“Yeah,” Aurelien lied. “Yeah, you’re, you’re gonna be fine, Jackson. This isn’t the end, just, I know I’m asking the impossible of you, but just, try not to panic, yeah?”
Was there any point in obscuring the truth when everyone already knew it was a lie? He didn’t think Jackson was naive enough to truly believe he was guaranteed to make it out of this building alive. Whenever Aurelien had messed up one of his daredevil stunts, like the one that had given him the permanent scar on his shoulder, he’d known from the moment he’d started falling he wasn’t getting out of it unscathed. Would there even be any comfort in his words, if you knew they only existed to try and soften the blow?
Fuck, he couldn’t afford to get hung up on this now. Henry’s reappearance at his side was a blessing; he could hand the medical supplies over to the other boy now, rather than grabbing and holding them and pretending like he had a goddamn clue what to do with them.
He nodded at Henry’s order. Ace was a good dude, from the interactions they’d had at school. Cut from a different cloth to the rest of the football team, surprisingly awkward and spacey for the crowd he rolled with. There was a ceasefire, now. The sounds of a scuffle replaced with Ace’s pained screaming.
None of that meant a thing. None of that meant Ace couldn’t still be a threat. None of that meant Aurelien wouldn’t take immediate action if he tried to start something.
He turned his attention, briefly, back to Jackson, peeling clothing back to see the full extent of the damage that had been caused. He couldn’t help but wince at the bloody mess on Jackson’s back, an echo of the dark red puncture in his gut. He just about managed to bite his tongue and stop himself from swearing as he glanced up at Henry.
“Yeah, it’s all the way through…”
He pulled a face, mouth nothing more than a thin straight line, then shifted his attention back to the room filled with hospital beds, yelling to make his voice heard above the din coming from within.
“Ace! Ace! You good?”
His hand moved, fingers ghosting across the dusty tiles, until they came to rest atop Ari’s gun.
They Didn't Make It
Sometime in the middle of the night between Days 5 and 6
"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
Jackson’s mind was still racing. He couldn’t concentrate on a single thought. His breathing was starting to come out in quick short bursts. Was it the shock? Maybe. Aurelien was still hovered over him, and Jackson did his best to keep his vision focused on the other boy’s face, but it was hard. He felt dizzy, like he drank too much and he got the spins. It was familiar and yet also horribly alien. The pain radiating from his arm and his stomach was the only thing keeping him grounded right now. His grip on the gun finally loosened, and he let it go, the gun lightly clattering to the ground with a soft thump.
Henry was above him now too. Both of the boys were telling him he wasn’t going to die, and that made him feel a little better, even if he didn’t believe them all that much. Jackson had never felt pain like this before. Even when he’d hyper-extended his elbow his sophomore year didn’t compare to the fire in his gut, or the waves of pain crashing into his brain from his arm. His left hand was still pressing into the gaping hole in his stomach, futilely attempting to halt the flow of blood.
Henry was talking to him, and Jackson gave him his attention. Aurelien was going to check his back. Fuck. They lifted him up as gently as they could, but every movement was absolute agony for Jackson. He clenched his jaw and did his best to suffer through the pain, but even doing his best to hold them back, a few pained moans escaped through his gritted teeth. Aurelien peeled his shirt up and over the wound, the fibers around the hole pulling at the wound and almost causing Jackson’s eyes to roll back from the excruciating pain of it all. Aurelien confirmed what could only be really bad news for him. The bullet went straight through him. Fuckin’ through and through.
Fuck, he was really gonna die.
Jackson’s eyes found Henry’s and he gave the boy a pleading look.
“How bad is it?” He groaned again as a slight movement caused him even more pain.
“Feels pretty fuckin’ bad.”
Henry was above him now too. Both of the boys were telling him he wasn’t going to die, and that made him feel a little better, even if he didn’t believe them all that much. Jackson had never felt pain like this before. Even when he’d hyper-extended his elbow his sophomore year didn’t compare to the fire in his gut, or the waves of pain crashing into his brain from his arm. His left hand was still pressing into the gaping hole in his stomach, futilely attempting to halt the flow of blood.
