To Dine With the Devil

[Espi]

((Henry Spencer continued from Self Doubts and Hurricanes))

It was, with dawning horror on the level of 'the monster didn't die' in a film, that Henry realized he'd left his bag.

He wanted to go back. To turn around, apologize, smile sheepishly as he took back his friends' respect and his precious supplies. But he couldn't. He'd crossed the line, tried to hurt someone. Shame burned his face every time he thought about it. He rarely felt ashamed; it hurt, a lot.

That social fear was so alien and weird to Henry that he couldn't bear to stop running. With his bag gone, he outpaced the group for some time until, inevitably, he ran out of steam. Fatigued, Henry stumbled towards the nearest visible landmark, the warehouse structure they'd seen at the docks.

Collapsing at the front of the building, Henry heard no voices from within, and tentatively slipped inside. He looked around quizzically, standing in the corner and observing the mess of collapsed palettes and papers and all sorts of nonsense. There was what looked suspiciously like bloodstains all over. That was a bad sign, and Henry found great discomfort in the revelation that violence was already ongoing.

All he had was his whip. That might've served Indiana Jones and the Belmonte family, but Henry was not proficient in whipping. For starters, he needed food and water. He would be surprised to find edibles here, even canned goods. And if they were on an island, he'd need to purify and desalinate the water to drink, and Henry would need things like heat sources, containers, plastic, things he didn't have.

Death was an inevitable. Asha Sur was one of Henry's good friends, and she was pretty in tune with that kind of thing. Henry envied her now, in a way; he hoped that, if she was doomed to die, she'd at least have a peaceful passing, not one full of fear and anger and pain and brutality. Same went for all his classmates, though Henry doubted most would have that luxury.

But Henry was scared. Not just of dying; he wanted to go home, of course. It was in that little-kid-like, whiny voice he thought that. Alone and scared were states Henry was familiar with, but never together, and never scared in such a real, morbid way. Besides, he wasn't scared just of being murdered; he was at risk of dehydration and starvation, and both sounded like truly horrible ways to go.

Henry Spencer was going to die. But fuck if he was going to die because he dropped his bag. He needed a plan, a strategy, right? He couldn't just walk up to people, unless he knew them as trustworthy. And Henry didn't have much self-awareness, but he knew he was a bad judge of character. So he needed to get food and water from someone, but he couldn't trust anyone? He'd have to do something wrong, something bad.

He'd need to steal their stuff.

Truthfully? Probably not as bad as murder. But Henry didn't need to kill people. He needed sustenance, that was all. So what was the problem? He might condemn someone to the same fate he feared. Hmm...perhaps if he could just take some of their stuff? That might work. They'd both be a little tight on survival needs, but not damned to die of dehydration. The only thing now was to do it.

But first...rest. He was fatigued from all the running around. Henry made his way through the chaotic piles of junk to a secluded-looking spot. He considered the office, but found the nest of hornets within a bit offputting. So he collapsed in the corner and eventually fell asleep, using his arm as a pillow, mind full of intent and fear, hope and goals, misery and pain.

--

Henry woke up with a stomach ache and a headache, later in the morning than he'd thought. Just in time, it seemed, to hear the announced killers and victims.

Two girls he was unfamiliar with, one killed by a senior, one by a mistake. Kimiko was someone he'd met once. She'd killed a baseball player. Alvaro had murdered a boy. Conrad, Abby...so many people, faces he recognized, dead. He'd gone to prom with Scarlett, for god's sake, and she was dead! It nearly made him scream in frustration with the futility of it all. But that in itself was futile. So he remained quiet.

Oh, and he was in a danger zone. Lovely.

Henry ran from the warehouse, glanced frantically about to discern his direction, and bolted away, making sure to tightly clutch his whip as he moved further inland.

((Henry Spencer continued in Forget About What I Said))