Nia never shot. She glanced away, then at Michael, then away, then dropped the gun and disappeared. She never shot.
For a moment, Michael was completely alone in the universe. He was the only thing that existed.
It was nice, kind of. It didn't last.
The gun in his hand faded back in. The gun on the ground faded in. The idea of Alexander standing in the background faded in. The walls faded in.
Blood faded in. Lots of blood faded in. That was different.
Nick faded in, behind some of the blood. Nia faded in, kneeling over something and signing.
Jeremiah faded in.
...
Oh.
Michael knew.
Jeremiah's chest burst in and out at irregular intervals. Blood burst out of his mouth at each interval. He couldn't breathe, but his body hadn't realized it yet. It was still... trying, like a chicken trying to fly. Futile. His hands made repetitive motions. Writhing or signing.
Nick had done it. Michael knew the dirt. 'Choke me daddy' Nick Ogilvie. He'd crushed Jeremiah's throat. He'd sliced Beryl's neck open.
Beryl.
Still loved you, Jeremiah had said when he was still physically capable of speech.
It was a love story.
Everything was a love story.
Anything that was about anything was about love, deep down. Different kinds of love and love for different things, but love nonetheless; just love with different connotations.
Everything was about pain, fear, and love.
That was it.
Everyone here was in love. Platonic love or romantic love or love love.
Nick was in love with Beryl. Michael was in love with Beryl. Alexander was in love with Beryl. Nia was in love with Beryl. Jeremiah was in love with Beryl. Jeremiah was in love with Nia. Nia was in love with Jeremiah. Jeremiah was in love with the idea of hating Nick.
Michael felt all of it. He felt it like it was his own love.
And it hurt worse than words could describe.
Jeremiah was still sputtering.
Michael briefly contemplated pointing the gun at Nick's head and shooting. He contemplated pointing the gun at Jeremiah's head and shooting. Neither would've been worth it. Both would cause a net increase in pain. Neither would be a mercy kill.
He stood up. His face was blank. Tears worked their way down every now and again. Nia's gun was closest to Alexander, and Michael was okay with him having the gun. He didn't trust anyone else here except Alexander not to take the opportunity to commit suicide or murder someone as soon as they noticed a gun on the ground. He took a few steps toward Jeremiah and Nia.
He watched as anything Jeremiah had ever been faded away.
Michael felt it.
He'd seen the events that had lead to Benny's death. He'd heard Beryl's death. Now, he'd been completely present for Jeremiah's death.
He felt all of them.
Nia was signing frantically. Michael didn't need to be able to know sign language to be able to get the gist of what she was saying. He understood. The tone of her signing was all he needed. She was screaming. She was silently screaming.
Michael felt it too.
He didn't say anything. He couldn't say anything. His face remained blank. He looked at the nearest camera. It had gotten a good look at Jeremiah's death.
He smiled with his mouth closed.
He stared through the camera. He very deliberately mouthed something. Five words. Five syllables. He knew whoever was watching this on the internet would see it.
'That should have been you.'
Those were the words. He didn't speak them audibly. He wanted it to look ambiguous as to what he'd actually said.
The ambiguity would help it fester and burn away at the viewer's mind. It would be a mystery of sorts. It would keep the viewer thinking.
Michael knew the kind of people who watched SOTF weren't usually mentally healthy. He knew that while some of them were trying to figure out what he'd said, they would mold what they thought the words were to fit their own insecurities. Maybe a few people would break themselves in the process. He hoped a few people would break themselves in the process.
He wiped the smile off his face and looked away from the camera once more. He took a few steps back and slumped against the wall, sliding back down to the ground next to the doorway where he'd been before.
If Nick tried anything on Nia, Michael could shoot him. If Nia tried anything on Nick, Michael could shoot her.
If Michael killed everyone here, it would be a mercy killing. If he killed only one or two of them, it would be murder.
He was cognizant that he was having these thoughts. He chose not to follow through on them for now. He hoped things wouldn't get to that point.
"We're done." His voice was calm and plain, like he was making an observation out-loud during a bio lab. "We're broken. We're all just fucking gone."
At the End of Days, at the End of Time
Day 2 - Private
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
How was Alexander even supposed to process the noises he was hearing? The strange new boy babbled despondent garbage as if there weren't two people right next to him beating each other to presumable death.
Grunts. Thuds. Screams. Disgusting wet noises. Alexander'd never had cause to imagine he'd ever have to try and interpret such vague brutality. Did Nick still have his knife, still deeply stained with Beryl'd blood? Had Jeremiah gouged Nick's eyes out with his fingers?
He listened intently to every blow, did his best to understand what was happening, who was hurting who. He failed. He hated not knowing - when the sound of a blow resounded through the building, was that justice for Beryl he was hearing? Was it the best revenge-by-proxy he'd get? Should he be savoring it? His stomach churned. Did he even want to savor it? Was that pained gasp Nick regaining the advantage, maiming Jeremiah in a way he'd never be able to recover from, even if he ultimately won?
Was that the sound of a life ending? How could he tell? There was a sudden, chilling hush, and
Nia dropped the gun.
She wasn't tackled - there was no heavy impact, no sound of a struggle. Just the clatter of something hitting the ground. She would've had no reason to be holding anything else metallic; and her paper and pencil wouldn't have made that specific noise.
Nia dropped the gun, which meant something had gone dreadfully wrong.
The sound had been relatively close to him. He unconsciously released his cane and walked forward in a trance, stopping when he nudged something with his foot. Everyone else had more pressing things to pay attention to than him. He leaned down, picked up the weapon, carefully ran his hands around it. Felt the weight of something that could easily end a life.
