Beau said he was ready. And as much as Anthony didn’t want to do this, it was just something he had to do. Something that Beau wanted him to do. And for that reason, he had to do it. A happy ending for once; well, as happy as you could get with a death involved.
He braced himself, and then dug the shiv into Beau’s neck, just behind where the pulse had been. Pulling the shiv towards the pulse, there was a sort of squelching sound. Anthony thought it was the carotid artery being severed so he completed the movement, ripping the shiv out of Beau’s neck and-
Holy shit.
He always thought that like, the idea that if you hit an artery in the neck, it would literally spurt blood was just something invented for cartoons or stupidly gorey movies.
Apparently fucking not. Holy shit.
It Means Everything
Private, Day 3, 2 AM
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Applesintime
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Primrosette
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- Location: In Her Dark Abyss
Beau felt the glass digging into his neck and it hurt like a freaking bitch. But it was what he had accepted so he was going to suck it up for Anthony. He had to in his final moments. He wasn't feeling afraid anymore. But a strange gurgle wheezed out from his throat to his mouth. He could feel his life fading away from him.
It didn't feel like a scary thing anymore.
He hoped Anthony was going to be okay.
He felt something wet touching his skin and seeping through his shirt at a fast pace.
He hoped Hannah was going to be okay.
He was starting to feel lighter and heavier.
He hoped Al was going to be okay.
His brain felt like it was shutting down slowly.
He hoped his parents were going to be okay.
He felt his world getting darker and darker.
He hoped that he was going to be okay.
He felt a hand on top of his hand that was over the side of the tub.
Anthony?
He was going to be okay after all.
Beau was still himself in the end.
He felt himself smile in content as he felt himself going into a bright light.
JL05: BEAU LIVELY - DECEASED
It didn't feel like a scary thing anymore.
He hoped Anthony was going to be okay.
He felt something wet touching his skin and seeping through his shirt at a fast pace.
He hoped Hannah was going to be okay.
He was starting to feel lighter and heavier.
He hoped Al was going to be okay.
His brain felt like it was shutting down slowly.
He hoped his parents were going to be okay.
He felt his world getting darker and darker.
He hoped that he was going to be okay.
He felt a hand on top of his hand that was over the side of the tub.
Anthony?
He was going to be okay after all.
Beau was still himself in the end.
He felt himself smile in content as he felt himself going into a bright light.
JL05: BEAU LIVELY - DECEASED
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Applesintime
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It was done. It was finished. To his credit, Beau didn't struggle, try to resist. Not even as a part of his body automatically trying to struggle, to take any chance of survival, no matter how slim it was. His right hand was hanging over the side of the bathtub, clenching and unclenching, shaking, and Anthony rest his hand on it, trying to comfort Beau as he died. It was hard to watch the blood gush from the gash in his neck, staining his shirt, his pants, everything, and not try to staunch the bleeding, to place his hands against the wound and try to keep him alive for just a second longer. But he had done his job well. Too well. Beau passed out quickly, closed his eyes, and smiled at something Anthony couldn't see before the light left his body and he went limp. The blood had nowhere to go, and so Beau rested in a sanguine tub. He wanted to pick him up, to wipe the blood off his neck and set him somewhere secure, where nobody could tamper with him. Where he could rest until he could rest permanently in Miami.
"Pro...Proverbs, Proverbs fourteen, thirty-two. The wicked is..." He choked back a sob, unable to continue. Now he was gone, everything was suddenly just so much more real. He was aware of the blood staining the glass shard, he was aware of his own shaking, and he was aware that he was a killer, and he could never, never, never ever take that back. Even if Beau wanted it. Even if it was a mercy kill before someone meaner and more brutal took Beau's life. The scene in front of him, Beau lying limp in the bathtub, his head slumped down and a dribble of blood still leaking from the wound, would never leave him. It was so bright. You always thought that blood was dark red, but it was absurdly bright red, so much that it almost felt like a sort of prank. Beau would spring back up, announce it was one of his stupid pranks with a shit-eating grin on his face, they could both laugh and continue on with their day.
