Survival Of The Fittest

"WHAT."

One step.

"THE."

Two steps.

"FUCK."

And three.

((Mike Brown, continued))

Obviously, Mike had been walking for a helluva lot longer than three steps, but those three were probably the first that registered as anything more to him than just shuffling along, breathing and being alive without really ever being, y'know, alright. A day in the woods, a day spent walking, running, gunshots and shit all just going all the fuck about, and he was still here. Which was good, except for the fact he hadn't seen another person in what felt like forever, certainly no one after Angie and Ramsey, and-

Shitshow. All that was. 'Course he didn't do somethin', let the guy get offed by Angie, should've noticed something wrong, ut no, he was on the bench for a reason, and that reason was he couldn't commit. Couldn't commit to nothing except continuing to walk, pack on his back and cap hung low, hoping against hope to find something good, anything good, and instead, he found this.

Maybe if he was smarter, a better decision-maker, better at not just standing still and doing fuck-all, he could've done better. Could have avoided walking right into the aftermath of a murder, turned tail and run, done something, anything 'cept what he did do.

But that wasn't him, and so the three words came out again, louder this time.

"What the fuck?"

They spilled, and he fell silent, shushed like the headless man right over there.

Diego promptly began rolling the gauze around the wound, not doing anything about the bullet inside.

"I... I heard that, like, it's not a good idea to remove bullets, because it'll just make the bleeding worse."

He said these words looking at Lorenzo's arm, not Lorenzo himself. He wound the gauze around his arm, tightly, deliberately, trying to staunch the flow of blood. While doing so, he felt himself consciously taking in air, and letting it out, controlling the pace, trying to make it sound normal, but failing.

"I read it somewhere, online."

And the words felt pointless, unnecessary, but he felt compelled to speak anyways. Because if he didn't, it would just be him and Lorenzo. Him, healing his wounds, working on him. Him, touching Lorenzo's skin.

His eyes wandered two and a half seconds, he refused himself the last half-second. This wasn't the time for such thoughts, there was never supposed to be a time for such thoughts. He had to focus on fixing his mistake, staying useful.

Once the gauze wrapped around Lorenzo's arm three, maybe four times, he tried ripping it off the roll, and failed. So, he put it between his teeth, pulled, bit it off, and tied the loose ends together. And, there. About as good as he could do.

And then, a voice. One that Diego had never wanted to hear again. Southern drawl, discomfort.

He froze, the roll of gauze fell onto the dirt.

Cut-off glances, curves in paths, detours taken in hallways.

He moved without thinking, he had no choice but. He grabbed the shovel, the weapon closest at hand, and pointed it at Mike Brown.

"Give us your bags, and this'll all be fine."

Lorenzo simply grunted in response to Diego’s words. He had nothing to say to the boy right now. As Diego wrapped the wound, flashes of pain shot through his arm over and over again. He tried his best to keep still, but couldn’t help involuntary flinching when as the gaze tightened around the gunshot wound. Another one to add to the list, Lorenzo figured. His ribs were still as sore as ever, and the cuts on his shoulder and thigh still ached every time he moved. Like those, Lorenzo would eventually grow numb to the pain in his arm. For now he’d just have to will himself through it. Even as it pulsated along with his heartbeat, Lorenzo would make it through this.

This wouldn’t be what stopped him. Not yet.

Diego continued to prattle on, and Lorenzo mostly concentrated on not letting his pain show though. Besides the sound of his own breathing and Diego’s words, it was relatively quiet. Almost peaceful, in a way, and yet also not. The gunshot had been so loud earlier. Now everything was so still and muted. It made him uncomfortable. Like there was too much space and not enough to fill it with. He felt too vulnerable. Too exposed. It wasn’t ideal. The change in tone was too abrupt.

Diego finally finished wrapping his wound, and Lorenzo looked at him curiously. Why did he still remain? Why still help Lorenzo, when he could have escaped in the chaos of the scuffle with Dane? Dane spoke the truth, Lorenzo was using Diego as a tool, nothing more. What did Diego get from this ‘partnership’? Lorenzo still didn’t understand. He supposed he didn’t have to. Diego knew how this worked. Lorenzo promised only to keep him alive as long as it suited him. That remained exactly what he planned to do. Diego’s life held no value to him. He was a pawn, and nothing more.

