Lizie looked over at Morgan’s trembling face as concern overtook hers. She started to imagine scenarios.
Had Morgan made fun of Lucas? Probably, everyone and their mothers had made fun of Lucas Brady. Guy was easy pickings with the way he kept setting himself up and lacked any talent at self-depreciation. She knew how bullies thought, from both sides of the situation, and Brady had made every wrong move in the book. If she was the type to attach herself to drama, she might’ve tried to give him some advice, play off that personal experience of hers, but she had enough drama in her life already thank you very much.
Fuck that though, who was being bullied by whom was absolutely ancient history and not something she had the luxury of being concerned about. Here on Happy Fun Time Murder Island, bullying meant getting filleted, and she didn’t fancy being up on the menu.
So why was Morgan so panicky? She didn’t think he was the type to worry over nothing, she probably would’ve picked up on it by now. Had he done something he couldn’t talk about? Didn’t walk to talk about?
Had Morgan tried to kill Lucas?
The concern in her face deepened. Had he gone after Brady with something, only to lose him? Had Brady actually one-upped him? No, that was stupid: the guy was an angry pipe cleaner, and Morgan was a sexy bigger pipe cleaner.
Really though, she just didn’t think Morgan had it in him to do something like that. Or maybe she just didn’t want to think that. She had so little else going on in her rapidly dwindling timeline, she didn’t want him taken away from her too. Not until one of them had a cap in their ass, anyway.
Did she want to ask?
No, no she didn’t, she decided. She nuzzled closer to him.
“It’s ok. If he tries anything, I’ll scare him off with my terrifying hedge clippers. He still tries anything, I’ll make a topiary out of him.”
She shut her eyes. Let her senses be overwhelmed with the sound of his breathing, the smell of his body, the touch of his skin.
“I won’t stand by if anyone tries to hurt you. No matter what.”
She squeezed his hand.
"No matter what."
Shame, Shame Go Away, Come Again Some Other Day
Pm for entry; day 4
Morgan wanted to say that Lizzie's reassured nature made it all better. He wanted to feel that way — truly, he did. But even a squeeze of her hand on his didn't cause the pit in the bottom of his stomach to get any smaller. The more he thought about it, the more logical it was. Lucas Brady had been wronged — by everyone, on a macro scale — and he was going to take his vengeance upon anybody who had the misfortune to cross him. This was the time where silly grievances could be amplified, and the smallest comment on a social media website could be cause enough for murder.
"Thanks, I just," he hesitated, squeezing Lizzie's hand back. The fear was getting to him; the very idea that someone might actually have his name on a list was almost overwhelming. "We met up with him, you know?"
Morgan sat up, disengaging himself from Lizzie enough to put his hands over his face and then run them back through his own hair. Sighing, he went over the events at the rice paddies in his mind again. He'd still been feeling the full effects of his beating at that point, and emotions were still running high.
"He was being a dick. The usual bullshit; he was spouting off with some grand scheme to get us all out of there and escape. It was typical grandstanding bullshit, and after all we'd been through with Wyatt and Lorenzo..." The pit in his stomach continued to gnaw, perhaps an indication of hunger mixed in with his anxiety.
"We told him what he could do with his idea, and he flipped out. Tried to attack me. Axel got in his way, and—" He closed his eyes and stopped, the shame evident on his face. "Everyone's been seeing me as an easy target. Wyatt and Bret, Lorenzo, and now Lucas? I— I snapped."
He'd more than snapped, of course. He'd squared up and had his own personal tryout for the George Hunter High football team; Lucas Brady's sternum had been the football and he'd blasted it right through the uprights. Morgan had heard the crack of bone as he'd kicked him, he knew what that sounded like from his own run-in with the Carters.
"I kicked him while he was down," Morgan shook his head, "literally. Probably broke some of his ribs. I just— I was so done with being a victim. I'm not a victim, Lizzie. I'm not!"
Protestations aside, Morgan was aware of the double-standard of the whole thing. Lucas Brady had been the school punching bag ever since his social media post had spread like wildfire for its crass, unfortunate nature. Poor Nathan wasn't even really capable of defending himself, and everyone in the whole school had seemingly jumped all over it. People had chastised him for the post, for his general decisions, for his demeanour. People had made fun of the fact that he'd forgottne his election speech midway through, they had ripped on him for the way that he dressed, and some wild fucking classmate had even made really unpleasant — albeit hilarious — photoshops using unflattering photos of Lucas in some horrifying situations. The whole thing was a cyberbullying workshop's worst nightmare, and he'd always felt a little guilty about his own role in it.
