco's arms wrap around him.
no no no no
a hug
oh no
woah
oh my god
woah
oh no oh no oh no -
Marco's head against his chest.
Michael's eyes widened. "W-woah wait oh my God woah I - wow -" he quietly sputtered out.
Marco was hugging Michael like Michael wanted to hug Beryl.
nonononono
Michael wasn't
Michael wasn't Beryl
He wasn't strong
He was going to fall over
He didn't know how to be strong for someone
He wanted to hug Marco like he wanted to hug Beryl
He wanted to sink into Marco
but Marco was too short
and Marco was already sinking into him
and if they sank into each other they would just fall over and Michael didn't want to fall over
and Marco had blood on him
and now Michael had blood on his shirt
he liked this shirt he didn't want to get blood on it and
"Hey Michael. I'm really glad you're both here..."
And Marco let Michael in.
Tears of sentiment.
Michael's brain zoomed out. It unfocused. He stuffed the gun back into his pocket and hugged Marco back. Squeezed him tight.
This... this felt nice. It felt nice. It felt really really nice.
It was all okay.
His voice was calm, soft, normal. "I - I... I'm glad I'm here too. I'm glad we're here.. I think."
Michael and Marco were the only people who existed. They existed.
Michael existed. He was real. He didn't need to try to exist. He didn't need to try to be someone. He didn't need to be anything. He didn't need to try to be himself.
Michael Froese, if only for this one moment in time, just was.
Words. Scottish accent.
"I...I killed someone else today. Jeremiah. I think he's dead, anyway. He attacked me."
Nick.
The rest of the universe faded back in. The real real Michael faded back out.
Michael's brain zoomed in. It focused. He felt his hug on Marco loosen a bit.
God fucking DAMNIT
Michael suddenly snapped his head to face towards Nick. His face remained blank.
He stared through Nick.
The proverbial safety was off.
He was going to hurt Nick.
His voice was slow and deliberate. "Nick, he's dead. Jeremiah is dead. You crushed his throat. I saw him die. I saw the way blood came out of his mouth when he tried to breathe. I saw the way he convulsed. I saw the way his brain never really caught up to the fact that he was dead. I saw too much blood. You know there was too much blood, and -" he paused. " - and it's just as much your fault as it was Jeremiah's. It wasn't like Beryl. It wasn't a mercy kill. You and Jeremiah both made the conscious decision to goddamn flail at each other until one of you died, instead of like, I dunno, actually trying to work your shit out. You're one murder away from literally being a spree killer..." He trailed off.
Proverbial safety on.
He wanted to hurt himself.
"...and you know what? I'm almost a spree killer too. I'm partially responsible for three deaths, at least. We'll see in the morning if it's more. If I was the one credited with those deaths, I actually would be a literal spree killer. You already know about Beryl. Jeremiah's honestly more my fault than it is yours or his. I fired the gun. I'm why nobody was able to step in and stop the fight. This next one's probably news to you; Benedict Murray's death is on me. One of the very first things I did after waking up on day one was let Benny walk into the woods alone with a traumatic fucking brain injury and then I lied and told everyone I was going after him when really I was running away to... try to find Beryl? I don't - I don't even fucking remember why I let Benny die. I'm a bad person. I am a bad person. On the beach, I almost shot Henry. I almost shot you in the back of the head. I thought about injecting you both with insulin overdoses while you slept. If I had actually found Benny, I probably would've shot him. I almost shot Jeremiah while he was dying. I almost shot Nia while she was crying over his corpse. I almost shot Alexander - I almost shot a fucking blind dude for fuck's sake. I nearly shot you at the commissary. I won't shoot you. I can't shoot you, I don't think - but I'm not a good person. I don't know what I am, but I know I'm not a good person. I'm sorry. I'm just sorry, I guess."
It hurt.
It hurt so fucking much.
And it hurt so fucking good.
His gaze flitted back down to Marco. He didn't want to hurt Marco. His voice was soft, quiet, quick. "It's okay. I understand. Whatever you did, I understand. I get it. I wish I didn't, but I do."