So why did it feel like he was trying to convince himself of that now?

Fortunately, he was spared having to think it over when a new voice thundered through the previous silence. Another boy. Lorenzo cursed himself. The tracker was in his pocket. He should have been paying attention. Now they had an unexpected guest, and they weren’t prepared. Luckily, Lorenzo’s new weapon would be more than useful here. Diego pointed his shovel at the intruder and demanded his things, but Lorenzo wasn’t willing to let Diego make another mistake.

“Fuck that.” He stated and lifted the gun to point at the newcomer.

“We’re taking your shit. Fuck fine.” He fired twice, the kickback from the gun was minimal, and the shots were easy to fire. This was good. He could use this gun.

He could be smart, he could do something. Mike began to put down his bags, but then-

The bullets whizzed past.

The bullets whizzed past his skin and straight into his gut, sending him to his knees, hot lead burning in his stomach.

The bags fell, too.

Maybe he could've looked up, should've given one more look of defiance, but it hurt and he wanted to cry, and the fact this was what it came down to, being the unlucky bastard to stumble upon a murder?

He didn't want to be reminded that he knew the eyes that has looked back, tried to follow, and still ended up on the ground. So, he closed them.

Something whirred past Diego, hit Mike's gut, the breath was knocked out from Diego. He covered his mouth.

The decision was made for him. There hadn't even been a chance to protest.

Shortly after that, he saw Mike's eyes, how they flitted down, then closed completely, how Mike refused to look at him. And old shame came back.

He had already been putting his bags down, this wasn't necessary. He was already surrendering, this wasn't necessary. But the decision was made, and all Diego had left to do was follow it. This is what everything had been leading up to, after all. The blood on the pier, following Lorenzo from the temple, watching him kill. He had signed up for all this.

The shovel, pointing at Mike, felt shaky in his hands once more.

Diego stepped closer, and closer, and closer, until the blade pushed, but didn't pierce, the flesh on Mike's neck.

No sudden moves, Diego didn't say. It wasn't necessary, there weren't any moves left for Mike to make. The shovel was just a precautionary measure. Mike was still on his knees, somehow, there could be something left.

Despite himself, despite his shame, Diego stared into Mike's eyes, searching for that something. He was obligated to, at this point.

He couldn't breath. At least, not in the normal way, where he'd just breathe in, out, and it'd be good. Fine. All those things, all just chill like that.

Instead, there was metal at his neck, constant pressure, the flitting of eyes on him. Sure, his eyes were closed but he still felt it boring into him, lights flashing bright has the blood continued to pour.

Mike ope ed his eyes, and was greeted with the sight of Diego all over again.

Voice raspy, voice choked, he spoke.

"What the hell're you trying to prove?"

Didn't say the rest, because well, he was currently dying, but it still lingered just the same. What was there to prove when the dude was still bleeding and still dying?

Mike just hoped that there'd be an answer other than the one that'd just popped into his head.

There was disgust, vitriol in Mike's words, and Diego felt himself shrinking, becoming small all over again. The question posed felt accusatory, wrong, as if this was all done for some philosophical point, as if this wasn't a matter of being at the wrong place at the wrong time.

"I- I- Nothing. You, uh, you weren't supposed to be here, you should've left." The words came out choked, through clenched teeth, he felt a pressure closing in on him. "If you'd just, just kept fucking quiet, walked away, this wouldn't have happened."

It was difficult to swallow, the collar of his shirt felt tight against his own neck. He felt sweat dripping down his shirt, his armpits, sticky. He wanted to close his eyes, retreat in on himself, but he had to see this through. This was what he'd chosen when he followed Lorenzo, there was nothing else to do.

His eyes stayed locked on Mike. The shovel wavered once more, he pushed a bit harder against Mike's skin, tried to steady himself.

It dug it was digging but no, he wasn’t going to let this little jerk ass explain himself and act all high and mighty. Not when he was here, failing because for once he could try to do something just a little less shit.

“This ain’t gonna help, this ain’t gonna fix anything, no matter what, you’re still a little puss-“

The shovel cut into Mike's neck.

"-yyyyy-"

The blood ran red, and he choked on the words. Lights ran through his vision, and perhaps, if he really wanted to, he could pretend they were the stars.

