Could I Leave You?

[Sansa]

((Tristan O’Hara continued from Survival of the Fittest? At this time of day, in this part of the country, localised entirely within your high school?))

Tristan was shrouded in shrubbery, having found a small enough patch that was sure to keep him obscured, but still spacious enough that he didn’t have to worry about getting tangled up in branches and vines from overhead. It wasn’t too comfortable, but that wasn’t a priority right now. He just needed to be away from the others, didn’t want them to be privy to any instinctive reaction that might come.

He hadn’t wanted to see any of his friends in this place, hadn’t wanted to even think of them. Wanted his last memories of them to be of happier times. Wanted to stay detached and not think of the pain they’d be going through. But as that voice crackled out overhead, listing those who’d died and those who’d taken them, it dawned upon Tristan that a desire like that was a luxury he was never going to be afforded here.

He wished he could’ve been more surprised. Wished Toby’s flash of anger could’ve been a rare, unique instance and that none of his peers had bought into the game, but this had happened six times before and although Tristan knew he and his classmates were special, it would’ve been foolish to say they were different.

Tirzah and Toby were the first names to really mean anything to him. ‘He deserved it’ flashed through Tristan’s head, followed just as quickly by a surge of revulsion in his gut. But it was the names that followed Christine and Tyrell’s that overwhelmed everything.

Nick. Beryl.

Tristan barely registered any other glimmer of information that trickled past him once their names fully registered within him. He stumbled back a couple steps, before colliding with a nearby tree, digging his hands into its bark to keep his balance as his legs threatened to give out beneath him.

There was a ring on his right hand, a silver band clutching a chunk of rose quartz. He’d bought it eons ago, the same time Beryl had purchased her matching necklace. She’d been wearing it when they’d boarded the bus back home; he’d caught a glimpse of her and smiled, but he couldn’t be sure whether she’d seen. And now that same necklace and memory was bloodstained and in the dirt, and that girl whose presence always reduced him to smiles and made the sun shine just that little brighter, had been snatched away by that same boy who was so good at making him feel, no matter how hard he tried to stop it.

Tristan squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth, the swell of emotions and thoughts threatening to wholly overwhelm him. But even through the grief and fear, what was really taking hold was sheer frustration and guilt.

He’d wasted a day. He’d stayed put in the same place for a whole day, only had a handful of people cross his path and it’d honestly been a stretch to put a name to most of their faces. And he’d stayed relatively safe, hadn’t been in too much danger aside from Toby. Blissfully undamaged by the carnage going on around them as his other friends were snuffed out.

He thought of Hel, injured and needing all their assistance. But really? They didn’t need him. Erika and Ashlynn had all their medical knowledge, and Stepney was so much calmer and in-check than him. Tristan was the weak link, the one with little to add besides his sheer presence. But there was no way he could just up and go, could he?

He was stuck and his friends were dying and he couldn’t do anything about it and he just wanted to fucking get out of here and be home and for things to be back to the way they were.

He clasped his left hand around his ring and tugged. It was a tight fit, always had been, but he’d put up with it for Beryl’s sake. It stung as he yanked it off, so much rougher than he used to, and he relished in the burning that came from his scratched skin. On impulse, he slung his arm back and threw the ring, saw a glimmer of silver as it flew through the air and disappeared out of sight. His voice caught in his throat, and the scream that erupted inside him and tore at his vocal chords came out merely as a haggard shriek instead.

His chest was still tight, his breath rough and shaking, and his legs still shivering beneath him, but as the seconds went by after his outburst, clarity slowly returned to him once more.

He wouldn’t be able to see everyone; that had already been proven true. And there was no logic or way to find anybody. He couldn’t just up and leave and know for certain he’d encounter anyone, let alone someone he knew. And maybe staying here might reap what he wanted with no effort put in from him; someone could stumble upon their little gathering and all would be well. But he didn’t want to leave things to chance. If he was going to die here, he wasn’t just going to sit around and wait for it to happen. He didn’t want these last few days, if that’s what they were going to be, to consist of him lying around in a passive state, just letting things occur without any action of his own.

Tristan rubbed his hand over his neck, tried to soothe the ache now throbbing in his throat, and glanced back in the direction he’d come from. It was a choice he had to make now, or risk never having the same chance again.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and ran.

((Tristan O’Hara continued in Rakshasa Country))