Henry was talking to him, and Jackson gave him his attention. Aurelien was going to check his back. Fuck. They lifted him up as gently as they could, but every movement was absolute agony for Jackson. He clenched his jaw and did his best to suffer through the pain, but even doing his best to hold them back, a few pained moans escaped through his gritted teeth. Aurelien peeled his shirt up and over the wound, the fibers around the hole pulling at the wound and almost causing Jackson’s eyes to roll back from the excruciating pain of it all. Aurelien confirmed what could only be really bad news for him. The bullet went straight through him. Fuckin’ through and through.
Fuck, he was really gonna die.
Jackson’s eyes found Henry’s and he gave the boy a pleading look.
“How bad is it?” He groaned again as a slight movement caused him even more pain.
“Feels pretty fuckin’ bad.”
And just as quickly as thing slowed down—things started moving far too quickly far too soon.
He only tangentially knew the boys who had saved him: Henry (was it Chemistry, Junior year or some other Sciencey class?), Aurielien (basketball, football and basketball players were usually homies but also secretly envious of the other—football was more culturally significant, basketball they got to see your face when you played which meant more attention from girls, you win some, you lose some), and Jackson (wrassling, that meant the Carter twins).
Fuck…Jackson…
“I-I’m okay!”
He managed to sputter, but nobody was really paying attention to him—he was alive and clearly not dying.
Who had attacked him? Why?
He gripped his collar—well, there was the answer to why. He had to work through the concussion before finding out who.
He forced his way up, the gun was hung loosely in his hand, pointed downward—Ace was in no form to threaten or posture and his heart wasn’t in it either. That was the problem, he was surely realizing, he lacked that quite literal killer instinct. He didn’t have the stomach for suicide or the mind for murder.
He was fucked.
He rubbed his head and rolled his shoulders, he took in the scene, the quiet and loud desperation and hopelessness. Those three boys, the ones he just tangentially knew, had walked into a buzzsaw on his behalf. Jackson, the scrappy wrassler who could--had been mowed down by bullets intended for Ace. That kid had pointed the gun at him. That kid had pulled the trigger--and he didn't even know in his mind to call him by name.
This was fucked.
His eyes found his hat and he stumbled towards it before putting it on, brim facing forward, hung low. He picked up his duffel bag that he had lost in the struggle--had to have slipped off during the amateur grappling match he had with Justin. It didn't matter now, details were loose and the world was hazy. Felt like he had taken a tire iron to the skull.
Oh yeah...
He approached the three, slowly and surely and he stared at Jackson and the efforts being made for him and the blood. All the blood.
Murder after murder. It just kept going. It never slowed down.
“Holy shi—fuck!”
He didn’t keep his composure.
He began to back away from the three.
“Oh no, no, no, no, no,” he sputtered, “I’m sorry Jack, fuck, I’m sorry, shit, no, no, no, no…”
His head still rung.
The world still spun.
His heart felt heavy.
He kept backing away.
“Shit, fuck, shit, fuck, shit—fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
He was mumbling to himself, trying to think, trying to form a plan—there was none. Only one thing came to mind.
Run away Simba…
Run away…
And never return.
The Lion King, really?
The least fucked up metaphor so far.
He bolted through the same window Justin had exited from moments before, in fear and in guilt and in a desperate sort of hustle.
Jackson had been shot up, by Ace’s gun, by bullets meant for him. Jackson was dying, in his friends arms on an island away from anybody who really cared about him.
It could’ve been Ace.
It probably should’ve been.
[ Ace Beats Continued In: hustler for death, no heaven for a gangsta ]
He only tangentially knew the boys who had saved him: Henry (was it Chemistry, Junior year or some other Sciencey class?), Aurielien (basketball, football and basketball players were usually homies but also secretly envious of the other—football was more culturally significant, basketball they got to see your face when you played which meant more attention from girls, you win some, you lose some), and Jackson (wrassling, that meant the Carter twins).
Fuck…Jackson…
“I-I’m okay!”
He managed to sputter, but nobody was really paying attention to him—he was alive and clearly not dying.
Who had attacked him? Why?
He gripped his collar—well, there was the answer to why. He had to work through the concussion before finding out who.
He forced his way up, the gun was hung loosely in his hand, pointed downward—Ace was in no form to threaten or posture and his heart wasn’t in it either. That was the problem, he was surely realizing, he lacked that quite literal killer instinct. He didn’t have the stomach for suicide or the mind for murder.
He was fucked.
