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All Artists Talk to Their Creations; Morning, Day 8, One-shot
Topic Started: May 11 2017, 04:34 AM (102 Views)
Aura
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Has seen that which cannot be unseen.
[ *  *  *  *  *  * ]
((Bart Cappotelli continued from You thought it was Kimiko but it was me, Jerry!))

One week.

Bart Cappotelli had somehow survived on the island for one week.

It didn't make any logical sense. He was horribly out of shape. He had atrocious social skills. He got nervous whenever anything even slightly resembling a conflict occurred. He didn't even have a weapon. There were so many factors against him, and yet he was somehow still alive. The only thing he could attribute it to was luck. So many of his classmates had died in the meantime. Classmates who were stronger, faster, smarter, and more likable than him. Hell, he would even argue that they were better than him. But somehow, they had died while he had lived, at least for the time being.

Survival of the Fittest? Yeah, that was a joke of a title if there ever was one. If that's what this whole thing was a test of, then he would have been gone a long time ago. He had spent this whole time clinging to whoever would let him stick around and searching for them hopelessly once he lost them. And the few times that real trouble actually took place? He did nothing. Well, that's not actually true. He did do something. He ran away.

Nancy shooting Jennifer. The fire at the library. Jerry getting run over. All of those had happened right in front of him, and he couldn't do anything about any of them. Sure he wanted to help, but good intentions don't mean anything if they can't be used for anything, and the rest of Bart's body and mind held him back from making even the slightest difference.

He looked out over the cliffside. It was a beautiful view, one of the few luxuries he had been afforded over the past week. But he didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve to be the last one standing, not over anyone else. He was just a coward who couldn't do anything right. Maybe if he left his pack on the cliff and walked straight off, he would be doing someone better a favor.

"Hey."

He heard an unfamiliar voice and turned around to see the source. However, what he saw wasn't a schoolmate, or even a group of schoolmates. Rather, he saw a large selection of teenagers and adults. Each of them had a distinctive silhouette and wardrobe, making them instantly recognizable. He knew these people. He knew their names, faces, and everything about them. They had filled the pages of his sketchbook since freshman year.

But they shouldn't have been there. They were imaginary. They didn't exist. If they were here, then either he was dreaming, or it held some very unsettling implications about his level of sanity at the moment.

As though he sensed Bart's panic, the leader of the group, a black-haired boy in a green hoodie, spoke to him in the same voice that he had heard moments before.

"Don't give up."

The group gave him a field of kind smiles, and he was still completely lost. He closed his eyes and rubbed his head, wondering if he was starting to feel feverish. However, when he opened his eyes again, the crowd was gone. He was alone on the field once more, with no trace of anyone else's presence. It was the strangest experience that he could remember.

Bart wasn't entirely sure how he should feel about what he had just seen. For one thing, he knew that he needed to find some shade and sit down for a while. He could use some time out of the heat and a bit of hydration. He was pretty sure that hallucinations were a sign of heat stroke, and he didn't want to drop dead like that after coming so far.

However, just from that thought alone, he had realized something else: He didn't want to die. Yes, he was out of shape, socially inept, and cowardly. Yes, he had been little more than a desperate parasite up until that point. Yes, there were a lot of classmates that were more talented than him in various fields, both dead and living.

But there was one thing that Bart could hold on to, and that was his dream. Seeing his creations reminded him that he had something to live for. He still didn't want to kill, and he knew that making it out was still a long shot. However, he now had a sense of renewed vigor. Any thought she had of death were completely pushed away by a desire to stay alive.

He was still terrified, but he had something to live for, and that was enough to keep him going.

((Bart Cappotelli continued elsewhere...))
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