"No."
Joe's eyes lingered on the scythe, which was stained with blood, and on Ben's hardened expression and dark hair, just similar enough in shade to make him think of Travis again. His knuckles were white as he gripped the chair.
"Might not feel like killing today. But tomorrow? The next day?" Joe said quietly. "If I leave, would you never kill again? And would—could I believe you if you said you wouldn't?"
Travis had said he wouldn't. He hadn't lasted a day.
"I... I won't leave. I can't leave."
Joe raised the chair.
Nevermind that Ben was bigger than him, and armed with something that could slice him to bits. Because what did Joe have to lose, apart from his life? That wasn't worth anything. Just a matter of now or later. But weighing up his life, Ben's life and the life of the next person who Ben would kill?
"I'm sorry... I..."
Joe couldn't finish. So instead he rushed forward. Because if he didn't, he would lose his nerve. And someone else would die.
Huddle
CLOSED, Day Seven (formerly Day Six)
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ViolentMedic
- Posts: 813
- Joined: Fri Aug 17, 2018 7:53 am
((GM Fighting approved by Violent-Medic, and likewise GMing of Ben is approved by me))
What the fuck did Joe mean 'no?' He was in no fucking position to refuse. Ben had been nice. Ben even looked past the fact that he'd straight up murdered the two goons watching over Ben's base. Joe could have stopped there, and gotten to live, but now Ben was going to have to retaliate.
"Listen you little fucker, don't you dare get all high and mighty with your bullshit. You don't know me. You don't get to talk about me like that." Ben dug his hand briefly into his pocket. All it would take was one quick flick of the notch, then the box cutter would be primed and ready to cut through the scrawny fucker's neck. The scythe could also fuck him up.
Ben's hands clenched violently at his side. He doesn't know shit.
"You fucking killed these two in cold blood. That's the truth here. You can sugar coat it all you want, but you're in no fucking position to question me." Ben took a stride closer to Joe. They were spitting venom at this distance. Ben could look into Joe's eyes. There was so much hate, for no fucking reason. Joe didn't know Ben. Ben wasn't like Joe. He didn't just casually kill.
"And I'm not gonna kill. I'm gonna wait fo---" Ben's thought was unfortunately cut off. Joe, in all of his infinite dumbassery, flung a chair at Ben. Who was the bigger idiot here? Joe for picking a fight with the baddest, toughest, strongest dude at Aurora; or Ben for not ducking out of the way when the chair collided with his chest.
It winded Ben. More than being tackled by Cody Patton, or any of the guys on the team. Maybe it was the angle with which the wooden corner hooked right under Ben's ribcage. Maybe it was the force, unadulterated by rules and football regulations, that Joe was allowed to throw out within this game. Whatever it was, Ben didn't have time to react as he fell backward. The scythe flung from his hand, his bag from his shoulder. Even his box cutter was noticeably absent as he landed painfully on his side.
Ben's voice was breathy, struggling to regain composure and air. "Y-you fucker. You high and mighty piece of shit."
Ben launched himself upward. That was Joe's biggest mistake. He shouldn't have provoked Ben. Ben was so ready to never kill again. He'd done it two times too many for one lifetime. But sure as fucking sun, Joe made Ben play his hand. Actually, he made Ben play both hands.
"FUCKING FAGGOT." Ben propelled himself onto Joe's lanky frame. The width of Joe's neck was pretty comparable to the size of Ben's individual hand. When both hands, coupled with the rage worked in tandem, it lead to a vice grip around the guy's windpipe. Joe's stance buckled under Ben's muscular weight, and the pair went down.
Joe would never get to say that he was sorry, or that he would reconsider his actions. Ben wasn't going to allow him that luxury. Everyone would watch Joe die for his stupidity.
What the fuck did Joe mean 'no?' He was in no fucking position to refuse. Ben had been nice. Ben even looked past the fact that he'd straight up murdered the two goons watching over Ben's base. Joe could have stopped there, and gotten to live, but now Ben was going to have to retaliate.
"Listen you little fucker, don't you dare get all high and mighty with your bullshit. You don't know me. You don't get to talk about me like that." Ben dug his hand briefly into his pocket. All it would take was one quick flick of the notch, then the box cutter would be primed and ready to cut through the scrawny fucker's neck. The scythe could also fuck him up.
Ben's hands clenched violently at his side. He doesn't know shit.
"You fucking killed these two in cold blood. That's the truth here. You can sugar coat it all you want, but you're in no fucking position to question me." Ben took a stride closer to Joe. They were spitting venom at this distance. Ben could look into Joe's eyes. There was so much hate, for no fucking reason. Joe didn't know Ben. Ben wasn't like Joe. He didn't just casually kill.
"And I'm not gonna kill. I'm gonna wait fo---" Ben's thought was unfortunately cut off. Joe, in all of his infinite dumbassery, flung a chair at Ben. Who was the bigger idiot here? Joe for picking a fight with the baddest, toughest, strongest dude at Aurora; or Ben for not ducking out of the way when the chair collided with his chest.
It winded Ben. More than being tackled by Cody Patton, or any of the guys on the team. Maybe it was the angle with which the wooden corner hooked right under Ben's ribcage. Maybe it was the force, unadulterated by rules and football regulations, that Joe was allowed to throw out within this game. Whatever it was, Ben didn't have time to react as he fell backward. The scythe flung from his hand, his bag from his shoulder. Even his box cutter was noticeably absent as he landed painfully on his side.
Ben's voice was breathy, struggling to regain composure and air. "Y-you fucker. You high and mighty piece of shit."
Ben launched himself upward. That was Joe's biggest mistake. He shouldn't have provoked Ben. Ben was so ready to never kill again. He'd done it two times too many for one lifetime. But sure as fucking sun, Joe made Ben play his hand. Actually, he made Ben play both hands.
"FUCKING FAGGOT." Ben propelled himself onto Joe's lanky frame. The width of Joe's neck was pretty comparable to the size of Ben's individual hand. When both hands, coupled with the rage worked in tandem, it lead to a vice grip around the guy's windpipe. Joe's stance buckled under Ben's muscular weight, and the pair went down.