He rubbed his head and rolled his shoulders, he took in the scene, the quiet and loud desperation and hopelessness. Those three boys, the ones he just tangentially knew, had walked into a buzzsaw on his behalf. Jackson, the scrappy wrassler who could--had been mowed down by bullets intended for Ace. That kid had pointed the gun at him. That kid had pulled the trigger--and he didn't even know in his mind to call him by name.
This was fucked.
His eyes found his hat and he stumbled towards it before putting it on, brim facing forward, hung low. He picked up his duffel bag that he had lost in the struggle--had to have slipped off during the amateur grappling match he had with Justin. It didn't matter now, details were loose and the world was hazy. Felt like he had taken a tire iron to the skull.
Oh yeah...
He approached the three, slowly and surely and he stared at Jackson and the efforts being made for him and the blood. All the blood.
Murder after murder. It just kept going. It never slowed down.
“Holy shi—fuck!”
He didn’t keep his composure.
He began to back away from the three.
“Oh no, no, no, no, no,” he sputtered, “I’m sorry Jack, fuck, I’m sorry, shit, no, no, no, no…”
His head still rung.
The world still spun.
His heart felt heavy.
He kept backing away.
“Shit, fuck, shit, fuck, shit—fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
He was mumbling to himself, trying to think, trying to form a plan—there was none. Only one thing came to mind.
Run away Simba…
Run away…
And never return.
The Lion King, really?
The least fucked up metaphor so far.
He bolted through the same window Justin had exited from moments before, in fear and in guilt and in a desperate sort of hustle.
Jackson had been shot up, by Ace’s gun, by bullets meant for him. Jackson was dying, in his friends arms on an island away from anybody who really cared about him.
It could’ve been Ace.
It probably should’ve been.
[ Ace Beats Continued In: hustler for death, no heaven for a gangsta ]
"My man got too familiar and I’d ended up having to whoop his ass, man, you know. Because he would step across the line. Habitually. He’s a habitual line stepper.” -Charlie Murphy
V8 Relationship Thread
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
Henry winced at Ace’s reaction, shooting the boy an enraged glance before making a concerted effort to discard his disdain. As much as he understood well why Ace reacted the way he did, that he could pretty easily walk through what was probably going through the guy’s head at that moment - Ace wasn’t the person who needed care right now. Not from Henry, not while Jackson was so badly hurt. He spoke well before he'd had a chance to assess the value of actually saying what was on his mind.
"...you craven piece of shit."
He didn't have to see the faces of his companions to realize that wasn't the best reply to Ace's disappearance. Reacting like Ace had didn’t solve anything, and neither would chastising him. The best they could all hope for was that Ace caught up to Justin and ventilated him. Collect on the debt Justin owed on account of his cowardice. For Jackson, for Benedict, for Mackenzie, for Camilla.
Someone should.
Someone would.
Someone has to bury that son of a bitch, someone’s going to, I’m going to-
That didn't matter right now.
“Hey! Look at me. Forget about him, he’s in shock. You’re doing okay. The bullet going through is a good thing.”
It was almost impossible to feel relief, even a bit optimistic about anything right now. Not with a classmates’ blood on his hands yet again, not with a life in his hands yet again. Seeing the visible agony on Jackson’s face as Aurelien checked his back sent a stabbing pain of its own into Henry’s heart; only mollified by the response that the bullet had, in fact, gone through.
“I have to keep pressure on. Try and breathe steady. Sorry.”
Now glistening with the orange hue of iodine amidst the crimson of his blood, they had to cover it up and put pressure on it. Henry leaned on the wound, hands pressing down gauze that was sure to soak through any moment now. With a free hand, he reached underneath him and stuffed more gauze where the exit wound seemed to be. A passing glance showed it to be a slightly more uneven hole than the clean, hole punch puncture in his peer’s abdomen.
Jackson reacted to this in a way Henry had never wanted anyone to react to something he did. If it saved his life, even for a few days, it had to be worth doing something that felt like hurting. With a free, bloodstained hand, he grabbed another roll of gauze and held out the roll to Aurelien.
“Wrap his arm, both sides. If you have a spare shirt or something, use that too. Wrap it tight. I’ll keep the pressure on it.”
He’d ignored Jackson’s inquiry about how bad it was. The truth was, if the bullet had gone anywhere else than out the other side, Henry wasn’t sure he could do anything to help. Even now, he had no confidence that there wasn’t some internal injury he was utterly unable to mend. Maybe he could keep Jackson alive long enough for some potential rescue. If no one else tried to kill them. If any rescue came. If the Infirmary wasn’t declared a danger zone.
