Sinking Man

[Maraoone]

((Johnny Lancer continues from Now, Wait, Wait, Wait for Me, Please Hang Around. I'll See You When I Fall Asleep))

Eventually, Johnny got up from where he'd been resting. Stumbled somewhere. Where to, he didn't quite know, didn't quite care. As long as it was away from the mess hall. And as he walked, he found a clearing, a field that looked somehow familiar. He stopped for a few seconds, thought about it. And then he remembered.

On this field, the sun didn't shine quite as bright as it had before. And he was walking away from a gun, not running towards it. But not much had changed aside from that. His classmates were still in the struggle of their lives. Those soulless metal boxes still hung thousands of miles in the sky, waiting to send the images of their suffering to computers and TVs across the world. A few houses in Denton, New Jersey were still too quiet.

And Johnny was still here.

But half the class wasn't.

Rachael wasn't here anymore. Neither were Panya, Yaz. Adonis. Roy and Dan weren't drinking Moxie with him anymore. And since that first day, Johnny had done a lot of sitting around. And his vow of non-violence was pretty much non-existent, now. And here he was, standing in the middle of a field, tears dripping. Crying. Even as every tear, every single motion, sent pangs of pain across his entire being. And half the class was gone, and he'd still never bothered to make a plan. And God, how they'd all paid for it.

There was nothing left here for him, really. So, he continued walking, sobbing, hurting, wherever his feet would take him, until he came upon a hole in the ground. And, for some reason, he walked towards it. Into it. Let himself be swallowed up by oblivion.

God, he sounded like such an edgelord right now. Too dark for you.

He tried smiling for a bit.

Just cue the monsters. The, uh, the goblins? Or something like that? And cue the dark, emo music, the. The Evanescence music. Or My Chemical Romance. Whatever. And.

He shuffled through his bag. Wrapped his hands around a metal cylinder. Pulled it out, and pointed it towards the darkness.

He would fight them with a bottle of frozen smoke. And determination. Even though he had little to none of that remaining. Badass Johnny would...

He stopped smiling.

He would...

Just shut up already. God. Stop thinking.

He put the bottle back in his bag. Started walking further into the darkness.

---

He stopped when he couldn't see his hands in front of his face. Sat against the wall, let his legs touch the other side.

A mistake in hindsight. He was struggling to find his flashlight now, struggling to find his first aid kit. Although, it's not like hindsight had kept him from making mistakes before.

He found a metal thing with a button, and pushed. And it glowed.

He wasn't sure whether it was the darkness, or the dust floating through the air, or the probably broken ribs, but he almost couldn't breathe. Short, shallow gasps punctuated the silence of the tunnels. He could just lie down, kick up some more dust. Let the tunnels completely suffocate him. It wouldn't be nice, but some part of him wouldn't mind as well.

And yet, here he was, looking for some bandages.

He found them eventually. Put it against his cheek. He didn't know if it would do anything for his bones, but it was worth a try. For some reason.

A few curses spilled from his mouth as he tested the bandage. Even speaking hurt, put too much pressure on his ribs. Echoes of mistakes made.

A last reminder of his friends.

It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that Johnny had fucked up. He'd literally figured that out the second after he punched Roy. Just took a while for him to admit it. Way too long a while.

He didn't even know why he was treating himself. Why we has doing anything to stop his wounds from getting infected. He didn't deserve that. Didn't deserve anything. He didn't deserve the luxury of treating his wounds. Didn't deserve the luxury of resting. Didn't deserve the luxury of self-pity, oddly enough. And he definitely didn't deserve to call himself Badass Johnny anymore, because nothing about this, about him was badass.

Here he was, alone in a tunnel, some boy who'd woke up promising to find his friends, to help them escape, as if that was ever possible. As if he, he who could barely read maps, could help them find a way out. And out of everyone, he'd only found Dan and Roy, friends he wasn't even too close with, truth be told.

And then, he'd found Rachael, and even though he claimed to care for her, to cherish her, to - let's just fucking spit it out here - to love her, he couldn't even watch over her for more than a day. And he didn't even have the balls to step in between Irene and Roy, to have ended the fight before it even started, no, he couldn't even do that.

And then, instead of cutting his losses, instead of maybe looking for Daniel or Kitty or Brandon, he dragged his friends across the island for two days, didn't even bother thinking a plan, didn't even bother making something. Two days they could've spent looking for other people. And, and, here's the real funny part, when they inevitably lost her, when she inevitably died somewhere across the island, instead of being a responsible adult, or even just a decent human being, instead of just accepting it and moving on, he passes the blame to his only allies. Badass Johnny, just looking down on everyone from his high horse, free of sin. As if he hadn't found her also. And he just punches his friend in the face on a whim, without even taking a second to step back, breathe. Alienates his only allies. Leaves them, without apology.

And here he was four days ago, having the audacity to call himself a badass.

And now here he is, alone, licking his own wounds. Crying, again, as if he had the right. Like a fucking pussy.

Now that all was said and done, there were only one question left to be asked. A question he had no choice but to face, really, now that he was alone.

Why was he still here? If he was such a fuck-up, if he was so useless, then why did he have the gall to wrap bandages around himself? Why couldn't he just let things be?

He got out a bottle of Betadine.

Why couldn't he just die of sepsis?

Poured it on the wounds in his face. Winced. Seethed.

Or just kick the dust up, stop breathing?

He wiped off the excess liquid. Wadded it up, threw it somewhere on the ground.

Or jump off a cliff?

He stuck the bandage on his cheeks, across his nose.

Like, whatever. If he died, then he died. If he didn't, then whatever.

He walked out the tunnel long before it became a danger zone.

And he continued walking. He found himself in the midst of several crates, and decided this was as good a place as any to rest. He ate. Tried closing his eyes. Tossed and turned as his ribs sent jabs of pain across his entire body, as if he needed more time with his thoughts. Half-breathed. Ate some more.

It was the middle of the night, and it occurred to him that demons could also be hiding here. Hiding inside the crates, lurking around the corners. Waiting to ambush from the top. And to be honest?

They could come and get him.

((Johnny Lancer continues in Little Talks))