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And they came.

The sound of the gun cocking told him that. Someone was here. Someone was coming closer. Maybe they’d help him. Maybe they’d finish him off. He didn’t know. His body quivered. His hands shook. He didn’t know. Who were they? What were they doing? What were they going to do? He hoped that they would help. He’d like that. He was alone and scared and he knew that if someone could finally see past what he had done and just help him and let him near them he knew that he wouldn’t ever be able to repay them for what they did and he’d be so thankful and he’d be so happy and he finally wouldn’t have to be on this island or play this game he wouldn’t have to do that anymore it’d be great he was happy and he-



They wouldn’t.

The sound of the gun cocking told him that. Someone was here. Someone was coming closer. They wouldn’t help him. They’d be like everyone else. Jonathan. Lily. Scout. Michael. They were like them. They could be them. He didn’t know. Maybe they’d shoot him. Maybe they’d finish him off.

Would he like that?

No no no no no no no no he didn’t know he didn’t want it but he needed it he needed to be out of here he couldn’t do it anymore but he couldn’t he didn’t want to die he was scared and he didn’t know what to do and he had to do something or something just think. Think and figure it out. He could do that. He could plan. He was good at that. He could do it.

And then the voice called out to him.

Irene. A girl. A friend. They used to play soccer together. They used to play chess together. She went to his cafe. They talked, occasionally. They had fun. She was a friend. Not one he regularly talked to but one nonetheless.

And now she had cocked her gun at him.

And now she was shouting at him. For what he did. For killing Jasper. He wasn’t sure what she was asking him. She was saying something, he knew that, but what was she saying? He didn’t know. It was blurry. Words were coming out but they weren’t reaching him and all he knew was the reminder. He killed Jasper. He killed Barry. He was a monster because he did it and everyone knew that. But what did she want? He didn’t know.

He needed to. She had a gun. He didn’t know whether he wanted to let her fire it or not.

He had to say something.

“What do you want.”

The tone was bitter. Low. Angry.

It wasn’t one he’d give a friend.
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