Joe would never get to say that he was sorry, or that he would reconsider his actions. Ben wasn't going to allow him that luxury. Everyone would watch Joe die for his stupidity.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Shangela. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
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ViolentMedic
- Posts: 813
- Joined: Fri Aug 17, 2018 7:53 am
It was a blur. The chair hitting Ben, the scythe clattering, shouting and words that once upon a time would have made Joe wince and wonder if the person saying it actually knew or whether they were just being cruel, and suddenly Joe was on the ground and he couldn't breathe.
Hands around his throat. Choking out any scrap of air he had left. Joe thrashed. He fought back, smacking his fists wherever he could reach, but he'd never been that strong. He'd never been in a proper fight. He was outmatched in every way possible. A lucky shot with a chair was the only reason he hadn't been cut to pieces.
His vision was getting dimmer. His hands stopped thumping against Ben and brushed the ground.
There was something near his hand. His fingers skimmed over a sharp object.
Joe didn't think. He just grabbed it, swung his fist up and plunged whatever it was into Ben's thigh.
The hands gripping his neck let go. And Joe scrambled backwards, rasping for breath. He heard a disgusting squelch noise as he pulled away, taking the sharp thing that had saved his life with him.
It took him several harsh breaths to focus enough to make sense of the situation. He looked down at the object that was in his hand.
It was a box cutter, fresh blood coating the dried blood underneath.
Hands around his throat. Choking out any scrap of air he had left. Joe thrashed. He fought back, smacking his fists wherever he could reach, but he'd never been that strong. He'd never been in a proper fight. He was outmatched in every way possible. A lucky shot with a chair was the only reason he hadn't been cut to pieces.
His vision was getting dimmer. His hands stopped thumping against Ben and brushed the ground.
There was something near his hand. His fingers skimmed over a sharp object.
Joe didn't think. He just grabbed it, swung his fist up and plunged whatever it was into Ben's thigh.
The hands gripping his neck let go. And Joe scrambled backwards, rasping for breath. He heard a disgusting squelch noise as he pulled away, taking the sharp thing that had saved his life with him.
It took him several harsh breaths to focus enough to make sense of the situation. He looked down at the object that was in his hand.
It was a box cutter, fresh blood coating the dried blood underneath.
For a moment, everything was quiet. Ben couldn't hear Joe rapidly gasp for breath, regaining composure after Ben's attack. Ben couldn't hear the panicked thrashing of Joe's legs and he fought to gain distance between himself and the rightfully pissed off Ben. None of that mattered.
Everything was silent as Ben stared down at the gurgling wound. Ben wondered why it didn't hurt more. He couldn't see just how deep the blade had torn through muscle and vein, but he could see the aftermath. Blood was erupting with each panicked heartbeat.
Thump. Thump
Blood ejected out from above his thigh, launching past the length of Ben's leg. For a moment, Ben stared in awe, the wound was an unbelievable sight to see. Ben dreamily thought to press hold of the wound. Only once his thumb became slick with blood, the tender flesh of his thigh recoiling in lancing pain, did it happen.
Reality struck.
Ben would never get to be the all-star college athlete he dreamed about. The box cutter sliced through his thigh muscle. Ben tried to shift the position of his thigh, being met with more aggressive spattering of blood. He grasped hold of his thigh with his left hand. It would take months of physical therapy to recover from such a deep strike to the bare muscle. Ligament would have to be surgically healed. Twisted ankles kept real athletes benched for whole seasons. This?
Ben would be lucky if he could ever play football again.
"You fucking idiot!" Ben tried to staunch his wounded thigh with his whole palm, using his other to drag his uncooperative lower half towards an adjacent wall. "Look at what you did to me!"
The security of the wall meant that he'd have a launching point. The indent of tile from the plastered wall was just enough of a grip to latch hold of. C'mon Ben. Get up. Ben's dominant arm tried to pull him up. His arm shook violently. The unnatural extension of his muscle wasn't sustainable for long. As soon as he'd steadied his feet, his arm gave up and sent him spiraling down.
Ben hadn't realized it, but his tears began to flow as he hit the floor with an audible thud. He couldn't fully feel the pain of his tailbone shattering as it hit the unforgiving cool linoleum ground. His extremities were losing sensation.
"W-why the fuck do you think I built this place up, if I was going to go out and kill people?" Ben's voice was growing soft. Not soft enough for him to sputter out hateful venom. "Tell yourself whatever the fuck you want, but you ruined my life. When rescue comes, I'm never going to play football again."
The blood was rapidly seeping through Ben's fingers. Everything became disorienting. His thoughts, his vision, even the senses of touch became dulled, yet at the same time dramatically sharp and lancing. The faster he tried to catch breath, the quicker it seemed to escape. Ben didn't even have the coherence to know that he was dying.
"F-fuck . . ." Ben's speech broke apart with his rapid gasps. "you. . ."
His scythe rested just a few feet away from him. Ben might not be able to play again, but he could sure as fuck get some revenge. Oscar might have been a crime, and Janie was definitely a crime, but Joe wouldn't be. Everyone who was watching would see that this was self-defense. Maybe if Ben could stop being the bad guy for five seconds, he'd get some sort of sympathy. For fuck's sake, Joe'd just robbed Ben of a future for some convoluted, self righteous reason.
Ben rocked his body harshly. His spare arm wasn't quite ready to catch his shifting wait, and he'd collided with the ground. His chest broke the bulk of the fall, his chin painfully catching the remaining brunt of the force. Like an army soldier, Ben began to crawl. While one hand painfully grasped at his thigh, his forearm and spare leg began to propel him forward.
Thump. . . thump.
C'mon, Ben.
A horrid red streak trailed behind Ben as he dragged his body forward. Each thrust forward with his forearm meant the exhausting, painful kick forward with his leg. He wanted to give up. He wanted to just lay there, hoping rescue choppers would land on the roof at any minute. He wanted the army medics to come swoop in, place Ben on a stretcher, and let him get a fucking moment of shut-eye. They'd do their live-saving business, while Ben got to wait it out in a comfortable hospital lounge.