He didn't want it that much, though, and so it went out.

B081: MIKE BROWN - DECEASED

The shots hit the new boy right in the gut, sending him to the ground. Lorenzo’s own gunshot wound pulsated from the pressure of him moving, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. Pain was nothing. Pain meant he was still breathing. His body ached all over, but he was alive. So many of his classmates were dead, but he was alive. He wasn’t in the ground yet. The pain was nothing compared to being dead. Lorenzo shuffled himself, moving to get on his knees as Diego left his side to hold the other boy at knife point.

Well… shovel-point, but regardless it served the same purpose.

Lorenzo stood shakily and moved over to grab the boy’s bags, pulling them away from him and dragging them over to where his maul lay on the ground. He turned his back on the scene behind him, not very worried about being attacked, as the boy had no visible weapon on his person, and Diego was suitable enough to hold him at bay while Lorenzo dug through his bags to find worthwhile items. Lorenzo figured he could trust Diego not to fuck this particular thing up, the events of the last two days notwithstanding.

The first bag was full of nothing but the boy’s clothing and personal effects from the trip. Nothing useful in there. Lorenzo tossed that bag to the side, and unzipped the next. This one held a bit more promise. There was a decent amount of food left. And even a few untouched water bottles. Lorenzo grumbled as he realized he had better take the half empty one too. No use in being a germaphobe out here. Water was a necessity, regardless of whose mouth had already been on it. Besides, he laughed to himself, he was sure his mouth had had much worse things in it.

For a short moment, he allowed himself to laugh at himself as he used to, but the weight of their situation hit him again, and that small bit of joy crumbled away back into misery.

Another first aid kit, mostly unused it seemed. that , too, was very useful. Along with the one they’d taken from Dane, Lorenzo could keep his wounds freshly wrapped for at least another day or two. The last thing he needed was an infection, or something worse. If tyrell couldn’t kill him, hell if he was going to let lack of wound care take him out. He moved the wrong way and again he felt a jolt of pain shoot up his arm. He grit his teeth though it, because what else could he do? He wasn’t a doctor, and neither was Diego. He couldn’t risk trying to dig the bullet out of his arm and cause even more damage. Eventually he’d get used to it. He just had to make it a few more days out here, then he could go home, and everything would be okay again.

Fuck…

He wasn’t even sure if he believed that anymore.

The two behind him were talking back and forth, but Lorenzo was hardly paying them any mind. He couldn’t care less about what was going on. Once he was done transferring everything, he’d put another bullet in the boy’s head and be done with it. He didn’t matter. All of a sudden, however, the speaking turned to a horrible sound of someone choking on fluids, and then a thud, as a weight hit the floor. Lorenzo spun around to see what was going on, to find the boy he shot now collapsed on the ground, a gash opened up in his neck, and blood pooling around his head. Diego stood above him, the shovel in his hand stained red along it’s serrated edge. Lorenzo’s eyes widened, and he shot up to his full height from his crouched position next to the bags.

“What the fuck did you do?!” He yelled at the boy, obviously irritated and angry.

“Are you really that fucking stupid? Why did you kill him?!” Lorenzo demanded, his gun in hand as he walked over to Diego and shoved him backwards. Lorenzo lifted the gun from his side shoved the barrel in the other boy’s face.

“You can’t fucking help it, can you? How many times are you going to fuck up?! Huh?!” He screamed, waiting on a response from the smaller boy.

After the party, Diego still had to talk with Mike's mom. It was obligatory. Diego's mom kept in touch with Mike's mom, so he had to as well, during those Filipino parties with lechon and kare-kare and belted-out love songs sung by men about women or vice-versa. She was like all titas he ever encountered. The kind that would pinch your cheek, call you pogi, or gwapo if they were feeling generous, ask how school was going, et cetera. Tita Hidilyn was nice, he remembered. She seemed like a good mom.

For a few seconds, it was just Diego and the shovel in Mike's neck, still. He had done that. To her son.

He didn't want to

He didn't want this anymore.

He pulled the shovel out, unstabbed, but the wound stayed. Blood continued to spill onto the soil, the earth drank it greedily. And, eventually, that blood would make its way through the soil, through the cliffs, into the sea, and it would mix with the sea, with Chris' blood and the blood of every other person who had died so far. Diego had fulfilled the first part of his promise, and the ocean lashed against the cliffs below, raucous applause, but he didn't want it anymore, so it faded into the background.