Michael said something idiotic, irrelevant, inappropriate for whatever had just happened, no matter what it was. "What did you do to him?" Alexander asked the intruders, his voice more cold than calm, with a a subtle fury boiling beneath it. Jeremiah was a frustrating, stubborn asshole; but he had been dearly loved.
Was that why the world felt like it was spinning? Did he really have the capacity to care about a stranger he hadn't even particularly liked? Did he even care for Nia's sake? Could he, even if he wanted to? And he didn't want to, of course he didn't. That'd be irrational. That wouldn't help him survive, no matter how often he caught himself thinking of her as a friend.
She couldn't be that, he couldn't afford to let her be that, she was a companion. Ally. Tool - no, no, no, he couldn't, he didn't want to fucking dehumanize her like that when everything was falling apart, could she even sob if she wanted to, or would he never notice the tears silently streaming down her face?
He imagined Beryl, lying there on the ground instead, wet pool of blood around her. That made sense. That made everything easier. That wasn't rational, but it was something he could understand.
Alexander pointed the gun, aiming at his best guess of where the fighting had been. He hoped he looked more fearsome than comical. Even a blind man could shoot someone, if he walked up to them and stuffed the barrel against their forehead, or even if he got lucky and fired wildly and the bullets ricocheted in the right way.
He gingerly curled his fingers near the trigger. He could only hope that Nia had flicked the safety off - he'd have to ask her to guide him through the essentials, later, for emergencies. If their world hadn't already ended by then.
"What did you do?" he snarled through gritted teeth, savagely hoping that Nick was in no condition to give an answer, that his companion would collapse under the weight of the guilt he deserved to bear for bringing a murderer into their safe haven.
Grunts. Thuds. Screams. Disgusting wet noises. Alexander'd never had cause to imagine he'd ever have to try and interpret such vague brutality. Did Nick still have his knife, still deeply stained with Beryl'd blood? Had Jeremiah gouged Nick's eyes out with his fingers?
He listened intently to every blow, did his best to understand what was happening, who was hurting who. He failed. He hated not knowing - when the sound of a blow resounded through the building, was that justice for Beryl he was hearing? Was it the best revenge-by-proxy he'd get? Should he be savoring it? His stomach churned. Did he even want to savor it? Was that pained gasp Nick regaining the advantage, maiming Jeremiah in a way he'd never be able to recover from, even if he ultimately won?
Was that the sound of a life ending? How could he tell? There was a sudden, chilling hush, and
Nia dropped the gun.
She wasn't tackled - there was no heavy impact, no sound of a struggle. Just the clatter of something hitting the ground. She would've had no reason to be holding anything else metallic; and her paper and pencil wouldn't have made that specific noise.
Nia dropped the gun, which meant something had gone dreadfully wrong.
The sound had been relatively close to him. He unconsciously released his cane and walked forward in a trance, stopping when he nudged something with his foot. Everyone else had more pressing things to pay attention to than him. He leaned down, picked up the weapon, carefully ran his hands around it. Felt the weight of something that could easily end a life.
Michael said something idiotic, irrelevant, inappropriate for whatever had just happened, no matter what it was. "What did you do to him?" Alexander asked the intruders, his voice more cold than calm, with a a subtle fury boiling beneath it. Jeremiah was a frustrating, stubborn asshole; but he had been dearly loved.
Was that why the world felt like it was spinning? Did he really have the capacity to care about a stranger he hadn't even particularly liked? Did he even care for Nia's sake? Could he, even if he wanted to? And he didn't want to, of course he didn't. That'd be irrational. That wouldn't help him survive, no matter how often he caught himself thinking of her as a friend.
She couldn't be that, he couldn't afford to let her be that, she was a companion. Ally. Tool - no, no, no, he couldn't, he didn't want to fucking dehumanize her like that when everything was falling apart, could she even sob if she wanted to, or would he never notice the tears silently streaming down her face?
He imagined Beryl, lying there on the ground instead, wet pool of blood around her. That made sense. That made everything easier. That wasn't rational, but it was something he could understand.
Alexander pointed the gun, aiming at his best guess of where the fighting had been. He hoped he looked more fearsome than comical. Even a blind man could shoot someone, if he walked up to them and stuffed the barrel against their forehead, or even if he got lucky and fired wildly and the bullets ricocheted in the right way.
He gingerly curled his fingers near the trigger. He could only hope that Nia had flicked the safety off - he'd have to ask her to guide him through the essentials, later, for emergencies. If their world hadn't already ended by then.
"What did you do?" he snarled through gritted teeth, savagely hoping that Nick was in no condition to give an answer, that his companion would collapse under the weight of the guilt he deserved to bear for bringing a murderer into their safe haven.
-
General Goose
- Posts: 731
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:02 pm
Jeremiah was fine. Well, not fine. They were all in a dire situation, and his attack on Nick - unprovoked in the moment but, he had to admit with a bit more reflection, with understandable motives - had left them both bloodied and battered and bruised. But Jeremiah was no worse off than Nick. Not physically, at least. He couldn't have been. They were evenly matched. Each had given as good as he got.
Nick was in a bad shape too. He was capable of a bit more in the way of movement, sure, but all he did was fall away from the wall and scuttle a couple of metres in Michael's direction. Michael was the closest thing he had to an ally. He turned, sitting on the floor now, turning to face the scene that he'd just left behind. Tasted blood on his lips and felt it stick to his beard.
Nia was there. Over Jeremiah. Jeremiah was awful but that didn't mean Nia was too. Nick knew all too well that guilt by association, in George Hunter High's senior class, meant everyone was guilty. Jeremiah didn't look like a threat. Not any more. He looked like Nia's friend. They had one of those enviable, perfect, mutually dependent friendships that Nick wished he had.
