“Looks like it’s really coming down, now.”
Saying something out loud made him feel a little less alone. Almost as if someone might hear him from outside, and stop by. Maybe they wouldn’t recognize his voice at first, and step in. He’d been unable to close the front door, the cutout in the frame for the handle having long since worn out completely. It hung slightly ajar, something he’d been quietly hoping might seem inviting to someone.
anyone?
((Tyrell Lahti continued from Heimweh))
This house was pleasant enough. The roof was holding up, which was a godsend given the sheets of rain falling all across the island and a vast improvement from his last shelter. It was significantly more spacious than the houses down in the village. This one in particular happened to be painted several different varieties of purple, a design Ty found kind of charming.
It's empty, too.
The trip here had been uneventful, if not uncomfortably wet. Ty had donned his old hoodie to keep the rain off the bandages, a job which the thick layered fabric managed to do reasonably well at the cost of now being sopping-wet on the outside. He hung it to dry off of the back of one of the dining chairs. It almost looked like it was holding a spot for someone.
Like they’d just stepped outside for a bit, and were going to be back any minute now.
If only.
Ty sat alone at the table staring out a window, watching the rain fall. One could just barely see the lake from here, and the dark patterns the downpour left on its surface. It was probably not the safest thing to do, to sit next to the window like this, but he supposed the glare on the window from the midday light was sufficient enough to mask his presence.
I’m not sure I even care.
In front of him on the table was the handgun he’d picked up, the rain having washed the few droplets of blood away from the front end of it. He’d drawn it upon entering the house and, after finding the place abandoned, had left it on the table in front of him. It moved easily on the lacquered wood, and he spun it idly with his index finger. Sometimes when it stopped, the barrel ended up pointing at him. He never let it sit there too long.
Why shouldn't I?
It was intensely disquieting to realize where his only genuine feelings of remorse were. The rain had helped mask the fact that he'd been crying more than he'd ever have liked to admit. After all, given what most people knew by now it wasn't like anyone would suspect anything other than crocodile tears; they didn't even feel like a real emotions to him. Only because he'd killed Chris and Felix was he now sitting alone in this house, spinning a pistol on a table and imagining that somehow it would go off and kill him eventually. The real cost of their deaths, to him, wasn't the knowledge that he'd destroyed two people. That felt awful on a cerebral, intellectual level. Of course he knew it was a terrible thing to have done.
The consequences of his actions though, that was something he really understood and felt. It really hurt.
I killed the only good thing that really mattered to me.
There was still more for him to do here, but it was hard to summon up the willpower to get moving again. She was still out there. Having to ignore that was almost worse than losing her. Waiting every day to hear her name on a loudspeaker, wondering what kind of sarcastic bullshit that bastard would sprinkle alongside her name. Pondering how many often Danya would even speak it.
Maybe just once. Probably not.
He shook his head, casting the grim thought from his mind. The chair he'd once sunk into after a long journey uphill now felt suddenly uncomfortable, and he stood up, stepping away from the window and the pistol on the table. He walked across the room, to an object that very clearly stood out from the rest of the aging decor. Close enough he could see his reflection in the camera lens.
"You bastards fucking love this shit, don't you?"
"I guess see you in hell, Dad."
"Lorenzo's not making it back. I promise you."
"Rudi, Irene - you guys were better to me than my own folks. I wish I could have done more for your daughter."
"To the families of Christine and Felix and Yuko - I'm genuinely sorry for what I did. I deserve all of this. I hope you find some closure."
On some level saying anything at all to account for himself or his actions seemed kind of trite, and so he said nothing. After exchanging a glare with the camera, he walked further into the house. One of the bedrooms had a full length mirror, offering a more complete reflection than the distorted, blackened image he saw in the lens. Ty stepped in front of it, looking over the damage from the day before. Few parts of him had come away unscathed, and mostly he looked just like he felt.
I'll just do what I'm supposed to than get outta here. There's just one path to the end from here. Most folks don't ever get that. I'll make it right if I can. Make it easier for her if I have to. It'll be meaningful. I'll be remembered.
After a few moments spent wondering exactly who it was staring back at him, Ty returned to the front room. He only got a few steps in before having to stop dead in his tracks.
"Oh. Okay then."
Raw Deal
Open. Day 3, Post-Announcements.
Drip.
While barely weighing two pounds when fully loaded, the Walther P99's barrel quivered in the air as though it weighed forty. The small circular hole stared out at Tyrell as though it were laughing at him, mocking him under every quiver, every twitch from side to side. The dark polymer frame glared a chasm in his forehead and the trigger stood ready to be the object of Tyrell's deliverance. The safety had abandoned him, allowing the tall boy his illusions before moving on. Perhaps it had been spinning on the table that had offended the weapon so, or maybe it was just a journeyman, heading from place to place with no real emotional attachment to its owner. The fact remained that it had mutinied, and the gun was now a traitor.
Drip.
Attached to the Walther was a sizeable hand, quivering under the weight of expectation if not the weapon itself. Said hand belonged to an equally proportioned arm, covered in a dampened sleeve with a blue and green crosshatch pattern that was equally allowed all over the long-sleeved shirt it was a part of. The owner of the shirt was covered in water from the rain, and the only sound after Tyrell's utterance was the sound of water, slowly dripping on the wooden flooring of the house.
Drip.
The P99 quivered in the air.
Drip.
A lip trembled with indignation.
Drip.
Glistened with water, a forehead vein throbbed.
Drip.
Salty tears ran down a cheek, mixed in with the water from the rain.
Drip.
Finally, words - each one coming with the same force as though they'd come from the Walther themselves.
"How could you? I gave you a chance!"
Drip.
The Walther quivered again, and the crossbow known as Min-jae gently swayed around his torso as Claudeson waited for his absolution.
Drip.
((Claudeson Bademosi continued from A modest violet grew,))
While barely weighing two pounds when fully loaded, the Walther P99's barrel quivered in the air as though it weighed forty. The small circular hole stared out at Tyrell as though it were laughing at him, mocking him under every quiver, every twitch from side to side. The dark polymer frame glared a chasm in his forehead and the trigger stood ready to be the object of Tyrell's deliverance. The safety had abandoned him, allowing the tall boy his illusions before moving on. Perhaps it had been spinning on the table that had offended the weapon so, or maybe it was just a journeyman, heading from place to place with no real emotional attachment to its owner. The fact remained that it had mutinied, and the gun was now a traitor.
Drip.
Attached to the Walther was a sizeable hand, quivering under the weight of expectation if not the weapon itself. Said hand belonged to an equally proportioned arm, covered in a dampened sleeve with a blue and green crosshatch pattern that was equally allowed all over the long-sleeved shirt it was a part of. The owner of the shirt was covered in water from the rain, and the only sound after Tyrell's utterance was the sound of water, slowly dripping on the wooden flooring of the house.
Drip.
The P99 quivered in the air.
Drip.
A lip trembled with indignation.
Drip.
