Lucas slumped against a tree, exhausted. His stomach was empty; he was relieved of the pain in his gut. It was small comfort. He stared at the trees that carried on ahead of him. His thoughts were both full of bile, and silenced with fatigue. A black void of misery filling his head. He continued to stare.
He was so parched, his tongue kept sticking to his mouth. The marshmallows worked their way through his digestion, providing empty calories that barely stopped the hunger pangs. He still stank of sweat, mud and piss. He still felt worthless.
What was the point? He asked a nobody. He didn’t have a chance anymore; anyone watching at home could tell that. No-one liked him before, and no-one was going to give him a chance now that he was branded a killer. No-one was prepared to listen to his side of the story, whatever that was. No-one would believe him if he said he’d defended himself from Andy. As always, everyone loved everyone that wasn’t him.
Everyone was a shit.
He didn’t have any supplies. He didn’t have any allies. He didn’t have any hope. He didn’t even have himself.
He stared up at the leaf cover. Light streamed through in bits and pieces. It reminded him of his times out with his Dad and Grandpa. It reminded him of better times. It all felt so long ago.
There was a trip they’d taken, after his life was ruined. It was just him and his dad: his Grandpa was still recovering from pneumonia. He'd missed him. He didn’t remember catching any fish. He was too miserable to really focus on much of anything. But he knew his dad had tried. He knew someone had cared.
That person was just an ancient memory. There was a before, and there was an after. People only cared about the after. He could only care about the after.
He brought his eyes downward to the forest floor. Stones littered it.
He grabbed a rock in his hand. It was the third one he’d held. The hunks of granite he’d claimed as his best friend. He wasn’t wrong. Whose head would this one bash in?
He pushed it against his own. It was cold and damp. He shut his eyes.
He moved his hand back, then slammed the rock into his brow.
He saw spots. Suddenly, he was moaning in pain. He clutched his head. Blood soaked his hand. His eye felt funny. His hands were shaking. He was dizzy.
The rock had fallen to the ground. He could see a squirrel out of his other eye. It was staring at him. He couldn’t tell how far it was.
“Fuck you, stupid squirrel.” He spat. It scurried away.
Finally. He’d gotten someone to leave him alone. His eye kept twitching. It was trying to shut but the shape was wrong. It really hurt. Why had he done it again?
He picked the rock back up. Stared at it with his good eye. His hand was still shaking. He felt like he was going to throw up.
He struck himself in the same spot. He heard a crack, as his orbit shattered. Blood poured out of the socket. He couldn’t see a thing out of his right side. He moaned louder. He fell down to his side.
He couldn’t stop shaking. His moans turned into a quiet whimper. He didn’t know if the squirrel had come back. He didn’t know what was around him.
He imagined what people would think when they found him. Lucas was suffering. That was hilarious. Everyone point and laugh at the stupid idiot dying in the woods. It was his own fault anyway. Everything that ever happened to him was always his own fault, so it was ok to laugh at his misery.
Thoughts turned to reality. Garren came out of the trees. Those two bitches whose names he never learned. The four fuckers who’d beat him half to death. Marco, the shithead who made him look like a punk. Andy, with the branch through his eye. There were two Andys: one with a branch, one without. Emmett and Cecil, who’d had the last laugh. They all had the last laugh. They all pointed and laughed.
More figures came out the trees. Pouring out. He ran out of faces, so they became blank silhouettes. Not stopping. Never stopping. Laughing, and laughing, and laughing.
His hand reach out. He grabbed the rock. He struck himself again. He didn’t have the strength to do any real damage, but it still left a bruise. The laughter didn’t stop.
The rock rolled out to the side. He was panting heavily. He still couldn’t see anything out of his right side. He could taste the blood pouring down his face.
He rolled over, reaching out for the tree he’d been leaning against. He supported himself on it as he got to his feet.
“Fuck you.” he spat again, to the people who weren’t there.
He planted both hands on the tree. Moved in close. He could feel the rough bark against his body. He craned his neck backwards.
“You want to see me suffer?” he whispered, listlessly. “You want to see Facebook Lucas look like a loser?"
He swung his face forwards. The bark cut into his skin as he slammed his head into the tree. The bone in his broken eye creaked. His skull cracked. His brain crashed into it.
He staggered backwards. “Fuc-“ he started, but he couldn’t finish.
He tried to think. Tried to remember what he was doing. He couldn’t. He fell backwards.
Lucas Brady passed out. He died from the concussion four hours later.
B035: LUCAS BRADY - DECEASED
93 STUDENTS REMAINING
93 STUDENTS REMAINING