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Viewing Single Post From: Peripeteia
Brackie
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i love him, i love him, i love him, i love him
[ *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Rosa Wallace had not touched her tea in almost 2 days.

Her hair was unwashed. Her clothes rank of sweat and body odor. The lounge chair she sat in, and hadn't left for almost a week now, was moulding to fit her every movement. Every twitch changed its pattern, and poked her skin.

This kind of thing didn't happen to her.

Her only child was never even supposed to go on this fucking trip.

The middle-aged woman insanely worried about the trip that Brendan was going to go on. She'd agreed finally, but she made sure of everything, unfathomably overprotective of her little boy. He wasn't going to speak to anyone who brought drugs, or alcohol, or anything like that. She was young once too, she knew the kinds of things kids his age would get up to. He'd stay with that Chase girl he was always hanging out with, and no one else. At that point, she really didn't know what else to say. No more nagging him to study. His school was over. He'd applied for scholarships at several journalism universities, and they were expecting word back once he came home.

No more telling him to go to bed early, he didn't need a good nights sleep for the day ahead of him if he didn't have to even concentrate at school. That was one point she could never understand, why people would even fathom of staying up until 2 in the morning for god knows what reasons. But she agreed to not nag him.

She payed the money, she signed the forms, she even gave him a sobriety test before he went, just to be sure. He complained, he yelled at her every time she mothered him to death, but in the end, even when he...told her, she still loved him.

"Honey, please, just...say something."

Rosa turned her head. Ray sat beside her, sitting on the arm of her lounge chair, again trying to roach a response out of her. He'd been doing this for days, trying to get her to speak, to eat, to drink instead of dying slowly on her chair, just watching all these kids around Brendan's age murdered for prime time television.

Ten times a day he spoke those words.

Honey, please just say something.

Honey, please just say something.

Honey, please just say something.

Honey, please just say something.

She'd had enough.

Her throat cracked as the air rushed through and cleared a week of silence.

"And what am I supposed to say, Raymond?" Rosa cracked through the homely silence, the silence which resided for days, only broken by occasional speech blaring out of the television. She shook every time she heard an accent. Tears rolled out every time it was Australian.

"Just...please, get out of the chair, eat dear, sleep dear!"

"No, I can't. I can't turn away, I can't abandon my son, Ray."

"Dear, he won't die if you're not watch-"

"AND HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT? ANY MINUTE NOW, HE COULD BE DEAD. ANY MINUTE NOW, HE COULD KILL HIMSELF, RAY, ANY MINUTE NOW HE COULD START KILLING PEOPLE. OUR SON IS SCARED, AND HE'S DYING."

"Rosa, please, the government are looking for him, they'll find him before anything bad happen-"

"Before anything bad hap - Ray, don't you understand this show? Something bad has already happened. One hundred and thirty children are dead, and the fact that Brendan is not one of them doesn't make it better. It makes it worse. He's suffering out there, he's terrified. I don't want him to be terrified, Ray! I just...I..." Rosa blurted out, before falling silent again as the screen cut to a dark place. Rosa stopped talking, like she just couldn't anymore, and turned back to the screen. Unmoving.

Her son was back on.

Ray sighed, unaware of what her newest troubles were. He stood up and walked back to the kitchen, trying to find at least something his wife of 28 years would eat.

~*~

((Brendan Wallace continues from The Gully))

It smelt of death.

The cave walls moaned and whispered as he ran through the mountain tunnels, blindly, stumbling against the rock every few minutes. Labyrinths and mazes, all reaching out and trying to suck Brendan into oblivion. Nothing there. No sound except his scattered footsteps.

No sound...

He was a coward. The worst person. Over the course of one whole fucking week, he'd abandoned everyone he'd ever been with. His friends. Friendly people who could have needed him. Hell, he'd even abandoned his boyfriend for some stupid reason he didn't even remember. No idea if he'd even be able to keep his word. His word, which meant nothing compared to how many times he'd kicked up and abandoned people. All sense and sensbility fell on deaf ears, with no sound.

No sound...

He'd even abandoned Liz. Her life depended on him, and he ran like a coward. He could have done something noble, just given up his life to save her. She'd risked it all, he'd done nothing. She tried to fuck with the game, the game that no one wanted to play, and he'd just run away and left the people who really deserved to be there to fight for their lives against the people who came to stop them. And he just ran.

No sound...

A stumble. Brendan skimmed his leg against the wall, and he could have sworn there was a snap. A tiny snap. He couldn't see, he was too afraid to check at all. His heart was pumping strong enough, loud enough, to fracture his ribs and shatter his chest.