Except now, he'd graduated from the cyber portion of the bullying and gone to straight-out bullying. And now?
Now Lucas Brady was coming for his blood.
"We, we need to avoid him. At all costs. He's killed Andy, and he, I— I don't want to be next! If we can find Michael, maybe he, maybe," Morgan was babbling now, his fear starting to get the better of him. "Shit," he breathed, and threw his hands up in the air, his motions spasmodic and panicky.
"I'm fucking scared," he admitted, and his head thumped against the backboard as he let it fall back.
"Thanks, I just," he hesitated, squeezing Lizzie's hand back. The fear was getting to him; the very idea that someone might actually have his name on a list was almost overwhelming. "We met up with him, you know?"
Morgan sat up, disengaging himself from Lizzie enough to put his hands over his face and then run them back through his own hair. Sighing, he went over the events at the rice paddies in his mind again. He'd still been feeling the full effects of his beating at that point, and emotions were still running high.
"He was being a dick. The usual bullshit; he was spouting off with some grand scheme to get us all out of there and escape. It was typical grandstanding bullshit, and after all we'd been through with Wyatt and Lorenzo..." The pit in his stomach continued to gnaw, perhaps an indication of hunger mixed in with his anxiety.
"We told him what he could do with his idea, and he flipped out. Tried to attack me. Axel got in his way, and—" He closed his eyes and stopped, the shame evident on his face. "Everyone's been seeing me as an easy target. Wyatt and Bret, Lorenzo, and now Lucas? I— I snapped."
He'd more than snapped, of course. He'd squared up and had his own personal tryout for the George Hunter High football team; Lucas Brady's sternum had been the football and he'd blasted it right through the uprights. Morgan had heard the crack of bone as he'd kicked him, he knew what that sounded like from his own run-in with the Carters.
"I kicked him while he was down," Morgan shook his head, "literally. Probably broke some of his ribs. I just— I was so done with being a victim. I'm not a victim, Lizzie. I'm not!"
Protestations aside, Morgan was aware of the double-standard of the whole thing. Lucas Brady had been the school punching bag ever since his social media post had spread like wildfire for its crass, unfortunate nature. Poor Nathan wasn't even really capable of defending himself, and everyone in the whole school had seemingly jumped all over it. People had chastised him for the post, for his general decisions, for his demeanour. People had made fun of the fact that he'd forgottne his election speech midway through, they had ripped on him for the way that he dressed, and some wild fucking classmate had even made really unpleasant — albeit hilarious — photoshops using unflattering photos of Lucas in some horrifying situations. The whole thing was a cyberbullying workshop's worst nightmare, and he'd always felt a little guilty about his own role in it.
Except now, he'd graduated from the cyber portion of the bullying and gone to straight-out bullying. And now?
Now Lucas Brady was coming for his blood.
"We, we need to avoid him. At all costs. He's killed Andy, and he, I— I don't want to be next! If we can find Michael, maybe he, maybe," Morgan was babbling now, his fear starting to get the better of him. "Shit," he breathed, and threw his hands up in the air, his motions spasmodic and panicky.
"I'm fucking scared," he admitted, and his head thumped against the backboard as he let it fall back.
Lizzie sat there in silence, listening to Morgan’s admission. She said nothing as he sank into the back of the bed. She was thinking.
It wasn’t a murder attempt, but she could see why Lucas was pissed. She wanted to say to Morgan that it was ok, because it was, but she felt conflicted. Lucas made himself into a target, but she didn’t like that people kept making fun of him. She didn’t like it when it was on Facebook, and she didn’t like hearing gossip about him in the halls. She didn’t know what his issue was; maybe he had crappy social skills, maybe he had trouble relating, maybe he was just a prick. But people only made fun of him because they didn’t think there was any comeuppance, that they didn't have to deal with how he felt about it. Now, apparently, they did.
She didn’t sympathise with Lucas, because he was a cold-blooded killer now, but she could understand it. She didn’t like it, not one bit, but –
Was there a but?
No. No there wasn’t.
“I don’t care.” She finally declared, a stone expression on her face. “I don’t care what you did. I don’t care if you kicked him too hard, especially if he started it.”
She looked aside. She’d been wondering if she should admit what she’d done since not long after she’d finally found Morgan. Would he have still liked her if she’d told him about holding Alex at shear-point? Would he have left her in disgust? If there was ever a time to find out, now was it.
