((Brandon Baxter, No Whammies))
On his belly, fingers bloody and bruised and face grim with determination, Baxter crawled. He paid no heed to the morning light - the fact that this was his third day on the island a dim prospect in the back of his mind - and instead focused on each agonizing arm pull forwards, each dig-in with his left foot, each foot of progress.
He had tried hopping on his left foot, but that had resulted in painful instances of losing balance, the jolt of trying to catch it on his right foot never failing to catch him off guard and send him sprawling to his stomach. It was easier to remain there, dragging himself forwards for fear of being found, defenseless and vulnerable.
So he moved like he was possessed, fighting back exhaustion and
The sound of the morning announcements cut through his determined progress forwards, and he flopped to his back to pant, dragging his bag towards himself to grab a bottle of water. After chugging a few mouthfuls, he leaned forwards to a sitting position, trying to calm his breathing, listening to the announcements.
Our danger zones for today are Lighthouse, The Homestead, and The Western Beach.
At first, all he could do was breathe. The breathing evolved into panic that lasted a full five seconds, causing him to tremble, the water bottle in his hand sloshing back and forth dramatically. He couldnt get out of here in time - not before the collar was blown, and not with his right foot useless.
He sat on the ground, waiting for the anger, the fear, the tears and the frustration. He waited for the dread, the bemoaning of his oncoming death.
None of it came. He remained still, staring into space, and felt not a goddamn thing about it.
With a halfhearted effort, he tossed the water bottle towards the wheat field, his hands tugging the bag closer to rummage into it, knowing exactly what he was going to do. He only found three of his grenades, but that didnt matter much now. One probably fell, or was dislodged or something.
He tossed his bag away, cradling the three grenades in his right hand, pressed against his stomach. He thought about speaking a few last words to his parents or something, but nothing stood out as worth saying. What could have been? He was going to die soon.
I just want you guys to know that Ive had a rough few days.
Shine on, you crazy bastards.
I coulda been a contender, pops.
All his humour, all his rage, the two things that had defined him throughout his young adult life had abandoned him. In their place was a sureness, a certainty of what was to come. Hed played hard, worked hard at the game, and had come up short.
And he was fucked if he was going to let someone push a button and end it.
So, he looked towards the treeline, grinned at the treetops in case a camera was pointed his way, and pulled all three pins on the grenades, dropping them in a loose circle around his body.
Brandon Baxter leaned backwards, his back touching the earth as he stared up at a clear blue sky. He didnt count to five. He didnt shake with uncertainty and fear for the future. He merely lay back, put both hands behind his head, and gazed at a puffy white cloud that resembled a cowboy hat.
There, he lay, content and sure.
And as the three grenades detonated, reducing him to raining fluids and chunks of flesh and bone, Brandon died.
On his own terms.
BRANDON BAXTER: DECEASED
1 post • Page 1 of 1
- Joined: April 9th, 2013, 1:26 pm
A list of the dying, a list of the damned.
- [+] spoiler
We've yet to live and soon will fall.
B027: Oskar Pearce has his shields up -- Step back from it, Jane. (Adopted from SansaSaver!)
- [+] spoiler
We've fought and fought and lost it all.
G063: Natali Greer fell into sadness and couldn't get out -- Everything was going to be alright. (Adopted Posthumously from backslash!)
B067: Brandon Baxter died as he lived -- On his own terms.
B076: Hansel Williams wasn't wrong, in the end -- I wouldn't change anything. Not a goddamn thing.
- [+] spoiler
Here in the wings, we wait for the call.
Jaden Bertelli wants you to be better -- Work harder, no excuses.
Miley Sacramento isn't looking for the long-term -- Like, why are the democrats an elephant, anyway?
Robert Munnings hates your favourite teacher -- We hurt ourselves so that others can't.
Kelsey Hamilton is going to be the best in the world -- Out of my way, dead man.
Asher Glas really admires the way you carry yourself -- Oh, hey - let me get that for you.
"Skinny" Trevor Sharpe would sell the shirt off of your back -- Pick your poison.
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