Fuck, he’s scared.
If. Nothing was certain.
Work the problem.
Henry forced a smile once again, leaning into an explanation as he focused his entire physical being into keeping the pressure on Jackson's wounds, and adding whatever absorbent material he could to soak up the blood.
“Well, you got shot. That’s never gonna be good, but - it went through. We don’t have to dig around for anything, we just have to stop the bleeding. It’s just pressure and time. We keep it up, it’ll stop. And hey, it’s an Infirmary. If I can find thread and a needle, we’ll sew you back up. I know what to do, Jackson. We’ve just gotta do it, yeah?”
One set of problems. One set of tasks. Then another, and another. Until what?
“You’ve just gotta hang on, keep your head. That’s what you’ve got to do. Aurelien here’s gonna keep us safe, that’s his job. Right Aurelien? Clear a path.”
A challenge they won’t be able to meet.
An unsolvable problem.
A lockbox with no key.
A sheer cliff face with no protrusions, no purchase.
A wound that might not stop bleeding.
The last page of the book.
“If we all do what we have to do, we might get through this.”
He only believed it because he had to.
"...you craven piece of shit."
He didn't have to see the faces of his companions to realize that wasn't the best reply to Ace's disappearance. Reacting like Ace had didn’t solve anything, and neither would chastising him. The best they could all hope for was that Ace caught up to Justin and ventilated him. Collect on the debt Justin owed on account of his cowardice. For Jackson, for Benedict, for Mackenzie, for Camilla.
Someone should.
Someone would.
Someone has to bury that son of a bitch, someone’s going to, I’m going to-
That didn't matter right now.
“Hey! Look at me. Forget about him, he’s in shock. You’re doing okay. The bullet going through is a good thing.”
It was almost impossible to feel relief, even a bit optimistic about anything right now. Not with a classmates’ blood on his hands yet again, not with a life in his hands yet again. Seeing the visible agony on Jackson’s face as Aurelien checked his back sent a stabbing pain of its own into Henry’s heart; only mollified by the response that the bullet had, in fact, gone through.
“I have to keep pressure on. Try and breathe steady. Sorry.”
Now glistening with the orange hue of iodine amidst the crimson of his blood, they had to cover it up and put pressure on it. Henry leaned on the wound, hands pressing down gauze that was sure to soak through any moment now. With a free hand, he reached underneath him and stuffed more gauze where the exit wound seemed to be. A passing glance showed it to be a slightly more uneven hole than the clean, hole punch puncture in his peer’s abdomen.
Jackson reacted to this in a way Henry had never wanted anyone to react to something he did. If it saved his life, even for a few days, it had to be worth doing something that felt like hurting. With a free, bloodstained hand, he grabbed another roll of gauze and held out the roll to Aurelien.
“Wrap his arm, both sides. If you have a spare shirt or something, use that too. Wrap it tight. I’ll keep the pressure on it.”
He’d ignored Jackson’s inquiry about how bad it was. The truth was, if the bullet had gone anywhere else than out the other side, Henry wasn’t sure he could do anything to help. Even now, he had no confidence that there wasn’t some internal injury he was utterly unable to mend. Maybe he could keep Jackson alive long enough for some potential rescue. If no one else tried to kill them. If any rescue came. If the Infirmary wasn’t declared a danger zone.
Fuck, he’s scared.
If. Nothing was certain.
Work the problem.
Henry forced a smile once again, leaning into an explanation as he focused his entire physical being into keeping the pressure on Jackson's wounds, and adding whatever absorbent material he could to soak up the blood.
“Well, you got shot. That’s never gonna be good, but - it went through. We don’t have to dig around for anything, we just have to stop the bleeding. It’s just pressure and time. We keep it up, it’ll stop. And hey, it’s an Infirmary. If I can find thread and a needle, we’ll sew you back up. I know what to do, Jackson. We’ve just gotta do it, yeah?”
One set of problems. One set of tasks. Then another, and another. Until what?
“You’ve just gotta hang on, keep your head. That’s what you’ve got to do. Aurelien here’s gonna keep us safe, that’s his job. Right Aurelien? Clear a path.”
A challenge they won’t be able to meet.
An unsolvable problem.
A lockbox with no key.
A sheer cliff face with no protrusions, no purchase.
