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Bryony. Coleen. Neither of them were coming with them.

Except the nameless girl spoke like she was alone. Like Arthur wasn't going to join her. Like he didn't exist.

Was he going to go with her? He still wasn't sure. He knew Bryony and Coleen weren't going, and he needed to make sure they ended up alright.

For their safety.

For his own safety.

"Okay," Arthur said finally. He backed up, took a seat on the weight lifting bench. Staring down at the gun in his hands, Arthur began to wonder how it'd feel to be shot. Not just by a paintball, but by a real life bullet, of which there were probably many in the hands of his classmates.

Did he trust them? Any of them at all?

Did it really matter?

Arthur couldn't look up at the nameless girl, or Bryony, or over to Coleen, or over to...


He couldn't even think of the corpse's name, as if speaking it internally was going to curse him to the same fate. It wasn't even a person to him anymore. Just a statue, never living, never dying, caught in the middle of fulfilling an unspoken yet eternal pact, that being that he would, some day, die, in exchange for the opportunity to live. Even in death, red liquid pooled at his knees, staining the ground, leaving one last mark on the space it had once lived through. The universe, in its unending, incomprehensible mentality, had merely let go of one last afterthought, casting it away into its crimson pool of forgotten memories and unwanted desires, unwelcome guilt and feelings rarely felt.

Bradley Floyd died a fool, held in utter contempt by all who had surrounded him in his final moments.

Maybe not all, but Arthur knew that at the very least one of them had felt that he had it coming.

Arthur shut his eyes, listening to the room around him swirl and stutter in its heavy silence.
~~~~~ Creativity's Burning Pyre ~~~~~



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This Be The Verse · The Gym