But Ben wouldn't be comfortable until he got Joe back for stealing his career. It kept Ben going. "You don't get to say when I die. Not you. Not Hansel Williams. Not even these fucking terrorists. Fuck all of you." His words were intermittently separated by pained grunts and anguished breaths.
The scythe was just a few inches away. C'mon, Ben.
With one last concentrated effort, Ben kicked with both legs. His body recoiled in pain. His eyes clamped shut, his mouth turned into a pained scowl. The wooden handle of the scythe centered in his palm. He'd get his revenge.
Joe would pay.
B036 - Benjamin Ward - Deceased
Everything was silent as Ben stared down at the gurgling wound. Ben wondered why it didn't hurt more. He couldn't see just how deep the blade had torn through muscle and vein, but he could see the aftermath. Blood was erupting with each panicked heartbeat.
Thump. Thump
Blood ejected out from above his thigh, launching past the length of Ben's leg. For a moment, Ben stared in awe, the wound was an unbelievable sight to see. Ben dreamily thought to press hold of the wound. Only once his thumb became slick with blood, the tender flesh of his thigh recoiling in lancing pain, did it happen.
Reality struck.
Ben would never get to be the all-star college athlete he dreamed about. The box cutter sliced through his thigh muscle. Ben tried to shift the position of his thigh, being met with more aggressive spattering of blood. He grasped hold of his thigh with his left hand. It would take months of physical therapy to recover from such a deep strike to the bare muscle. Ligament would have to be surgically healed. Twisted ankles kept real athletes benched for whole seasons. This?
Ben would be lucky if he could ever play football again.
"You fucking idiot!" Ben tried to staunch his wounded thigh with his whole palm, using his other to drag his uncooperative lower half towards an adjacent wall. "Look at what you did to me!"
The security of the wall meant that he'd have a launching point. The indent of tile from the plastered wall was just enough of a grip to latch hold of. C'mon Ben. Get up. Ben's dominant arm tried to pull him up. His arm shook violently. The unnatural extension of his muscle wasn't sustainable for long. As soon as he'd steadied his feet, his arm gave up and sent him spiraling down.
Ben hadn't realized it, but his tears began to flow as he hit the floor with an audible thud. He couldn't fully feel the pain of his tailbone shattering as it hit the unforgiving cool linoleum ground. His extremities were losing sensation.
"W-why the fuck do you think I built this place up, if I was going to go out and kill people?" Ben's voice was growing soft. Not soft enough for him to sputter out hateful venom. "Tell yourself whatever the fuck you want, but you ruined my life. When rescue comes, I'm never going to play football again."
The blood was rapidly seeping through Ben's fingers. Everything became disorienting. His thoughts, his vision, even the senses of touch became dulled, yet at the same time dramatically sharp and lancing. The faster he tried to catch breath, the quicker it seemed to escape. Ben didn't even have the coherence to know that he was dying.
"F-fuck . . ." Ben's speech broke apart with his rapid gasps. "you. . ."
His scythe rested just a few feet away from him. Ben might not be able to play again, but he could sure as fuck get some revenge. Oscar might have been a crime, and Janie was definitely a crime, but Joe wouldn't be. Everyone who was watching would see that this was self-defense. Maybe if Ben could stop being the bad guy for five seconds, he'd get some sort of sympathy. For fuck's sake, Joe'd just robbed Ben of a future for some convoluted, self righteous reason.
Ben rocked his body harshly. His spare arm wasn't quite ready to catch his shifting wait, and he'd collided with the ground. His chest broke the bulk of the fall, his chin painfully catching the remaining brunt of the force. Like an army soldier, Ben began to crawl. While one hand painfully grasped at his thigh, his forearm and spare leg began to propel him forward.
Thump. . . thump.
C'mon, Ben.
A horrid red streak trailed behind Ben as he dragged his body forward. Each thrust forward with his forearm meant the exhausting, painful kick forward with his leg. He wanted to give up. He wanted to just lay there, hoping rescue choppers would land on the roof at any minute. He wanted the army medics to come swoop in, place Ben on a stretcher, and let him get a fucking moment of shut-eye. They'd do their live-saving business, while Ben got to wait it out in a comfortable hospital lounge.
But Ben wouldn't be comfortable until he got Joe back for stealing his career. It kept Ben going. "You don't get to say when I die. Not you. Not Hansel Williams. Not even these fucking terrorists. Fuck all of you." His words were intermittently separated by pained grunts and anguished breaths.
The scythe was just a few inches away. C'mon, Ben.
With one last concentrated effort, Ben kicked with both legs. His body recoiled in pain. His eyes clamped shut, his mouth turned into a pained scowl. The wooden handle of the scythe centered in his palm. He'd get his revenge.
Joe would pay.
B036 - Benjamin Ward - Deceased
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Shangela. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
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ViolentMedic
- Posts: 813
- Joined: Fri Aug 17, 2018 7:53 am
Joe kept crawling backwards, eyes wide and colour draining from his face. He'd like to pretend he didn't know a stab to the thigh would be so... so bloody. But he knew. His father would have killed him if he couldn't remember something as basic as where the femoral artery was.
He shut his eyes and tried to block it out. He couldn't. He could still hear the sound of blood splattering the ground, the copper smell that came from it, and Ben screaming at him. Screaming for him to look at what he did.
Joe couldn't. He owed it to him, but he couldn't.
And then just... more shouting. Each word felt like a punch to the face. He just wanted to be rescued. He just wanted to stay in his little barricade. He wanted to play football. Joe had robbed him of all of it. And as he tried to breathe, and the anger replaced itself with revulsion, he wasn't so sure it had been the right thing to do.
No. It definitely hadn't been the right thing to do. But... he'd thought it was necessary. He still... he'd thought... maybe...
Joe didn't move. Even as he heard Ben crawling towards where the scythe had clattered. Didn't matter. Even if Ben killed him now, it didn't change what he'd done. He just shut his eyes, clinging to the bloody box cutter like it was a childhood toy. Listening to Ben scrape his way across the floor, shouting at him, the shouts getting progressively weaker.