Glistened with water, a forehead vein throbbed.
Drip.
Salty tears ran down a cheek, mixed in with the water from the rain.
Drip.
Finally, words - each one coming with the same force as though they'd come from the Walther themselves.
"How could you? I gave you a chance!"
Drip.
The Walther quivered again, and the crossbow known as Min-jae gently swayed around his torso as Claudeson waited for his absolution.
Drip.
((Claudeson Bademosi continued from A modest violet grew,))
The appearance of the gun had been startling at first, before he noted the person who was holding it. Ty looked Claude up and down, noting how the past day had treated him. Not well, it seemed. The last thing he expected was for Claude of all people to gun him down in cold blood; still, he was clearly suffering under the stress of what he’d experienced – rather, what he’d heard.
Imagine if you'd actually been there.
Begging for his life or justifying himself to this pretender weren't in the cards, regardless of the potential cost of not ameliorating this standoff as soon as possible. Ty had too much self respect and too little a desire for self preservation to stoop to that level.
So with palms open, Ty offered a modest shrug.
“And? What did you expect?”
Imagine if you'd actually been there.
Begging for his life or justifying himself to this pretender weren't in the cards, regardless of the potential cost of not ameliorating this standoff as soon as possible. Ty had too much self respect and too little a desire for self preservation to stoop to that level.
So with palms open, Ty offered a modest shrug.
“And? What did you expect?”
The pistol just felt so heavy. It had been carelessly left on a table, and once he had come upon it, Claudeson had picked it up almost automatically, as though it were a toy left out by a child. Unlike when he held Min-jae, the weapon felt uncomfortable, foreign to him. The sensation of pointing it at someone was even more foreign. His arm fought against the incorrectness of the situation, causing the weapon to quiver some more.
What had he expected?
The query only brought more indignation to his mind, and Claudeson felt his face flush hot with fury. So it was automatic; assumed. Tyrell truly had pulled the wool over his eyes, and he had done so expertly. His expression twisted into a mixture of pain and incomprehension.
"You could have done something - done anything." Claudeson hissed the words at Tyrell, small flecks of white spittle flying from his lips. "It was a choice, Tyrell. You had," the gun wavered once more, "a choice."
Taking a jagged breath in through his still-wounded nose, Claudeson tried to steady his hold on the pistol. The fury of his mistake still coursed through his veins, and through the still distant pain in his ribs, he spat another question at the boy in his sights.
"Why? Why would you walk that path?"
What had he expected?
The query only brought more indignation to his mind, and Claudeson felt his face flush hot with fury. So it was automatic; assumed. Tyrell truly had pulled the wool over his eyes, and he had done so expertly. His expression twisted into a mixture of pain and incomprehension.
"You could have done something - done anything." Claudeson hissed the words at Tyrell, small flecks of white spittle flying from his lips. "It was a choice, Tyrell. You had," the gun wavered once more, "a choice."
Taking a jagged breath in through his still-wounded nose, Claudeson tried to steady his hold on the pistol. The fury of his mistake still coursed through his veins, and through the still distant pain in his ribs, he spat another question at the boy in his sights.
"Why? Why would you walk that path?"
No answer, but more ragged pleading. People didn’t interrogate others at gunpoint because they had all the answers. It seemed a bit wrong, maybe even a little bit embarrassing to see Claude speaking as he did even though he held all of the hard power in this situation.
More than a bit irritating too, to hear him phrase his accusations the way he did. As if Ty’s actions were the course of one sordid moment when he’d decided to abandon all pretense of humanity, not a series of increasingly more regrettable decisions that led him to a point when he was at the mercy of Claude, of all people.
"Choices. As in, the plural. I made choices, Claude. I didn't make any of them lightly, and they've cost me."
It must’ve been comforting to have such an utterly simple worldview, up until the point when one ran into a situation it couldn’t explain away. Then all someone like Claude could do was feel around helplessly in the dark, pleading for answers in all of the wrong places. Desperately trying to fit what was happening around them into his broken schema of how the world was supposed to work, failing at every turn.
Maybe given enough time he’d find his way out of such a pit, but Ty wasn’t going to be the one to drag him out of it. Not at the barrel of a gun, and not if he was going to be subject to his blithering, naïve judgement.
Dropping his hands to his sides, Ty sighed and posed his own exasperated question.
"What is it you think you’re going to learn if I tell you why Yuko, Felix, and Chris all died?"
Ty held a neutral gaze, bracing himself for whatever response awaited him.
More than a bit irritating too, to hear him phrase his accusations the way he did. As if Ty’s actions were the course of one sordid moment when he’d decided to abandon all pretense of humanity, not a series of increasingly more regrettable decisions that led him to a point when he was at the mercy of Claude, of all people.
"Choices. As in, the plural. I made choices, Claude. I didn't make any of them lightly, and they've cost me."
It must’ve been comforting to have such an utterly simple worldview, up until the point when one ran into a situation it couldn’t explain away. Then all someone like Claude could do was feel around helplessly in the dark, pleading for answers in all of the wrong places. Desperately trying to fit what was happening around them into his broken schema of how the world was supposed to work, failing at every turn.
Maybe given enough time he’d find his way out of such a pit, but Ty wasn’t going to be the one to drag him out of it. Not at the barrel of a gun, and not if he was going to be subject to his blithering, naïve judgement.
Dropping his hands to his sides, Ty sighed and posed his own exasperated question.
"What is it you think you’re going to learn if I tell you why Yuko, Felix, and Chris all died?"
Ty held a neutral gaze, bracing himself for whatever response awaited him.
Everything seemed to drop away from the outside world as he pointed the gun unsteadily at Tyrell. The sound of the rain was but a faint pattering in the background, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. The wood panelling of the house could have been made of human flesh and Claudeson would have barely given it a second look. Right now, the only thing that he could see before him were the darkened circles underneath the eyes of someone who had stepped before the Devil himself.
It took him a moment to comprehend the words that Tyrell chose to retort with, and they only caused him more grief, more indignation. They were excuses, and they meant nothing.
"They have — they have cost you?! Here you stand before me, and all you can do is wallow in your own self-pity, in the things that you have lost?"
His grip upon the Walther became a bit stronger as he found a smidge of conviction.
"What about your victims, Tyrell? Do you forget what you have cost them? What could you have possibly lost that does not pale in comparison to the lives that you have taken?!"
Claudeson was basically shouting at Tyrell now, the barrel of the Walther was no longer shaking. It straightened itself, for a moment. The two bodies on Tyrell's name reflected upon his conscience and strengthened his resolve.
"You were moments away from taking the cowa—" Claudeson blinked mid-sentence as his mind suddenly took a few steps back. The barrel of the pistol began to quiver. "Wait. Yuko?"
Yuko had died by someone else's hand. Why would Tyrell claim knowledge of something that he — oh, no. Oh good God, no. His voice was breathless; barely a whisper, and another tear formed in the corner of his eye.
