Survival Of The Fittest

Pain. Pain exists as a means for our brain to recognize where damage is being done to our body. The instinct to avoid pain is actually the instinct to avoid injury, and so pain is critical to our survival. Injuries impede our functioning, and severe ones impede our living and and breathing. Therefore, the instinct to avoid injury is actually the instinct to avoid death, and to a living being that is the most prevalent instinct of all. Pain is only detrimental to us when we rise above the basic instinct to live, when we would desire to push ourselves farther into the realm of emotional and mental satisfaction. This is only possible, however, if one can overcome the fear of pain...

Pain.

Jameson had been awake for only a split second before pain had set in, before he had hit the ground, and he had been consumed by pain ever since. He had not once opened his eyes, couldn't bring himself to, he wanted nothing better than to lay as still as was possible. Moving would only make the pain worse, and he just wanted it to stop, so he could rest. Yet it was starting to set in what would happen if stayed, if he waited to be found.

Survival of the Fittest.

Those words just seemed to hit him like bricks as he stopped focusing on how badly his chest hurt, though the incredible feeling that he'd injured his broken body even more was difficult to ignore. He wanted to live, and he held on to that thought as the fear started to rise in him, fear that he wouldn't survive. He knew he wouldn't, not with the broken arms and ribs he had aquired before this in a dirtbiking accident, when he couldn't even lift himself off the ground beneath him for the pain. He wanted to do do something, badly. He just wanted to be able to stand up, to make the best effort he could, maybe he could find somoene to help him, to at least do something in last days alive.

So he did. Jameson, very carefully and slowly so as not to aggravate himself, wedged his arms to a position they could support him. He supposed, if he used his unbroken forearms to lift himself up, they wouldn't aggravate the broken upper arms. If he could just walk, he could at least hide himself somewhere. His hands slowly stated to push up, and opening his eyes, Jameson noticed for the first time the was ontop of a wooden platform of some sort. Ceasing attempting to lift himself, he looked around. He was surrounded by boats, presumably floating in some kind of water body he could not see. He appeared to be on a pier for what seemed to be a Marina. Closing his eyes again to concentrate, he started lifting again, only for his arms to give in to the agony caused by stressing a fractured bone.

Before he felt his body hit the ground, Jameson was overwhelmed by fear once again. Every urge in his body was warning him that he was going to make his ribs worse when he landed, that he had to avoid impact, but there was nothing he could do. The anticipation of the pain made the tiny amount of time he was falling seem like a drastically shortened lifetime, not unlike his own.

Hitting the wood set Jameson's body on fire. He couldn't think or even despair, the pain overcame him and suddenly everything was unbearably hot, his vision consisted only of yellow and red and did not change when he opened his eyes. He tried to scream, got a brief breath out before he realized he could hardly breath. He immediately started gasping as hard as he could for air, only following his body's instincts, and found himself in terrible pain as he took in a single breath. Even as he breathed, he could feel vomit weeling up in his stomach and working his way up, and it robbed him of his conquest, that single pocket of oxygen. Coming up, his insides felt like they were being torn apart and flooded with his own blood, and he barely managed to lift his head high enough to allow the vomit onto the wood beneath him, his slowly returning vision clouding with red once more and disorienting him with the short motion. To Jameson, he was already in hell.

---

"Jameson, why didn't you sign up for the basketball team again?" Asked Virginia, sitting in the row next to him and ignoring the teacher.

"I don't want to." Jameson had stopped bouncing his leg and looked right back at Virginia when she asked. This wasn't really something he wanted to talk about.

"You're not doing any of the sports you usually do." She responded with a frown.

"I don't feel like playing anymore, it takes up too much time." Jameson was lying. After he'd broken his arm he had no urge to repeat the experience. Virginia simply nodded and turned away, and Jameson couldn't avoid noticing that this was the first time she'd turned to do work in this class, usually the two talked right until the end of class. She wasn't the first. Quite a few of his friends seemed detached from Jameson. Maybe he did have to play to get attention.
He really didn't want to.

---

He'd been denying it.

For the better part of four years, Jameson had denied he was afraid. He never got in fights, not because he was above violence off the playing field, like he always pretended. He was afraid of getting hurt. He was more afraid of it than anything. Playing sports all his life, people just assumed he was tougher than he was, but in reality, he'd been so blessed with athletic ability he could avoid injury, his cowardice only noticed a few spare times by anyone else. It was a miracle he'd been able to avoid it. And so it was natural that he'd stopped trying to breath. Breathing hurt. He was dead anyway. In fact, everything was going black already. He could feel his heartbeat getting weaker.

Then, instinct drew breath for him, and forced Jameson to face his fear.

Jameson couldn't help but hate himself as he failed his final test spectacularly. He couldn't stop breathing, his body forced him to against his will, and every attempt made him feel like he was grinding and crushing his insides, tearing new wounds into his organs. He knew what was happening, he was afraid of it, to even admit it or consider it, but he knew he was dying. The pain told him it was happening, that his lungs and heart and whatever else was being mangled would never function again, and he was going to die with his body screaming at him to do what he no longer could, and being afraid because he was incapable of saving himself. He'd heard once that suicide by jumping off a high height was the worst way to go, because everyone always changed their mind afterward when survival instinct kicked in too late. He knew this was what that was like, to want desperately to save yourself and not be able.