And maybe, just maybe, Nick had brought an end to that.
Jeremiah was in a bad shape. But not dead. He couldn't be dead. Unless he'd died from one of those fluke fisticuffs accidents that his mother used as a scare story to put him off petty fights. But that wasn't possible. Only so much bad luck could befall them, after all. No. Jeremiah needed proper help. Something Nick had done - probably the throat punch - had done some damage.
But nothing that Jeremiah couldn't have done in his own rage. Nothing that Jeremiah hadn't been trying to do.
Alexander had a gun. He wasn't pointing it at Nick. Unless Nia spotted for him, he wasn't a threat. Nick looked away from him.
“He attacked me. I fought back.” Nick's cadence was apologetic. A voice at the back of his mind was telling him he shouldn't have been. That he should have been proud. Unrepentant. Cocksure with his actions. But that message didn't come across in his tone. He wasn't sure why. It wasn't like there were any impulses of decency in his psyche to hold him back.
It didn't matter.
Michael had said something. Alexander had said something. Nia was signing something. Nick should have explained himself more. About how this was all unnecessary. Beryl had been shot. She was paralysed. Nick tried to help. This...this was all unnecessary.
And yet, if it was so unnecessary, Nick could have steered well clear of the commissary.
Yet he hadn't.
Jeremiah wasn't fine. He was dying, at best. Nick was in a bad place, true, but he'd won that fight. There was no question of it. He just...hadn't intended his win to be so decisive.
"He attacked me," he repeated, meekly, forlornly, as if it was in some way a justification, in some way an apology.
Nick was in a bad shape too. He was capable of a bit more in the way of movement, sure, but all he did was fall away from the wall and scuttle a couple of metres in Michael's direction. Michael was the closest thing he had to an ally. He turned, sitting on the floor now, turning to face the scene that he'd just left behind. Tasted blood on his lips and felt it stick to his beard.
Nia was there. Over Jeremiah. Jeremiah was awful but that didn't mean Nia was too. Nick knew all too well that guilt by association, in George Hunter High's senior class, meant everyone was guilty. Jeremiah didn't look like a threat. Not any more. He looked like Nia's friend. They had one of those enviable, perfect, mutually dependent friendships that Nick wished he had.
And maybe, just maybe, Nick had brought an end to that.
Jeremiah was in a bad shape. But not dead. He couldn't be dead. Unless he'd died from one of those fluke fisticuffs accidents that his mother used as a scare story to put him off petty fights. But that wasn't possible. Only so much bad luck could befall them, after all. No. Jeremiah needed proper help. Something Nick had done - probably the throat punch - had done some damage.
But nothing that Jeremiah couldn't have done in his own rage. Nothing that Jeremiah hadn't been trying to do.
Alexander had a gun. He wasn't pointing it at Nick. Unless Nia spotted for him, he wasn't a threat. Nick looked away from him.
“He attacked me. I fought back.” Nick's cadence was apologetic. A voice at the back of his mind was telling him he shouldn't have been. That he should have been proud. Unrepentant. Cocksure with his actions. But that message didn't come across in his tone. He wasn't sure why. It wasn't like there were any impulses of decency in his psyche to hold him back.
It didn't matter.
Michael had said something. Alexander had said something. Nia was signing something. Nick should have explained himself more. About how this was all unnecessary. Beryl had been shot. She was paralysed. Nick tried to help. This...this was all unnecessary.
And yet, if it was so unnecessary, Nick could have steered well clear of the commissary.
Yet he hadn't.
Jeremiah wasn't fine. He was dying, at best. Nick was in a bad place, true, but he'd won that fight. There was no question of it. He just...hadn't intended his win to be so decisive.
"He attacked me," he repeated, meekly, forlornly, as if it was in some way a justification, in some way an apology.
Her hands were covered in blood.
She must have touched his face, she thought. She didn't remember having done so. His face. Her memories overwritten with blood.
He wouldn't want that.
There was a sound, a sort of thick, wet, hollow noise, rhythmic with the shaking of her shoulders. It clawed its way out of her throat, digging into her on its way out.
It was quiet. She could not be any other way.
"BLU-J," but her hands were shaking, her heart wasn't in it, no one could see her, she was all alone.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
She must have touched his face, she thought. She didn't remember having done so. His face. Her memories overwritten with blood.
He wouldn't want that.
There was a sound, a sort of thick, wet, hollow noise, rhythmic with the shaking of her shoulders. It clawed its way out of her throat, digging into her on its way out.
It was quiet. She could not be any other way.
"BLU-J," but her hands were shaking, her heart wasn't in it, no one could see her, she was all alone.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
The whole situation was like something written by Shakespeare.
The blind man. The girl who had so much to say yet was physically unable to speak. The murderer who's mental state was reflected by his physical state. The boy who saw and understood everything. The dead man. Every single one of them was broken.
Meaningless death.
Michael hated it.
He watched as Alexander picked up Nia's gun. He watched him point it Nick's general direction.
That action alone held too many implications.
Alexander was blind. Alexander had no way to tell if he was aiming at Nick. He was still trying.
It hurt.
"What did you do?" someone asked. Michael wasn't sure if he'd seen anyone's mouth move, but it wasn't his voice, nor was it Nick's. It couldn't have been Nia's voice. It hurt that it couldn't have been Jeremiah's voice.
It was Alexander speaking, then.
Michael recognized the inflection. The tone. The sheer desperation and anger and pain and love. He'd heard it after the gunshot that destroyed anything he'd ever been. He'd felt it during the night on the beach, before he sank into the earth.