"Why Yuko? She — Katrina was — what have you done?"
It took him a moment to comprehend the words that Tyrell chose to retort with, and they only caused him more grief, more indignation. They were excuses, and they meant nothing.
"They have — they have cost you?! Here you stand before me, and all you can do is wallow in your own self-pity, in the things that you have lost?"
His grip upon the Walther became a bit stronger as he found a smidge of conviction.
"What about your victims, Tyrell? Do you forget what you have cost them? What could you have possibly lost that does not pale in comparison to the lives that you have taken?!"
Claudeson was basically shouting at Tyrell now, the barrel of the Walther was no longer shaking. It straightened itself, for a moment. The two bodies on Tyrell's name reflected upon his conscience and strengthened his resolve.
"You were moments away from taking the cowa—" Claudeson blinked mid-sentence as his mind suddenly took a few steps back. The barrel of the pistol began to quiver. "Wait. Yuko?"
Yuko had died by someone else's hand. Why would Tyrell claim knowledge of something that he — oh, no. Oh good God, no. His voice was breathless; barely a whisper, and another tear formed in the corner of his eye.
"Why Yuko? She — Katrina was — what have you done?"
Ty continued watching Claude as he seemed to just barely pull himself together. Every time his aim faltered slightly, Ty had to suppress the urge to lunge at him and wrestle the pistol away. Last time there’d been less space to cover, and people in the way. The only thing between them was dead air, and Claude had his finger on the trigger.
The air felt thick. He took a deep, calming breath. Bracing himself for a possible opportunity. Unlike the day before, when he’d been practically swimming in adrenaline, this entire interaction only seemed to tire him.
It might’ve just been easier to let Claude correct his mistake.
No. I promised I’d do my best. Why end it here?
An involuntary twitch at the mention of self pity and victims brought Ty a familiar surge of hatred, and he slowly clenched and unclenched a bandaged fist as Claude carried on. Holding a steady gaze as Claude now felt the need to shout at him. The urge to interrupt was difficult to resist, and thankfully Claude seemed to lose steam on his own.
One more than he’d known about. I shouldn’t have let that slip.
Ty cocked his head to the side as he watched Claude’s reaction to the mention of Yuko’s name. At first he wondered if Claude knew her, but then realized no – it was yet another thing to blame himself for. It wasn’t about who she was, or what Ty was. It was what they represented. How it warped and twisted everything he must’ve thought about the way the world worked.
One more body on his conscience.
It must’ve hurt him.
So Ty explained further, a faint tinge of regret in his voice.
“Katrina gutted Yuko with a sword trying to get to me, after I killed Felix. It was my fault, not hers. I wish they hadn’t spun it that way.”
Silence hung in the heavy air, as Ty thought back to what had happened in that house. Katrina’s scream as she realized what she’d done still haunted him. If he let his mind wander, he could almost still hear it. Yuko's two sisters were devastated, no doubt. If either one had the will to, they'd hunt Katrina to the ends of the earth. It wasn't fair.
Ty wondered if anyone would cry for him.
“I tried. Like you asked. I wanted to help Erika. I love her. I had to survive to be there for her. No matter what. But she turned me away because of what I did."
He looked back up at Claude, who still held him at gunpoint.
"I failed. No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try to make it right, I'm going to die alone, Claude. So try and appreciate how little I care for your thoughts on what I did. If you think killing me is going to clear your conscience, grow a spine and fucking do it already.”
The air felt thick. He took a deep, calming breath. Bracing himself for a possible opportunity. Unlike the day before, when he’d been practically swimming in adrenaline, this entire interaction only seemed to tire him.
It might’ve just been easier to let Claude correct his mistake.
No. I promised I’d do my best. Why end it here?
An involuntary twitch at the mention of self pity and victims brought Ty a familiar surge of hatred, and he slowly clenched and unclenched a bandaged fist as Claude carried on. Holding a steady gaze as Claude now felt the need to shout at him. The urge to interrupt was difficult to resist, and thankfully Claude seemed to lose steam on his own.
One more than he’d known about. I shouldn’t have let that slip.
Ty cocked his head to the side as he watched Claude’s reaction to the mention of Yuko’s name. At first he wondered if Claude knew her, but then realized no – it was yet another thing to blame himself for. It wasn’t about who she was, or what Ty was. It was what they represented. How it warped and twisted everything he must’ve thought about the way the world worked.
One more body on his conscience.
It must’ve hurt him.
So Ty explained further, a faint tinge of regret in his voice.
“Katrina gutted Yuko with a sword trying to get to me, after I killed Felix. It was my fault, not hers. I wish they hadn’t spun it that way.”
Silence hung in the heavy air, as Ty thought back to what had happened in that house. Katrina’s scream as she realized what she’d done still haunted him. If he let his mind wander, he could almost still hear it. Yuko's two sisters were devastated, no doubt. If either one had the will to, they'd hunt Katrina to the ends of the earth. It wasn't fair.
Ty wondered if anyone would cry for him.
“I tried. Like you asked. I wanted to help Erika. I love her. I had to survive to be there for her. No matter what. But she turned me away because of what I did."
He looked back up at Claude, who still held him at gunpoint.
"I failed. No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try to make it right, I'm going to die alone, Claude. So try and appreciate how little I care for your thoughts on what I did. If you think killing me is going to clear your conscience, grow a spine and fucking do it already.”
It was my fault, not hers. I wish they hadn't spun it that way.
Spun it that way.
Claudeson felt the bile in his throat plunge itself back down into his stomach, which felt weak. Tyrell had confirmed — no, he was revelling in the destruction that he had caused. That Claudeson had enabled by prying him down from that beam. Each word that came out of his mouth was tainted, as though making its way through a sinister filter, coming out the other side caked in misgivings and cruel intentions. He held the pistol up, the muzzle still shaking as he tried to make sense of the information that he had in front of him.
"You... you tried?"
This was a murderer. A two-time — should be three-time if not for a technicality — killer who seemed disaffected, almost unrepentant for what he had done. The second chance that he had bestowed upon Tyrell had been a costly one. Not costly for him, per se. But his generosity had been perverted and distorted and used to strike down Christine. It had struck down Felix.
It had taken a bite out of Yuko and Katrina had just finished the job.
And yet he gloated about it.
Should have been his.
Wasn't fair to her.
Should have received the credit.
The contorted expression on his face told the entire story. Tyrell was irredeemable. Claudeson felt betrayed, he felt mistaken, he felt as though someone had tricked him and misled him only to turn and stab him in the back. Yet he had not been the one to bear the brunt of those wounds.
Tyrell challenged Claudeson, he looked right through him. He knew from the day on the street after the park incident how little Tyrell thought of his faith; he was not ignorant of how Tyrell saw him, as though he were a misguided fool. Perhaps he had been foolish. He had been naive. The incredulity was awash in the mask of agony that twisted its way through Claudeson's features. Was it the pain from the injuries Tyrell had given him, was it the guilt — or something else entirely? He was filled with an unfamiliar feeling. It motivated him, it empowered him.