But that wouldn't happen.
Anthony found himself on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, and it occurred to him that his legs must have given way. He didn't do anything to stop it, to get back up on his feet, because the ceiling was a preferable sight to one of his friends' dead bodies. Even if the boat shifting underneath him made his stomach complain - well, he wasn't sure if it was the boat's motion or the realisation that he had killed one of his friends - it was infinitely better.
At some point, the tears started rolling down his face. Beau. Beau. He didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve this, to die in a bathtub with his throat cut like a fucking... he didn't even know what he could compare it to. He didn't know anything. What to do, where to go, It seemed like the world was over.
At another point, Anthony found himself holding the shiv to his wrist. He could make it stop. This fear of constant death, this guilt, this everything. He could just run it up his arm, close his eyes, and go to sleep.
No.
That's not Beau would have wanted. That's not what Seth would have wanted. That's not what Giselle would have wanted. Get yourself up. Pick yourself the fuck up! There's a time and a place for mourning, and it was certainly now, but thinking about death wasn't productive. Not your death, not Beau's. He said he wanted Anthony to win? Well he would. He fucking would. He would go home, he would mourn Beau and Giselle and everyone who died, and he would live for them, and most importantly, he would do it without committing a single fucking murder. The only people who would be killed by him were those who deserved it, or those who wanted it.
Groaning, Anthony pushed himself up. The sadness, the despair, that sense of utter soulcrushing confusion was gone, replaced by a sort of determination. But still, he looked at Beau's dead body, forcing himself to remember it, to put it in his mind. This was their fault. The killers, the players, the people who watched this show, the people who made it, all of them. Beau's blood may be on his hands ultimately, but they held the knife too. They forced them into this game of death, and all they could do was ultimately, chose how they went out. Some of them would be murderers. Some of them would be heroes. But only what, one of them could make it out? Two? Out of... Ben said seventy others, and there were seven teams, that announcer guy said so. So say... Bigger teams, so maybe doubled or something. That put them at maybe eighty.
Seventy-eight would have to die. Unless there was a team win. But looking at his team; Gabby, Gregory, at least a few more killers. Would he be willing to let them go home? To profit off their murder? No. No, he didn't think so.
"Proverbs fourteen, thirty-two." His voice was calmer, steadier, slower. "The wicked is thrust down by his wrongdoing. But the righteous has a refuge when he dies. Heavenly Father bless Beau, and have mercy on his eternal soul; forgive his trespasses; grant him peace for he was a faithful man who loved his fellow man; bless his departed soul and welcome him into the joy of everlasting brightness in heaven; through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen." He fiddled with the crucifix as he spoke. He didn't know if God would hear his prayers, for certainly there was no God watching over this game, no God sanctioning it. But, he prayed that somewhere, Beau was watching him.
He couldn't leave him there, in a bathtub of his own blood. But he didn't know if he could bring himself to carry him somewhere. So, he stood there, looking at Beau for a while longer. The blood, the fact it was a dead body that had been alive just a few moments ago, didn't bother him so much. When he had found the three dead bodies in the ferry, he had been disgusted at first; hell, he had nearly thrown up. But after hearing about death and murder for three days straight, you tend to get a little desensitised. It was good, in a way. Because eventually some killer would die at a much more painful way at his hands, and if he couldn't stomach stabbing someone or beating their head in, what hope did he have to kill them?
Anthony decided, eventually, to bring in the bedsheet from the bed in the main bedroom, and throw it over the bathtub. You could still tell someone was in there, as while Beau was small, his upper body was still poking out the top. But it afforded him a sense of dignity in a way. It wasn't a coffin and a funeral, but unless someone decided to throw the blanket up and find the body underneath, he wouldn't be disturbed. He would have some kind of peace. Plus, it would keep any insects or something that might be inside the ships from damaging his body.
