the meantime

[LeslieFranc]

((B014: Cecil Salazar-Loveless — V7 START))

…seven…eight…nine…ten. Ten fingers on my hand.

Cecil tore his gaze away from his outstretched hand and picked up the instruction manual about the ballistic knife, scanning the words he had been poring on for a while. Then at his daypack, his eyes staring at the etched B014. The duffel bag with “Property of SOTF” on it. And then he dropped the manual and picked up the so-called survival guide, once again intensely staring at the words in front, expecting—hell, he was hoping—for it to change or distort or something that will prove that this is not real, anything, just please, let this all be a dream—

No.

All of them. Still the same words.

It had been his fourth reality check test for the past couple of minutes, right after he finished bawling his fucking eyes out when he woke up and realized just what kind of shit he’s in. Back home, when it was late at night and he would still have his eyes opened, he’d wonder if he actually slept prior to one o’clock in the morning or had he just lied there motionless with his eyes simply closed. He didn’t feel well-rested at all, so then maybe he should get back to sleep, but then he’d open his eyes at five, and wonder again if he actually slept or was he awake the whole night? Cecil had spent his nights checking if he was dreaming and sometimes even his days if he was having some sort of sleep deprivation-induced hallucination, but Cecil didn’t remember ever proving that he was dreaming.

It seemed like he never will.

This is real. I’m here.

Cecil dropped the survival guide and went back to sticking the blade of his knife back into its handle, having tried to use it earlier while he was figuring out how to work his assigned weapon. He thought it impractical if it took this long to lodge the blade back, but it was still a knife. He can still defend himself. From his classmates. In Survival of the Fittest.

Fuck.

Click.

There, knife’s good as new. Cecil, on the other hand, felt like breaking down again as he continued to process the fact that his classmates are gonna kill each other, they’re gonna die, his friends are gonna die, he’s gonna die—

Shit, he started shaking again.

God, he just wants to go home. He needs to go home.

Home. With Ma, Mom, Angel and Drew. Please.

Tears pooled in his eyes while shaky quivering breaths were spilling out of his mouth, but he immediately squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his lips together. Cecil swallowed it all in and let out a long sigh.

I need to go home. So I need to move.

He tossed the survival guide and the instruction manual back into his daypack. He had already read them all, so maybe he will have to get rid of them to lighten the load later. Allowing himself a piece of cracker and one slice of bread, Cecil only left the map, compass and his knife out from the bag.

He didn’t want to get up. If his legs could talk, they’d say they wouldn’t want to, they’re tired and scared, and so was Cecil, but he stood up anyway.

He had to find shelter. Find fresh water. Friends.

His friends. He had to…find his friends.

He wanted to explore the island, find Camila or Declyn, make sure they’re with him and protect them. Well, Cecil actually thinks Camila could handle herself more than fine. But Declyn, he wanted to find and hold onto. And yet, he wondered if it would be for the best.

Maybe I should just…huh…

Either way, he should start moving. He needed to go home, so he needed to live, needed to survive, to move move move.

Cecil pocketed the compass into his coat pocket, looking over the map as he started walking, glancing up every now and then to find a way out of the woods and also check for anything or anyone he should watch out for.

The ballistic knife will remain in his hand as long as it could.

((Cecil Salazar-Loveless continued in Quintessential Thinking))