Alexander wanted to slam his fists into the ground and scream and never stop screaming. Alexander wanted to point the gun at his own chest and shoot and never stop shooting. Alexander wanted to gouge his own eyes out. Alexander wanted to push Nick to the ground and stomp on his head until there was nothing left. Alexander wanted to set himself on fire because the feeling of every single nerve in his body being destroyed would be better than what he was feeling right now.
Michael knew the feeling.
Nick looked like a zombie, covered in blood. He looked like a photo of someone who was wandering around Manhattan right after the twin towers collapsed. He looked like he'd survived a suicide bombing. He looked like he'd survived a school shooting.
A photo of him could win the Pulitzer.
He looked like a metaphor.
Michael knew the feeling, only he internalized it. He ran his hand through his hair, making sure it looked presentable.
Nick was muttering. Repeating.
Nick's mind was fragmenting. Temporally displaced. Dissociating. Barrelling out of control. Berylling out of control.
Michael knew the feeling well.
Beryl.
Most of the secrets Michael and Beryl held from one another were tangible. Physical things. Measurable things. The intangible secrets hurt too much to think about.
Michael almost knew what it was like one metaphysical being with Beryl.
Nick.
None of the secrets Nick and Beryl held from one another were physical. Nick had seen all of Beryl. All of her. Nick had seen everything there was to see of Beryl. Nick knew how it felt to open Beryl's throat. Nick knew what it was like to be one physical being with Beryl. Nick knew what it was like to -
That was a shitty thing to be thinking about right now.
Nia.
Nia was in mourning.
Nia had just watched someone she loved end.
Michael retroactively knew the feeling.
He'd been there for Beryl's death, but he also hadn't really been there for Beryl's death. He'd been there for a death, but he hadn't known it was Beryl's until hours later. He hadn't physically witnessed her death. He hadn't seen her lifeless face. He hadn't seen the hole blown through her chest. He hadn't seen the gash torn across her throat. He hadn't seen her veins and arteries cut in two. He hadn't seen all she'd ever been fade away. He hadn't seen the blood bubble out of her throat and mouth as the movement of her body being picked up forced her last breath out of lungs. He hadn't heard the noise her only posthumous breath would make.
All he'd seen was her shoes, her shape, and her blood. To him, her corpse may as well have just been a mannequin symbolizing Beryl.
But he'd seen all the equivalents with Jeremiah's death. He knew what it was like now. He knew how it felt.
He knew Nia was going through all of it.
And he was feeling it too.
He would give anything just to see Beryl's smile again. He would give anything to hold her hand. He would give anything to hug her and tell her everything would be okay. He would give anything to make her exist again.
He would give anything just to see Jeremiah's smile again. He would give anything to hold his hand. He would give anything to hug him and tell him everything would be okay. He would give anything to make him exist again.
He was shaking. His heartbeat was visible through his shirt.
He would give anything just to see anyone's smile again. He would give anything to hold anyone's hand. He would give anything to hug anyone and tell them everything would be okay. He would give anything to make anyone exist again.
All he wanted was just to give everyone a hug.
The real him loved everything so goddamned much and the only thing in the universe that knew the real him was gone.
The only thing that could've ever really loved him back was gone.
That was his problem. He'd figured it out.
He cared so damn much about everyone and nobody but Beryl knew it. Now that she was gone, he was just lost. Floating through an island that only knew pain and hatred. Floating, armed with nothing but a pistol, contempt for the people watching, and unrelenting empathy.
Knowing the problem didn't make it hurt any less.
What were they doing? Revenge killings were the opposite of anything Beryl would have ever wanted. Beryl would've... would've wanted them to hug it out.
If Beryl could see them now she'd be in so much pain.
Michael felt it.
He was still slumped against the wall. He needed everyone on the same page.
His voice was forceful. "Alexander," he said, really meaning to speak to everyone. He didn't know if anyone was listening. He was staring at the ground. He didn't know what anyone was doing. "This is Michael Froese talking. Nick just killed Jeremiah. They were both unarmed. I didn't see what happened. I don't know what happened. Darlene Silva shot Beryl and Nick mercy killed her. We buried her at sea. Henry Sparks was there. Beryl was my friend and she was the only thing that made me feel human. There isn't a person in this room who didn't love Beryl. Nick told me he was coming here to clear the air. We need to bury Jeremiah."
The blind man. The girl who had so much to say yet was physically unable to speak. The murderer who's mental state was reflected by his physical state. The boy who saw and understood everything. The dead man. Every single one of them was broken.
Meaningless death.
Michael hated it.
He watched as Alexander picked up Nia's gun. He watched him point it Nick's general direction.
That action alone held too many implications.
Alexander was blind. Alexander had no way to tell if he was aiming at Nick. He was still trying.
It hurt.
"What did you do?" someone asked. Michael wasn't sure if he'd seen anyone's mouth move, but it wasn't his voice, nor was it Nick's. It couldn't have been Nia's voice. It hurt that it couldn't have been Jeremiah's voice.
It was Alexander speaking, then.
Michael recognized the inflection. The tone. The sheer desperation and anger and pain and love. He'd heard it after the gunshot that destroyed anything he'd ever been. He'd felt it during the night on the beach, before he sank into the earth.
Alexander wanted to slam his fists into the ground and scream and never stop screaming. Alexander wanted to point the gun at his own chest and shoot and never stop shooting. Alexander wanted to gouge his own eyes out. Alexander wanted to push Nick to the ground and stomp on his head until there was nothing left. Alexander wanted to set himself on fire because the feeling of every single nerve in his body being destroyed would be better than what he was feeling right now.
