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Viewing Single Post From: By the time you hear the next pop, the funk shall be within you
RedAstaire
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grim wolf wannabe
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While Conrad was on the ground thousands of thoughts rushed through his body to his brain. Most of them were pain.

The things that came out of him were still inaudible and when no one was there anymore who could hear his screaming, he began to calm down and silently cry instead, thinking about everything. The cold, dirty floor felt comfortable against his right cheek. It was a better feeling than he had in his arm.

Harold might not be dead. Conrad might not be a killer. Clarice and Ty could help him. But Conrad could not deny that the wound he had caused was serious. Life-threatening. Organs were important to live. Vital. Conrad himself was an organ donor, but eventually he would die on this island, and nobody would even profit from it. Just the terrorists. Conrad T. Harrod was going to be a name on a list of victims of disasters, not more, not less. Just part of a tragedy. Just a name like the victims of 9/11, the Breivik attacks, the Aberthol school shooting, like so many tragedies Conrad had heard of but have not known a single victim personally, even the previous SOTFs. He was just a nameless face people might mourn.

If he won, that was a different thing.

Jesus Christ, if he won he could change anything in the world. He would have publicity like no one ever. He could write speeches against SOTF, actually try to change anything. Not like everybody else. Maybe try to run for President. MacAllister sucked in that regard. SOTF still happened after all these years.

An unrealistic goal, but a goal nonetheless. Wouldn’t need to worry about a damn thing in the future. If he made it out.

But he had just one functioning arm. Ty ruined much. Even if that idea of winning was one that would make Conrad feel more secure than he currently is, he would not win. He did not want to kill anyone. He could not even. He would be killed, dead.

But to Clarice, he was dead already. She thought he was a murderer, a player. Someone who would try to be the last man standing. Ty was thinking that as well. As does Harold. As does anybody they would meet and tell them about the boyfriend who stabs people.

But he was not dead. He could have been. If Clarice and Harold had not saved him from Ty's murderous rage. He still had a chance.

A second chance with no second arm. He was screwed. His did not want to move his arm or stand up.

He stared at the wall, where his halberd chilled. The halberd, just chilling on the wall, having observed the chaos that emerged, just leaning on the wall. Conrad could not use it with one arm.

After some minutes, he could not grasp the time, Conrad managed to stand up. With just one arm, he pushed himself off the ground. He eyed the bloody sword on the ground. He could use that. If he wanted to. With his right hand, his bad hand. It looked disgusting, with the blood on it. Harry's. He did not want to pick it up. Conrad sat down and leaned against the wall.

This was the reality. This was not the Clarice idea, the ideal 'let's team up' idea. This was the reality where wrestlers attacked you and break your arm. This was the reality where wrestlers come near one, planning to attack him. One, where not everybody is friendly. One, where not everybody is thinking clear. Conrad did a mistake, he had to admit.

But a mistake no one could forgive. Clarice would never. He wanted to, but he lost. There was no second chance. This was not like basketball, where one could do a mistake and learn from it. Conrad could not learn from it. His name was tainted. He would be feared, hated, once Harold dies. Not even someone as nice and pure and lovely as Kizi would like him.

A mistake. In a way it was like basketball. Conrad knew this feeling, in a less extreme way. When he was nervous, nothing worked. Conrad was a calm guy, even while running and playing on the field. He was cool-headed. Back when he started playing, he played worse because he was a more insecure, nervous player. Nothing worked when you're nervous. Especially in SOTF. Everything is different when you're cool. Conrad usually could handle pressure, but when Harold came so close to him...

Conrad breathed heavily. His arm ached. He tried to think clearly again. Calm down. Stay cool.

Harold was dying. Maybe not immediately, but he certainly would not survive until this game ends. Conrad did not need to be called Dr. Harrod to realise that.

And it was his fault.

"Harold, I am sorry", he said to no one in the room.

"You were not trying to attack me."

Tears dropped. His body shaked. He was alone.

But someone came.
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By the time you hear the next pop, the funk shall be within you · Solitary Confinement