Back up to Nick. Eyes empty. A grimace, a nod, and a shrug.
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
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Emprexx Plush
- Posts: 1678
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 3:37 pm
- Contact:
"I killed Kayla."
Holding Michael had made his euphoria surge again. This was the right thing to do, it meant something that he didn't have to understand. No over analysis. It was just good, and it was good for both of them. People talked a lot about metaphorical walls we build around ourselves and how others had to tear them down. From a narrative perspective he probably would have used the same kind of metaphor if he was writing the two of them. That wasn't how it felt in the moment, though. There were walls, but Marco didn't charge through them and cradle Michael in the rubble. They weren't his to destroy, and he wasn't sure he wanted them to come down anyway. From the perspective once you were inside them, they were beautiful. The relief of being let inside only came with the fear that you would be locked out. Marco had made it though, not by smashing his way through but by finding a door. One Michael chose to open for him when he took him in his arms.
The walls were still there, though. They loomed over the both of them when Michael launched into his speech. By the end their positions were clear: Marco and Michael still within, Nick decidedly without. Maybe it was a momentary separation, or they could have been building to this for as long as they'd been together, there was no way for Marco to know. It felt wrong, and when he started to think about it he felt the tug of a spiral start to form. It was going to drag him to a dark place. Nick and Michael would fight and he wouldn't say anything, either of them could leave if they knew what he'd really done, he wasn't like them, he had to hide it, whoever stayed in the aftermath would be who he clung to and he could be like them, he could fit to what they wanted he was good at that, he'd always been so good at that it was the only thing he was good for the only reason anyone wanted him around the only lie he kept telling himself even now it had to stop.
The confession passed his lips.
Michael said he understood. Nick said they could talk. If they were both telling the truth, everything would be okay, and he could tell it too.
"I woke up and, and she was close. Her voice got me out of the woods, and they were talking about all of this and I couldn't, I didn't want to believe it was happening so I just...didn't. She was angry with me, I think. I ran away, and I kept running every time it started to get real. I'm good at that. It just, it got out of hand so fast...I was panicking, I thought everyone was trying to hurt me, every time I'd make a little progress more people would show up and it'd all go wrong and it couldn't be coincidence, I was so sure someone had to be behind all of it and..."
Marco swallowed. There was no good place for his eyes to go. They roamed between Michael and Nick with the wringing of his hands.
"There she was, another coincidence right when I was the most freaked out. I, I want to say I just wanted to scare her. If I waved the glove around and screamed at her she'd crack and tell me what was really going on, and we could all go home. That's what I want to say. I don't..."
It was not just what he wanted to say, but what he wanted to think. Marco wanted this to be too hard to speak about. He wanted his body to choke him with bile at the thought of all the things he did to her. He wanted tears to stream down his face. His knees to buckle to thee floor, shame to fill him until he couldn't think of anything else.
"I don't think that's true, though. Just another lie I was telling myself."
Nothing in his mind or body intervened.
"I sharpened it. The glove. It was just a joke, I don't think they ever meant for it to be a real weapon. I did that. I made it into something that could hurt people. I can tell you I didn't mean to kill her, but I don't think I'm allowed. I made a choice. I didn't make it there but I made a choice, didn't I?"
His gaze paused between them, staring out through the crack in the door. He didn't know who he was asking. The truth was in the open now, though. If they hated him, at least they weren't hurting each other anymore.
Holding Michael had made his euphoria surge again. This was the right thing to do, it meant something that he didn't have to understand. No over analysis. It was just good, and it was good for both of them. People talked a lot about metaphorical walls we build around ourselves and how others had to tear them down. From a narrative perspective he probably would have used the same kind of metaphor if he was writing the two of them. That wasn't how it felt in the moment, though. There were walls, but Marco didn't charge through them and cradle Michael in the rubble. They weren't his to destroy, and he wasn't sure he wanted them to come down anyway. From the perspective once you were inside them, they were beautiful. The relief of being let inside only came with the fear that you would be locked out. Marco had made it though, not by smashing his way through but by finding a door. One Michael chose to open for him when he took him in his arms.