Eventually, all the noises stopped. Except for the steady sound of blood dripping onto the floor.
Joe opened his eyes. Ben was dead. He shut them again. He dropped the box cutter and covered his mouth, curling up and trying to fight back the bile rolling around in his stomach. He failed, and moved his hands in time to retch all over the floor.
"I'm sorry," he choked out after he was done. "I just... I had to... only way..."
Maybe he'd saved someone who would have been killed by Ben. But he could never know for sure.
He shut his eyes and tried to block it out. He couldn't. He could still hear the sound of blood splattering the ground, the copper smell that came from it, and Ben screaming at him. Screaming for him to look at what he did.
Joe couldn't. He owed it to him, but he couldn't.
And then just... more shouting. Each word felt like a punch to the face. He just wanted to be rescued. He just wanted to stay in his little barricade. He wanted to play football. Joe had robbed him of all of it. And as he tried to breathe, and the anger replaced itself with revulsion, he wasn't so sure it had been the right thing to do.
No. It definitely hadn't been the right thing to do. But... he'd thought it was necessary. He still... he'd thought... maybe...
Joe didn't move. Even as he heard Ben crawling towards where the scythe had clattered. Didn't matter. Even if Ben killed him now, it didn't change what he'd done. He just shut his eyes, clinging to the bloody box cutter like it was a childhood toy. Listening to Ben scrape his way across the floor, shouting at him, the shouts getting progressively weaker.
Eventually, all the noises stopped. Except for the steady sound of blood dripping onto the floor.
Joe opened his eyes. Ben was dead. He shut them again. He dropped the box cutter and covered his mouth, curling up and trying to fight back the bile rolling around in his stomach. He failed, and moved his hands in time to retch all over the floor.
"I'm sorry," he choked out after he was done. "I just... I had to... only way..."
Maybe he'd saved someone who would have been killed by Ben. But he could never know for sure.
Owen kept wandering. He had no idea where he might find first aid supplies of any sort, but that didn't even bother him right now. Nothing was bothering him and that was the problem. He felt like he was in a trance; everything was moving and changing outside, but inside Owen there was nothing. Just a feeling of emptiness, a feeling that something was missing.
The echoes of his footsteps were all that Owen heard. Not Travis and Joe fighting, not Travis leaving. Even his thoughts had faded away. A pharmacy. That was all he needed to find. A bandage for the cut on his arm. That was it.
Then what?
Eventually, as Travis left and Ben returned, Owen's meandering search yielded results in a mostly trashed pharmacy. Shards of glass and broken containers littered the dirty, dusty floor. Even so, Owen didn't need to search for long. A tightly rolled-up length of gauze, exactly what he needed. A shard of glass served to cut a decent length off and he began to wrap his arm up in it. He gently pressed against the cut, and a flash of pain hit him.
Pushing the wound was like pushing a button inside Owen's head. He stood there, looking down at the bandage, as everything came flooding back to him. This had all started with a call for first-aid. Not for him, though. For Aileen. For the bullet in her leg, after Hansel had stolen all of their belongings, after they'd wandered around the amusement park for days getting nowhere, after finally stumbling upon the shopping centre and finally believing that they were safe for a short while and all that had happened before that. Everything that had happened on the island between Owen and Aileen. And now it was all gone. Aileen had been killed.
The reality of it all finally sunk in, as Owen slumped to the ground, tears already beginning to flow. He covered his face with his hands, tucked his knees into his chest, felt his body shaking, let the length of bandage hang free from his wrist. He didn't know how long he sat there, sobbing. Enough time for Travis to leave and a second corpse to appear in the shopping centre.
All the while, one thought ran through Owen's head. He had stopped Travis from coming any further into the store. He had been the one who had pushed him, provoked, started the fight. If that had never happened, Aileen would still be alive. If only he hadn't been so stupid. So foolhardy. So useless.
Eventually, Owen rubbed his red eyes and shakily stood up, securing the bandage on his arm. He needed to leave. It didn't matter how well secured the shopping centre might be. The only thing he would be able to think whenever he looked at the barricade would be the events of today. Owen stumbled over glass and empty bottles, out of the pharmacy. He wasn't going straight back to Joe. First, he needed to get something.
A short while later, Owen was back again, holding a couple of slightly torn plastic bags. One of them was empty, ready to store the food and clothing Owen was planning on taking with him. The other had the only readily available things for what he wanted to do; a few small garden trowels.
He came to a halt. There was another body here. A streak of blood trailed away back towards the barricade. Ben. He had come back, after all. Owen didn't know what to feel. The guy had murdered somebody, and had maybe done so again. But he had let Owen and Aileen into the store, had given them food and shelter. He just... didn't know anymore.
"Wh-what... what the f-fuck happened here..."
The need to leave was more apparent than ever. But that same question from earlier reared its ugly head.
Then what?
The echoes of his footsteps were all that Owen heard. Not Travis and Joe fighting, not Travis leaving. Even his thoughts had faded away. A pharmacy. That was all he needed to find. A bandage for the cut on his arm. That was it.
Then what?
Eventually, as Travis left and Ben returned, Owen's meandering search yielded results in a mostly trashed pharmacy. Shards of glass and broken containers littered the dirty, dusty floor. Even so, Owen didn't need to search for long. A tightly rolled-up length of gauze, exactly what he needed. A shard of glass served to cut a decent length off and he began to wrap his arm up in it. He gently pressed against the cut, and a flash of pain hit him.
Pushing the wound was like pushing a button inside Owen's head. He stood there, looking down at the bandage, as everything came flooding back to him. This had all started with a call for first-aid. Not for him, though. For Aileen. For the bullet in her leg, after Hansel had stolen all of their belongings, after they'd wandered around the amusement park for days getting nowhere, after finally stumbling upon the shopping centre and finally believing that they were safe for a short while and all that had happened before that. Everything that had happened on the island between Owen and Aileen. And now it was all gone. Aileen had been killed.