The muzzle steadied.
"You tried, and you failed. You claim to love Erika. So you have acted out of love. People are dead because you have chosen to act out of love?"
His voice, previously faltering, strengthened, raising an octave as he repeated himself.
"Who do you think you are? You wallow in your own self-pity, but what gives you the right to feel bad for what you have done?" His shoulders straightened, his back arching with indignation. "You acted, and yet you are surprised that Erika would recoil from you. You are somehow surprised that she would feel revulsion at the sight of you?"
Claudeson gritted his teeth, an unfamiliar look on someone who was nearly always smiling. The guilt was crushing, yet he funnelled it through the weapon to verbally accost Tyrell. Watching the scene, Min-jae swayed gently from his torso.
"You have committed a cardinal sin; you do not deserve to feel loved. I gave you a second chance to act as a beacon for your peers, and you have thrown it away."
The muzzle of the Walther remained steady.
"I believed in you, Tyrell," Claudeson took a moment to comprehend what he'd just said, frowning as he continued, "and I was mistaken. Father forgive me, I was wrong."
His hands trembled, though the pistol in his hand started to feel more and more comfortable.
Spun it that way.
Claudeson felt the bile in his throat plunge itself back down into his stomach, which felt weak. Tyrell had confirmed — no, he was revelling in the destruction that he had caused. That Claudeson had enabled by prying him down from that beam. Each word that came out of his mouth was tainted, as though making its way through a sinister filter, coming out the other side caked in misgivings and cruel intentions. He held the pistol up, the muzzle still shaking as he tried to make sense of the information that he had in front of him.
"You... you tried?"
This was a murderer. A two-time — should be three-time if not for a technicality — killer who seemed disaffected, almost unrepentant for what he had done. The second chance that he had bestowed upon Tyrell had been a costly one. Not costly for him, per se. But his generosity had been perverted and distorted and used to strike down Christine. It had struck down Felix.
It had taken a bite out of Yuko and Katrina had just finished the job.
And yet he gloated about it.
Should have been his.
Wasn't fair to her.
Should have received the credit.
The contorted expression on his face told the entire story. Tyrell was irredeemable. Claudeson felt betrayed, he felt mistaken, he felt as though someone had tricked him and misled him only to turn and stab him in the back. Yet he had not been the one to bear the brunt of those wounds.
Tyrell challenged Claudeson, he looked right through him. He knew from the day on the street after the park incident how little Tyrell thought of his faith; he was not ignorant of how Tyrell saw him, as though he were a misguided fool. Perhaps he had been foolish. He had been naive. The incredulity was awash in the mask of agony that twisted its way through Claudeson's features. Was it the pain from the injuries Tyrell had given him, was it the guilt — or something else entirely? He was filled with an unfamiliar feeling. It motivated him, it empowered him.
The muzzle steadied.
"You tried, and you failed. You claim to love Erika. So you have acted out of love. People are dead because you have chosen to act out of love?"
His voice, previously faltering, strengthened, raising an octave as he repeated himself.
"Who do you think you are? You wallow in your own self-pity, but what gives you the right to feel bad for what you have done?" His shoulders straightened, his back arching with indignation. "You acted, and yet you are surprised that Erika would recoil from you. You are somehow surprised that she would feel revulsion at the sight of you?"
Claudeson gritted his teeth, an unfamiliar look on someone who was nearly always smiling. The guilt was crushing, yet he funnelled it through the weapon to verbally accost Tyrell. Watching the scene, Min-jae swayed gently from his torso.
"You have committed a cardinal sin; you do not deserve to feel loved. I gave you a second chance to act as a beacon for your peers, and you have thrown it away."
The muzzle of the Walther remained steady.
"I believed in you, Tyrell," Claudeson took a moment to comprehend what he'd just said, frowning as he continued, "and I was mistaken. Father forgive me, I was wrong."
His hands trembled, though the pistol in his hand started to feel more and more comfortable.
Parker was right. Too many people denied reality when they were in it, believed they could play the hero in a place like this. Claude certainly did, at least from the way he spoke about Ty. Repeating his line about wallowing in self-pity, as if Ty had actually said anything to him to that effect.
Naturally he felt comfortable laying judgement on someone else when he had a gun in his hand. That was how someone like Claude had to do it, wasn’t it? They’d have to find every reason to see him as irredeemable, wholly and entirely evil, and only then could they pull the trigger.
Like Lorenzo?
Ty’s expression hardened. No, it wasn’t the same. Not at all Ty knew that situation well enough to know what had been earned.
Claude didn’t understand any of this. He was running his mouth, desperately trying to find a good enough reason to kill, to feel like he was somehow different than anyone else who looked at another human being and felt the urge to end them. His approximations of what had actually happened were wildly inaccurate, because what actually happened didn't matter. All that mattered was that he thought Ty was a bad person, and he was disappointed in him.
You arrogant fuck.
It didn't matter what anyone else thought he deserved, or even what Ty thought he deserved. Erika hadn’t looked at him in revulsion, she said she still loved him in spite of all of it. For someone who appeared to be a devout Christian, claiming another person didn’t deserve love because of sins they committed was an almost comical level of hypocrisy and the clearest sign of Claude's true motivations.
The image of who he thought he was, who he thought everyone else was, had started to come apart at the seams. All Ty was in this moment was someone for Claude to set himself against. A morally bankrupt antagonist to his righteous and just protagonist. Even if he barely understood the context behind what he was casting judgement on. Even if there might’ve been entirely valid reasons to point a gun at Ty and pull the trigger, they weren’t the prime mover of Claude’s aggression.
There was no level of regret or shame that would’ve sated his intractable desire to see himself as some icon of virtue. Nothing could really answer the arrogance in thinking he’d somehow been altogether responsible for Ty’s actions, and thus that it was his mistake to correct. It was obvious what he wanted. An excuse.
Staring down Claude, something dawned on him.
If you kill me, you're no better.
This nightmare could come to an end, and Claude would be left trapped in it. Broken. When Erika found out what happened, he’d be a dead man. An unsatisfying outcome for sure, but better than most Ty had thought of.
With a smile, Tyrell slowly took a single deliberate step towards him.
Of course, if Claude didn’t pull the trigger, he’d soon understand exactly how wrong he really was.
Naturally he felt comfortable laying judgement on someone else when he had a gun in his hand. That was how someone like Claude had to do it, wasn’t it? They’d have to find every reason to see him as irredeemable, wholly and entirely evil, and only then could they pull the trigger.
Like Lorenzo?
Ty’s expression hardened. No, it wasn’t the same. Not at all Ty knew that situation well enough to know what had been earned.
Claude didn’t understand any of this. He was running his mouth, desperately trying to find a good enough reason to kill, to feel like he was somehow different than anyone else who looked at another human being and felt the urge to end them. His approximations of what had actually happened were wildly inaccurate, because what actually happened didn't matter. All that mattered was that he thought Ty was a bad person, and he was disappointed in him.
