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Shula
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Queen of the Pirates
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It had started to rain lightly. Actually, it had started to rain lightly a while ago; at the moment it was just plain raining. The standoff was going nowhere. So there he was, glaring ineffectually at some unknown guy, who was doing little more than the same thing, and he was steadily getting absolutely soaked. And he knew his sketch book was as well. The sprayed drawings might hold up for a while, but...just damn it all to hell.

One might think that simply standing there doing not much of anything would not be an entirely tiring course of action. Truth be told, though, Adrian was just this side of exhausted. And, though momentarily frightened by a sudden approach, he was sure that after that moment he appeared beyond relieved when Ernest showed up, showing empty hands and trying to break up the situation. (He thought the word fight would be far too dramatic, considering that nothing happened anyway.)

This other kid refuted Ernestís point and gave him a reason to kill, if he needed one at all. It hadnít been an outright challenge, but it could certainly be taken as one. Of course, there was also the possibility that, although playing innocent, the none-too-popular guy might be thinking along the lines of killing anyone and everyone from Hobbsborough out of spite. He wouldnít really mind killing either of these two as a precaution, but he wasnít quite equipped to accomplish thatótoo many unknown factors.

And just then Adrian made what could have been the worst decision of his admittedly short life. He turned away, feigning confidence, picked up his bags and book, and walked away. Of course, that in itself could have been the best decision, perhaps the two left would just ignore him, leaving him to be killed some other way. The result could have gone either way, if it hadnít been for the rain. Well, the end result would be based on both the rain and gravity, but gravity is a relative constant; rain is only water, and a few other things, falling partially unexpectedly from clouds in the sky. Thatís not the point yet, though.

Adrian left the two, somewhat surprisingly unhindered. One might have asked him why he headed towards the step-like ladder on the dam, but thatís no longer an option, so really, thereís no way to know just what he was thinking. It might have been prudent to put his now mostly saved, partially destroyed sketch book away in one of the two bags, but he hadnít. Instead Adrian tucked the thing under his right arm and climbed the ladder awkwardly.

The dam wasnít so tall as it appeared, or else Adrianís sense of time fooled him into thinking that. He was almost at the top. What he would do there was uncertain, but that didnít matter. He really just wanted out of whatever the hell was happening below. He could tell the book was slipping a bit but ignored it. It would stay. Another few steps and it was slipping more. He stopped, and, it might have been exhaustion, or it might have been some supernatural epiphany (probably the exhaustion). He wasnít incapable of love; he just simply didnít like people all that much, including himself. He did, however, care about that sketchbook. It was the part of him that could be erased with an eraser, but might also be remembered for a lifetime. It was not his soul, or even a window to it, but each page showed his perception of the world. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but what is a person worth?

And while he stood there, clinging to the slippery ladder, that part of him was steadily slipping away, a fairly literal means of losing himself. It did fall, and he grabbed for it, flailing helplessly as gravity tore him from himself. He felt gravity pull him from his grip and pulled himself back to the ladder. He slipped, a foot flew away from the dam and the weight of the bags altered his usual center of balance and both hands slipped from their holds.

Adrianís head moved forward with amazing speed and his face hit the dam. Pulling instinctively away from the source of pain, momentum pulled him flat back until the bags slipped off his shoulders, pulling him upside down, falling to the river head first. The book had already hit the water and was moving down stream, hitting rocks jutting from the water now and then.

There wasnít really any time for active thought, but heart-breaking emotion tore with unimaginable speed through his mind and body and the boy curled up on himself with a cry of something, agony? Anguish? Fear, hatred, loss? It didnít last long, though. The unthinking body of a boy hit freezing water with an impressive splash for how shallow the river was. The impact of the water might have killed him instantly, or maybe it didnít. He didnít resurface though, as one might expect, and the blood streaming from his face wasnít nearly enough to change even a thin line in the river, but a short distance later, the body did find its way to the surface, face down, and even if he hadnít been dead at that moment, which he probably was, he would have drowned within minutes anyway.

Boy 35 - Adrian Gray - Deceased
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I'm Alive · The River