The body, unsupported by the shovel, wavered for a moment, and then fell onto the ground with a thud.

He remembered screaming, feeling Ty's teeth dig through his own vocal cords, gnaw them raw, back at the pier, back with Chris. He remembered the screaming, the horror as Chris' movements lessened, as she physically emptied, and here Mike was, twitching, choking, gurgling, and Diego stood motionless. Aside from Mike's last attempts to breathe, all there was was dead silence.

The moment he had stormed out of the room, away from Mike, all those years ago, it had been an instinctive action. An action borne from frustration, self-hatred, regret. He knew he was not welcome anymore, he knew Mike hated him, and so he made a split-second decision to leave, and that was that.

The moment he pushed the shovel into Mike, cut into his windpipe, had been an instinctive action.

Mike's last words were 'You're still a little pussy.' Pussy, faggot, sissy. All words of the same caliber, same intent. Diego had had no male friends for the better part of his life, setting aside the gardening club. Men didn't like him, back in elementary, middle school. He became familiar with those words. So, he learned to hide away from them, so that they may never expose him again. To be the way Diego was was wrong, it was something he knew deep in his heart. From the moment he realized, back in 6th grade, how he was, who he was, he had committed himself to hiding it in the deepest recesses of his mind, because if so many men made fun of him for it, then it was wrong, he was wrong, sick, demented, perverted. A faggot. A pussy. And he had tried so hard to change that, but he couldn't, so all he could do was hide it, and hope no one ever knew, found out.

Even three seconds felt like too much, sometimes.

There were entire nights he spent, lying awake, agonizing over those three seconds, flagellating himself for it.

Mike said 'You're still a little pussy.' He had thought of him as a pussy, back then, back at a party. That's all he was to Mike. That's all he had been to him, for years. A pussy. A faggot. A pervert.

The culmination of the pier, the temple, Lorenzo, the party, Mike, the ocean, had all been predicated on those five words. The end of a life had been effected by those five words.

Running away had been an instinctive action, back then. Why couldn't he have done that?

A push, and then Diego was on the ground again. Lorenzo was shouting at him, calling him a fuck-up, because he was a fuck-up. He couldn't fucking help it, Lorenzo said, and he was right. It was in his nature to be a fuck-up, there was something inherently wrong in Diego's very being, and Lorenzo had finally realized it, corrected his mistake. There was a barrel pressing into his head again, and so when Lorenzo asked how many times he'd make the same mistakes, Diego broke down into tears, sobbed, "I don't know, I don't know, I- I'm sorry, I don't know," and he didn't know who he was saying sorry to.

Diego fell to the ground in a blubbering mess, but Lorenzo wasn’t moved. If anything it only served to fuel his anger towards the smaller boy. Teaming up with him had been a mistake. Lorenzo should have known better. Weak people would always be weak. There was no changing that. All that they’d been through the last two days had been made difficult by mistake after mistake. Lorenzo scowled as he looked down at the boy. He was so pathetic. He couldn’t even own up to his own fuck ups. Instead he just fell to pieces because of his own incompetence. It made Lorenzo’s blood boil.

Diego knew what this was from the start.

They weren’t friends. This wasn’t an equal partnership. Lorenzo had told him from the beginning, once his value as a tool was depleted, Lorenzo would have no more use for him. If a tool couldn’t be used, what was its purpose? Lorenzo pushed the barrel of the Uzi-Pro harder into the forehead of the boy on the ground. He crouched over him like a giant, his body smothering the other boy in shadow. His eyes were cold and narrowed. His other hand grabbed the boy by the front of his shirt and pulled him closer, their faces close enough to feel each other’s breath on the other’s face. Lorenzo shifted the gun to the boy’s temple. He stared into his eyes, looking for an answer.

An answer to why he chose this. Why come along with him in the first place? Why let himself be treated like trash and still be subservient? Why demean himself and let himself be used and abused? It pissed him off. Why was there no fight? No fire behind those eyes? All Lorenzo could see was self-pity and weakness. It was infuriating. Right now, having no fight in you meant you were as good as dead. Another name just waiting to be added to someone stronger’s kill list. Is that what he wanted? Is that what drove him to seek out Lorenzo and offer himself to him? To beg to be allowed to be used for the sole purpose of getting to live a fraction of a second longer, but still die pathetically in the end?

