((Coleen Reagan continuing from Waiting for the End))
The island had suddenly become a much more harrowing walk once she was pumped full of lead.
The effect of four measly bullets was actually quite amazing. She supposed the fire and even the flashlight had taken their toll in their own little ways and only compounded the pain she was feeling, but in a way that honestly left Coleen feeling like she could ignore it, brush it off. She had begun to feel cold acceptance as she and Jon - the boy's name was Jon - passed the asylum a short ways back. It was nice to be able to laugh at yourself and all of your most dramatic moments, no matter which side of the theatre mask they happened to fall on.
And as far as drama was concerned, Coleen figured that there wasn't a more thematically appropriate place than the chapel to a crematorium. There was even a little platform for the casket to go on. Unfortunately, she had grown too weak to reach it without help, let alone climb atop it to lie down, and had independently freed herself from having any help walking. She limped down the aisle way, looking at the few pews they could afford to place here. It didn't look like it was intended for a large crowd. The way the floor was broken up and laden with patches of green was quite pretty though, she felt.
"Always thought my funeral would have more people," she cracked. She would have asked Jon how pale she was getting, but then it would be a surprise how much paleness could shine through her face the way it was. She wasn't going to get a proper funeral anyway; what would become of her body? The authorities always seemed to find the islands too late, so they might come once the game was over and once all of them, save for whoever the hell the winner may have been, were dead. Would she be recovered, brought home to Kingman so her family could at least have a little bit of closure?
Coleen reached out before her and dropped to her knees, softening the impact with the floor. Most people didn't get to choose to willingly lay down to meet their end, she figured, and so she could consider herself lucky. Dying slowly was a terrifying and painful ordeal, but at least it had a perk or two if you really, sincerely looked for it.
"Are you familiar with a play... or maybe just the book, called Summertree?" Coleen asked. "It opens Act one with a soliloquy of a man laying against a tree. You aren't sure what's up with him at first, his surroundings look peaceful, but the machine gun fire tells you that he's fighting a war. And he starts to talk about how he could peel the skin away from a leaf and..." She made a concerted effort to catch her breath. "... and then just leave the stems, and it kinda looks like a skeletal hand. And then he starts to do the same to HIS hand, because it turns out it's been burned to hell. Napalm, maybe."
Her fingers came close to her face but she dared not touch it.
"Silly little things I remember. Just seems appropriate now."
At least she didn't have to die here. She'd much rather be back in Cameron's basement, grabbing a hold of the microphone and just screaming out her stresses of the day. Turns out once she cut loose and stopped thinking about everything, it came to her naturally. Vanessa would warm up to her eventually; Coleen understood what it was like to have been replaced at something you wanted to do, but they'd all talked about it and Vanessa would be left on backups, to do the screams when necessary, and that's when she wasn't rocking them all with lead guitar bits.
Cameron was happy where she was, playing rhythm guitar and just supporting everyone, in more ways than one. Brady, B.B.... drums and bass were the foundation of the band, she had learned in a quick, insistent blurb by Brady. Their technical skill didn't need to be the best. What they had was good enough to build off of. They all had fun, in and out of practice.
They were going to be famous one day.
G008 - Reagan, Coleen: Deceased
Summertree
What day is it? She's tired.
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MK Kilmarnock
- Posts: 1931
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 5:28 am
- Location: On one of the coasts, generally
(( Jonathan Gulley continued from Waiting for The End ))
By the time they made it to the chapel, Jon knew what was going to happen to Coleen. There was nothing he could do for her now, though if he acted quicker, he could have saved her. She wouldn't have had to die.
At least he could choose to not let her die alone. Alessio was done for, so that meant it wasn't all for nothing.
Jon watched Coleen lie down, before he decided to sit down by her.
Coleen started talking about a play, Summertree, and how a guy peeled the skin off his hand or something. It sounded pretty morbid, but all it reminded him of was that one shitty B-movie him and Darius watched one time about a bed that had acid in it or something. There was a scene where a guy stabbed the bed and all that remained of his hands were little skeleton hands. All Jon could think about was that guy's deadpan reaction. Jon didn't mention the film out of respect.
"No... No I haven't seen it. It sounds crazy though."
He realized what Coleen was talking about when she brought her hands to her face. He never realized it, but she had her hair tied back, she used to cover her face. He got what she meant.