The reality of it all finally sunk in, as Owen slumped to the ground, tears already beginning to flow. He covered his face with his hands, tucked his knees into his chest, felt his body shaking, let the length of bandage hang free from his wrist. He didn't know how long he sat there, sobbing. Enough time for Travis to leave and a second corpse to appear in the shopping centre.
All the while, one thought ran through Owen's head. He had stopped Travis from coming any further into the store. He had been the one who had pushed him, provoked, started the fight. If that had never happened, Aileen would still be alive. If only he hadn't been so stupid. So foolhardy. So useless.
Eventually, Owen rubbed his red eyes and shakily stood up, securing the bandage on his arm. He needed to leave. It didn't matter how well secured the shopping centre might be. The only thing he would be able to think whenever he looked at the barricade would be the events of today. Owen stumbled over glass and empty bottles, out of the pharmacy. He wasn't going straight back to Joe. First, he needed to get something.
A short while later, Owen was back again, holding a couple of slightly torn plastic bags. One of them was empty, ready to store the food and clothing Owen was planning on taking with him. The other had the only readily available things for what he wanted to do; a few small garden trowels.
He came to a halt. There was another body here. A streak of blood trailed away back towards the barricade. Ben. He had come back, after all. Owen didn't know what to feel. The guy had murdered somebody, and had maybe done so again. But he had let Owen and Aileen into the store, had given them food and shelter. He just... didn't know anymore.
"Wh-what... what the f-fuck happened here..."
The need to leave was more apparent than ever. But that same question from earlier reared its ugly head.
Then what?
"bryony and alba would definitely join the terrorists quote me on this put this quote in signatures put it in history books" - Cicada Days, 2017
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ViolentMedic
- Posts: 813
- Joined: Fri Aug 17, 2018 7:53 am
Joe didn't have an explanation to give. He hadn't even considered it at the time. What had he considered at the time? Just the one fact he knew about Ben. Not what Ben was doing here. Not that he seemed to know Owen and Aileen, even if he insulted her. Even if he hadn't seemed to care she was dead.
"I... I... he was a killer."
Joe's foot nudged the dropped, blood-stained box cutter slightly towards Owen. He didn't say anything else. Just clasped his hands over his head, as if shielding himself physically would protect him from whatever Owen would think or say of him.
"He... he was a killer. Nuh... now he isn't."
That was all the justification he had, and with the adrenaline gone it just seemed so flimsy. Except when Joe opened his eyes and saw Aileen dead on the floor. Whenever he saw that it made perfect sense.
"I... I... he was a killer."
Joe's foot nudged the dropped, blood-stained box cutter slightly towards Owen. He didn't say anything else. Just clasped his hands over his head, as if shielding himself physically would protect him from whatever Owen would think or say of him.
"He... he was a killer. Nuh... now he isn't."
That was all the justification he had, and with the adrenaline gone it just seemed so flimsy. Except when Joe opened his eyes and saw Aileen dead on the floor. Whenever he saw that it made perfect sense.
"Alright."
This was the second time Owen had encountered Joe on the island. The second time that Joe had killed somebody. The second time he had failed to provide a decent excuse for his actions. Yeah, Ben had killed, maybe twice now. But Owen didn't know for what reason. Maybe it was the same as Joe.
"Alright, f-fine."
Ben had let him and Aileen into this store, when he had no reason to do so. Joe had looked after Aileen when she and Owen had been split up. Who was it that Ben had killed again? Oscar, right? Owen didn't know him all that well. He probably had friends still alive on the island, definitely still had family back home. Ben did as well. So did Jason.
"I don't... I just w-wanna leave..."
There was too much going on inside Owen's head. Too many factors to consider here, inside the shopping centre. He needed to get out and go somewhere. Anywhere. Owen sighed. Looked at Aileen, the barricade, Joe. He pulled the trowels out of his bag.
"Uh... I wanted... I wanted to do somethin' first, though. W-wanted to... bury her. Aileen, I mean..."
This was the second time Owen had encountered Joe on the island. The second time that Joe had killed somebody. The second time he had failed to provide a decent excuse for his actions. Yeah, Ben had killed, maybe twice now. But Owen didn't know for what reason. Maybe it was the same as Joe.
"Alright, f-fine."
Ben had let him and Aileen into this store, when he had no reason to do so. Joe had looked after Aileen when she and Owen had been split up. Who was it that Ben had killed again? Oscar, right? Owen didn't know him all that well. He probably had friends still alive on the island, definitely still had family back home. Ben did as well. So did Jason.
"I don't... I just w-wanna leave..."
There was too much going on inside Owen's head. Too many factors to consider here, inside the shopping centre. He needed to get out and go somewhere. Anywhere. Owen sighed. Looked at Aileen, the barricade, Joe. He pulled the trowels out of his bag.
"Uh... I wanted... I wanted to do somethin' first, though. W-wanted to... bury her. Aileen, I mean..."
"bryony and alba would definitely join the terrorists quote me on this put this quote in signatures put it in history books" - Cicada Days, 2017
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ViolentMedic
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Joe didn't expect the murder to be brushed off so easily, especially since Owen had confronted him about Jason a few days back. But maybe it didn't matter as much compared to Aileen. Maybe it just got harder to care in general.
"Y-yeah, I... I think that's... yeah, we have to."
Joe wasn't ready to leave. He just... he had to sort through some things. He had to figure out what he was doing. If what he was thinking of doing was the right—no, never right, but necessary?—way to go. He needed time.
And he owed Aileen. She couldn't be left to rot.
"I'll... I'll help, if you're alright with that. But, um..."
Joe looked at Ben. He shut his eyes. Opened them. Felt his stomach turn at the long train of blood. Shook. A week ago the sight might have made him faint, but... there was just so many bodies. And being exposed to bodies on such a mass scale as the last week... if that wasn't exposure therapy, what was? Though it still made him shake.
"I... I have to bury him, too. ...Stay for that or don't. It's... it's up to you. But... but Aileen first."
He owed it to Ben, too. Maybe even more so.