You arrogant fuck.
It didn't matter what anyone else thought he deserved, or even what Ty thought he deserved. Erika hadn’t looked at him in revulsion, she said she still loved him in spite of all of it. For someone who appeared to be a devout Christian, claiming another person didn’t deserve love because of sins they committed was an almost comical level of hypocrisy and the clearest sign of Claude's true motivations.
The image of who he thought he was, who he thought everyone else was, had started to come apart at the seams. All Ty was in this moment was someone for Claude to set himself against. A morally bankrupt antagonist to his righteous and just protagonist. Even if he barely understood the context behind what he was casting judgement on. Even if there might’ve been entirely valid reasons to point a gun at Ty and pull the trigger, they weren’t the prime mover of Claude’s aggression.
There was no level of regret or shame that would’ve sated his intractable desire to see himself as some icon of virtue. Nothing could really answer the arrogance in thinking he’d somehow been altogether responsible for Ty’s actions, and thus that it was his mistake to correct. It was obvious what he wanted. An excuse.
Staring down Claude, something dawned on him.
If you kill me, you're no better.
This nightmare could come to an end, and Claude would be left trapped in it. Broken. When Erika found out what happened, he’d be a dead man. An unsatisfying outcome for sure, but better than most Ty had thought of.
With a smile, Tyrell slowly took a single deliberate step towards him.
Of course, if Claude didn’t pull the trigger, he’d soon understand exactly how wrong he really was.
There was conflict for a moment; something flashed over Tyrell's features that gave him pause. It was almost immediately replaced by a smirk.
He smirked.
Claudeson could hear his own heart pounding within his chest. He had sworn an oath to himself that he would protect his peers; that he would act as a force for good in such an evil place. He would be a sentinel, standing against injustice and hatred. Yet almost as soon as he had made that vow, he had sullied it. He had extended an olive branch to the one person in the whole school that he probably should have.
He should have let Tyrell die.
Watch him choke on his own vomit.
Allow the life to drain out of him, witness the expulsion of his bowels as his immortal soul vacated his body.
Where it went after that was up to interpretation.
But he hadn't. So Tyrell stood, smirking at him, looking down on him. After all that he had done, after all of the lives that he was responsible for — that Claudeson shared in — he had the audacity to look down upon his saviour and throw that blame back in his face. Dread burned within Claudeson's heart. He felt sick to his stomach. Do it. He had failed before he had even begun.
He was a failure as a man.
He was a failure as a Christian; as a servant of the Lord. Whom? He could not let his failures continue.
Tyrell took a step towards him, still wearing that blasted smile.
Claudeson's hand steadied as his own face turned into a sneer. "I know what you think of me, Tyrell. You believe me to be a pitiful man, unable to act with the conviction I believe myself to have. I know that you look down upon me." DO IT. "No one looks down upon me," he snarled, his face twisting into an unfamiliar, grotesque mask.
In his mind's eye, he saw faces. Christine's face. Felix. Yuko. They were all bloody, and they were all lifeless. One more face was there, too. It loomed over all of them. It was the same face he stared back at right now; the same face that smiled at him.
Smiled.
Inhaling sharply, Claudeson's eyelid twitched. A moment later, his finger pulled the trigger.
He smirked.
Claudeson could hear his own heart pounding within his chest. He had sworn an oath to himself that he would protect his peers; that he would act as a force for good in such an evil place. He would be a sentinel, standing against injustice and hatred. Yet almost as soon as he had made that vow, he had sullied it. He had extended an olive branch to the one person in the whole school that he probably should have.
He should have let Tyrell die.
Watch him choke on his own vomit.
Allow the life to drain out of him, witness the expulsion of his bowels as his immortal soul vacated his body.
Where it went after that was up to interpretation.
But he hadn't. So Tyrell stood, smirking at him, looking down on him. After all that he had done, after all of the lives that he was responsible for — that Claudeson shared in — he had the audacity to look down upon his saviour and throw that blame back in his face. Dread burned within Claudeson's heart. He felt sick to his stomach. Do it. He had failed before he had even begun.
He was a failure as a man.
He was a failure as a Christian; as a servant of the Lord. Whom? He could not let his failures continue.
Tyrell took a step towards him, still wearing that blasted smile.
Claudeson's hand steadied as his own face turned into a sneer. "I know what you think of me, Tyrell. You believe me to be a pitiful man, unable to act with the conviction I believe myself to have. I know that you look down upon me." DO IT. "No one looks down upon me," he snarled, his face twisting into an unfamiliar, grotesque mask.
In his mind's eye, he saw faces. Christine's face. Felix. Yuko. They were all bloody, and they were all lifeless. One more face was there, too. It loomed over all of them. It was the same face he stared back at right now; the same face that smiled at him.
Smiled.
Inhaling sharply, Claudeson's eyelid twitched. A moment later, his finger pulled the trigger.
Claude’s outstretched arm suddenly jolted to the side; the ear-splitting percussion of the gunshot overwhelmed Ty’s senses, as he instinctively flinched. The distinctive smell of gunpowder hung in the air; looking closely, he could see smoke still rising from the end of the pistol still pointing slightly askew in his direction.
With a moment’s hesitation, Ty looked down. All he saw were old wounds. No new holes in his shirt, nor a slowly spreading red patch, as he’d seen with Felix.
Wide eyed, Ty cocked an eyebrow at Claude, then turned to look behind himself. A few inches beside where he had been standing, there was a small hole in the wall. Leaning back to look further into the narrow hallway, he saw that the bullet had tumbled, carving a messy path through the drywall before the pieces embedded themselves in the opposite wall.
Ty put a hand to the side of his head, gently massaging his left ear, which he now realized a bullet had very nearly missed. Though, he supposed that missed might’ve been the wrong way to put it. Even someone with such unsteady hands wasn’t going to miss at this distance. The fact that more bullets weren’t flying in his direction only confirmed as much. Alarmingly, Claude looked as surprised as Ty felt.
“Jesus CHRIST, that was loud.” Snapping his fingers next to his ear, Ty made a show of testing his hearing. Everything felt a bit fuzzy. Though he seemed mostly unfazed on the surface, he felt an uncomfortable surge of adrenaline in his system, and did everything he could to suppress a slight tremor. The shock of hearing what he now understood as a bullet passing by his head had drowned out his most vindictive instincts.
I can still do it.
But he wouldn’t. From the way that Claude looked at him now, he didn’t need any help finding his way into a downward spiral. Certainly not at the cost of Ty’s life, rapidly depreciating in value as it was. More than that, for the first time since they’d spoken Claude had finally said something that wasn’t entirely asinine. Ty reached into his pocket and produced the magazine for the P99 that he’d been keeping on hand. Claude still held the gun towards him, so he made every effort to move slowly and deliberately.
“Fair enough, no one gets to look down on you. I’ll respect that, even if the rest of what you have to say is conceited bullshit.”