Next, came Beau's bag. He didn't need the food anymore, but he still took an extra water bottle and the alcohol. The bag was hidden under the bedsheet, propped up on Beau's knees so it was out of the blood. If he ever desperately needed food or something, he would know where to go. His hat was carefully placed into his bag; there wasn't much room, so he abandoned the gluten-free bread, because it was bulky, and really, there wasn't much he could do with it. No butter, no sandwiches, and plain bread was plain, even if it was nourishing. He had the meat for that, after all.
Flipping to his scorecard, Anthony added two names; Gregory Miller and Gabriella Garcia-Campos. After some deliberation, he flipped to the back of the book, and added one name. Beau Lively, with a 1/10 next to him. He wasn't going for the 10 kill release. But if he so happened to get close to it, eliminate all other killers trying to go for it, he wasn't going to say no. He didn't want to get nine more kills to his name. But there were far too many players. And after all, even if his own team didn't count, there was still the Respects, all the minor players, and those who would ally with killers and players.
Then, he stood up. Everything was in order, wasn't it? Beau's supplies had been sorted, his body had been given some dignity, and Anthony had added the names. There was just one last thing to do. Reaching under the bedsheet, he touched Beau's hand. It was cold, clammy, not warm anymore.
"Bye, Beau. I won't forget you. I'll avenge you."
He wasn't going to sleep in here, in the same room Beau had died in. He didn't know if he could even sleep. But he had to try. Because if he couldn't sleep, he couldn't hunt or kill. And in the end, that's the only thing he could do, really, wasn't it? Hunt. He was no lamb, he was a wolf. A righteous wolf, hunting those who would attack the lambs. It was a shitty metaphor, but eh, it worked.
"Pro...Proverbs, Proverbs fourteen, thirty-two. The wicked is..." He choked back a sob, unable to continue. Now he was gone, everything was suddenly just so much more real. He was aware of the blood staining the glass shard, he was aware of his own shaking, and he was aware that he was a killer, and he could never, never, never ever take that back. Even if Beau wanted it. Even if it was a mercy kill before someone meaner and more brutal took Beau's life. The scene in front of him, Beau lying limp in the bathtub, his head slumped down and a dribble of blood still leaking from the wound, would never leave him. It was so bright. You always thought that blood was dark red, but it was absurdly bright red, so much that it almost felt like a sort of prank. Beau would spring back up, announce it was one of his stupid pranks with a shit-eating grin on his face, they could both laugh and continue on with their day.
But that wouldn't happen.
Anthony found himself on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, and it occurred to him that his legs must have given way. He didn't do anything to stop it, to get back up on his feet, because the ceiling was a preferable sight to one of his friends' dead bodies. Even if the boat shifting underneath him made his stomach complain - well, he wasn't sure if it was the boat's motion or the realisation that he had killed one of his friends - it was infinitely better.
At some point, the tears started rolling down his face. Beau. Beau. He didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve this, to die in a bathtub with his throat cut like a fucking... he didn't even know what he could compare it to. He didn't know anything. What to do, where to go, It seemed like the world was over.
At another point, Anthony found himself holding the shiv to his wrist. He could make it stop. This fear of constant death, this guilt, this everything. He could just run it up his arm, close his eyes, and go to sleep.
No.
That's not Beau would have wanted. That's not what Seth would have wanted. That's not what Giselle would have wanted. Get yourself up. Pick yourself the fuck up! There's a time and a place for mourning, and it was certainly now, but thinking about death wasn't productive. Not your death, not Beau's. He said he wanted Anthony to win? Well he would. He fucking would. He would go home, he would mourn Beau and Giselle and everyone who died, and he would live for them, and most importantly, he would do it without committing a single fucking murder. The only people who would be killed by him were those who deserved it, or those who wanted it.
