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Viewing Single Post From: The Long Road Home
Little Boy
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Dutchy wanted desperately to say something, to beg Roland to stay. But what could he do? The boy was already up, moving to the door. He had friends to look out for, he had a job to do. What would he accomplish if he was sitting inside, baby-sitting?

Baby-sitting. That's what he's doing.

Dutchy didn't feel anger at the thought, he felt shame. If he wasn't so weak, a completely defenseless pacifist, Roland would be out with the others, saving people, and proving a use. Dutchy sat up, weakly shaking his head as Roland moved towards the front door. It was better he went, made a use of himself. The others had been gone awhile, and it looked like the bigger boy was becoming nervous.

Dutchy got up off the couch, pacing around the home. It was more or less empty, devoid of furniture. He held his arms in close, suddenly aware he was cold, very cold. He paced back and forth, considering things, thinking about his life, his friends, his failures.

Failure. Just a failure. Can't help Sarah, can't help Roland. Just a tag-a-long, not even me anymore. How can I be me if I stop smiling? If I was gone it'd be better. They'd be thinkin' about me, thinking that maybe I was alright. They know, they can tell, I'm not alright. I'm really not alright. I'm not me anymore.

Dutchy stopped, feeling his guts churn in agony. How long had it been since he'd last eaten? Two announcements ago? He was starving and his empty stomach was finally rebelling. He didn't know why he wasn't eating. It wasn't like they had to ration the food. He just couldn't eat. He couldn't do anything. People were dying and he wasn't himself and it was all becoming way way way too much for him to handle. Dutchy turned abruptly, heading towards the washroom.


For a split second he was sure he was going to puke up the contents of his stomach, however empty it may have been. Instead, Dutchy weakly cradled the lid of the toilet, staring down into the water. He wasn't crying, but he felt like it. Was that all he could do, cry? He thought again about Roland, his poor sister, lost out in the jungle. He could be looking for her. He could be doing something, but instead he was stuck, stuck with him.

"Ughhh." He moaned, making his way to his feet. He needed to eat something, anything. His stomach felt like it was in a knot. Turning around Dutchy made his way to the sink, washing his hands. With a sigh he leaned forward, awkwardly bonking his head against the mirror.

"Whatta... whatta I do..."

It was all too much. Sarah could escape, so could Roland. Dutchy was useless, Dutchy was dead. Why prolong it? Why even pretend he could get out, be the same? People were dying and his heart was breaking in two. What could he do. He could feel every bone in his body tingling. Something had to be done. He had to do something, anything, stop his indecision, stop himself. What could he-

Before Dutchy knew what he was doing, he'd taken a step back, his hands still gripping the sink, his knuckles white from the strain. His brain barely registered what was happening. He looked up, his eyes wide with sudden fear as he jerked forward, smashing his face into the mirror, a loud crack and a louder thump echoed through the house.

With a high pitched yelp, he careened back, his vision replaced with bright lights, his brains scrambled with pain. It'd been so long since he'd last been hurt, he'd almost forgotten what pain, real pain, felt like. Stumbling backwards from the mirror Dutchy fell flat on his back, whimpering as his head came back to smash against the tiles, sending another jolt of pain through him. Curling into a ball with awkward jerky motions, Dutchy pressed his hands against his forehead, a strange wetness began to form from beneath, trickling out from in between the cracks in his fingers. He began to shake, biting his lip and feebly kicking his legs against the ground. Rolling onto his side another wave of pain slammed into his forehead. He whimpered, feeling shakes running through him.

What was wrong with him? He didn't know. His stomach hurt worse then ever, and this time he was sure he was going to throw up. He tucked his knees in tighter, condensing himself into a little shivering blonde and orange ball. Fear was in his chest, tight and constricting. Blood. He'd hated blood. Ever since before, ever since he was a kid. He couldn't see. His eyes were wet.

"Oh no. Oh no no no.."

Dutchy slammed his eyes shut as he pulled his still shaking hands away from his forehead. He couldn't see but he could feel a bruise coming on, numbness and swollen, puffed up skin. How bad had he hit his head? Had he cracked the mirror?