“I held Alex – blind Alex- by the,” she choked a bit. Pressed on. “By the throat, with my shears. I didn’t hurt him, I didn’t even poke him. But she had a gun, and Nick had a knife. I just wanted to get out of there, Morgan. I didn’t want to do it. But I was really scared. I didn’t know what else to do.”
She was shaking, she realised. She hadn’t thought about it, tried not to, but it had been so terrifying. She’d never had a gun pointed at her before, she might have died. She didn’t want that. She didn’t want any of them to die.
She didn’t want any of them to die.
“I thought- I thought I’d kill Lucas if he came. I was going to say that. But I don’t know if I could. I don’t want to.”
Her eyes started to water, her lip trembling. She looked at Morgan, looking for something that would help. Anything.
“I don’t want any of this to be happening. I want to go home.”
It wasn’t a murder attempt, but she could see why Lucas was pissed. She wanted to say to Morgan that it was ok, because it was, but she felt conflicted. Lucas made himself into a target, but she didn’t like that people kept making fun of him. She didn’t like it when it was on Facebook, and she didn’t like hearing gossip about him in the halls. She didn’t know what his issue was; maybe he had crappy social skills, maybe he had trouble relating, maybe he was just a prick. But people only made fun of him because they didn’t think there was any comeuppance, that they didn't have to deal with how he felt about it. Now, apparently, they did.
She didn’t sympathise with Lucas, because he was a cold-blooded killer now, but she could understand it. She didn’t like it, not one bit, but –
Was there a but?
No. No there wasn’t.
“I don’t care.” She finally declared, a stone expression on her face. “I don’t care what you did. I don’t care if you kicked him too hard, especially if he started it.”
She looked aside. She’d been wondering if she should admit what she’d done since not long after she’d finally found Morgan. Would he have still liked her if she’d told him about holding Alex at shear-point? Would he have left her in disgust? If there was ever a time to find out, now was it.
“I held Alex – blind Alex- by the,” she choked a bit. Pressed on. “By the throat, with my shears. I didn’t hurt him, I didn’t even poke him. But she had a gun, and Nick had a knife. I just wanted to get out of there, Morgan. I didn’t want to do it. But I was really scared. I didn’t know what else to do.”
She was shaking, she realised. She hadn’t thought about it, tried not to, but it had been so terrifying. She’d never had a gun pointed at her before, she might have died. She didn’t want that. She didn’t want any of them to die.
She didn’t want any of them to die.
“I thought- I thought I’d kill Lucas if he came. I was going to say that. But I don’t know if I could. I don’t want to.”
Her eyes started to water, her lip trembling. She looked at Morgan, looking for something that would help. Anything.
“I don’t want any of this to be happening. I want to go home.”
So he had absolution — that was nice, but had he expected Lizzie to give him anything but? Morgan didn't know, but as he listened to her own sordid tale, he grimaced. It wasn't that he was disappointed in her actions, but even worse, he understood them. He knew what it was like to have fear for one's own life. He recognized what a special kind of hell they were in, the kind that made ordinary people to monstrous things in the name of one more day of survival. Was the kind of person that would have attacked Lucas Brady on a good day? Of course not. Short of maybe shitting on him a little via Facebook — which he had actually mostly refrained from — he wasn't a violent person. People did stupid shit sometimes; Morgan was well aquainted with that reality, but while he'd been the victim of the odd slap or punch from people whom he'd pushed too far with his mouth, he couldn't remember the last time he'd retaliated.
Let other people have their fight somewhere else.
"Me too, Lizzie," he grabbed her, held her close. "Me too. I don't want any of this to be happening to us. I don't want to see people killing one another. I don't want to see bodies, I don't want to know that people are willing to kill to survive. I just," he paused.
"I just want to be here with you. Anywhere else but here."
That wasn't the reality, though. As much as either of them wanted to believe it, Morgan knew that falling apart was a way to ensure that they died as quickly as possible. He had to keep his own shit together, if for no other reason than for Lizzie. For his friends who were still out there; Michael, Henry, Jonah — all still alive and probably living through their own personal hells. He couldn't give up on himself, much like he couldn't give up on any of them. Michael's memory came back to mind, the despair that had radiated off of his friend. Who knew what he had done or been doing while Morgan and Lizzie had been here, fucking, carrying on and living like it was their last day on Earth?
For all he knew, it was.
Twenty-four hours from now, he could be dead.
"But we can't."
