[[Vivien Morin continued from Classy, Not Classic
Some nights go on forever, and usually that's because your boyfriend just broke up with you or you just got in a fight with your best friend or you failed a test or you wore white out of season and your friends wouldn't talk to you, not so much because you're spending the entire night wandering lost on an island fearing for your life at every moment. That was a pretty unusual experience for anyone, most of all Vivien Morin, who up until this last week had spent exactly zero time running around in the woods. Vivien was not an outdoorsy girl by any stretch of the imagination, and sleeping in the dirt every night (that one night in the sawmill notwithstanding) was absolute hell, or so he had thought until he really experienced
absolute hell in the form of a dark, terrifying and depression-fueled all-nighter.
His thoughts were erratic, sparse even, as the majority of his mental energy seemed concentrated on the pain in his feet and shoulders, aching from walking and carrying all the crap that he just refused
to give up, because if anything defined him, it was his clothes. He'd sooner die than give them up, though honestly at the rate he was going that seemed like a real possibility.
I knew she was dead. I heard the announcements. I knew! I knew and I still can't get the picture out of my head, can't stop thinking about it, is that what we're all going to end up as? That is SO unattractive, poor girl would be miserable if she could see herself- maybe she can, maybe she's in the afterlife or whatnot mad at me for not burying her...god, I should've done that, we were friends-
He thought for a moment about doubling back, burying her, but he was lost and confused and exhausted and likely physically incapable of digging a grave, and none of that registered with him for about ten minutes as he clumsily circled around and realized that he had no idea what direction he was heading in or indeed where he was. He thought about his map, but checking it told him nothing, considering that all around him was basically grass and more grass. He could see the ferris wheel of the fun fair in the distance, but he had no desire to head there. How much fun could it be, really?
...I probably look like crap right now, what if I die looking like this, the viewing audience is going to remember me as some ugly little cannon-fodder, I can't imagine anything worse...I need to fix my makeup the moment the sun comes out...I need to change. God, Carol...I'm sorry I'm so selfish, angel, I love you. I'm terrible. This is awful, how could I be thinking about myself right now, how could I be thinking about dying, I have a gun, I'll be fine, I will be, at least for a while, yeah...I really do need to do my makeup, though...I'm so glad internal monologues are are internal, Sylvie would think I was such a BITCH right about now...Gotta be good. I need inspiration. "What Would Gracie Wainwright Not Do?" WWGWD. I like it. I'll get it on a t-shirt...
Time passed. A lot of time. The only proof of that was the slowly rising sun and the slowly changing scenery and the slow failure of Vivien's ankles, unable to hold him up anymore. He collapsed beside a tree- there were trees now, when did they happen?- and immediately began digging through his bag for new clothes, eventually settling for a short yellow spaghetti-strap dress. Perfect for summer. Gorgeous as always. And it showed off his legs so well. He was incredibly grateful to find a pair of yellow flats in his bag- he was quite sure heels would kill him- and after quickly changing he returned his old dress and black flats to his bag, digging around for his mascara.
"Hey kids, it's Uncle Danya!"
...I don't want to hear this.
He really didn't. He was entirely sure for every name he heard a horribly damaged body would replace that person, their living, breathing self, in his memory, and he didn't want
that. He could hardly remember Carol as something other than a corpse anymore and that hurt
. He found the mascara, and his compact, and settled into the task of making himself beautiful again- not an easy task, what with the sleep-deprivation variety dark circles that were making themselves known.
"You'll be very happy indeed to hear that in a few short hours, you'll have officially have survived until the halfway mark of the game. That's provided, of course, that you aren't one of the three unlucky souls that have to die for you all to reach that point. Keep it up folks, I can't tell you how proud I am of your spirit."
He tried not to think about how relieved he was by that, how happy he was that over a hundred of his classmates were dead and he wasn't, and concentrated. He really did look like shit- the remnants of his makeup were puddled around his eyes and he had to lick his fingers and pick bits of black off his face. It was the furthest thing from attractive but definitely necessary, and once he had a clear canvas he concentrated on reapplying. It made him feel safer, somehow, more comfortable, more at home, being like this, sitting here putting on makeup, looking at his beautiful face in the mirror- even without the makeup, he was beautiful, that was just obviously so- here he was at home. Even completely deprived of sleep, sitting alone in the woods- he was almost okay. Almost normal. He kind of wanted to drag out the process, make this feeling last longer, but honestly he wasn't sure he co
"-Aislyn McCreery's daddy did not turn up at the eleventh hour to save her from Kimber-"
He shrieked as he stabbed himself in the eye with the mascara wand. His eyes teared up as he furiously wiped away his now utterly-fucked-up mascara, repairing the damage, only slightly aware that the water flowing from his eyes was maybe partially from the pain but mostly from the name that had came out of Danya's mouth and that all efforts made to put his face on now would be utterly invalidated by the saltwater flow. He was doomed to twin black trails down his cheeks and why was he caring about this
when Aislyn McCreery was dead.
He was grateful that Danya didn't give any details. His mind didn't know what to picture. He settled for white noise and stumbled back off into the forest.
God, Kimberly?! Kimberly Nguyen?! She was a fucking...fucking creepy little thing but why, why my Aislyn?!
He was crying nonstop and those mascara trails were making themselves known. He sniffled loudly. Cute.
There were woods and there were woods and there were woods. He kept himself moving because as long as he was walking, as long as his brain was distraction by the pain he felt, he didn't have to think about this too much. He could keep pretending that he'd see his friends again and he could keep pretending everything was okay as long as he was still walking, so he walked for an eternity, or more like half an hour. He wasn't really sure- pain has this way of dulling your sense of time, but eventually he saw a clearing in the distance, and that seemed like a logical destination. Honestly "logical destination" right now translated directly to "place to curl into a fetal position", but whatever. Vivien was okay with that. Sometimes you need a good cry even if you're not sure you'd even stop. That was Vivien's logic, anyway. He picked up the pace until