Ty underhand-tossed the magazine to Claude, and it clattered to the ground near his feet.
“You want to back that pride of yours up with a gun, you’ll need to feed it. The rest of the ammo is in my bag, on the table there. Three mags, and a green box full of bullets. Take all of it.”
Watching motionless as Claude gathered the ammunition, Ty couldn’t help but look to the vacant thousand-yard stare on the other boy’s face with curiosity. Recalling the words they’d exchanged moments earlier, he spoke up, pointing at the hole in the wall.
“That there - it was a choice, Claude. Hope that you made the right one.”
With a moment’s hesitation, Ty looked down. All he saw were old wounds. No new holes in his shirt, nor a slowly spreading red patch, as he’d seen with Felix.
Wide eyed, Ty cocked an eyebrow at Claude, then turned to look behind himself. A few inches beside where he had been standing, there was a small hole in the wall. Leaning back to look further into the narrow hallway, he saw that the bullet had tumbled, carving a messy path through the drywall before the pieces embedded themselves in the opposite wall.
Ty put a hand to the side of his head, gently massaging his left ear, which he now realized a bullet had very nearly missed. Though, he supposed that missed might’ve been the wrong way to put it. Even someone with such unsteady hands wasn’t going to miss at this distance. The fact that more bullets weren’t flying in his direction only confirmed as much. Alarmingly, Claude looked as surprised as Ty felt.
“Jesus CHRIST, that was loud.” Snapping his fingers next to his ear, Ty made a show of testing his hearing. Everything felt a bit fuzzy. Though he seemed mostly unfazed on the surface, he felt an uncomfortable surge of adrenaline in his system, and did everything he could to suppress a slight tremor. The shock of hearing what he now understood as a bullet passing by his head had drowned out his most vindictive instincts.
I can still do it.
But he wouldn’t. From the way that Claude looked at him now, he didn’t need any help finding his way into a downward spiral. Certainly not at the cost of Ty’s life, rapidly depreciating in value as it was. More than that, for the first time since they’d spoken Claude had finally said something that wasn’t entirely asinine. Ty reached into his pocket and produced the magazine for the P99 that he’d been keeping on hand. Claude still held the gun towards him, so he made every effort to move slowly and deliberately.
“Fair enough, no one gets to look down on you. I’ll respect that, even if the rest of what you have to say is conceited bullshit.”
Ty underhand-tossed the magazine to Claude, and it clattered to the ground near his feet.
“You want to back that pride of yours up with a gun, you’ll need to feed it. The rest of the ammo is in my bag, on the table there. Three mags, and a green box full of bullets. Take all of it.”
Watching motionless as Claude gathered the ammunition, Ty couldn’t help but look to the vacant thousand-yard stare on the other boy’s face with curiosity. Recalling the words they’d exchanged moments earlier, he spoke up, pointing at the hole in the wall.
“That there - it was a choice, Claude. Hope that you made the right one.”
-
Primrosette
- Posts: 1033
- Joined: Tue Aug 14, 2018 9:58 am
- Location: In the Dark Abyss
He heard the gunshot.
He knew that he should leave.
Just save himself from being near someone with a gun again. He honestly didn't know why he was just standing next to the busted door. Looks like someone went to town on it and he honestly didn't want to find out who had done it. However, the gunshot was on his mind and he felt like he had frozen himself on the spot for too long. What if he was in danger again? What if one of his friends were in danger? What was he supposed to do, what was he supposed to do, what was he supposed to do, what was he supposed to-
Calm down. You need to get a grip and calm down. Stop panicking and just see if.... if it is anyone that you know. If not....
He had no idea what he would be doing after that.
((Drew Woods from Like A Park Of Wild Dogs))
Drew was pretty much soaking wet from the rain and he had just wanted to find some shelter for a while without any drama or killings happening around him. No guns was pretty much a joke now as it seemed like he was gonna be cursed or haunted by guns for as long as he was going to be alive and he knew that he had to try deal with it somehow. Also, it wasn't good that he didn't have his dufflebag with him either. Because of some spare clothes.... And his weapon. Whatever it was. Well, it was gone now and he would have to do without it. He really needed to snap out of it and stop himself from being frozen on the spot forever.
Drew blinked.
Then he blinked some more, his eyebrow were fluttering over his shattered eyeballs.
Drew found himself moving inside without his mind's permission and he found himself staring at two people who seemed.... well, he wasn't sure what was going on anymore and he wished that he could turn back around and get the heck out of there. One of the two people was Claudeson who was religious and Drew didn't really know him that personally. The other person was.... Ty. Of course, it was Ty. Why wouldn't it be him...? Drew had wanted to avoid running into a murderer and now he was standing slightly off to the side outside of the doorway. He couldn't even think of what to say. His mind was going blank.
So Drew stayed quiet and he watched the other two boys with a state of morbid curiosity.
He knew that he should leave.
Just save himself from being near someone with a gun again. He honestly didn't know why he was just standing next to the busted door. Looks like someone went to town on it and he honestly didn't want to find out who had done it. However, the gunshot was on his mind and he felt like he had frozen himself on the spot for too long. What if he was in danger again? What if one of his friends were in danger? What was he supposed to do, what was he supposed to do, what was he supposed to do, what was he supposed to-
Calm down. You need to get a grip and calm down. Stop panicking and just see if.... if it is anyone that you know. If not....
He had no idea what he would be doing after that.
((Drew Woods from Like A Park Of Wild Dogs))
Drew was pretty much soaking wet from the rain and he had just wanted to find some shelter for a while without any drama or killings happening around him. No guns was pretty much a joke now as it seemed like he was gonna be cursed or haunted by guns for as long as he was going to be alive and he knew that he had to try deal with it somehow. Also, it wasn't good that he didn't have his dufflebag with him either. Because of some spare clothes.... And his weapon. Whatever it was. Well, it was gone now and he would have to do without it. He really needed to snap out of it and stop himself from being frozen on the spot forever.
Drew blinked.
Then he blinked some more, his eyebrow were fluttering over his shattered eyeballs.
Drew found himself moving inside without his mind's permission and he found himself staring at two people who seemed.... well, he wasn't sure what was going on anymore and he wished that he could turn back around and get the heck out of there. One of the two people was Claudeson who was religious and Drew didn't really know him that personally. The other person was.... Ty. Of course, it was Ty. Why wouldn't it be him...? Drew had wanted to avoid running into a murderer and now he was standing slightly off to the side outside of the doorway. He couldn't even think of what to say. His mind was going blank.
So Drew stayed quiet and he watched the other two boys with a state of morbid curiosity.
It was so loud. That was perhaps the least surprising thing about what had just transpired. Yet as he stood, staring at Tyrell with a dumbfounded shock that he'd actually pulled the trigger on him, it occurred to him that some part of him was still unable to do what needed to be done. He had pulled right at what had to have been the very last second, and the only casualty of the whole encounter was the drywall beside Tyrell's head.