As Jameson kept struggling for breath, he felt it start to lose it's effect, but it only amde his automatic gasping worse. He knew from pushing his body to it's limits over the course of his life that his body was being starved of oxygen even though he kept trying to breath, and he felt a certain heavy feeling in his chest, and it started to choke him even though his throat was clear. He could hardly think with his brain being overloaded with what he was feeling, but he could still figure out what was happening; he was bleeding internally, it was choking his lungs. He was finished, and the knowledge only added to his despair.

I didn't... do...

His brain was starved of oxygen before he completed his final thoughts.

B45 - DOEERT, Jameson. STATUS: DECEASED

Fear of pain...

((Continued from The Sands of Time))

Although she had remained calm and composed just long enough to escape the ruins of the building that was formerly a church, ever since she had gotten out of view of the onslaught of people that just seemed to keep on filtering into the supposedly sacred place, Ali Grayston had done nothing except run.  She might have been quite the physical specimen from her almost religious exercise routine and fairly active lifestyle, but the sheer distance she had managed to traverse within these past few hours caused an unrelenting burning sensation in her lungs.

Slowly but surely, her body threatened to give out on her, not having been used to this sort of physical activity before and not yet having built up any sort of endurance on it.  Ever since she had hit the shoreline along the western coast of the island, the sand had done its fair share in making her travel even more difficult, as well.  Now, as she approached the sole structure that jutted out from the otherwise untainted white sands, Ali forced herself to a stop, nearly falling into the sand from sheer exhaustion.  The sun was slowly setting beyond the horizon, and for a brief instant, her vision turned toward the darkening sky.

What she saw next would make her wish she had never looked up.

The overwhelming echo from what had to have been one of the terrorist's helicopters threatened her senses, and Ali forced herself to cover her ears to dull the thrashing noise the helicopter exuded as it flew by.  Sheer curiosity forced the brunette to watch on as the helicopter seemed to hoven in place, right over the marina.  Although it wasn't suprising in the slightest, Ali still found herself a bit taken aback as a group of terrorists hoisted a sole figure up before sending him crashing face down on the peer.  A sick crack echoed as the figure connected with the old wooden planks, and without so much as a second glance, the helicopter was off, probably to deposit more kids into their doom.

The sickening popping noise that the body had exuded as it collided with the planks was barely audible over the deafening roar of the chopper.  Within seconds, however, the chopper was off into the darkening skyline, and once again, the marina was filled with an eerie silence.  They say that curiosity killed the cat, but the sheer curiosity of who the figure was filled Ali's conscience, and despite the inner voice inside her mind shouting at her to stay away, Ali found herself tentatively approaching the marina.

Slowly, the brunette traversed the sands, the sound of sand crunching under her body weight the only audible noise, save for the ambient sounds of the nearby water.  She knew that her eyes hadn't failed her, she had definitely saw the helicopter, and she had most assuredly seen the student being ousted from within its confines.  Still, despite it all, it seemed as if the other contestant in this game had yet to rise.  What Ali didn't know was that they never would.  Her eyes scanned the area nervously as she climbed the stairs onto the wooden platform, her shoes now clacking audibly against the boards.  Still, there was nothing.

She continued down the dock, her eyes fixating on the rows of boats that lined it, but she knowing the terrorists were smarter than to leave a marina full of boats filled with gas for the students to get out of jail free with.  Her eyes crossed the pier on which the student had landed, initially simply skimming it, but backtracking almost instantaneously as she saw it.  The figure that had been thrown from the helicopter was still there... and not moving.  Despite her instincts screaming at her to turn and run immediately, Ali continued her approach.

As she prodded closer and closer to the body, the initial observation that she came to notice was that he wasn't breathing.  What had happened?  Never once did the brunette stop to think that perhaps the boy had died upon impact... it hadn't happened to anyone else, after all.  Maybe this boy was more heroic than everyone else on this island?  Maybe he had awoken during the helicopter ride and attempted to fight off the terrorists?  Further inspection of the boy, broken, bloodied, and laying in his own vomit, only seemed to confirm the story Ali had written in her mind for him.

You're lucky, you know... they let you out early.  Let you out before someone had the chance to get ahold of you and do something ten times worse... and it's happening.  Still... you didn't deserve this... nobody deserves this.

In a rare moment for the young brunette, a slight look of sadness and compassion drifted over her face.  Seeing the corpse of the boy was nothing less than surreal to her, the fact that she was standing only inches away from a dead body never once registering in her mind.  After seeing one of her classmates, one she used to pick on and make fun of, no less, promptly shot in the head by a man that she had once considered a family friend, everything else failed by comparison at this moment.

Slowly but surely, her eyes turned to the green dufflebag laying beside the corpse, the boy's student number and the name "Doeert" scrawled on it.  She had known him.  Not personally, by any means, but had been acquainted with him through Austin and several of her other friends from Hobbsborough.  At least, if it were the same Doeert -- Jameson -- she had.  It was a definite possibility, but she dared not flip over the corpse to confirm her suspicions.  Instead, Ali found herself picking up the extra pack and slinging over her shoulder.  The remorseful look never once faded from her face as she gave the corpse one final glance before dashing away from the pier.

I'm sorry Jameson, but I need this more than you do.

((Continued in Shades of Grey, Redeux))