He looked away for a moment, staring at his own reflection in a nearby window. When he looked back, Coleen was unconscious. Jon knew she wouldn't wake back up.
Jon didn't really know Coleen too well, and he had no idea what type of pain she had been through on this island. He didn't know how many friends she saw die, or how many people she tried to save. He knew almost nothing about her.
From what little he saw, he knew one thing. Coleen was strong, and she wasn't scared. She fought back, she won. She deserved her rest.
Jon... wasn't like her. He was a coward, always hesitating, never deciding... He went after all the wrong people, and made all the wrong mistakes. No wonder he hid behind a mask... Everything that has happened to him, he deserved it, and for that, he didn't deserve his rest.
He wasn't done yet. Min Jae was still alive, and Jon had to fix that. He would only get one more warning before Jon would attack... Once he's done with him, then he'll come back and find Alba, maybe they could make it to the end. Maybe Alba will win...
Jon walked to the reflection in the window, looking at his bandaged face. He didn't need the mask anymore... He didn't need these bandages anymore. He had to be strong, he had to master not just his fear, but the fear of countless others. Some things were scarier than masks, anyways.
He peeled away the bandages, and looked at the result. There was no eye to speak of anymore, the simple 'graze' had forced it out of his skull when it hit. It had hit just outside the edge of his eyelid, and inch forward and it would have missed, and inch backwards, and he wouldn't be here.
It was kind of funny to look at himself now. Shirtless, scarred, cut, bruised, missing an eye and some of the socket... He couldn't recognize himself. It was like the unmasking scene of Friday the 13th or something. When Jason finally showed his face, you knew you were close to the end. Jon guessed he was close to his end as well. Everyone was really.
He only had his machete on him, he left everything else back at the cove. He would probably need it all at this point, he couldn't wait anymore. He had failed everyone else, he couldn't do it anymore. Now more than ever he needed to do something.
No more masks. He wasn't The Shape, he was just Jon. Everything he would do from this point on would be him, it would be his responsibility.
((Jonathan Gulley continued elsewhere.))
By the time they made it to the chapel, Jon knew what was going to happen to Coleen. There was nothing he could do for her now, though if he acted quicker, he could have saved her. She wouldn't have had to die.
At least he could choose to not let her die alone. Alessio was done for, so that meant it wasn't all for nothing.
Jon watched Coleen lie down, before he decided to sit down by her.
Coleen started talking about a play, Summertree, and how a guy peeled the skin off his hand or something. It sounded pretty morbid, but all it reminded him of was that one shitty B-movie him and Darius watched one time about a bed that had acid in it or something. There was a scene where a guy stabbed the bed and all that remained of his hands were little skeleton hands. All Jon could think about was that guy's deadpan reaction. Jon didn't mention the film out of respect.
"No... No I haven't seen it. It sounds crazy though."
He realized what Coleen was talking about when she brought her hands to her face. He never realized it, but she had her hair tied back, she used to cover her face. He got what she meant.
He looked away for a moment, staring at his own reflection in a nearby window. When he looked back, Coleen was unconscious. Jon knew she wouldn't wake back up.
Jon didn't really know Coleen too well, and he had no idea what type of pain she had been through on this island. He didn't know how many friends she saw die, or how many people she tried to save. He knew almost nothing about her.
From what little he saw, he knew one thing. Coleen was strong, and she wasn't scared. She fought back, she won. She deserved her rest.
Jon... wasn't like her. He was a coward, always hesitating, never deciding... He went after all the wrong people, and made all the wrong mistakes. No wonder he hid behind a mask... Everything that has happened to him, he deserved it, and for that, he didn't deserve his rest.
He wasn't done yet. Min Jae was still alive, and Jon had to fix that. He would only get one more warning before Jon would attack... Once he's done with him, then he'll come back and find Alba, maybe they could make it to the end. Maybe Alba will win...
Jon walked to the reflection in the window, looking at his bandaged face. He didn't need the mask anymore... He didn't need these bandages anymore. He had to be strong, he had to master not just his fear, but the fear of countless others. Some things were scarier than masks, anyways.
He peeled away the bandages, and looked at the result. There was no eye to speak of anymore, the simple 'graze' had forced it out of his skull when it hit. It had hit just outside the edge of his eyelid, and inch forward and it would have missed, and inch backwards, and he wouldn't be here.