A wound that might not stop bleeding.
The last page of the book.
“If we all do what we have to do, we might get through this.”
He only believed it because he had to.
Aurelien kept his face turned away from Jackson as he worked, doing exactly as Henry had told him to down to the letter, wrapping the gauze tightly around the boy’s arm as his other hand foraged around in his bag for a spare shirt, thankful for the small mercy that meant he didn’t have to focus on the body shot anymore.
He couldn’t fake a smile like Henry had managed. His hand was coated in blood, blood that he was making a desperate, futile attempt to stop from dripping onto his jeans and covering the stains that were already there. Blood from Jackson’s arm, and from both sides of his stomach. Henry sure sounded like he knew what he was talking about, but there was a universe of difference between reading about medical procedures and actually putting them into practice. And how was he supposed to know whether Henry was just reciting stuff from a textbook he’d read years ago? Maybe he was just bullshitting. Maybe the bullet going all the way through was better because it was a quick death compared to a prolonged, agonising one.
And that smile was fake, wasn’t it Henry? Aurelien could tell, thanks to his reaction to Ace turning chicken and scarpering. He understood the reaction, he truly did; he was disappointed in Ace as well, dismayed that someone he considered a good guy couldn’t find the strength within himself to help someone bleeding out in front of him. But he had to look at the bigger picture here. Ace had just come off the back of a bloody, no-holds barred brawl. He’d been dealt a bad enough hand today. Who knew what else he’d gone through before this moment?
More importantly, they had to be thankful that Ace was just a coward, not opportunistic.
It was as Aurelien was tying a spare shirt around Jackson’s arm, the dark blue and red of his replica FC Barcelona shirt doing an admirable job of masking the blood, that he took note of how intense his breathing was, how rapid his heart was beating. He had been so in the zone, so focused on trying to save Jackson’s life. Funny. It was funny, really. How he was finally able to keep his emotions level, get the balancing act right, and it wasn’t even for the single solitary goal he’d set himself.
So funny.
“Yeah, that’s… that’s what I’m here for,” Aurelien muttered, briefly swiping at his forehead to flick droplets of sweat away. “I’m here to keep you safe. I’ve got my mace. I’ve got… I’ve got a gun now. Nobody’s getting through me.”
He couldn’t let this focus go to waste. They had to keep pushing, like Henry said. They couldn’t falter. They hadn’t let Ariana’s death stop them in their tracks. Now, they weren’t even going to let Jackson die here, not on their watch. There was a huge chance that after they took out as many killers as they could, that it’d only buy the people they’d saved a day or two longer. They all knew that, and yet they’d all jumped on board this plan.
It was the same here, with Jackson bleeding out on the floor of the infirmary. Maybe they’d patch him up and stem the bleeding and it’d only give him one more day. Well, if that was the case, before the day was out, they were gonna find Marco, and they were gonna find Quinn, and they were gonna find Blaise, and they were gonna shoot them and beat them and make them bleed and make them pay. Even if they just got one of them, then Jackson would know that their plan wasn’t fruitless, that everything he was working for could work out. And maybe, just maybe…
“I’m not letting you die.”
He believed. He had nothing else he knew he could do. So he believed with his whole heart.
He couldn’t fake a smile like Henry had managed. His hand was coated in blood, blood that he was making a desperate, futile attempt to stop from dripping onto his jeans and covering the stains that were already there. Blood from Jackson’s arm, and from both sides of his stomach. Henry sure sounded like he knew what he was talking about, but there was a universe of difference between reading about medical procedures and actually putting them into practice. And how was he supposed to know whether Henry was just reciting stuff from a textbook he’d read years ago? Maybe he was just bullshitting. Maybe the bullet going all the way through was better because it was a quick death compared to a prolonged, agonising one.
And that smile was fake, wasn’t it Henry? Aurelien could tell, thanks to his reaction to Ace turning chicken and scarpering. He understood the reaction, he truly did; he was disappointed in Ace as well, dismayed that someone he considered a good guy couldn’t find the strength within himself to help someone bleeding out in front of him. But he had to look at the bigger picture here. Ace had just come off the back of a bloody, no-holds barred brawl. He’d been dealt a bad enough hand today. Who knew what else he’d gone through before this moment?
More importantly, they had to be thankful that Ace was just a coward, not opportunistic.
