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Little Boy
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"I'm sorry."

Pathetic. But what else could be said.

He didn't know why he'd done it anymore. It had been stupid. It hadn't solved anything. It had been STUPID. The cut was still there, visible underneath his light blond hair. He couldn't have hidden it, no matter what he'd told himself in those first few minutes. Roland had hauled him halfway across the island like that.

Roland knew he wasn't okay. And that was what hurt most of all. Dutchy would have never done that in Minnesota. He was terrified of blood. Terrified of injury, pain and suffering. Danya had already beaten him.

Dutchy wanted to stall. He wanted to tell Roland to lie when they found the others- IF they found the others. But he wouldn't. Roland cared about him.

And that was the only reason he was still...

He shouldn't care about me.

Dutchy couldn't forget the infirmary. The announcement had woken him up, just like all the one's past. He heard the name. He'd lain in silence, his head pounding with grief. He didn't know if he wanted to cry anymore, if he could even manage to cry. It seemed pointless. No one would care if he wept or not. Crying was in itself becoming a hollow act, a ritual devoid of meaning. He hated himself for even thinking like that. He'd only moved when Roland began to tear the room apart.

The first few minutes of the attack had been terrifying. Roland was violent, a monster from Dutchy's darkest nightmares, a warped imitation of his friend, fueled by his hatred, destroying anything he could get his hands on. Chairs broke, glass smashed. Roland's shouts pierced through Dutchy, hurting him more so then he'd ever hurt in his life. It wasn't bloodlust, it was pain. He screamed until Dutchy was sure his friends throat was bleeding. Roland had been broken, and there was no way for Dutchy to stitch him back up, not with all the love or medicine in the world. Roland had died, just as he had died. Dutchy had nearly puked in fear. He couldn't be exactly sure when his friend had calmed down enough to notice his presence. Dutchy saw the regret in his eyes and instantly felt more shame. Roland still had responsibility. He still had to keep it together, he still had to smile and pretend it was all okay, a feat Dutchy could never again hope to replicate.

If I wasn't here, he could have found her in time.

Dutchy was sick all over his shirt.


He was as cold as ice the next day, shaking as he shouldered his pack and followed Roland out of the infirmary. He'd changed his t-shirt, but it counted for little. The idea had stuck in his mind, taking root until it was the only thing he could think about. That, and his friends rage. He wasn't scared of retaliation. He was scared of the reality of it. There were kids in the dark, committing far greater atrocities then Roland would ever be able to manage. He wasn't just going to die, he was going to die horribly.

Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe that's what I deserve. I gave up. Roland could've found her if I wasn't on that beach, if I'd woken up somewhere else. They could've found someone useful there- someone who'd escape. Instead there was me. What am I good for. I've just ruined everything.

The walk had been mostly quiet. Neither of the two had been in the mood for talking. Dutchy didn't know what to say, if anything, about Roland's sister. He wasn't sure if there was a God. He'd like to believe it, he'd been told there was one. But there was so much suffering he doubted it could be true. It didn't matter if he believed or not. Danya's island didn't have a God.

"Dutchy, please say something."

He looked up at his friend, struggling hard to keep from shaking. He had no idea what was going through Roland's head. What did he feel? Sorrow? Anger? Pity? Guilt?

He doesn't deserve this.

Dutchy opened his mouth, struggling to form words. It had been so long since he'd talked out loud it felt as he were forgetting bit by bit. He hesitated, unsure of what exactly he should say.

"I'm sorry Roland. I- I'm sorry. I didn't mean- back at the house. I'm sorry for that. And just-" He paused, looking around, nervous and fidgeting. He needed to say it. It'd been on his mind long enough. God forgive him. Better yet, let Roland forgive him.

"Roland I..."

Töluđ orđ verđa ekki aftur tekin

"I- I..."

Töluđ orđ verđa ekki aftur tekin

"Roland I, I think. If- If we can't- if they don't come for us - I don't want you worrying about me I- I think you should-"

Töluđ orđ verđa ekki aftur tekin

What was he doing? What was he saying? Tears seemed to permanently stain his face, no matter how often he'd wipe them off. They flowed freely again as he choked on his words, barely believing himself and what he was suggesting. This wasn't him. He wanted out. He didn't want to linger and remind Bayview of what they'd lost.

Best to be prepared.

"I'd like it to be you if- if it comes to... that."
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Make Your Own Kind of Music · The Felled Forest: South