"No no no."

Dutchy slowly opened his eyes. His hands seemed to be dripping in blood. Gasping in fright he began to rub them against the floor, knowing and dreading what his forehead might look like.

"No no no, it wasn't supposed to be that. Not this much. No no no no..."

They can't ask questions. Oh no, that's bad. Why'd I do that? Stupid Dutchy. You're so stupid Dutchy. You're not him anymore, you've got blood on you.

Getting to his feet, Dutchy reached out a trembling hand, grabbing at a towel. Pressing it against his forehead for an instant and pulling away, he saw the towel red with blood. He blinked, examining it for an instant. His fear rising with every passing second. He glanced at the door, white faced and afraid, barely holding back another tidal wave of tears.

"No no no, why'd you do that..."

Gingerly he pushed the towel up against his head.. He could feel himself wanting to pass out. He was crying again, freely now, blubbering like a little kid. He nearly slipped, pressing his bloody palm up against the wall to steady himself.

"Wh-why'd you do that?" He said, barely managing to get the words out. He felt his throat locking up, visions of his Uncle flashing through his head. So much blood. So much pain. He didn't want to see it ever again but it was always there, everywhere. His Uncle and Kimmy and soon very soon, him too. Pain and oblivion, and death and the end to everything he had ever been.


Why'd you do that? What'd it prove?

He was crying full on now, soaking the towel more with his tears then the drying blood from his forehead. Scrambling desperately Dutchy cranked the tap, letting the noise of the water drown out his sobs. He couldn't let them know, not ever. Throwing the towel aside Dutchy began to wash his hands, looking in the mirror. A small crack ran down the center of it, right where he'd banged his head off. Had Roland heard? It didn't appear likely... But still.

"I'm fine Roland, just fine. No I don't know what happened. Weird huh? It was there when I got there. I've been upstairs all alo- Roland I'm fine, no what are you talking about? There's a crack in the mirror? That's strange. That's really weird." He murmured to himself, his voice low, near silent.

"I don't know anything about a crack. I'm FINE Roland. No, no, no not like that, no. Me? Oh, no I'm fine Roland."

Drown... What am I trying to do? It'd be easier to drown. I like water. Iceland has water, hot springs and cold water, whatever I'd want if I ever made it back there. I could drown, couldn't I?

With shaking hands, Dutchy reached down and picked up the table, rinsing it in the sink. He had a lot of work to do, quick work. His thoughts were scrambled, he felt numb and afraid, afraid of what he didn't know. He was beginning to think he didn't want to know. Throwing the wet towel to the ground, Dutchy began to soak up any blood on the floor. He felt dizzy, all the movement... He needed to lie down. He needed to sleep, to rest, to stop thinking like this.

"I didn't think like this." He croaked out. "Dutchy was a stupid kid who never thought he was gon-gonna' get hurt." He scrubbed harder, angry at himself. His naivety...

"I shouldn't be here. I don't think anyone should be here. Killing is bad. People are bad, and I don't want to be around people anymore. I don' want to see anyone else hurt. Vera's still in St. Paul. I'm still in St. Paul. I just wanna go home. One wish. God? God, can I go home now? What'd I do wrong? What'd I- I-"

He couldn't talk anymore. Mewling and shaking, Dutchy continued scrubbing the floor.

Don't wanna cry. Don't wanna cry, I need to be happy. Need to make them happy. Go out there, make them remember I'm supposed to be the happy one. Happy.

"Gon' be happy." Dutchy said, sniffling. The blood didn't seem to be coming off the floor, no matter how much he scrubbed. He grabbed another towel, throwing it down next to him. His vision seemed hazy in front of him, but he couldn't stop now. He needed to be someone, someone to rely on. Roland couldn't find him like this, he wouldn't find him like this.

"No.. No no no. Gonna be happy. I'm not going make them sad. I'm okay, just like Vera. We're both gonna' be okay."

A drop of blood dripped from his forehead, splashing onto the wet floor.

"I'm gonna be happy."
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