It was as Aurelien was tying a spare shirt around Jackson’s arm, the dark blue and red of his replica FC Barcelona shirt doing an admirable job of masking the blood, that he took note of how intense his breathing was, how rapid his heart was beating. He had been so in the zone, so focused on trying to save Jackson’s life. Funny. It was funny, really. How he was finally able to keep his emotions level, get the balancing act right, and it wasn’t even for the single solitary goal he’d set himself.
So funny.
“Yeah, that’s… that’s what I’m here for,” Aurelien muttered, briefly swiping at his forehead to flick droplets of sweat away. “I’m here to keep you safe. I’ve got my mace. I’ve got… I’ve got a gun now. Nobody’s getting through me.”
He couldn’t let this focus go to waste. They had to keep pushing, like Henry said. They couldn’t falter. They hadn’t let Ariana’s death stop them in their tracks. Now, they weren’t even going to let Jackson die here, not on their watch. There was a huge chance that after they took out as many killers as they could, that it’d only buy the people they’d saved a day or two longer. They all knew that, and yet they’d all jumped on board this plan.
It was the same here, with Jackson bleeding out on the floor of the infirmary. Maybe they’d patch him up and stem the bleeding and it’d only give him one more day. Well, if that was the case, before the day was out, they were gonna find Marco, and they were gonna find Quinn, and they were gonna find Blaise, and they were gonna shoot them and beat them and make them bleed and make them pay. Even if they just got one of them, then Jackson would know that their plan wasn’t fruitless, that everything he was working for could work out. And maybe, just maybe…
“I’m not letting you die.”
He believed. He had nothing else he knew he could do. So he believed with his whole heart.
"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
Jackson’s question went unanswered, and he understood why. Saying the truth was probably too cruel. The sound of movement in front of him drew his attention, and suddenly he was looking at Ace, looking no worse for wear from his scuffle with Justin. Jackson was at least able to stop him from being killed. That was something, right? Ace looked at him with eyes that said all they needed to. Jackson knew he was pretty fucked. Ace’s reaction and subsequent evacuation of the area just cemented that fact. Henry tried to tell him the opposite, but Jackson was never really good at the whole ‘positive thinking’ thing.
Even still, Jackson was going to put his faith and his life in his two friends’ hands. Because what else could he do? He had to trust that they would do whatever they could to try and keep him alive, and to do that he had to make every effort to stay alive. He wanted to live, even if it was only for a few more days. He didn’t want to die pathetically like this. Bleeding out because he got too hot-headed and threw himself headfirst into danger. That would be too much like the rest of the fuckups in his life. He wanted to be better. He swore to himself he would be when Ariana died.
But look at him now.
He couldn’t even manage to keep that promise.
Aurelien was busy trying to bandage his arm, and Jackson was doing everything he could not to cry out from the awful pain of every movement of said arm. Jackson could still move his fingers without too much pain, but every time his hand changed positions it felt like he was getting beat over the head with a baseball bat. It was taking every ounce of self control he had not to flinch away from the pain. Henry’s voice gave him something to try and focus on, and said something about putting pressure on his wound. Jackson knew that sounded right. He looked at the boy and nodded his approval. Henry pressed down on the hole in his stomach.
Jackson’s vision left him for a moment as a long low moan of pain ripped it’s way out of his mouth through clenched teeth that felt like they were going to shatter from the pressure of being grit together so forcefully. Henry put even more pressure on the wound, and Jackson couldn’t hold back any more, a pained scream releasing into the air around them as tears flowed freely from his eyes. Henry kept trying to talk to him, to keep him distracted, but Jackson could barely comprehend anything other that the mind-numbing waves of pain coming from his torso.
The scream only finally faded out when Jackson’s mind had had enough pain, and slipped into unconsciousness.
[Jackson Sullivan Continued In Our Mutual Friend]
Even still, Jackson was going to put his faith and his life in his two friends’ hands. Because what else could he do? He had to trust that they would do whatever they could to try and keep him alive, and to do that he had to make every effort to stay alive. He wanted to live, even if it was only for a few more days. He didn’t want to die pathetically like this. Bleeding out because he got too hot-headed and threw himself headfirst into danger. That would be too much like the rest of the fuckups in his life. He wanted to be better. He swore to himself he would be when Ariana died.
But look at him now.
He couldn’t even manage to keep that promise.
