(( Jonathan Gulley continued from A Plague on Both Your Houses ))
Jonathan shook as he opened the doors to the hunting cabin. He still couldn't believe what happened.
...And he still couldn't believe what was going to happen.
Was he really doing this? Well, he made his way to the hunting cabin, and what was the alternative? He couldn't save anyone, and he... he couldn't bring himself to end it with more direct means. That left one option. He was going to die anyways, just like Michael.
He might as well go out like Michael too...
He was at the hunting cabin. There should be something here. Some sort of weapon. Something better than these flimsy fucking table legs. He moved through the lower level, opening various drawers and counters. There wasn't nothing here. Maybe upstairs?
He slowly creeped upstairs when a horrid stench filled his nostrils. He knew all too well what it was, but something about it was worse. He didn't want to see it just yet. He turned to the room across from where the stench came from and searched it first. He pulled open counters and shelves again, pulling out nothing but clothes. Nothing there interested him, except a pair of brown driving gloves. He pocketed them for the moment.
He checked the bathrooms and found nothing of use either.
He grabbed one of the table legs and tapped it against the toilet seat.
It was old, and dirty, but it looked like it was in decent condition. He was about to see if he could pry it from the latch before realizing Hey! Wait a minute, I'm about to touch an old toilet seat, what is wrong with me? He put on the driving gloves first. He raised the seat, and realized it was somewhat loose, he could move it side to side. He'd have to remove the lid first, but then after it shouldn't be a problem. He gagged at the underside of the seat, he wasn't sure if that was rust... or something else. He took one of the table legs and scraped at it in vain.
At least he had gloves.
It took some work but the seat was his. He tossed the table legs to the side before mustering the courage to check the room with the smell.
One thing he noticed was the red stain under the sheet. He thought of the people he covered. He decided not to check underneath the yellow white visor. He realized he didn't cover Mike...
He saw something at the foot of the bed. A mask. He knelt by it, picking it up.
He was really gonna do this wasn't he? He knew it didn't matter. Nothing he did would've mattered. Yet he was still going to do this? Why? Maybe he just wanted to feel like he was doing something.
He put on the mask and breathed in and out. He... kind of liked the sound it made. It reminded him of the Myers-vision sequences in Halloween. It was... kind of immature to be dorking out over a Nixon mask, but... Well, he liked it. He decided he'd keep it.
He pulled Brendan's hood up over the mask, before popping the collar on Michael's jacket. He observed himself in the mirror.
He looked like some sort of low-budget Purge villain, to be honest. This outfit was fucking stupid, he'd say. He didn't say it though, he kept wearing it. He had to ask himself though, did he snap.
Was this what going crazy felt like? It couldn't be though, he didn't necessarily want to do it. But he was here, doing it anyways. He... wasn't losing his mind, he was just changing his tactics.
All he wanted was closure. He didn't want to win, and he didn't want to kill everyone on this island.
But he did want some closure for what happened to him, to his friends, to the one he loved. But it didn't matter though. It'd all amount to the same if he did or didn't do it.
But he wanted to. It was that simple. He wanted to, and that want was inching ever closer to a need.
He slowly walked down the stairs, slapping the toilet seat against the wall as he made his way to the exit.
(( Jonathan Gulley continued elsewhere ))