The walls were still there, though. They loomed over the both of them when Michael launched into his speech. By the end their positions were clear: Marco and Michael still within, Nick decidedly without. Maybe it was a momentary separation, or they could have been building to this for as long as they'd been together, there was no way for Marco to know. It felt wrong, and when he started to think about it he felt the tug of a spiral start to form. It was going to drag him to a dark place. Nick and Michael would fight and he wouldn't say anything, either of them could leave if they knew what he'd really done, he wasn't like them, he had to hide it, whoever stayed in the aftermath would be who he clung to and he could be like them, he could fit to what they wanted he was good at that, he'd always been so good at that it was the only thing he was good for the only reason anyone wanted him around the only lie he kept telling himself even now it had to stop.
The confession passed his lips.
Michael said he understood. Nick said they could talk. If they were both telling the truth, everything would be okay, and he could tell it too.
"I woke up and, and she was close. Her voice got me out of the woods, and they were talking about all of this and I couldn't, I didn't want to believe it was happening so I just...didn't. She was angry with me, I think. I ran away, and I kept running every time it started to get real. I'm good at that. It just, it got out of hand so fast...I was panicking, I thought everyone was trying to hurt me, every time I'd make a little progress more people would show up and it'd all go wrong and it couldn't be coincidence, I was so sure someone had to be behind all of it and..."
Marco swallowed. There was no good place for his eyes to go. They roamed between Michael and Nick with the wringing of his hands.
"There she was, another coincidence right when I was the most freaked out. I, I want to say I just wanted to scare her. If I waved the glove around and screamed at her she'd crack and tell me what was really going on, and we could all go home. That's what I want to say. I don't..."
It was not just what he wanted to say, but what he wanted to think. Marco wanted this to be too hard to speak about. He wanted his body to choke him with bile at the thought of all the things he did to her. He wanted tears to stream down his face. His knees to buckle to thee floor, shame to fill him until he couldn't think of anything else.
"I don't think that's true, though. Just another lie I was telling myself."
Nothing in his mind or body intervened.
"I sharpened it. The glove. It was just a joke, I don't think they ever meant for it to be a real weapon. I did that. I made it into something that could hurt people. I can tell you I didn't mean to kill her, but I don't think I'm allowed. I made a choice. I didn't make it there but I made a choice, didn't I?"
His gaze paused between them, staring out through the crack in the door. He didn't know who he was asking. The truth was in the open now, though. If they hated him, at least they weren't hurting each other anymore.
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General Goose
- Posts: 731
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:02 pm
Michael lied. Well, maybe not lied. Nick had no way of knowing what it was that motivated Michael's words, what his recollection of things were, but he was twisting things. Filling in the gaps. Presenting his own flawed interpretations, his own incomplete assessments, as if they were gospel. Nick had to struggle enough with the wrong narratives, falsehoods that Danya was spreading and his own subpar idea of what was going on, without Michael making it worse. Without Michael revealing a spiteful, sanctimonious streak. Nick sniffed. He was hurt. He was betrayed. Blinked back tears. He thought he had an understanding with Michael. Thought that Michael wasn't a senselessly cruel person. Maybe Nick needed to raise his guard up again.
"No, I didn't make a conscious decision, Michael. He attacked me. I fought back. Maybe some of my impulses were wrong, but you're not in my head. Don't tell me what conscious decisions I made and didn't make. I went in there, trying to explain myself, and sure I didn't do it right, but don't come at me with that bullshit." Nick's voice was steady. His eyes were threatening to break out into tears, of course. He had just been betrayed. Maybe it wasn't callous or calculated, maybe it was a mistake. But fuck. It felt like it.
He was fine with being criticised. Fine with being called out. But not when it was inaccurate. He'd happily get called out and lambasted and torn apart - physically as well as verbally - for all the sins he was guilty of, for all the faults that he did possess. But not for things that he was innocent of.