Aurelien was busy trying to bandage his arm, and Jackson was doing everything he could not to cry out from the awful pain of every movement of said arm. Jackson could still move his fingers without too much pain, but every time his hand changed positions it felt like he was getting beat over the head with a baseball bat. It was taking every ounce of self control he had not to flinch away from the pain. Henry’s voice gave him something to try and focus on, and said something about putting pressure on his wound. Jackson knew that sounded right. He looked at the boy and nodded his approval. Henry pressed down on the hole in his stomach.
Jackson’s vision left him for a moment as a long low moan of pain ripped it’s way out of his mouth through clenched teeth that felt like they were going to shatter from the pressure of being grit together so forcefully. Henry put even more pressure on the wound, and Jackson couldn’t hold back any more, a pained scream releasing into the air around them as tears flowed freely from his eyes. Henry kept trying to talk to him, to keep him distracted, but Jackson could barely comprehend anything other that the mind-numbing waves of pain coming from his torso.
The scream only finally faded out when Jackson’s mind had had enough pain, and slipped into unconsciousness.
[Jackson Sullivan Continued In Our Mutual Friend]
It felt like it took forever, but eventually the bleeding slowed, and then stopped. Bloody gauze and cloth littered the ground around the trio; thankfully, it had been enough.
Henry looked up from Jackson, finally getting a chance to take stock of the room around him. Near to the storeroom there was a another body, one he could just barely recognize as Demetri Futscher. He hadn’t heard the name on the announcements, like the other two they saw walking in, Yuki and Sal. It was okay to name them, now that there was time.
A massive red stain spread out from the spot Demetri was lying in, and looking closely Henry noticed the walls were spattered with blood as well.
What the hell did we walk into?
Something tickled his forearm, and Henry looked down to see more drops of his own blood. It was nothing compared to what Jackson went through, but it was still probably the nastiest cut he’d ever gotten anywhere, ever. With supplies as precious as they were, Henry resorted to applying a bit of iodine to a cloth and cleaning it. As much as he wanted desperately to cover up the stinging reminder of his own mortality and fallibility, he had to suffer through it. For Jackson.
The way things were, Henry knew they couldn’t afford to move him anywhere too far. Maybe onto one of the beds on the ground, but nothing beyond that. They couldn’t risk reopening the wounds. Staying here also meant clearing out the bodies, lest the place start to smell like an abattoir once the sunlight returned. Assuming they weren’t interrupted, they at least had the luxury of being in the only place on the island one might find a proper suturing needle and thread.
He shuddered thinking about it. They didn’t have anything even resembling painkillers, and Jackson already passed out from the pressure they put on the wound alone.
Rubbing his eyes, Henry started to mutter something of a plan under his breath. The next things they had to do that weren’t killing someone or making sure someone else didn’t die.
“Alright, I guess… I guess this is where we’re staying. We’ll have to move the – the people out of here. Maybe into the lobby, we can cover them up. Something better than leaving them all strewn around. I think that’s Demetri over there. Then – I dunno. Board it up, try and put him on one of the beds, maybe.”
The energy to keep going seemed to be rapidly leaving Henry, and he turned to Aurelien, hoping that the other boy might’ve been keeping it together better than he was. He couldn’t really tell.
“Let’s get to work then, yeah?”
((Henry Sparks continued in Our Mutual Fiend))
Henry looked up from Jackson, finally getting a chance to take stock of the room around him. Near to the storeroom there was a another body, one he could just barely recognize as Demetri Futscher. He hadn’t heard the name on the announcements, like the other two they saw walking in, Yuki and Sal. It was okay to name them, now that there was time.
A massive red stain spread out from the spot Demetri was lying in, and looking closely Henry noticed the walls were spattered with blood as well.
What the hell did we walk into?
Something tickled his forearm, and Henry looked down to see more drops of his own blood. It was nothing compared to what Jackson went through, but it was still probably the nastiest cut he’d ever gotten anywhere, ever. With supplies as precious as they were, Henry resorted to applying a bit of iodine to a cloth and cleaning it. As much as he wanted desperately to cover up the stinging reminder of his own mortality and fallibility, he had to suffer through it. For Jackson.
The way things were, Henry knew they couldn’t afford to move him anywhere too far. Maybe onto one of the beds on the ground, but nothing beyond that. They couldn’t risk reopening the wounds. Staying here also meant clearing out the bodies, lest the place start to smell like an abattoir once the sunlight returned. Assuming they weren’t interrupted, they at least had the luxury of being in the only place on the island one might find a proper suturing needle and thread.