His ears rang from the sound of the gunshot; Tyrell said something. Claudeson couldn't hear him, though it didn't matter what vile nonsense he was spewing out of his mouth right now. The ringing in his ears permeated through to his very soul, leaving his entire body feeling empty. He had taken a shot. Finger on the trigger, he had listened to the small voice in his mind that had been screaming at him to do what he needed to.
Numbly, the pistol having course corrected and now pointed at Tyrell once more, Claudeson barely reacted as the other boy slowly tossed a magazine at him. It struck him in the thigh and bounced to the ground. His hearing returned to him, but the words didn't mean anything.
No one looks down upon me.
Those very words had come from his mouth. They had been a proclamation, an almost tantrum-like explosion of a strange, foul feeling. What was he doing? What kind of servant of God was he to put himself above everyone; above even the Lord Himself? Claudeson's body moved on autopilot as he gathered the ammunition from the floor and from Tyrell's pack, never once moving the weapon from the other boy's still form near the doorway. There was something different on Tyrell's face now, a strange sense of almost-respect. Obviously his tormenter had not expected him to pull the trigger.
That made two of them.
He should have shot him, Claudeson realized. It would have been the humane thing to do — not for Tyrell himself, but for everyone else around him. This boy was going to go out destructively and would undoubtedly take more people with him. Yet, he could not. He was beyond salvation, beyond saving. How many more people's blood would be on his hands before the week was up?
I pulled the trigger, was still echoing over and over, almost drowning out every other thought.
"It was a choice," he echoed, his voice hollow and devoid of any energy, any righteousness. Now it was just matter-of-fact, matching the vacant stare he wore. "Remember that choice. The third time that I have held your life in my hands."
Looking for a moment at the pistol he still aimed across the room, Claudeson barely recognized the hand that held it. Giving his head a half-shake, he looked back up at Tyrell, still rooted to the same spot.
He kept on staring until the moment that he reached the front door of the house, never letting the boy leave his sight. As soon as he felt the door on his back, he whipped it open and was but a shadow into the woods, back out into the rain.
((Claudeson Bademosi continued in Natural Villain))
His ears rang from the sound of the gunshot; Tyrell said something. Claudeson couldn't hear him, though it didn't matter what vile nonsense he was spewing out of his mouth right now. The ringing in his ears permeated through to his very soul, leaving his entire body feeling empty. He had taken a shot. Finger on the trigger, he had listened to the small voice in his mind that had been screaming at him to do what he needed to.
Numbly, the pistol having course corrected and now pointed at Tyrell once more, Claudeson barely reacted as the other boy slowly tossed a magazine at him. It struck him in the thigh and bounced to the ground. His hearing returned to him, but the words didn't mean anything.
No one looks down upon me.
Those very words had come from his mouth. They had been a proclamation, an almost tantrum-like explosion of a strange, foul feeling. What was he doing? What kind of servant of God was he to put himself above everyone; above even the Lord Himself? Claudeson's body moved on autopilot as he gathered the ammunition from the floor and from Tyrell's pack, never once moving the weapon from the other boy's still form near the doorway. There was something different on Tyrell's face now, a strange sense of almost-respect. Obviously his tormenter had not expected him to pull the trigger.
That made two of them.
He should have shot him, Claudeson realized. It would have been the humane thing to do — not for Tyrell himself, but for everyone else around him. This boy was going to go out destructively and would undoubtedly take more people with him. Yet, he could not. He was beyond salvation, beyond saving. How many more people's blood would be on his hands before the week was up?
I pulled the trigger, was still echoing over and over, almost drowning out every other thought.
"It was a choice," he echoed, his voice hollow and devoid of any energy, any righteousness. Now it was just matter-of-fact, matching the vacant stare he wore. "Remember that choice. The third time that I have held your life in my hands."
Looking for a moment at the pistol he still aimed across the room, Claudeson barely recognized the hand that held it. Giving his head a half-shake, he looked back up at Tyrell, still rooted to the same spot.
He kept on staring until the moment that he reached the front door of the house, never letting the boy leave his sight. As soon as he felt the door on his back, he whipped it open and was but a shadow into the woods, back out into the rain.
((Claudeson Bademosi continued in Natural Villain))
Ty watched wordlessly as Claude left, his feet planted squarely in the same spot until his aspirant saviour and murderer absconded into the rain, still falling steadily outside. It was clear enough that if ever they met again, they’d have more violence than words for each other. Ty hoped the gun would lead him into trouble he wouldn’t walk away from, mentally if not physically.
His eyes trailed to a spot next to the door where another figure had entered the room beneath the notice of either of its prior inhabitants.
What now?
Immediately he noticed the bandages covering Drew’s right arm, far more extensive than the ones Ty had applied to himself. That, combined with the boy’s pallor, made it clear enough that he wasn’t well-served standing out in the rain. This particular moment wasn’t one Ty had anticipated to really be participating in animate and alive, and so he felt somewhat at a loss as to what exactly to say to Drew.
Maybe humor? Is this at all funny?
“Well, I would’ve shot me.”
Thought about it.
Finally breaking from his spot in the doorway to the bedroom, Ty walked over to the open bag on the table and zipped it up shut, picking it up and the crowbar that had been lying underneath. Lazily, he chucked it onto an ancient, squishy purple leather sofa that had assuredly seen better days. Taking a seat next to his duffel bag, he set the crowbar down against his leg. Not as a threat, but as a clear indication that despite losing a gun he was still entirely armed.
Is that really necessary? Look at this guy.
It wasn’t, he had to admit. Drew didn’t seem to have any designs on harming him, if his demeanor was any indication. He saw the look in his eyes – he’d had it in his own at the end of the first day. Much as Ty was, he was probably weighing his options, trying to figure out if the cost of staying in this shelter was greater than the cost of journeying back out there.
The cost. Dealing with this, alone. What’s that compared to a bullet in the chest?
Ty knew well what he’d have preferred.
Drew wasn’t someone he typically associated with at school, and Ty hadn’t thought enough of him to think badly of him. Putting on a friendly face that no doubt seemed entirely ill-fitting given who he was now, Ty called out to him.
“Make yourself comfortable Drew. I don’t b-“
Poor choice of words.
“-I don’t intend on being the last man standing here, if that makes you feel any better. Just trying to see tomorrow, at this point. As long as you don’t start getting preachy and waving a gun in my face we should get along just fine.”
His eyes trailed to a spot next to the door where another figure had entered the room beneath the notice of either of its prior inhabitants.
What now?
Immediately he noticed the bandages covering Drew’s right arm, far more extensive than the ones Ty had applied to himself. That, combined with the boy’s pallor, made it clear enough that he wasn’t well-served standing out in the rain. This particular moment wasn’t one Ty had anticipated to really be participating in animate and alive, and so he felt somewhat at a loss as to what exactly to say to Drew.
Maybe humor? Is this at all funny?
“Well, I would’ve shot me.”
Thought about it.