Michael knew the feeling.
Nick looked like a zombie, covered in blood. He looked like a photo of someone who was wandering around Manhattan right after the twin towers collapsed. He looked like he'd survived a suicide bombing. He looked like he'd survived a school shooting.
A photo of him could win the Pulitzer.
He looked like a metaphor.
Michael knew the feeling, only he internalized it. He ran his hand through his hair, making sure it looked presentable.
Nick was muttering. Repeating.
Nick's mind was fragmenting. Temporally displaced. Dissociating. Barrelling out of control. Berylling out of control.
Michael knew the feeling well.
Beryl.
Most of the secrets Michael and Beryl held from one another were tangible. Physical things. Measurable things. The intangible secrets hurt too much to think about.
Michael almost knew what it was like one metaphysical being with Beryl.
Nick.
None of the secrets Nick and Beryl held from one another were physical. Nick had seen all of Beryl. All of her. Nick had seen everything there was to see of Beryl. Nick knew how it felt to open Beryl's throat. Nick knew what it was like to be one physical being with Beryl. Nick knew what it was like to -
That was a shitty thing to be thinking about right now.
Nia.
Nia was in mourning.
Nia had just watched someone she loved end.
Michael retroactively knew the feeling.
He'd been there for Beryl's death, but he also hadn't really been there for Beryl's death. He'd been there for a death, but he hadn't known it was Beryl's until hours later. He hadn't physically witnessed her death. He hadn't seen her lifeless face. He hadn't seen the hole blown through her chest. He hadn't seen the gash torn across her throat. He hadn't seen her veins and arteries cut in two. He hadn't seen all she'd ever been fade away. He hadn't seen the blood bubble out of her throat and mouth as the movement of her body being picked up forced her last breath out of lungs. He hadn't heard the noise her only posthumous breath would make.
All he'd seen was her shoes, her shape, and her blood. To him, her corpse may as well have just been a mannequin symbolizing Beryl.
But he'd seen all the equivalents with Jeremiah's death. He knew what it was like now. He knew how it felt.
He knew Nia was going through all of it.
And he was feeling it too.
He would give anything just to see Beryl's smile again. He would give anything to hold her hand. He would give anything to hug her and tell her everything would be okay. He would give anything to make her exist again.
He would give anything just to see Jeremiah's smile again. He would give anything to hold his hand. He would give anything to hug him and tell him everything would be okay. He would give anything to make him exist again.
He was shaking. His heartbeat was visible through his shirt.
He would give anything just to see anyone's smile again. He would give anything to hold anyone's hand. He would give anything to hug anyone and tell them everything would be okay. He would give anything to make anyone exist again.
All he wanted was just to give everyone a hug.
The real him loved everything so goddamned much and the only thing in the universe that knew the real him was gone.
The only thing that could've ever really loved him back was gone.
That was his problem. He'd figured it out.
He cared so damn much about everyone and nobody but Beryl knew it. Now that she was gone, he was just lost. Floating through an island that only knew pain and hatred. Floating, armed with nothing but a pistol, contempt for the people watching, and unrelenting empathy.
Knowing the problem didn't make it hurt any less.
What were they doing? Revenge killings were the opposite of anything Beryl would have ever wanted. Beryl would've... would've wanted them to hug it out.
If Beryl could see them now she'd be in so much pain.
Michael felt it.
He was still slumped against the wall. He needed everyone on the same page.
His voice was forceful. "Alexander," he said, really meaning to speak to everyone. He didn't know if anyone was listening. He was staring at the ground. He didn't know what anyone was doing. "This is Michael Froese talking. Nick just killed Jeremiah. They were both unarmed. I didn't see what happened. I don't know what happened. Darlene Silva shot Beryl and Nick mercy killed her. We buried her at sea. Henry Sparks was there. Beryl was my friend and she was the only thing that made me feel human. There isn't a person in this room who didn't love Beryl. Nick told me he was coming here to clear the air. We need to bury Jeremiah."
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
No, she said.
Go away, she said.
Leave us alone, she said.
Please.
She didn't say anything, because she could never say anything.
The only words she knew were ones they couldn't understand.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
Go away, she said.
Leave us alone, she said.
Please.
She didn't say anything, because she could never say anything.
The only words she knew were ones they couldn't understand.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
Well. Nick could still talk. That was unfortunate. Not only that, he sounded... bashful. Like an ashamed child who had been caught in the middle of some mischief, not a now-double-murderer. Had he apologized to Beryl like that? Before, after? Alexander's hands shook just a bit more.
He didn't think Nick was lying. He remembered the fury with which Jeremiah had torn away the last of their barricades, that morning which had been an eternity ago. There simply hadn't been time for Nick to have done anything so threatening as to deserve an immediate beating. No - he remembered Jeremiah's rant, no - his last words. It would've been an immediate execution if he hadn't fought back. Strangely, Alexander found that he still didn't care.
He remembered what he now realized must have been Jeremiah's dying gasps.
There was a pitiful noise that must have been Nia, sobbing. Grief that should've torn the world asunder, constrained to almost a whisper.
Knowing he had lost Beryl hurt. Knowing that her killer stood in front of him hurt. Hearing Nia's cries was excruciating. Her tears resonated with his heart, and it was enough to make him want to fire wildly at Nick's excuses, pull the trigger until there was nothing left, hope for the worst.
But, if he did that, he could shoot Nia by mistake, and that was enough to stop him. That was all that stopped him. What a strange paradox - for the sounds of her sorrow to spur him towards violence, but stay his hand at the same time.