Then Michael turned the scrutiny onto himself, started whining about himself, and Nick knew he should have been sympathetic, but he needed to be petty for a moment. Needed to ignore Michael's pain. He wouldn't exacerbate it. Wouldn't make it worse. But he wouldn't help it. Not on this occasion, at least. An eye for an eye. Every time Michael hurt him emotionally, Nick would stand by while he hurt emotionally. It was only fair. It was proportionate. Nick had said how he'd felt. He hadn't insulted Michael. Hadn't even raised his voice or pressed the subject. Just...put the facts out there. The facts as he understood them.
And maybe his own account of things was wrong. But it had more chance of being accurate than Michael's interpretation.
Nick had calmed down now. "We all...make mistakes. Our survival instincts, our desire for this not to be true, our personality faults...we all make mistakes." He was hanging around the periphery of the group now.
He rested his back against the wall. Slumped down. Buried his head in his hands as he began to sob.
"No, I didn't make a conscious decision, Michael. He attacked me. I fought back. Maybe some of my impulses were wrong, but you're not in my head. Don't tell me what conscious decisions I made and didn't make. I went in there, trying to explain myself, and sure I didn't do it right, but don't come at me with that bullshit." Nick's voice was steady. His eyes were threatening to break out into tears, of course. He had just been betrayed. Maybe it wasn't callous or calculated, maybe it was a mistake. But fuck. It felt like it.
He was fine with being criticised. Fine with being called out. But not when it was inaccurate. He'd happily get called out and lambasted and torn apart - physically as well as verbally - for all the sins he was guilty of, for all the faults that he did possess. But not for things that he was innocent of.
Then Michael turned the scrutiny onto himself, started whining about himself, and Nick knew he should have been sympathetic, but he needed to be petty for a moment. Needed to ignore Michael's pain. He wouldn't exacerbate it. Wouldn't make it worse. But he wouldn't help it. Not on this occasion, at least. An eye for an eye. Every time Michael hurt him emotionally, Nick would stand by while he hurt emotionally. It was only fair. It was proportionate. Nick had said how he'd felt. He hadn't insulted Michael. Hadn't even raised his voice or pressed the subject. Just...put the facts out there. The facts as he understood them.
And maybe his own account of things was wrong. But it had more chance of being accurate than Michael's interpretation.
Nick had calmed down now. "We all...make mistakes. Our survival instincts, our desire for this not to be true, our personality faults...we all make mistakes." He was hanging around the periphery of the group now.
He rested his back against the wall. Slumped down. Buried his head in his hands as he began to sob.
Marco confessed.
Nick denied.
Michael didn't know how to not make conscious decisions. The closest thing he could remember to it was earlier in the day, when he was hopped up on stims. Stims he'd decided to take to induce thoughtlessness. A conscious decision.
Actually, no.
He was unconscious when he was with Beryl. Beryl was dead. She was floating on the ocean. Birds were eating her face.
He was unconscious during the hug with Marco. Marco wasn't dead. That was nice.
Maybe Michael was projecting onto Nick. Maybe he'd always just assumed everyone was as robotic as him.
But maybe he was right. Maybe everything anyone had ever done really was a conscious decision. Maybe they just gave the thought processes different connotations as a coping process to help them avoid seeing the person they really were. Maybe people romanticized everything because it made existence a little bit more palatable. Maybe most people didn't want to admit they saw the world at all. Maybe they didn't want to admit they made the connections between things. Maybe they were too scared to admit to themselves that they connected the variables and the sums of the variables. Maybe they were too scared to admit to themselves what they really were. Maybe they were too scared to admit that they'd always been lying to themselves and everyone they'd ever interacted with about who they really were. Maybe they were all too scared to admit that the person they hoped they were never actually existed. Maybe they were too scared to admit that nobody really existed. Maybe all anyone wanted in life was to cling to those brief moments of unconsciousness. Maybe everyone consciously used cognitive dissonance to deal with the fact that they consciously used cognitive dissonance to hide from themselves. Maybe they were too scared to admit to themselves that they were broken.
Maybe they were too scared to admit they'd always been broken.