Finally breaking from his spot in the doorway to the bedroom, Ty walked over to the open bag on the table and zipped it up shut, picking it up and the crowbar that had been lying underneath. Lazily, he chucked it onto an ancient, squishy purple leather sofa that had assuredly seen better days. Taking a seat next to his duffel bag, he set the crowbar down against his leg. Not as a threat, but as a clear indication that despite losing a gun he was still entirely armed.
Is that really necessary? Look at this guy.
It wasn’t, he had to admit. Drew didn’t seem to have any designs on harming him, if his demeanor was any indication. He saw the look in his eyes – he’d had it in his own at the end of the first day. Much as Ty was, he was probably weighing his options, trying to figure out if the cost of staying in this shelter was greater than the cost of journeying back out there.
The cost. Dealing with this, alone. What’s that compared to a bullet in the chest?
Ty knew well what he’d have preferred.
Drew wasn’t someone he typically associated with at school, and Ty hadn’t thought enough of him to think badly of him. Putting on a friendly face that no doubt seemed entirely ill-fitting given who he was now, Ty called out to him.
“Make yourself comfortable Drew. I don’t b-“
Poor choice of words.
“-I don’t intend on being the last man standing here, if that makes you feel any better. Just trying to see tomorrow, at this point. As long as you don’t start getting preachy and waving a gun in my face we should get along just fine.”
-
Primrosette
- Posts: 1033
- Joined: Tue Aug 14, 2018 9:58 am
- Location: In the Dark Abyss
Drew watched as Claude had left and then he noticed that Ty had seen him, making himself tense up in the other boy's presence. His heart felt like it was beating a little too fast in uncertainty and.... Did he feel fear over seeing Ty in front of him right now? Maybe he did; but he didn't feel like he wanted to run away for the first time on this island and now he had to deal with how he was supposed to act in this situation. A lot of people would call him an idiot for being near the guy who ripped a girl's throat out and taking out a boy with a gun, but Drew felt like he didn't care. He did feel sad that Christine and Felix were dead. How could he not feel sad over people dying? He guessed that he was letting his guard down again and it would be his own fault if he died regardless.
Drew was taking out of his thoughts as Ty was now talking to him and it seemed like Ty was trying in his own way to make this moment more... light-hearted? He was surprised that Ty wasn't telling him not to leave and he felt strangely a bit relieved about that. Drew was even more surprised when he didn't flat-out panic at seeing the crowbar in Ty's lap and he felt his eyes staring right into Ty's own eyes. As if he was searching for something more sinister or malice. He didn't see anything like that. Did this mean that he was safe with Ty? For now?
Drew felt confused by this course of action and he didn't open his mouth to say anything to question it. He felt like he wanted to just fall to his knees and break down like the fragile coward that he was. But for some reason, he didn't want to do that and he wanted to tell himself to man up for once in his miserable life. Okay, now he had to say something right now and stop being like a silent weirdo.
Drew felt a small chuckle escape from his mouth.
Oh.... Oh no! I didn't mean to do that. Oh, jeez. I was just laughing at how pitiful this situation was and I only wanted to laugh in my headspace about it. Oh god, I must look like a complete weirdo now. Maybe not, I don't know!
Drew raised a hand up to his mouth and his eyes widen a little in surprise at what had happened. "Ah, um, s-sorry about that. I didn't mean to just laugh like that. I just...." Drew felt himself trailing off from what he wanted to say and he felt a heavy sigh coming out of him, his face was a look of misery and defeat. "I just wanted to let it out, you know. Just laugh at this terrible thing that we're been put in. Is... Is that selfish? Sorry, I guess I sound pretty dumb right now and my head's a mess and I'm pretty tired of running away from people. I'd be happier to never see a gun again, to be honest with you, Ty."
Not that that is ever going to happen for me. Guns just seem to love me...
Drew stepped into the room more with caution and he stopped about a few inches away from Ty. He wondered what he was supposed to do now. He was now shivering with how cold he felt and he knew that he had to do the bandages on his arm. It helped that he was more awake when Julien had helped him out and he knew how to do it. But he couldn't do it on his own. He needed to take off his wet clothes as well and.... He had no idea what to do about spare clothing. He really was a dumbass idiot. He hoped that Cecil or Jackson or Bill had gotten his other bag and he shivered at the thought of Gervais having it instead. He hoped that one of the others were taking care of his belongings.
"Are you okay, Ty?" He asked without even thinking about it and he was glancing at the other boy with a more softer expression. "I mean... After everything that happened, I just want to know how you are. I know it's a dumb question but.... but..."
Drew was taking out of his thoughts as Ty was now talking to him and it seemed like Ty was trying in his own way to make this moment more... light-hearted? He was surprised that Ty wasn't telling him not to leave and he felt strangely a bit relieved about that. Drew was even more surprised when he didn't flat-out panic at seeing the crowbar in Ty's lap and he felt his eyes staring right into Ty's own eyes. As if he was searching for something more sinister or malice. He didn't see anything like that. Did this mean that he was safe with Ty? For now?
Drew felt confused by this course of action and he didn't open his mouth to say anything to question it. He felt like he wanted to just fall to his knees and break down like the fragile coward that he was. But for some reason, he didn't want to do that and he wanted to tell himself to man up for once in his miserable life. Okay, now he had to say something right now and stop being like a silent weirdo.
Drew felt a small chuckle escape from his mouth.
Oh.... Oh no! I didn't mean to do that. Oh, jeez. I was just laughing at how pitiful this situation was and I only wanted to laugh in my headspace about it. Oh god, I must look like a complete weirdo now. Maybe not, I don't know!
Drew raised a hand up to his mouth and his eyes widen a little in surprise at what had happened. "Ah, um, s-sorry about that. I didn't mean to just laugh like that. I just...." Drew felt himself trailing off from what he wanted to say and he felt a heavy sigh coming out of him, his face was a look of misery and defeat. "I just wanted to let it out, you know. Just laugh at this terrible thing that we're been put in. Is... Is that selfish? Sorry, I guess I sound pretty dumb right now and my head's a mess and I'm pretty tired of running away from people. I'd be happier to never see a gun again, to be honest with you, Ty."
Not that that is ever going to happen for me. Guns just seem to love me...
Drew stepped into the room more with caution and he stopped about a few inches away from Ty. He wondered what he was supposed to do now. He was now shivering with how cold he felt and he knew that he had to do the bandages on his arm. It helped that he was more awake when Julien had helped him out and he knew how to do it. But he couldn't do it on his own. He needed to take off his wet clothes as well and.... He had no idea what to do about spare clothing. He really was a dumbass idiot. He hoped that Cecil or Jackson or Bill had gotten his other bag and he shivered at the thought of Gervais having it instead. He hoped that one of the others were taking care of his belongings.
"Are you okay, Ty?" He asked without even thinking about it and he was glancing at the other boy with a more softer expression. "I mean... After everything that happened, I just want to know how you are. I know it's a dumb question but.... but..."