No sound...

And the worst thing? He told himself he wanted to see everyone again, make sure they were okay. He wanted to do this so badly it hurt. But really, he found out long ago he was just afraid to lose them. He found Sarah, Dutchy, Roland, and left them on their own. He allied with Raymond, Neil, and Robert, and he just ran off, no intention of coming back. He left Sarah, Stacy, Erik of all people, Harun, Rashid, he'd tried to help them. He lead them for only a short time, and now...he'd actually really intended to help them, he loved most of them more than he could bare. And then...

No sound...

He abandoned Liz, he abandoned Mirabelle, he abandoned Garrett, he abandoned Jeremy. To make it worse, he'd even tried to justify it! Who's to say they didn't go this way, and then he lost track of them? He wanted to say that he honestly thought he was following them out of there, but...they needed him, he was stronger than half of them put together, he had guns for god sake, Brendan knew he was a dependant, not just a liability. And he ran anyway. A coward.

They all hated him

They didn't need him.

No more Brendan to help them. He'd just run away anyway.













Brendan tripped again.

The invisible white sneakers dug themselves behind a hole in the ground. The 170 pound Australian was thrown to the floor, and skidded. His face stung, it tried to dig up the mountain, and then he stopped his skid in a marshy length of rubble, or whatever it looked like in the light.

Brendan didn't want to get up. He wanted to stay there, lying on the ground, for all of time until he died. If he couldn't even do one thing right, then...what was the point of him? Why would anyone want to see such a useless person like him? He didn't even really know most of the people who died around him, for him, near him, without him, he didn't deserve to know them, or grieve them. He'd only known them for three quarters of the year. He had no right to cry over them.

Just like no one one this rock would cry over him.

The stench of death was stronger now. It infiltrated his head and distorted his thoughts. He couldn't think straight. Words meant nothing. Pain. Decay. Waste.

"It hurts..." he whispered. It couldn't have made it further than a few feet. Quiet, so quiet, it made no impact on the world. No one could hear him.

Brendan could have sworn he blinked. There wasn't any way to tell the difference between his open eyes and his closed eyes. Still dark. Was it still night? No light.

The darkness. The silence.

It deafened.

Why did the smell of death haunt him? It was choking, he wanted to hurl, but the pit inside of him was empty. Hunger stroked by decay stroked by an urge to retch up the only things he had left.

Brendan brought himself to his knees, and reached around inside the marshy ground his hands sunk themselves in during his fall. It slipped around, it felt like cloth. His bag flew in front of him when he tripped. It was around here, somewhere.

The felt feel turned into a familiar cloth touch, and there it was. His bag. If he'd been able to see it, the khaki would have been a comforting colour. It really was comforting, in the strangest of ways.

He left around for the little tracks of metal, and its train to unleash it. The bag seemed to have flattened itself against the marshiness, and Brendan had to struggle through the darkness. Eventually, he found it, all the time in thought.

Fuck, why the hell does the ground stick so much? Like, I'm just assuming it's marsh, but I have no idea what grows in a cave like this to make it feel like that. What the hell is it...

He yanked open zip, its tiny whirs a comforting break in the silence. It went very well with the shallow breathes he extruded, in, out.

Brendan felt around, trying to find where he put his torch. He'd barely even used it, it should still be working even after a week.

What the hell is that smell, it smells awful, like-

His eyes went wide.

His fingers found the torch.

He flipped the torch on.

The light bounced down the tunnel, moving over panels of rock and the occasional tiny critter. It settled upon the marshy ground he'd been sitting on for a good time already.

Not ground.

Not even close.

Brendan moved the torch so it covered his front. Instead of the usual dark-brown, it was coated in thick layers of gooey mixture of what used to be skin, mixed with crushed insects, maggots, and what he could have sworn under the current light was dried blood and plasma.

The breathing picked up again, breaking the silence, defying it. They became rasps, as his hands grasped at the real ground. He started scrambling backwards, and he dropped the torch to the ground.

Earth scrapped against his clothing again, and he didn't stop until he hit an invisible wall.

He wanted to yell, but he could only just keep breathing loudly as Brendan's eyes were glued to the body that was once Antonio Russo, but was now covering the front of his shirt and pants.

This isn't happening.

This isn't happening.

This isn't real.

This isn't real.

This isn't real.

It's not real.

Get him off of me.

He's on me.

Get

Him

Off

Of

Me








Please...
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I can't sing but I wrote you a song

Wrong notes but the melody's so clear

When I'm lost, I'm still close to gold

cause I found my treasure in you
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Peripeteia · The Tunnels