Maybe even Beryl had always been broken. Maybe she'd never really been okay. Maybe she'd never really been happy. Maybe she'd never really existed.
The thought hurt, but it hurt in a bad way. He pushed it down.
Maybe the concept of "dignity" was just a way for everyone to pretend that they weren't human.
Maybe every person was capable of possessing incredible amounts of love and empathy, but also sadness and anger and pain and hatred.
Maybe the only thing that made people unique were their coping strategies. Maybe they were afraid to admit they weren't the main character. Maybe they were afraid to admit there was no main character.
Maybe everyone was afraid to admit that deep down they were the person they were in the dark.
Maybe everyone was afraid to admit that, at the end of the day, all they ever were was matter and electricity. Maybe they were afraid to admit they were really just the remnants of burnt-out stars. Maybe they were afraid to admit that they, like everything else, were just part of the universe. Maybe they were afraid to admit they were all little oscillators.
Maybe everyone was afraid to admit they had a fundamental aversion to just being real.
Michael wasn't afraid anymore. He knew the dirt. He knew he knew the dirt. He knew who he was.
He was nothing. He was a void. He was a nebulous blob. He was Michael. He didn't exist. He'd never existed.
He wasn't anything. He just was. He didn't want to be something. He just wanted to be.
He was tangibly intangible. Nothing and something weren't mutually exclusive. Like how light simultaneously exhibited properties of being both particles and waves. The thought was familiar.
He knew he was the universe's little oscillator. He knew his life had no meaning.
He knew what closure sounded like. It sounded like nothing.
And he loved it.
Mutual exclusivity was a farce.
He wasn't sure if he knew how metaphysics worked, but that sounded like how he thought metaphysics worked.
Marco wasn't afraid either. Marco was just Marco. Marco just was. Michael pulled him back into another hug.
His voice was soft, quiet enough for Nick to maybe not hear.
He smiled.
"It's alright. We did what we did. We are what we are. We're us. We're not pretending. We just... we're real now. We're really real now."
This island was everyone's own personal metaphor. He remembered he'd said that to Henry. It was true.
Everyone had always been broken or atypical or whatever. The island just made them honest about it. It was like therapy, sort of.
The hypocrites and the realists. Michael was a realist now. Marco was a realist now. Nick wasn't one yet, maybe.
Michael didn't want to die anywhere else in the world. It was the only place he could die as himself. He knew if he went back home, the world wouldn't let him be him.
It wouldn't have let Beryl be Beryl either. Even if life had gone on normally, it wouldn't have let Beryl be Beryl. Beryl dying here was the only way she could have ever died as herself.
The thought should have hurt. It didn't. It felt nice. It felt familiar.
The island was the only way the students could have ever died as who they really were.
Nick said something. He was processing. He was starting to get it.
He was sobbing. That was a good sign when it came to self-discovery, usually.
...was he crying because of what Michael said? Was Nick Ogilvie, the big buff bearded angry Scottish dude, crying because of what Michael, some shrimpy emaciated habitually under-the-radar STEM kid, said?
The possibility made him feel a kind of power that was completely new to him.
Michael's voice was still soft, though louder than before.
Therapy island.
"Nick, hey... you can join us, if you'd like. Just, like... let's just do a group hug. Let's just hug it out."
Nick denied.
Michael didn't know how to not make conscious decisions. The closest thing he could remember to it was earlier in the day, when he was hopped up on stims. Stims he'd decided to take to induce thoughtlessness. A conscious decision.
Actually, no.
He was unconscious when he was with Beryl. Beryl was dead. She was floating on the ocean. Birds were eating her face.
He was unconscious during the hug with Marco. Marco wasn't dead. That was nice.
Maybe Michael was projecting onto Nick. Maybe he'd always just assumed everyone was as robotic as him.