"Y-yeah, I... I think that's... yeah, we have to."
Joe wasn't ready to leave. He just... he had to sort through some things. He had to figure out what he was doing. If what he was thinking of doing was the right—no, never right, but necessary?—way to go. He needed time.
And he owed Aileen. She couldn't be left to rot.
"I'll... I'll help, if you're alright with that. But, um..."
Joe looked at Ben. He shut his eyes. Opened them. Felt his stomach turn at the long train of blood. Shook. A week ago the sight might have made him faint, but... there was just so many bodies. And being exposed to bodies on such a mass scale as the last week... if that wasn't exposure therapy, what was? Though it still made him shake.
"I... I have to bury him, too. ...Stay for that or don't. It's... it's up to you. But... but Aileen first."
He owed it to Ben, too. Maybe even more so.
"Thank you..."
Owen nodded his head, taking several deep breaths as he did so. There was still a lump in his throat. Owen still wasn't sure of how he felt about Joe. The announcements and Ben's body lying in front of him painted one picture. His demeanour and the fact he'd looked after Aileen showed an entirely different one.
He didn't know, and maybe he never would. At the very least, he didn't think his mind could stand being in the shopping centre for much longer. Joe's help would make this whole thing quicker. Then he could leave. And then, after that...
Then what?
"I'll h-help you with Ben... soon as that's done, th-though, I..."
Owen let his words hang in the air, tucking the trowels back in his bag for the moment, before moving over to Aileen. It felt... wrong, almost, to move her body after death. But it would feel even worse to just leave her on the floor of the shopping centre. Owen felt as though he was going to start crying again. Somehow, he forced himself to stay strong. For now, at least.
"L-let's get this done..."
Owen nodded his head, taking several deep breaths as he did so. There was still a lump in his throat. Owen still wasn't sure of how he felt about Joe. The announcements and Ben's body lying in front of him painted one picture. His demeanour and the fact he'd looked after Aileen showed an entirely different one.
He didn't know, and maybe he never would. At the very least, he didn't think his mind could stand being in the shopping centre for much longer. Joe's help would make this whole thing quicker. Then he could leave. And then, after that...
Then what?
"I'll h-help you with Ben... soon as that's done, th-though, I..."
Owen let his words hang in the air, tucking the trowels back in his bag for the moment, before moving over to Aileen. It felt... wrong, almost, to move her body after death. But it would feel even worse to just leave her on the floor of the shopping centre. Owen felt as though he was going to start crying again. Somehow, he forced himself to stay strong. For now, at least.
"L-let's get this done..."
"bryony and alba would definitely join the terrorists quote me on this put this quote in signatures put it in history books" - Cicada Days, 2017
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ViolentMedic
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Joe nodded. He moved over to Aileen, fighting down the urge to cry or throw up or... pretty much anything. He made a vague gesture for Owen to grab her arms while he carried her legs. She wasn't stiff like Jason had been once the burial had happened. No rigor mortis yet. It still made Joe's skin crawled when he touched her.
They both carried her to just outside the shopping center. It was a long, slow walk. Aileen felt ten times heavier than she should have been.
They found the closest patch of dirt. Placed Aileen near it. And with little handheld trowels, they started to dig.
It takes a long time to dig with little handheld trowels, especially to make those first few intents.
Scrape the dirt out. Toss it aside. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
After a while, despite the reasons they were digging this hole, it became almost relaxing. Almost meditative. It didn't require thought. So Joe had time to think.
He had time to think about Gabby and Chuck. About Theodore and Miles. About Marcus, still out there somewhere. Not dead nor a murderer. Not beyond saving. About Travis. Far beyond anything that Joe could do to save him, only stop him. About Jason. About Ben. About Aileen, and about the guy digging graves with him.
He had a long time to think.
Scrape the dirt out. Toss it aside. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
They both carried her to just outside the shopping center. It was a long, slow walk. Aileen felt ten times heavier than she should have been.
They found the closest patch of dirt. Placed Aileen near it. And with little handheld trowels, they started to dig.
It takes a long time to dig with little handheld trowels, especially to make those first few intents.
Scrape the dirt out. Toss it aside. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
After a while, despite the reasons they were digging this hole, it became almost relaxing. Almost meditative. It didn't require thought. So Joe had time to think.
He had time to think about Gabby and Chuck. About Theodore and Miles. About Marcus, still out there somewhere. Not dead nor a murderer. Not beyond saving. About Travis. Far beyond anything that Joe could do to save him, only stop him. About Jason. About Ben. About Aileen, and about the guy digging graves with him.
He had a long time to think.
Scrape the dirt out. Toss it aside. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
When Owen had been younger and his family had gone to the beach, he had always made sure he had a bucket and spade with him. Noel always tried to build sandcastles, but Owen had never been able to make them stand up for more than a second or too. Instead, Owen dug things; trenches to direct water from the sea, moats around his brother's castles, attempts to dig the biggest hole in history. He would spend what felt like hours digging away, watching the pile of damp sand next to him grow bigger, yet the hole always seemed to stay the same size.
Owen couldn't help but think of digging holes on the beach as he and Joe dug Aileen's grave. It was the only thing he'd ever done that was remotely similar to this, after all.
He, too, had plenty of time to think as the hole gradually became deep enough for its purpose. He didn't want to, however; not just yet, at the very least. Later, when he was alone and away from the shopping centre, maybe then he could try and break down the thoughts swirling around his mind. Now, though, he needed to focus on this and nothing else.
Eventually, they finished digging the first hole. It was even harder for Owen to help lift Aileen up and place her in it than it had been carrying her outside. He had one last chance to look at her face before they began shovelling the dirt back into the hole. As soon as that was done, Owen looked away from Joe, screwed his eyes up tight and took several deep breaths.
"R-right... Ben next, th-then..."
Owen started to walk back inside the store. Rinse. Repeat. As soon as this was done, he could leave.
Then what?
Owen couldn't help but think of digging holes on the beach as he and Joe dug Aileen's grave. It was the only thing he'd ever done that was remotely similar to this, after all.