The other boy spoke. Michael. His name meant nothing. His voice meant nothing. His words... he sounded hollow, like someone already half-dead. Not tethered tightly enough to the world to even think about lying.
Still. Darlene Silva was no one. He couldn't direct his hatred at a name, at the vague idea of a person. Maybe that was a sign that he should let it go. Move on.
Maybe Nick hadn't done anything wrong. Maybe he had walked into the commissary, said hello, and immediately been held at gunpoint. Maybe he had left, only to find Beryl, already dying. Maybe he eased her pain. Maybe he loved her. Maybe it destroyed him.
Maybe that didn't change anything.
Maybe Michael was right. Maybe everyone in the room had loved Beryl. Maybe if he had arrived ten minutes earlier, that could've been enough. He could've explained himself before Jeremiah returned, they could've stopped all this from happening.
Maybe Nia would've shot him on sight anyways. Maybe Alexander wouldn't have even tried to stop her.
In a world of hypotheticals, Alexander was certain of this: one person in the room had loved Jeremiah.
And here was wretched Michael, trying to pretend that it mattered who had been in the wrong, trying to convince them to forgive Nick, already, trying to dictate what happened to Jeremiah's body, like he had the right.
"There is no we," Alexander spat. "Both of you. Leave."
He didn't think Nick was lying. He remembered the fury with which Jeremiah had torn away the last of their barricades, that morning which had been an eternity ago. There simply hadn't been time for Nick to have done anything so threatening as to deserve an immediate beating. No - he remembered Jeremiah's rant, no - his last words. It would've been an immediate execution if he hadn't fought back. Strangely, Alexander found that he still didn't care.
He remembered what he now realized must have been Jeremiah's dying gasps.
There was a pitiful noise that must have been Nia, sobbing. Grief that should've torn the world asunder, constrained to almost a whisper.
Knowing he had lost Beryl hurt. Knowing that her killer stood in front of him hurt. Hearing Nia's cries was excruciating. Her tears resonated with his heart, and it was enough to make him want to fire wildly at Nick's excuses, pull the trigger until there was nothing left, hope for the worst.
But, if he did that, he could shoot Nia by mistake, and that was enough to stop him. That was all that stopped him. What a strange paradox - for the sounds of her sorrow to spur him towards violence, but stay his hand at the same time.
The other boy spoke. Michael. His name meant nothing. His voice meant nothing. His words... he sounded hollow, like someone already half-dead. Not tethered tightly enough to the world to even think about lying.
Still. Darlene Silva was no one. He couldn't direct his hatred at a name, at the vague idea of a person. Maybe that was a sign that he should let it go. Move on.
Maybe Nick hadn't done anything wrong. Maybe he had walked into the commissary, said hello, and immediately been held at gunpoint. Maybe he had left, only to find Beryl, already dying. Maybe he eased her pain. Maybe he loved her. Maybe it destroyed him.
Maybe that didn't change anything.
Maybe Michael was right. Maybe everyone in the room had loved Beryl. Maybe if he had arrived ten minutes earlier, that could've been enough. He could've explained himself before Jeremiah returned, they could've stopped all this from happening.
Maybe Nia would've shot him on sight anyways. Maybe Alexander wouldn't have even tried to stop her.
In a world of hypotheticals, Alexander was certain of this: one person in the room had loved Jeremiah.
And here was wretched Michael, trying to pretend that it mattered who had been in the wrong, trying to convince them to forgive Nick, already, trying to dictate what happened to Jeremiah's body, like he had the right.
"There is no we," Alexander spat. "Both of you. Leave."
-
General Goose
- Posts: 731
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:02 pm
Nick swallowed. Some blood - blood he hadn't known that had been in his mouth, blood that almost made him gag because it had already coagulated and solidified and was it even blood - went down his throat.
He blinked. A drop of blood fell, from his eyebrow, past his eye, landing on the bottom of his eye socket, before trickling aimlessly down his face.
He tried to think, tried to clear his head, tried to process as one whole everything about this scene, all the words that were being said, all the things that were happening. The back of his head throbbed. Each throb threatened to split the back of his head open. He was bleeding there too. It felt like it was just a surface level wound though. Nick didn't know how to feel about that.
He'd killed Jeremiah. Now his classmates would hear his name a second time. More people would want to kill him. He'd probably kill them back, until one lucky bastard got the satisfaction of laying the mortal blow.
Nia was distraught. Alexander was angry. Michael was...trying to be empathetic, trying to plan, trying to heal the gaps and clarify the announcements, perhaps a few minutes too late for that to be anything other than a cruel cosmic joke.
Nick had led them here. That was one thing Michael didn't mention in his explanation. One case where Nick was in the wrong. Nick had to take ownership of that.
He tried wiping some of the blood from his face. His hand only left behind more blood.
Alexander told them to leave.
Nick looked up, with wide and pathetic eyes, at Michael. He'd follow him. He couldn't be trusted to lead. Not any more.
He blinked. A drop of blood fell, from his eyebrow, past his eye, landing on the bottom of his eye socket, before trickling aimlessly down his face.
He tried to think, tried to clear his head, tried to process as one whole everything about this scene, all the words that were being said, all the things that were happening. The back of his head throbbed. Each throb threatened to split the back of his head open. He was bleeding there too. It felt like it was just a surface level wound though. Nick didn't know how to feel about that.
He'd killed Jeremiah. Now his classmates would hear his name a second time. More people would want to kill him. He'd probably kill them back, until one lucky bastard got the satisfaction of laying the mortal blow.
Nia was distraught. Alexander was angry. Michael was...trying to be empathetic, trying to plan, trying to heal the gaps and clarify the announcements, perhaps a few minutes too late for that to be anything other than a cruel cosmic joke.