A small part of him hoped for more out of the boy.

Lorenzo shoved the boy back down to the ground with a growl, and stood back up to his full height. He looked down on the crumpled form below hit with disdain. How could he have let this pathetic little parasite be by his side for so long? His mistake. He should have known better. In the end, everyone was disappointing. Demetri eventually disappointed him. Tyrell eventually disappointed him. The only ones who were real, who could never disappoint him was his family. That was the truth. Those were the people who mattered. Everyone else on this island was just a disappointment waiting to happen.

He wouldn’t make this mistake again. He’d forgotten himself for a moment. He only had one goal, and that was to make it back to the people who mattered. Diego was not on that list of people. He should just end it now. Get it out of the way before someone else came along and picked him off. He pointed the gun at the boy, his finger hovering over the trigger.

Weakness was a curse here.

Diego was dead no matter what he did.

Broken tools got thrown away.

Lorenzo’s arm tensed.

…

His arm fell to his side.

“Get up and get away from me.” He seethed.

“You’re useless to me now. Your name will be on the morning announcements.” He turned and walked over to his maul, picking it up and sheathing it back to his belt.

“I don't need you anymore. So fucking get out of here.” He turned to the boy and stared coldly at him.

“Don’t ever show your face to me again. Or I’ll kill you.”

The whole point of Diego's journey from the beach to the temple to the woods had been this, allegedly. Preparation for the violence, desensitization. And, here he was, Mike lying next to him, blood on his hands. He'd done it. The terrorists couldn't keep him now, if he somehow made it to the end.

So, why was it then that he felt complete, utter failure?

You couldn't come up with a metaphor for everything, as it turned out. There were some situations in which allusions to the ocean, the soil, the Philippines couldn't adequately capture every emotion he was feeling. So, he thought in declarations instead.

Diego hated himself, for one. This had been true for the longest time, but it was especially true now, now that he had done the unforgivable, the irreparable. He couldn't unstab Mike, he couldn't unrob him or Dane or Justin, he couldn't untalk to Mike at that part, he couldn't unlook at every man he'd passed by. Every sin was permanent, irrevocable, and all that was left to do was to deal with the consequences, and that, out of everything, was what terrified Diego.

In a day, the announcements would list Diego's name, and he would still be alive. The ostracization, alienation that had plagued Diego his entire life would intensify ten-fold, his name would be among the marked. Not even the gardening club would want to be his friends. But, he had predicted that, right? He had to have known this would happen, once he drew blood, right?

In two weeks, a signal would be sent, and his sins would be broadcast to the world. Tita Hidilyn would see what Diego did to her son. Mom and Sarah would see what their son, brother was capable of. He didn't know if he'd have a home to come back to, after everything.

The possibility gnawed at Diego now, banged at the walls of his mind. But, despite everything, there was a more pressing concern for Diego.

He had failed Lorenzo, again. Maybe two days ago, his real goal had been desensitization, getting the one kill, yes. But then Lorenzo walked in that temple.

Diego always knew he'd never be with Lorenzo. He was too small, too spineless, too pathetic to be Lorenzo's boyfriend. Lorenzo dated Axel for a bit, he remembered. Nick. Declyn, for a bit. That period of time had been painful. All three were men that were sure of themselves, men unafraid to admit who they were. Men better than Diego, in short. He would never live up to them. He would always be the shadow living on the sidelines, smiling and nothing more because that was what was asked of him.

But maybe he could do just that. It was hitting two birds with one stone, he thought back then. Learn to survive, and spend time in the vicinity of Lorenzo. Offer himself to Lorenzo, do what he asked of him. If he couldn't be desired by Lorenzo, then maybe he could be used by Lorenzo, instead, serve some sort of purpose. Mean something to a man for once. Be something of worth, even if that something was just a human shield. But, he couldn't even manage that, apparently. All he had to do was exist, be physically present, and he somehow made things worse.