He spoke slowly, rubbing Lizzie's shoulders as he slowly made his way through his words, as though trying to convince himself that he had a better idea than the alternative.
"We can't be somewhere else. We have to just, I don't know, we have to keep going. I'm not going to leave you, Lizzie. No matter what. It doesn't matter what we've done."
He grasped her closer, and kissed her on the forehead.
Let other people have their fight somewhere else.
"Me too, Lizzie," he grabbed her, held her close. "Me too. I don't want any of this to be happening to us. I don't want to see people killing one another. I don't want to see bodies, I don't want to know that people are willing to kill to survive. I just," he paused.
"I just want to be here with you. Anywhere else but here."
That wasn't the reality, though. As much as either of them wanted to believe it, Morgan knew that falling apart was a way to ensure that they died as quickly as possible. He had to keep his own shit together, if for no other reason than for Lizzie. For his friends who were still out there; Michael, Henry, Jonah — all still alive and probably living through their own personal hells. He couldn't give up on himself, much like he couldn't give up on any of them. Michael's memory came back to mind, the despair that had radiated off of his friend. Who knew what he had done or been doing while Morgan and Lizzie had been here, fucking, carrying on and living like it was their last day on Earth?
For all he knew, it was.
Twenty-four hours from now, he could be dead.
"But we can't."
He spoke slowly, rubbing Lizzie's shoulders as he slowly made his way through his words, as though trying to convince himself that he had a better idea than the alternative.
"We can't be somewhere else. We have to just, I don't know, we have to keep going. I'm not going to leave you, Lizzie. No matter what. It doesn't matter what we've done."
He grasped her closer, and kissed her on the forehead.
Lizzie’s tears dried up in Morgan’s warm embrace. She was still scared, but she felt safe with his arms wrapped around her. She knew she never would be truly safe again, not really, but being with Morgan granted her that illusion. It was as if the two of them could fight off all the terrorists and any of their former friends, holding each other’s hands while wielding weapons in the other.
There was a cheery picture.
She squeezed him back. “I’m not going to leave you either. Let’s stay together until –“
She wanted to crack wise, make a joke about them sharing a cemetery plot, but she couldn’t. It wasn’t funny. “-until it’s finished.”
She rubbed her hand up and down his side, feeling his skin under her fingertips. He was alive, and he was there with her. That was all she had left, but it was better than nothing. She was glad for that.
“We should probably make a move if we want to find Michael, before he gets into any more trouble.” She finally said, with a smile that was only slightly forced, due to the thought of Michael and no-one else. She didn’t want to: she wanted that moment to last forever. But it couldn’t, and it wouldn’t.
She also really needed to pee.
There was a cheery picture.
She squeezed him back. “I’m not going to leave you either. Let’s stay together until –“
She wanted to crack wise, make a joke about them sharing a cemetery plot, but she couldn’t. It wasn’t funny. “-until it’s finished.”
She rubbed her hand up and down his side, feeling his skin under her fingertips. He was alive, and he was there with her. That was all she had left, but it was better than nothing. She was glad for that.
“We should probably make a move if we want to find Michael, before he gets into any more trouble.” She finally said, with a smile that was only slightly forced, due to the thought of Michael and no-one else. She didn’t want to: she wanted that moment to last forever. But it couldn’t, and it wouldn’t.
She also really needed to pee.
Sighing, Morgan nodded and disengaged himself from Lizzie. Stretching his legs, he grimaced as his still-bruised, likely broken ribs reminded him just how doomed he truly was. It was a shitty end to what had been a really wonderful couple of hours, almost forgetting that they had been kidnapped en masse by terrorists and were essentially all but dead the second they had stepped back onto the bus ever-so-late in the evening. Forgetting that had been nice. The problem was, forgetting that also meant that he forgot all about how he'd been attacked by the Carters; how he'd been saved from Lorenzo, how he'd ended up assaulting Lucas Brady and then watching the devastation that the game had laid down upon his best friend. All of that was awful, it was stuff that on almost any day of his life he'd pray to forget, but in this moment, he knew that it was exactly those memories that would drive him.
Morgan wasn't a killer; he knew that. Taking another human life was about as far away from an 'acceptable' act as he could possibly imagine. Faced with the choice, he'd probably rather forfeit a finger or a hand than cold-bloodedly kill someone. Malice wasn't a part of his makeup. If nothing else, Morgan Dragosavich knew that he was the kind of person who understood who he was, probably a lot earlier than many of his classmates. He wasn't a finished product by any means, but he knew his basic strengths and weaknesses. Morgan didn't doubt himself, not the way that Michael had; not even the way that Lizzie had. He knew what he was capable of — and more importantly, what he wasn't.