Nick had led them here. That was one thing Michael didn't mention in his explanation. One case where Nick was in the wrong. Nick had to take ownership of that.
He tried wiping some of the blood from his face. His hand only left behind more blood.
Alexander told them to leave.
Nick looked up, with wide and pathetic eyes, at Michael. He'd follow him. He couldn't be trusted to lead. Not any more.
Alexander's words stung. They bored into Michael's chest and through his heart. They tore him apart inside.
He couldn't disagree with them.
He wanted to walk up to Alexander. He wanted to hug him like he wanted to hug Beryl. He wanted to cry and scream into his shoulder.
He couldn't do any of that. He was afraid Alexander would shoot him if he tried.
It felt almost like how it had felt when Benny told Michael to shut the fuck up and then wandered into the woods to die.
It felt so much worse than that.
"Okay," Michael inhaled and briefly looked towards Nick. Nick still looked like a Pulitzer-winning photograph.
Except now he was staring into Michael's soul.
It hurt so fucking bad.
Michael looked into Nick's eyes, nodded his head, and tried to smile. "Okay..."
Michael looked towards Nia and Jeremiah. He felt like shooting himself.
Michael exhaled, looked back towards Alexander, and slowly stood up. His voice was calm.
"You're right. Nick and I shouldn't be here. We'll go. Just - "
His face contorted into a grimace. Tears free, uncontrolled.
His voice was desperate. It was angry. It was everything he felt. It was everything everyone felt.
" - I swear to fucking God, you guys can't become like us. Don't become let yourselves become like us. Just please," his voice broke. It hurt. "Please don't become like us. Don't. Even if it kills you, don't become like us."
He pushed it back down. His voice was calm. Tears restrained.
He looked back at Nick. "Okay. Let's... let's go."
As he slipped out through the doorway, he thought about patting Nick on the back. He stopped himself when he realized his hand would get covered in blood. It was a selfish thing to not do.
And Michael was selfish too.
He'd give Nick a hug once the blood was dry. He'd put on a rainjacket first, so he didn't get flakes of blood on himself.
It was fucked up. He knew it was fucked up.
It hurt.
He looked up at the sky.
Dark clouds. Rain soon.
The sky looked like it was a metaphor.
Beryl would've commented on how Michael just made a simile out of the concept of metaphors twice in the space of ten minutes.
Beryl was still dead.
"Storm's coming, Nick. Maybe it'll help with the blood."
((Michael continued in The Menagerie))
He couldn't disagree with them.
He wanted to walk up to Alexander. He wanted to hug him like he wanted to hug Beryl. He wanted to cry and scream into his shoulder.
He couldn't do any of that. He was afraid Alexander would shoot him if he tried.
It felt almost like how it had felt when Benny told Michael to shut the fuck up and then wandered into the woods to die.
It felt so much worse than that.
"Okay," Michael inhaled and briefly looked towards Nick. Nick still looked like a Pulitzer-winning photograph.
Except now he was staring into Michael's soul.
It hurt so fucking bad.
Michael looked into Nick's eyes, nodded his head, and tried to smile. "Okay..."
Michael looked towards Nia and Jeremiah. He felt like shooting himself.
Michael exhaled, looked back towards Alexander, and slowly stood up. His voice was calm.
"You're right. Nick and I shouldn't be here. We'll go. Just - "
His face contorted into a grimace. Tears free, uncontrolled.
His voice was desperate. It was angry. It was everything he felt. It was everything everyone felt.
" - I swear to fucking God, you guys can't become like us. Don't become let yourselves become like us. Just please," his voice broke. It hurt. "Please don't become like us. Don't. Even if it kills you, don't become like us."
He pushed it back down. His voice was calm. Tears restrained.
He looked back at Nick. "Okay. Let's... let's go."
As he slipped out through the doorway, he thought about patting Nick on the back. He stopped himself when he realized his hand would get covered in blood. It was a selfish thing to not do.
And Michael was selfish too.
He'd give Nick a hug once the blood was dry. He'd put on a rainjacket first, so he didn't get flakes of blood on himself.
It was fucked up. He knew it was fucked up.
It hurt.
He looked up at the sky.
Dark clouds. Rain soon.
The sky looked like it was a metaphor.
Beryl would've commented on how Michael just made a simile out of the concept of metaphors twice in the space of ten minutes.
Beryl was still dead.
"Storm's coming, Nick. Maybe it'll help with the blood."
((Michael continued in The Menagerie))
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
-
General Goose
- Posts: 731
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:02 pm
Michael continued to talk. About how they would leave. About how that was the best way that they could help. About how Nia and Alexander couldn't let themselves become like Michael and Nick. Whatever that was supposed to mean, Nick wanted to add, snarkily.
Nick knew what it meant, though.
And he wanted to disagree with Michael's sentiments.
But he couldn't.
He grabbed his bag, favouring the hand that wasn't bleeding profusely from punching metal.
He left.
Michael mentioned it was going to rain.
Nick looked up at the sky.
"Yeah." He felt humid. Sticky. Hot. "Good."
((Nick Ogilvie continued elsewhere.))
Nick knew what it meant, though.
And he wanted to disagree with Michael's sentiments.
But he couldn't.
He grabbed his bag, favouring the hand that wasn't bleeding profusely from punching metal.
He left.
Michael mentioned it was going to rain.
Nick looked up at the sky.
"Yeah." He felt humid. Sticky. Hot. "Good."
((Nick Ogilvie continued elsewhere.))