Groaning, Anthony pushed himself up. The sadness, the despair, that sense of utter soulcrushing confusion was gone, replaced by a sort of determination. But still, he looked at Beau's dead body, forcing himself to remember it, to put it in his mind. This was their fault. The killers, the players, the people who watched this show, the people who made it, all of them. Beau's blood may be on his hands ultimately, but they held the knife too. They forced them into this game of death, and all they could do was ultimately, chose how they went out. Some of them would be murderers. Some of them would be heroes. But only what, one of them could make it out? Two? Out of... Ben said seventy others, and there were seven teams, that announcer guy said so. So say... Bigger teams, so maybe doubled or something. That put them at maybe eighty.
Seventy-eight would have to die. Unless there was a team win. But looking at his team; Gabby, Gregory, at least a few more killers. Would he be willing to let them go home? To profit off their murder? No. No, he didn't think so.
"Proverbs fourteen, thirty-two." His voice was calmer, steadier, slower. "The wicked is thrust down by his wrongdoing. But the righteous has a refuge when he dies. Heavenly Father bless Beau, and have mercy on his eternal soul; forgive his trespasses; grant him peace for he was a faithful man who loved his fellow man; bless his departed soul and welcome him into the joy of everlasting brightness in heaven; through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen." He fiddled with the crucifix as he spoke. He didn't know if God would hear his prayers, for certainly there was no God watching over this game, no God sanctioning it. But, he prayed that somewhere, Beau was watching him.
He couldn't leave him there, in a bathtub of his own blood. But he didn't know if he could bring himself to carry him somewhere. So, he stood there, looking at Beau for a while longer. The blood, the fact it was a dead body that had been alive just a few moments ago, didn't bother him so much. When he had found the three dead bodies in the ferry, he had been disgusted at first; hell, he had nearly thrown up. But after hearing about death and murder for three days straight, you tend to get a little desensitised. It was good, in a way. Because eventually some killer would die at a much more painful way at his hands, and if he couldn't stomach stabbing someone or beating their head in, what hope did he have to kill them?
Anthony decided, eventually, to bring in the bedsheet from the bed in the main bedroom, and throw it over the bathtub. You could still tell someone was in there, as while Beau was small, his upper body was still poking out the top. But it afforded him a sense of dignity in a way. It wasn't a coffin and a funeral, but unless someone decided to throw the blanket up and find the body underneath, he wouldn't be disturbed. He would have some kind of peace. Plus, it would keep any insects or something that might be inside the ships from damaging his body.
Next, came Beau's bag. He didn't need the food anymore, but he still took an extra water bottle and the alcohol. The bag was hidden under the bedsheet, propped up on Beau's knees so it was out of the blood. If he ever desperately needed food or something, he would know where to go. His hat was carefully placed into his bag; there wasn't much room, so he abandoned the gluten-free bread, because it was bulky, and really, there wasn't much he could do with it. No butter, no sandwiches, and plain bread was plain, even if it was nourishing. He had the meat for that, after all.
Flipping to his scorecard, Anthony added two names; Gregory Miller and Gabriella Garcia-Campos. After some deliberation, he flipped to the back of the book, and added one name. Beau Lively, with a 1/10 next to him. He wasn't going for the 10 kill release. But if he so happened to get close to it, eliminate all other killers trying to go for it, he wasn't going to say no. He didn't want to get nine more kills to his name. But there were far too many players. And after all, even if his own team didn't count, there was still the Respects, all the minor players, and those who would ally with killers and players.
Then, he stood up. Everything was in order, wasn't it? Beau's supplies had been sorted, his body had been given some dignity, and Anthony had added the names. There was just one last thing to do. Reaching under the bedsheet, he touched Beau's hand. It was cold, clammy, not warm anymore.
"Bye, Beau. I won't forget you. I'll avenge you."
He wasn't going to sleep in here, in the same room Beau had died in. He didn't know if he could even sleep. But he had to try. Because if he couldn't sleep, he couldn't hunt or kill. And in the end, that's the only thing he could do, really, wasn't it? Hunt. He was no lamb, he was a wolf. A righteous wolf, hunting those who would attack the lambs. It was a shitty metaphor, but eh, it worked.
