(OOC: Thank you good sir! A happy holiday season to you, sir! May the songs of computer renewal +5 be heard in your home!)
Harry looked at the corpse now lying there in the water. He was weak. He'd pulled the damn trigger. Harry Constantine, self-proclaimed pacifist, had just killed somebody. He just stood there, speachless. It was dark now. As dark as it gets, in fact it was nearly midnight. I thought it was earlier... Harry couldn't do anything; he just put away his gun and knealt down at the dead girl's side. The bloody water swirled around his knees, unidentifiable bits drifted by him. He didn't care; he shouldn't balk at his own handywork.
There was a numbness in his heart right now. He'd just killed someone! He should feel something! He didn't feel a damn thing right now, and he hated hiself for it. It should have given him some form of exultation, sadness, grief... He shouldn't just leave her here, whatever he felt. He picked up the corpse, who'd just yelled "Eat shit and die!" at him a mere 30 seconds ago. Her body was nothing in his arms. After all, Harry'd blown most of her brains OUT OF HER HEAD.
And so, torturing himself all the way he carried her to the sandy shore he'd first met her on. She bled on his clothes, but that didn't matter. They were only clothes. She seemed almost at peace now, whatever that meant. I still don't know who she is... was...GODDAMNIT! Harry rifled first through her pockets, which yielded nothing. She had her backpack and her game bag still left to look through. The backpack yielded a wallet and a school ID. Mary-Anne Robinson was her name; she went to Franklyn. Thats about when he heard the announcement. 12 people dead, 13 with Mary. Apparently, Mary had died after midnight. He checked his watch it said 12:10, which made sense. He'd only killed her a couple of minutes ago.
She survived the first day, which is more than quite a few can say. Harry began to dig. Christians buried their dead, right? There wasn't anything to make a fire with, as far as a pyre went, and something permanent to represent her life appealed deeply to him. He only had his hands to dig with. So Harry worked away the hours digging Mary-Anne Robinson's grave. Harry worked his hands raw and bloody, the blood caking sand into the wounds, but he didn't care. He needed to do this. He finally got a hole about six feet long and three feet deep. It was just wide enough for Mary to lay comfortably in, had she been alive. He went back to her daypack and pulled out everything that was in there. There wasn't anything in there for him, but there was plenty of stuff Mary probably would have wanted. He reverently placed Mary in her final resting place and dropped the daypack in afterwards.
It occured to Harry that he really didn't know much about her aside from her name. He cracked open the wallet to see if she had anything about herself. Two pictures fell out. It looked like she had a lot of siblings. Damn. Looking at the parents was the worst. When he got of the island... He'd have to confront them. For his own sanity. It would probably hurt a lot, but Harry wanted to apologize for his actions, and possibly justify them to himself. It was going to suck getting off the fucking island, and it would suck dying on the fucking blood-soaked land... They had him both ways, didn't they? Screwed if you do, screwed if you don't. Godamnit.
Harry took the pictures and dropped the wallet into the grave. He took all the sand he pulled out with his bare hands and filled the hole again. Goodbye Mary-Anne... I'm pretty sure you wouldn't have done this for me if the tables were turned, but we might have been friends had we ever met. I'd like to think we'd be. Good night and good bye. Namu. Salaam. Peace be to your raging heart. Harry walked over to the river and tried to clean his bloody hands. The last thing he needed was an infection. No matter how much he cleaned them, they still looked raw and digusting. Some salve from the First Aid pack would have to do. Every muscle in his body ached, but still he willed himself on to his triumph and his tragedy. As he crossed the river again, he noticed a club in the weeds. He pulled it out. It was, surprise, surprise, Mary's club. He'd already grabbed her rations and dumped them in his bag. A club would be more useful than a gun i he didn't want to kill people... He should take it. It was fitting.
I now have... Meat Puppets! with 70% more calories than my last ones!
Mortimer Jones, Boy 66: Emotionless and Hungry
Joeseph Gai, Boy 67: Yet to debut
Do you know why they're called revolutions?