But maybe he was right. Maybe everything anyone had ever done really was a conscious decision. Maybe they just gave the thought processes different connotations as a coping process to help them avoid seeing the person they really were. Maybe people romanticized everything because it made existence a little bit more palatable. Maybe most people didn't want to admit they saw the world at all. Maybe they didn't want to admit they made the connections between things. Maybe they were too scared to admit to themselves that they connected the variables and the sums of the variables. Maybe they were too scared to admit to themselves what they really were. Maybe they were too scared to admit that they'd always been lying to themselves and everyone they'd ever interacted with about who they really were. Maybe they were all too scared to admit that the person they hoped they were never actually existed. Maybe they were too scared to admit that nobody really existed. Maybe all anyone wanted in life was to cling to those brief moments of unconsciousness. Maybe everyone consciously used cognitive dissonance to deal with the fact that they consciously used cognitive dissonance to hide from themselves. Maybe they were too scared to admit to themselves that they were broken.
Maybe they were too scared to admit they'd always been broken.
Maybe even Beryl had always been broken. Maybe she'd never really been okay. Maybe she'd never really been happy. Maybe she'd never really existed.
The thought hurt, but it hurt in a bad way. He pushed it down.
Maybe the concept of "dignity" was just a way for everyone to pretend that they weren't human.
Maybe every person was capable of possessing incredible amounts of love and empathy, but also sadness and anger and pain and hatred.
Maybe the only thing that made people unique were their coping strategies. Maybe they were afraid to admit they weren't the main character. Maybe they were afraid to admit there was no main character.
Maybe everyone was afraid to admit that deep down they were the person they were in the dark.
Maybe everyone was afraid to admit that, at the end of the day, all they ever were was matter and electricity. Maybe they were afraid to admit they were really just the remnants of burnt-out stars. Maybe they were afraid to admit that they, like everything else, were just part of the universe. Maybe they were afraid to admit they were all little oscillators.
Maybe everyone was afraid to admit they had a fundamental aversion to just being real.
Michael wasn't afraid anymore. He knew the dirt. He knew he knew the dirt. He knew who he was.
He was nothing. He was a void. He was a nebulous blob. He was Michael. He didn't exist. He'd never existed.
He wasn't anything. He just was. He didn't want to be something. He just wanted to be.
He was tangibly intangible. Nothing and something weren't mutually exclusive. Like how light simultaneously exhibited properties of being both particles and waves. The thought was familiar.
He knew he was the universe's little oscillator. He knew his life had no meaning.
He knew what closure sounded like. It sounded like nothing.
And he loved it.
Mutual exclusivity was a farce.
He wasn't sure if he knew how metaphysics worked, but that sounded like how he thought metaphysics worked.
Marco wasn't afraid either. Marco was just Marco. Marco just was. Michael pulled him back into another hug.
His voice was soft, quiet enough for Nick to maybe not hear.
He smiled.
"It's alright. We did what we did. We are what we are. We're us. We're not pretending. We just... we're real now. We're really real now."
This island was everyone's own personal metaphor. He remembered he'd said that to Henry. It was true.
Everyone had always been broken or atypical or whatever. The island just made them honest about it. It was like therapy, sort of.
The hypocrites and the realists. Michael was a realist now. Marco was a realist now. Nick wasn't one yet, maybe.
Michael didn't want to die anywhere else in the world. It was the only place he could die as himself. He knew if he went back home, the world wouldn't let him be him.
It wouldn't have let Beryl be Beryl either. Even if life had gone on normally, it wouldn't have let Beryl be Beryl. Beryl dying here was the only way she could have ever died as herself.
The thought should have hurt. It didn't. It felt nice. It felt familiar.
The island was the only way the students could have ever died as who they really were.
Nick said something. He was processing. He was starting to get it.
He was sobbing. That was a good sign when it came to self-discovery, usually.
...was he crying because of what Michael said? Was Nick Ogilvie, the big buff bearded angry Scottish dude, crying because of what Michael, some shrimpy emaciated habitually under-the-radar STEM kid, said?
The possibility made him feel a kind of power that was completely new to him.
Michael's voice was still soft, though louder than before.
Therapy island.
"Nick, hey... you can join us, if you'd like. Just, like... let's just do a group hug. Let's just hug it out."
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.