He, too, had plenty of time to think as the hole gradually became deep enough for its purpose. He didn't want to, however; not just yet, at the very least. Later, when he was alone and away from the shopping centre, maybe then he could try and break down the thoughts swirling around his mind. Now, though, he needed to focus on this and nothing else.
Eventually, they finished digging the first hole. It was even harder for Owen to help lift Aileen up and place her in it than it had been carrying her outside. He had one last chance to look at her face before they began shovelling the dirt back into the hole. As soon as that was done, Owen looked away from Joe, screwed his eyes up tight and took several deep breaths.
"R-right... Ben next, th-then..."
Owen started to walk back inside the store. Rinse. Repeat. As soon as this was done, he could leave.
Then what?
"bryony and alba would definitely join the terrorists quote me on this put this quote in signatures put it in history books" - Cicada Days, 2017
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ViolentMedic
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Joe didn't want to look at Aileen's face again. He made himself do it. He was not allowed to forget this. Not now. Not during the few days he had left at most until someone killed him. Not after that. Joe fixated every little detail of Aileen's face, from the brown, curly hair to the slashed throat, before he helped bury her.
Once Aileen was in the ground, and they had smoothed over the dirt covering her, Joe just stared at the grave for a while. He was only yanked out of his thoughts by Owen speaking. Joe mumbled incoherently in response, before they went back inside to get Ben.
Ben didn't feel as heavy as Aileen to Joe, even though that made no logical sense. Joe helped carry his second victim outside, and the digging began once more.
More thought. More dirt being thrown to the side.
It took a very long time. The sun was starting to go down once they finished Ben's grave.
Joe took the same care to absorb every little detail of Ben's face as with Aileen. Even if he didn't feel the same sadness and guilt. Those emotions existed. But they were tainted with the ideas and emotion that had driven him to kill Ben.
Push the dirt back in. Two neat graves. Joe dug a letter into the dirt over each one. One with an A, one with a B. Closest to a grave marker he had, even if the rain would probably wash it away.
Joe looked at Owen, but looked away quickly again. He couldn't handle that right now. He didn't know how he was handling things already. He was calm now, at least outwardly, but there were cracks through it.
Joe bowed his head and murmured prayers in Spanish to each grave. Same as he'd given to Jason and to Dan.
To Aileen, afterwards, he added, still in Spanish, "I'm sorry. I... I shouldn't have brought Travis there, I... it was my mistake. ...And I... I would have liked to talk to you more. Thanks for the company, and for... for everything. Good-bye." He wanted to cry for her. But he couldn't. Nothing would come out.
To Ben: "I'm not sorry. But... I hope God goes easy on you." He added an extra bit of prayer along those lines to God. Wasn't Ben's fault that he was thrown onto this island. Wasn't his fault that this island was built so that trying to stop someone killing peacefully just didn't work.
Once Aileen was in the ground, and they had smoothed over the dirt covering her, Joe just stared at the grave for a while. He was only yanked out of his thoughts by Owen speaking. Joe mumbled incoherently in response, before they went back inside to get Ben.
Ben didn't feel as heavy as Aileen to Joe, even though that made no logical sense. Joe helped carry his second victim outside, and the digging began once more.
More thought. More dirt being thrown to the side.
It took a very long time. The sun was starting to go down once they finished Ben's grave.
Joe took the same care to absorb every little detail of Ben's face as with Aileen. Even if he didn't feel the same sadness and guilt. Those emotions existed. But they were tainted with the ideas and emotion that had driven him to kill Ben.
Push the dirt back in. Two neat graves. Joe dug a letter into the dirt over each one. One with an A, one with a B. Closest to a grave marker he had, even if the rain would probably wash it away.
Joe looked at Owen, but looked away quickly again. He couldn't handle that right now. He didn't know how he was handling things already. He was calm now, at least outwardly, but there were cracks through it.
Joe bowed his head and murmured prayers in Spanish to each grave. Same as he'd given to Jason and to Dan.
To Aileen, afterwards, he added, still in Spanish, "I'm sorry. I... I shouldn't have brought Travis there, I... it was my mistake. ...And I... I would have liked to talk to you more. Thanks for the company, and for... for everything. Good-bye." He wanted to cry for her. But he couldn't. Nothing would come out.
To Ben: "I'm not sorry. But... I hope God goes easy on you." He added an extra bit of prayer along those lines to God. Wasn't Ben's fault that he was thrown onto this island. Wasn't his fault that this island was built so that trying to stop someone killing peacefully just didn't work.
Ben was heavier than Aileen. His grave was slightly larger too, thanks to his height. The pile of earth next to the shallow pit was definitely larger than Aileen's had been. It was getting dark by the time they had finished working, darker still after they had placed Ben's body in the grave and covered it back up. Yet it had felt so much longer to bury Aileen.
Maybe it was because he knew exactly how he felt about Aileen. Everything and everyone else, he had no idea right now. Ben had let Owen and Aileen into the store and given them food, but he'd also killed two people. Joe had killed two people as well, but he'd looked after Aileen, tried to stop Travis, helped Owen dig these two graves. Owen himself hadn't killed anybody. But it was only a day ago that he had been planning on attacking somebody for food, hadn't it? And he had also started the fight with Travis. It was he that had caused all this. Him alone.
Owen looked away again as Joe dug Aileen and Ben's initials into their graves, right hand pressed hard into his eyes. He looked over the graves as Joe spoke, though, arms hanging limply by his sides. He didn't understand what Joe was saying, but he didn't need to. The implication was what mattered. As soon as the other boy had finished, Owen took the two trowels, and stuck them into the earth at the head of each grave. He stayed there for a while, looking at Aileen's grave. He spoke softly, quietly, hoping that Joe didn't hear him speak.
"I'm... I'm sorry, Aileen. After everything that's happened, I fucked up. I fucked it all up, and now... n-now..."
Owen sniffed. He knew what he had to say. He just couldn't quite bring himself to accept the words for fact.
"... I can't even promise to stay alive and to escape... because... I won't. With people like Hansel and Travis st-still around... I'm sorry."
