I've got survivalism.

[Nealosi†]

"I'm not a religious man. But I think it's important to say a few things. I think religion provides solace for a lot of people, and I believe religious text can provide the most insightful and prolific words. Words that can heal, words that can change. I don't know why I'm talking to myself... I don't really believe in any of this, but 'words have the power to both destroy and heal. When words are both true and kind, they can change our world.' Buddha said that... I think.

So I guess, first and foremost. I'm sorry. I can't apologies for all of this, but I can apologize for what I've done. I only knew you for a short time, I guess that was enough. I feel like I knew you for so much longer than that. You'll always be important to me, as far as that goes."

Blake rubbed his hands together; they were caked with dried blood, sweat and tears. His dirt covered fingers were sore and red from digging. He wiped his eyes with his black hoodie sleeve, unconscious of the new rip that lined the stitching. His heavy green jacket was laying on the floor containing all his supplies. He had enough to get him through the rest of the time on the island; he hadn't eaten enough in his stay so far anyway, so he would probably end up with a surplus.

The next of his words to the fallen were told in silence. He tried to say them but every time he opened his mouth his heart leapt into his neck, his dry lips burned and his cheeks ached. The pain was synonymous throughout his entire body. He felt like he was drying out, it hurt to breath. He was sustained by his fear, and nothing else.

He realized how self-centred he was feeling; his only urge was to survive, even though, in a lot of ways: he wanted to die. It was even painful to realize this of himself. It hurt so god-damned much. This is why he had avoided people for the start, because he knew deep down, that he would do anything to survive. This was an exercise of self-assessment, and of will power. Blake envied those few who had died for something. At least they could go down as something more than human. In there martyrdom they had transcend the darkness of their own humanity. The dark humanity that Blake now faced.

After a solid hour of kneeling in the hardpan he looked up to a nearby camera. It hung: unassuming and uncaring. He couldn't even blame the terrorists anymore, he only had himself to blame, for wanting to live. For embracing humanities innermost desire.

The tears hadn't run down his face in a long time. He could feel them somewhere deep inside, but he couldn't force them up. He wouldn't be crying for her anymore, they would just be tears for himself, for his own self-pity. He collected his things and stood back up. He looked down and placed a hand on the makeshift grave. He hoped his words were some solace.

"Most of all, I hope you can forgive me and rest in piece. Because I never can and I never will. Not anymore..."

And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep...

(Blake Ross continued elsewhere)