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Applesintime
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Anthony couldn't sleep. No matter what position he lied in, no matter if he tried sleeping on the sofa in the room where Beau had died, in the main bedroom where he had woke up at the start of this whole thing, or if he went up to the cabin and tried to sleep in one of the chairs there. He didn't even know what time it was. Had it been 30 minutes or 3 hours? There were no clocks, no watches, and so he was caught in the limbo between sunset and sunrise, what felt like an eternal night. He kept flashing back to the moment. The knife cutting through Beau's carotid, the faint smile on his face as he died. He felt rotten. But it wasn't his fault. It was the people who watched this show's fault. They were like a beast, consuming and consuming, and it was for them that kids were sent to die, so they could consume and then consume more.
He didn't know where he was going with that idea, but it comforted him in a way, to think that it wasn't his fault. But it was, at least partially. It may not be murder, but it was him who had stabbed the knife into his neck, put it through the artery, watched as he died. No matter what, he had to accept that. Even if it was better than the alternatives, it wasn't good.
After the sixth consecutive attempt to sleep, he wandered back into the living room where Beau had died. Sitting down on the sofa, he stared at the bathtub for what felt like a long time. He couldn't actually tell, because his perception of time was completely fucked. Something compelled him to lift the sheet eventually, and he obliged that interest, lifting the sheet gently and staring down at his body. If you ignored the blood stains and the gash in his neck, he looked peaceful. Grabbing his hand, Anthony put it on his chest. There was no stiffness, no rigor mortis. He did the same with the other hand, and then Beau looked better.
Reaching to the bandana around his head, Anthony's fingers gently, slowly, untied it. He didn't know if he could use it or indeed, even if he could wear it. But if he could, well, any players on Jewel's team would be a lot easier to tackle. Sneak up on them, play all friendly, and then give them a good fucking stabbing. He wasn't going to try wearing it right now, but it went into his bag anyway. Then, he replaced the sheet, and left a page from his notebook on it. A sentence was scribbled on it in black pen.
"If you tamper with this body in any way, even if you're just fucking with the collar or some shit because you want to escape, I will find you and I will fucking kill you. That is a promise."
((Anthony Golden continued in SCALPEL LIPSTICK GEL ACTION CAMERA LIGHTS VIOLENCE IN YOUR HEART MEMORIES OF LOVE))
He didn't know where he was going with that idea, but it comforted him in a way, to think that it wasn't his fault. But it was, at least partially. It may not be murder, but it was him who had stabbed the knife into his neck, put it through the artery, watched as he died. No matter what, he had to accept that. Even if it was better than the alternatives, it wasn't good.
After the sixth consecutive attempt to sleep, he wandered back into the living room where Beau had died. Sitting down on the sofa, he stared at the bathtub for what felt like a long time. He couldn't actually tell, because his perception of time was completely fucked. Something compelled him to lift the sheet eventually, and he obliged that interest, lifting the sheet gently and staring down at his body. If you ignored the blood stains and the gash in his neck, he looked peaceful. Grabbing his hand, Anthony put it on his chest. There was no stiffness, no rigor mortis. He did the same with the other hand, and then Beau looked better.
Reaching to the bandana around his head, Anthony's fingers gently, slowly, untied it. He didn't know if he could use it or indeed, even if he could wear it. But if he could, well, any players on Jewel's team would be a lot easier to tackle. Sneak up on them, play all friendly, and then give them a good fucking stabbing. He wasn't going to try wearing it right now, but it went into his bag anyway. Then, he replaced the sheet, and left a page from his notebook on it. A sentence was scribbled on it in black pen.
"If you tamper with this body in any way, even if you're just fucking with the collar or some shit because you want to escape, I will find you and I will fucking kill you. That is a promise."
((Anthony Golden continued in SCALPEL LIPSTICK GEL ACTION CAMERA LIGHTS VIOLENCE IN YOUR HEART MEMORIES OF LOVE))