Alexander didn't lower the gun for a while, even after Michael and Nick had politely removed themselves from the murder scene.
There were many things he despised about them, which he was viscerally reminded by with every quiet sob that escaped Nia, but he had only just realized what disgusted him.
They had given up already. What gave them the right?
Nick had sounded apologetic even to be alive, like he was expecting someone to reassure him that he wasn't the one to blame, that he hadn't had a choice. He'd been the one who'd decided he wanted to live badly enough to beat Jeremiah to death with his bare hands. Maybe not consciously, but one's feral survival instinct still belonged to them.
No one was saying he couldn't feel guilty, but he didn't deserve to be pitiable. His first murder had been a mercy kill, but his second had been pure man-versus-man, and he had prevailed. When he apologized, he should've done it standing tall. Alexander would've still hated him, of course, but at least it would be a hatred tinged with respect.
As it was, he sounded liable to wade into the unforgiving sea, and where would that leave them? Nick's life had quantifiable value, now - he carried Jeremiah's potential on his back like a cross. His life wasn't his to waste, anymore. If he wound up wanting to die from his shame of murder, the proper thing to do would've been to go limp before Jeremiah's blows.
Alexander's distaste towards Michael stemmed more from what the boy seemed to be implying about him. There were things worse than death, yes, but being a failure was one of them, and on the island, death was the ultimate failure.
Michael was right. He couldn't let himself become like them, meek and broken. Even if it killed the person he had been, that morning he had woken up on the beach.
Alexander took a deep breath. The threat had passed, but he was sure it would ring in his ears for many sleepless nights to come. He carefully set the gun down on the nearest bench, backtracked to retrieve his cane where he had let it clatter on the floor. Then he took slow, deliberate steps towards Nia's cries, echoing her technique. He gently placed a hand on her back.
"I'm sorry."
There were many things he despised about them, which he was viscerally reminded by with every quiet sob that escaped Nia, but he had only just realized what disgusted him.
They had given up already. What gave them the right?
Nick had sounded apologetic even to be alive, like he was expecting someone to reassure him that he wasn't the one to blame, that he hadn't had a choice. He'd been the one who'd decided he wanted to live badly enough to beat Jeremiah to death with his bare hands. Maybe not consciously, but one's feral survival instinct still belonged to them.
No one was saying he couldn't feel guilty, but he didn't deserve to be pitiable. His first murder had been a mercy kill, but his second had been pure man-versus-man, and he had prevailed. When he apologized, he should've done it standing tall. Alexander would've still hated him, of course, but at least it would be a hatred tinged with respect.
As it was, he sounded liable to wade into the unforgiving sea, and where would that leave them? Nick's life had quantifiable value, now - he carried Jeremiah's potential on his back like a cross. His life wasn't his to waste, anymore. If he wound up wanting to die from his shame of murder, the proper thing to do would've been to go limp before Jeremiah's blows.
Alexander's distaste towards Michael stemmed more from what the boy seemed to be implying about him. There were things worse than death, yes, but being a failure was one of them, and on the island, death was the ultimate failure.
Michael was right. He couldn't let himself become like them, meek and broken. Even if it killed the person he had been, that morning he had woken up on the beach.
Alexander took a deep breath. The threat had passed, but he was sure it would ring in his ears for many sleepless nights to come. He carefully set the gun down on the nearest bench, backtracked to retrieve his cane where he had let it clatter on the floor. Then he took slow, deliberate steps towards Nia's cries, echoing her technique. He gently placed a hand on her back.
"I'm sorry."
This wasn't supposed to happen.
Footsteps, loud. Mirroring, cautious. A hand on shaking shoulders. Nothing changed.
His eyes were closed. At least his eyes were closed. Eyes scratched milky-white after death. She had seen pictures.
She knew his eyes. They, at least, would stay, when she closed hers.
Footsteps, loud. Mirroring, cautious. A hand on shaking shoulders. Nothing changed.
His eyes were closed. At least his eyes were closed. Eyes scratched milky-white after death. She had seen pictures.
She knew his eyes. They, at least, would stay, when she closed hers.
Nia didn't respond, but she didn't pull away.
Alexander could never be a substitute for Jeremiah, not that he would've particularly wanted to be. He wasn't the one she would've wanted to be by her side.
Still, he was the only one there. He had to provide whatever meager comfort he could.
However long it took.
Alexander could never be a substitute for Jeremiah, not that he would've particularly wanted to be. He wasn't the one she would've wanted to be by her side.
Still, he was the only one there. He had to provide whatever meager comfort he could.
However long it took.
The sounds began to quiet. Her shoulders began to calm.
She didn't deserve it. She thought she deserved to sit here drenched in blood for the rest of her miserable life crying.
She wouldn't, though.
It wasn't who she was.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
And yet.
She didn't deserve it. She thought she deserved to sit here drenched in blood for the rest of her miserable life crying.
She wouldn't, though.
It wasn't who she was.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
And yet.
It sounded like Nia was beginning to recover. Or, rather, like the initial shock had begun to wear off. They wouldn’t have the luxury of being able to take their time to process their grief in any sort of healthy manner.
They would have to move, soon. Any number of scavengers could have heard the screams from the fight, and would soon come circling to pick at any bones that were left. Perhaps they were being watched already.
Still. Alexander didn’t have the right to callously hurry Nia. Once they left, she would never see Jeremiah again; even in his current hollow form.
They would have to move, soon. Any number of scavengers could have heard the screams from the fight, and would soon come circling to pick at any bones that were left. Perhaps they were being watched already.
Still. Alexander didn’t have the right to callously hurry Nia. Once they left, she would never see Jeremiah again; even in his current hollow form.