Owen said these last two words as he stood up, trudging back into the store. He found the bags he'd picked up earlier, and filled them with the clothes he'd been planning to change into, the golf club, and as much food as he could comfortably carry. One went on his back, golf club sticking out of the top, the other in his left hand. He carried the table leg in his right hand. Time to go. It was almost too dark to see, but Owen didn't care. Anywhere was better than here. Owen paused, looked at Joe, then nodded at the boy.
"There's still a bunch of food left... if you need any of it. I think... I think it'd be best if I went my own way right now... but, um... stay safe, alright?"
With that, Owen was gone.
Now what?
((Owen Kay continued in Just Me, a Block of Dirt and a Cavern of Danger))
Maybe it was because he knew exactly how he felt about Aileen. Everything and everyone else, he had no idea right now. Ben had let Owen and Aileen into the store and given them food, but he'd also killed two people. Joe had killed two people as well, but he'd looked after Aileen, tried to stop Travis, helped Owen dig these two graves. Owen himself hadn't killed anybody. But it was only a day ago that he had been planning on attacking somebody for food, hadn't it? And he had also started the fight with Travis. It was he that had caused all this. Him alone.
Owen looked away again as Joe dug Aileen and Ben's initials into their graves, right hand pressed hard into his eyes. He looked over the graves as Joe spoke, though, arms hanging limply by his sides. He didn't understand what Joe was saying, but he didn't need to. The implication was what mattered. As soon as the other boy had finished, Owen took the two trowels, and stuck them into the earth at the head of each grave. He stayed there for a while, looking at Aileen's grave. He spoke softly, quietly, hoping that Joe didn't hear him speak.
"I'm... I'm sorry, Aileen. After everything that's happened, I fucked up. I fucked it all up, and now... n-now..."
Owen sniffed. He knew what he had to say. He just couldn't quite bring himself to accept the words for fact.
"... I can't even promise to stay alive and to escape... because... I won't. With people like Hansel and Travis st-still around... I'm sorry."
Owen said these last two words as he stood up, trudging back into the store. He found the bags he'd picked up earlier, and filled them with the clothes he'd been planning to change into, the golf club, and as much food as he could comfortably carry. One went on his back, golf club sticking out of the top, the other in his left hand. He carried the table leg in his right hand. Time to go. It was almost too dark to see, but Owen didn't care. Anywhere was better than here. Owen paused, looked at Joe, then nodded at the boy.
"There's still a bunch of food left... if you need any of it. I think... I think it'd be best if I went my own way right now... but, um... stay safe, alright?"
With that, Owen was gone.
Now what?
((Owen Kay continued in Just Me, a Block of Dirt and a Cavern of Danger))
"bryony and alba would definitely join the terrorists quote me on this put this quote in signatures put it in history books" - Cicada Days, 2017
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ViolentMedic
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Owen spoke his own words (Joe couldn't hear them, and they weren't for him anyway) and immediately headed inside. Joe stayed outside, staring at the dirt on the graves. He stayed until Owen left the shopping center again.
Owen left. That was probably for the best, because Joe wouldn't be staying safe at all. He'd just drag Owen towards more murderers if they stayed together. He'd get Owen killed like he'd gotten Aileen killed.
"Don't die," Joe said quietly as he left. Owen wasn't a murderer. If he lived until the end, that'd be alright.
Once Owen was gone, Joe wandered back inside the shopping centre. He didn't need to go looking around for supplies. Even if he'd been desperate, there was Ben's bag. And there was the bag that Travis had left behind.
Joe took all the food and first aid supplies that Ben had, and packed them into his own bag. He didn't need more than that... but he checked Travis' bag anyway.
There was a bloodstained hedge trimmer in there. Joe pushed it aside. He didn't want it. Instead, his hand closed around a roll of duct tape. It wasn't the sort of thing Travis would think to collect. It was probably the 'weapon' he'd been assigned on day one.
Joe took the duct tape. He left the food, partially used first aid kit and the hedge trimmer behind. After sticking the tape in his bag, he walked to where the scythe had fallen after he knocked it away from Ben. It was bloodstained, too. It made Joe feel sick. The blood that still coated the floor where Aileen had died, and the thick trail leading up to the scythe... they both made Joe want to vomit, but he had nothing left.
Joe picked up the scythe.
He needed a weapon. He wished he didn't. But he did.
He had to find Travis again.
He needed to finish the job, before Travis killed anyone else. And if he ran into any other killers, he'd have to kill them, too.
That was the only way he could save people now.
((Joe Carrasco continued in Metastasis.))
Owen left. That was probably for the best, because Joe wouldn't be staying safe at all. He'd just drag Owen towards more murderers if they stayed together. He'd get Owen killed like he'd gotten Aileen killed.
"Don't die," Joe said quietly as he left. Owen wasn't a murderer. If he lived until the end, that'd be alright.
Once Owen was gone, Joe wandered back inside the shopping centre. He didn't need to go looking around for supplies. Even if he'd been desperate, there was Ben's bag. And there was the bag that Travis had left behind.
Joe took all the food and first aid supplies that Ben had, and packed them into his own bag. He didn't need more than that... but he checked Travis' bag anyway.
There was a bloodstained hedge trimmer in there. Joe pushed it aside. He didn't want it. Instead, his hand closed around a roll of duct tape. It wasn't the sort of thing Travis would think to collect. It was probably the 'weapon' he'd been assigned on day one.
Joe took the duct tape. He left the food, partially used first aid kit and the hedge trimmer behind. After sticking the tape in his bag, he walked to where the scythe had fallen after he knocked it away from Ben. It was bloodstained, too. It made Joe feel sick. The blood that still coated the floor where Aileen had died, and the thick trail leading up to the scythe... they both made Joe want to vomit, but he had nothing left.
Joe picked up the scythe.
He needed a weapon. He wished he didn't. But he did.
He had to find Travis again.
He needed to finish the job, before Travis killed anyone else. And if he ran into any other killers, he'd have to kill them, too.
That was the only way he could save people now.
((Joe Carrasco continued in Metastasis.))