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((Acacia Salinger continued from Fairytale of New York))

What passing bells for these who die as cattle?

She had come to a place where she could hide. In their search for Alex they had traversed the island several times, but they had always gone around the Mountain. They had known that there were tunnels through it, but they hadn't wanted to waste time by getting lost in them. Now all she wanted to do was just that; waste time, try and live. She needed to find herself a task, only problem was that she wasn't sure what that task was. A tiny, irrational part of her was telling her that she would be hated now, that she would be universally despised for killing Roman who was, on the whole, well liked. And Danya hadn't said. He hadn't said why. Just:

"Roman Jackson was stifled in his sleep by Acacia Salinger, Othello style."

Those words were running over and over in her head. She'd almost hoped that John would get the blame, it was his fault after all, if he hadn't shot him them she wouldn't have had to-

Acacia was walking slowly down the tunnel, very slowly. There was a slow drip coming from somewhere, and unconsciously she timed her footsteps with it. She felt lonely; a sociable person by nature she had barely spent a minute alone since they had arrived on the island. It reminded her of when David had been sent off to Iraq and for the first time in her life she was without her older brother. And when they had come back from taking him to the airport, and her Mom had disappeared into the kitchen and her father to his study, she had stood in her room with the curtains drawn and the lights off. Darkness. Like now.

Who was she hiding from?

"What passing bells for these who die as cattle?" she murmured to herself. Her love of poetry was always a surprise to anyone who found out. It didn't fit in with their opinion of her, the diabetic, tennis playing, cheerleader. That was her role, her niche, within the school. She wasn't allowed to like poetry as well. Especially not First World War stuff written by English soldiers in the trenches, that was even further out of their expectations. But, since David rebelled and joined the army, she'd taken an interest in war poetry. "Only the monstrous anger of the guns." Guns! She extracted hers from her pocket. After what was nearly a week of not firing it, she was starting to think that she might never. She didn't want to. But nobody else needed to know that. "Only the stuttering rifle's rapid rattle can patter out their hasty orisons." She didn't even know what an orison was, had always meant to look it up. Never would be able to.

"It's so unfair," she added with a sniff, raising her voice and slapping a palm against the wall of the tunnel. It stung and she clutched it under her other arm, which was holding her Barracuda in a defensive gesture. Stopping shortly, she looked around in the darkness. It wasn't quite pitch black, she suspected there was an exit somewhere nearby, which was bad, she didn't want to go back into the daylight. This was her haven, she felt safe here, nobody could find her. And she was about as far away from the fucking beach as it was possible for her to be. "I've had so much shit. I've moved twice, across the country. My aunt's dead. My brother might be. I've got fucking diabetes." Her argument sounded weak, even to her in her current state of mind. A little voice in her brain countered her arguments. "I'm tennis captain, a cheerleader, my Dad's the Deputy Chief of Police, we live in a big house in the suburbs," she added in a whisper, and felt a momentary flush of hope before remembering that she would probably never see any of those things again. Her hand throbbed.

Once the pain had gone away, she continued walking and started to run her fingertips along the stone, less defensive suddenly. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered.

"No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells. Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs," across Minnesota, across America, maybe across the world, there were choirs singing for them and prayers being said for them. Though she had ruled out God when Julia had died, this was the final straw. All those prayers, and yet, they were no closer to being found. "The shrill demented choirs of wailing shells, and bugles calling for them from sad shires." She sniffed, suddenly, walking along in silence for a couple more minutes.
the world is on my side
i have no reason to run

v4 nostalgia

shiny shiny V5 concepts (now with clickies)
Phoebe Cho - I shall be playing Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto in E minor. Wizard!
Harry Hanley - I've got Hershey's at half price today! Get 'em quick before I have rehearsal!
Lor Van Diepen - I'm gonna make a video later. About running. Does that sum me up enough?
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Anthem for Doomed Youth · The Tunnels