There was a part of Diego disgusted with himself, that this was his main concern, instead of having actually killed someone, of having to deal with the repercussions of that. Disgusted that he was so enraptured by someone. And he ignored that part of him. He had listened to that part of him for so long, for so many years, and he was done with it. He wanted to try to get what he wanted, for once.

That wasn't working out, anyways. Diego was being thrown around like a ragdoll, now, gun pressing against his head, and there was a sense of defeat, a sense of betrayal. Why do you deserve to live? Lorenzo didn't ask out loud. And, deep down, he knew he still wanted to live. There was a screaming inside his head as the barrel imprinted itself. But, whether it was the shock or not, it was getting very, very hard to find a reason, something, anything to verbalize. His mouth opened and closed again and again, breathless, wordless.

The gun finally dropped, but Lorenzo's next words felt like a hammer to the head anyways.

Useless.

But, he understood. If he were in Lorenzo's position, he would say the same thing, use the same word. Useless.

The word hurt, but there was still that screaming inside of his head, telling him to run, to live. So, he did. He got his shovel, Justin's sword, his bags, ran away from Dane and Mike's bodies, the cliffs. And, once he was sure he was out of earshot, his vision blurred, his eyes got wet, and he started sobbing.

((Diego Larrosa continues in I Don't Wanna Be Myself))

Diego was at least smart enough to listen. Without argument or complaint, Diego collected his belongings and evacuated the area. Lorenzo didn’t watch him. He kept his eyes locked on the horizon over the cliffs instead. His gaze was as cold as stone. Only when the sounds of Diego’s retreating figure died out did he turn to view the emptiness around him. The only sound he could hear any more was the sound of his own quickening heartbeat. The two fresh corpses had nothing to say, but Lorenzo could feel their indignation. Their demand for a reason.

Lorenzo’s eyes scanned the bodies, before averting themselves again. His legs were shaking. He made to take a step forward, but his body was rooted to the spot. Lorenzo dropped to his knees, his legs buckling from under him, as his breathing began to quicken and come in shorter spurts. His eyes widened with confusion, and his arms began to tremble violently. He lost his grip on the Uzi-Pro, the gun clattering to the ground as Lorenzo began to curl in on himself, his body screaming in agony and his mind demanding explanation for everything. For his choices. For killing Dane in cold blood. For chasing Diego away. For choosing to become something he couldn’t take back.

From the depths of his very being, a guttural wail let loose from his lips. All at once, it felt like every injury was taking its toll. Not only on his body, but on his very sense of self. His eyes flooded with undeserved tears as he let every held in emotion from the last few days rip free from their cage. His body convulsed and shook as he finally let himself mourn in his solitude. Mourn for Andy, whose untimely death Lorenzo still didn’t want to believe. Couldn’t believe. Mourn for they way he left Demetri. Abandoned him in the name of some terrible path he felt he deserved to walk. Denied the hand held out to him. Mourn for his home. His life before this. A life he’d probably never see again. A life that could never be brought back. Mourn for the lives he’d taken, the people he’d decided the chance to go home meant more than.

Mourn for himself. Mourn for the pieces of his humanity that were being chipped away day by day on this island.

He didn’t know how long he stayed like that, hunched over in pain crying out to the emptiness. Eventually, his tears ran dry and his throat turned hoarse from his cries. Eventually, Lorenzo knew he had to go, even if that meant dragging himself. The pain subsided, and Lorenzo knew that all he could do was keep going. There was no path that led back anymore. Everything he knew was gone. His friendships. His life. His humanity. It was all gone. There was getting it back. All he had left was the promise of being able to see his family again. Even if they hated him for what he’d done. Even if they rejected him after everything.

The thought of seeing them one last time was all the drive he could muster.

He picked himself up from the ground, and forced himself to collect his things. The rations from both Dane and Mike’s bags were transferred over to his own, along with their medical supplies and water. He emptied out Dane’s bag and stuffed the E-Tool and all the ammo for the Uzi-Pro inside, along with an Air Horn he found among Mike’s belongings. He shoved some of his extra clothes into that bag as well. What was left of his pack of cigarettes was also tossed into that bag. Lorenzo slung the two bags over his good shoulder, and with the maul strapped to his belt, and the gun in hand, he made his way from the cliff side.

All he could do was live. Even if that meant losing everything.


[Lorenzo Tavares Continued In The Big Sleep]