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Who is this sassy lost child
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Forgive him. Forgive him for what? Standing there like a useless lump? That was all Johnny ever did and Raina was past the point that she could expect any different. She wouldn't have trusted Johnny to be able to find his own ass with both hands and a flashlight if she hadn't been desperate.

She just sat there, hair plastered to her cheeks with tears and probably some vomit splatter. Some of it had gotten on her shorts too. Every time she breathed in, she got a lungful of rot and bile.

That was it then. This was all she had left. Johnny and a bunch of corpses.

She wouldn't get them off the island. She couldn't even save Penelope's life. By the time she got her shit together and made any sort of progress, there wouldn't be anyone left.

How much longer would she last?

Raina's throat closed up again. She had told herself that she was being objective, but the truth was, she had been in denial as much as Beaks had since the first day. She had convinced herself that she would get out of her alive, that she would be the one to pull it off. But almost everyone she had spoken to since then had died or killed, and their numbers were dwindling ever faster, and here she was with nothing but a grenade and various kinds of dead weight.

She almost wanted to laugh at how stupid it all was. How stupid she was. God, it was like walking away from an argument, so sure she was right, only to look up the subject and find out that she had been way off the mark all along. She might have laughed if she wasn't so busy crying.

Eventually her tears slowed though, and her sobs quieted to sniffles. She was tempted to just curl up in the fetal position right here, but too much of the space was occupied by her puddle of vomit or the bodies of her friends.

"I..." Raina swallowed thickly before she was able to continue. "I want to get out of here. I want to leave. Let's leave."
"Art enriches the community, Steve, no less than a pulsing fire hose, or a fireman beating down a blazing door. So what if we're drawing a nude man? So what if all we ever draw is a nude man, or the same nude man over and over in all sorts of provocative positions? Context, not content! Process, not subject! Don't be so gauche, Steve, it's beneath you."

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Anemia · The Asylum Library