The problem was, not everyone was like that. Michael had been confused, he had been scared, and he had done what he had done likely because he thought he'd been helping Camila. What he hadn't understood was what it would do to his mind, and that was the thing that worried Morgan the most. If his friend did decide to try and be the murderous type, it would end well for him. Not because he would mess up and end up dead — though that was an obvious possibility. Rather, his psyche would not survive the guilt that multiple murders would weigh upon it. His mind would fracture under the pressure.
So there it was, again. His goal. Poor Lizzie — this was a mission that he had opted into on his own and essentially, for as long as she stuck by his side, it would be hers as well. That wasn't fair, and as he gingerly put his clothes back on, he knew that in the end, this particular mission likely ended with one of their deaths. People were giving in, people were killing, and at this point, they probably weren't discriminating anymore between friend or foe. Five or six days through this ordeal, anyone still standing was an obstacle. They would have to be very careful as they made their way through the jungle. Trust was scarce, and people would not be so free with who they gave it to.
"Y'know, " he said, turning to look at Lizzie with a smirk, "before? Michael would be the last person to find himself in trouble. He'd do everything he could to avoid it."
His smile was a lie, his eyes betraying the concern in his mind.
"With how he was the last time I saw him? I wouldn't be surprised if he were standing smack-dab in the middle of it."
Morgan felt a keen sadness. The smart thing, the rational thing would have been to tell Lizzie not to follow him, to instruct her how to hide, to keep herself as safe as possible for as long as possible. It would allow her the best shot to live, maybe even getting to the very end of the line if she were lucky.
Instead, he just held out his hand.
"Shall we?"
Morgan wasn't a killer; he knew that. Taking another human life was about as far away from an 'acceptable' act as he could possibly imagine. Faced with the choice, he'd probably rather forfeit a finger or a hand than cold-bloodedly kill someone. Malice wasn't a part of his makeup. If nothing else, Morgan Dragosavich knew that he was the kind of person who understood who he was, probably a lot earlier than many of his classmates. He wasn't a finished product by any means, but he knew his basic strengths and weaknesses. Morgan didn't doubt himself, not the way that Michael had; not even the way that Lizzie had. He knew what he was capable of — and more importantly, what he wasn't.
The problem was, not everyone was like that. Michael had been confused, he had been scared, and he had done what he had done likely because he thought he'd been helping Camila. What he hadn't understood was what it would do to his mind, and that was the thing that worried Morgan the most. If his friend did decide to try and be the murderous type, it would end well for him. Not because he would mess up and end up dead — though that was an obvious possibility. Rather, his psyche would not survive the guilt that multiple murders would weigh upon it. His mind would fracture under the pressure.
So there it was, again. His goal. Poor Lizzie — this was a mission that he had opted into on his own and essentially, for as long as she stuck by his side, it would be hers as well. That wasn't fair, and as he gingerly put his clothes back on, he knew that in the end, this particular mission likely ended with one of their deaths. People were giving in, people were killing, and at this point, they probably weren't discriminating anymore between friend or foe. Five or six days through this ordeal, anyone still standing was an obstacle. They would have to be very careful as they made their way through the jungle. Trust was scarce, and people would not be so free with who they gave it to.
"Y'know, " he said, turning to look at Lizzie with a smirk, "before? Michael would be the last person to find himself in trouble. He'd do everything he could to avoid it."
His smile was a lie, his eyes betraying the concern in his mind.
"With how he was the last time I saw him? I wouldn't be surprised if he were standing smack-dab in the middle of it."
Morgan felt a keen sadness. The smart thing, the rational thing would have been to tell Lizzie not to follow him, to instruct her how to hide, to keep herself as safe as possible for as long as possible. It would allow her the best shot to live, maybe even getting to the very end of the line if she were lucky.
Instead, he just held out his hand.
"Shall we?"
Lizzie took his hand, with a resigned smile. She knew where they were headed, but his warm grip was enough to get here there.
“Yes, let’s go walk into Hell together. What else are we going to do?”
((Lizzie Lebowskie and Morgan Dragosavich continued elsewhere))
“Yes, let’s go walk into Hell together. What else are we going to do?”
((Lizzie Lebowskie and Morgan Dragosavich continued elsewhere))