It was kind of funny to look at himself now. Shirtless, scarred, cut, bruised, missing an eye and some of the socket... He couldn't recognize himself. It was like the unmasking scene of Friday the 13th or something. When Jason finally showed his face, you knew you were close to the end. Jon guessed he was close to his end as well. Everyone was really.
He only had his machete on him, he left everything else back at the cove. He would probably need it all at this point, he couldn't wait anymore. He had failed everyone else, he couldn't do it anymore. Now more than ever he needed to do something.
No more masks. He wasn't The Shape, he was just Jon. Everything he would do from this point on would be him, it would be his responsibility.
((Jonathan Gulley continued elsewhere.))
((Enzo continued from Run))
Too slow. They were too slow.
The second Coleen managed to give Enzo the slip, that was what they were dreading. Maybe it had caught them off guard, maybe it was that they'd tripped. Maybe it was that when gunshots split the air, they panicked further, got turned around, couldn't properly identify which direction they were coming from.
Maybe it was any number of those things.
By the time it all finished choking them up, slowing them down, and drowning them with worry, they'd fallen far, far behind.
And when they moved on again, from one dead body then another, then another, knowing that it didn't damn well matter how fast they were now, that dread swallowed them whole.
Enzo burst through the chapel's doors, slick with sweat, gasping for air. They'd long since given up calling Coleen's name, saving their strength and breath for running as fast as they could.
And they knew it was her the second they laid eyes upon her body.
Enzo collapsed.
"Fucking—damn it! God—"
They punched the floor.
"—Fucking!"
Another punch.
"—DAMN IT!"
They howled it out, a rending screech from the pit of the stomach and the depths of pain.
Every time. Every fucking time.
They found Cameron, they let her die.
They found Vanessa. They let her leave. She died.
They found Coleen. They let her out of sight. She died.
Every fucking person they'd set out to watch over, every person they'd promised BB and Brady they'd keep safe, Enzo had let die.
What good were they? Everything Enzo touched got killed. And here they still were, doing what, exactly? Keeping on keeping on? Hoping that somehow it would all be turned around at the eleventh hour?
The cavalry wasn't coming. The cavalry had never been coming.
Enzo fell back onto their butt, head ringing, chest pounding fit to burst. They couldn't feel their hand, and were dimly aware of the blood streaming from smashed knuckles.
They couldn't bring themselves to cry. They definitely couldn't bring themselves to look at Coleen.
What good were they?
It was a long, long time before Enzo moved again.
((Enzo continued elsewhere))
Too slow. They were too slow.
The second Coleen managed to give Enzo the slip, that was what they were dreading. Maybe it had caught them off guard, maybe it was that they'd tripped. Maybe it was that when gunshots split the air, they panicked further, got turned around, couldn't properly identify which direction they were coming from.
Maybe it was any number of those things.
By the time it all finished choking them up, slowing them down, and drowning them with worry, they'd fallen far, far behind.
And when they moved on again, from one dead body then another, then another, knowing that it didn't damn well matter how fast they were now, that dread swallowed them whole.
Enzo burst through the chapel's doors, slick with sweat, gasping for air. They'd long since given up calling Coleen's name, saving their strength and breath for running as fast as they could.
And they knew it was her the second they laid eyes upon her body.
Enzo collapsed.
"Fucking—damn it! God—"
They punched the floor.
"—Fucking!"
Another punch.
"—DAMN IT!"
They howled it out, a rending screech from the pit of the stomach and the depths of pain.
Every time. Every fucking time.
They found Cameron, they let her die.
They found Vanessa. They let her leave. She died.
They found Coleen. They let her out of sight. She died.
Every fucking person they'd set out to watch over, every person they'd promised BB and Brady they'd keep safe, Enzo had let die.
What good were they? Everything Enzo touched got killed. And here they still were, doing what, exactly? Keeping on keeping on? Hoping that somehow it would all be turned around at the eleventh hour?
The cavalry wasn't coming. The cavalry had never been coming.
Enzo fell back onto their butt, head ringing, chest pounding fit to burst. They couldn't feel their hand, and were dimly aware of the blood streaming from smashed knuckles.
They couldn't bring themselves to cry. They definitely couldn't bring themselves to look at Coleen.
What good were they?
It was a long, long time before Enzo moved again.
((Enzo continued elsewhere))