He shuddered thinking about it. They didn’t have anything even resembling painkillers, and Jackson already passed out from the pressure they put on the wound alone.
Rubbing his eyes, Henry started to mutter something of a plan under his breath. The next things they had to do that weren’t killing someone or making sure someone else didn’t die.
“Alright, I guess… I guess this is where we’re staying. We’ll have to move the – the people out of here. Maybe into the lobby, we can cover them up. Something better than leaving them all strewn around. I think that’s Demetri over there. Then – I dunno. Board it up, try and put him on one of the beds, maybe.”
The energy to keep going seemed to be rapidly leaving Henry, and he turned to Aurelien, hoping that the other boy might’ve been keeping it together better than he was. He couldn’t really tell.
“Let’s get to work then, yeah?”
((Henry Sparks continued in Our Mutual Fiend))
“I-”
He didn’t want to stay here. He didn’t wanna bunker down in the infirmary. It wasn’t out of any selfish desire, something inane like not wanting to stick around in the same area where people had been killed - not least because the chances of finding somewhere like that anymore were near impossible.
It was the location itself that was the problem. The adrenaline of being shot at and of desperately trying to patch Jackson back up had totally worn off now. He was surrounded, now, by blood and bandages, dust and gore. And ghosts. He could only see Violet’s corpse when he looked at Demetri, and suddenly, when he turned around, all the beds had her lifeless body on them. He saw Ned’s face on the two bodies in the hallway. God. He had no clue what had even happened to the poor guy. He didn’t know if he was alive or dead; there had been at least one announcement he’d missed since he’d first woken up.
Aurelien could feel it returning, that bloodrush from the very first day, and he was certain that the longer he stayed in the infirmary, the more that despair and fury would build up, and up, and up, until it utterly consumed him once more.
But the moment he tried to move himself, to step forwards towards Henry to try and argue, he realised there was nothing he could do to argue. His entire body was wracked with exhaustion. He felt drained, and he was sure that Henry was feeling the same way. He couldn’t think of a way to try and get them to move without it sounding entirely selfish. And most importantly, there was no way they were gonna be able to move Jackson any further than onto one of the beds. His condition was utterly fragile enough. There was a chance that even shifting him a couple of meters would be enough to shatter him.
So Aurelien closed his mouth and shoved all of his thoughts deep down inside of him, and nodded at Henry. He grabbed the edge of the sheets on the closest bed to him, ripping them off at the second time of asking.
He got to work, trying as hard as he could to block out the rising smell of blood.
((Aurelien Valter continued in Our Mutual Fiend))
He didn’t want to stay here. He didn’t wanna bunker down in the infirmary. It wasn’t out of any selfish desire, something inane like not wanting to stick around in the same area where people had been killed - not least because the chances of finding somewhere like that anymore were near impossible.
It was the location itself that was the problem. The adrenaline of being shot at and of desperately trying to patch Jackson back up had totally worn off now. He was surrounded, now, by blood and bandages, dust and gore. And ghosts. He could only see Violet’s corpse when he looked at Demetri, and suddenly, when he turned around, all the beds had her lifeless body on them. He saw Ned’s face on the two bodies in the hallway. God. He had no clue what had even happened to the poor guy. He didn’t know if he was alive or dead; there had been at least one announcement he’d missed since he’d first woken up.
Aurelien could feel it returning, that bloodrush from the very first day, and he was certain that the longer he stayed in the infirmary, the more that despair and fury would build up, and up, and up, until it utterly consumed him once more.
But the moment he tried to move himself, to step forwards towards Henry to try and argue, he realised there was nothing he could do to argue. His entire body was wracked with exhaustion. He felt drained, and he was sure that Henry was feeling the same way. He couldn’t think of a way to try and get them to move without it sounding entirely selfish. And most importantly, there was no way they were gonna be able to move Jackson any further than onto one of the beds. His condition was utterly fragile enough. There was a chance that even shifting him a couple of meters would be enough to shatter him.
So Aurelien closed his mouth and shoved all of his thoughts deep down inside of him, and nodded at Henry. He grabbed the edge of the sheets on the closest bed to him, ripping them off at the second time of asking.
He got to work, trying as hard as he could to block out the rising smell of blood.
((Aurelien Valter continued in Our Mutual Fiend))
"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