Youth

[Kermit]

((Michael continued from Dystopia))

Michael ran all the way to the village. It was the farthest he'd ever run with no breaks, he was pretty sure.

He'd been in this house before. A return trip, checking in on an old friend.

He poked his head in through the bedroom door.

"Hi, Camila. Just making sure nobody, like, Stepney'd you. You good?"

He saw a blowfly crawl out of the hole he'd blown through her stomach.

"Aight."

He liked talking to dead people. They couldn't hurt him like living people could and he couldn't hurt them like he could hurt living people.

He had something of hers, something he needed to return, but first he had to patch himself up.

He walked back into the main room of the house, sat down on a chair. He slipped off his wristband. He slipped off the cultist robe. There was a blood-stained tear through the upper part of its sleeve. He slipped off his slate-gray Henley shirt. The was a similar tear in it, the main difference being a larger blood stain. He slipped his wristband back on.

He lifted his left arm as to get a good view of the damage.

"Gnar."

The bullet had hit the upper bit of his pod, smashing the part where the insulin reservoir connected to the delivery canula. It was still stuck on his arm, partially by the pod's adhesive, partially from dried blood. A little tube-shaped piece of blue plastic stuck out of his arm, contrasting sharply with the red of his blood. It was the insulin delivery canula, he knew. It wasn't attached to the rest of the pod anymore, so that meant he'd have to pull it out manually.

Yeah, that wouldn't be fun.

He unzipped his bag fully and pulled out the medkit, placing it in his lap. He glanced up at a camera.

"I have no idea what I'm doing."

He looked back to his arm. First, he dug a fingernail between the pod's adhesive and his skin. He winced. He was pretty sure he'd just nudged the canula. He tore the pod off, leaving an egg-shaped ring of uncovered skin in the middle of the splotch of clotted blood on his arm. He took one of his water bottles, unscrewed it, and washed the blood off. It really didn't look that bad now, just a scrape and a few bits of plastic half-embedded into his skin. It wasn't still bleeding or anything. He opened up the medkit and grabbed a pair of tweezers.

First and foremost, he'd take the canula out. He gripped it with the tweezers and pulled it out. It was quick and relatively painless, but as he pulled it out he could feel it moving underneath his skin. It was one of the most disconcerting experiences of his life. After that, he removed all of the fragmented pieces of white plastic he could find in his arm. It was tedious.

He wiped his arm with an alcohol pad, and put numerous Band-Aids over the wounds. They were mostly skin-deep.

And that was that.

He hoped that was that.


He grabbed a new mag, reloaded his pistol; then, he slipped a new shirt on. It was a dark purple colour, long-sleeved. Its material was thinner and fit snugger than that of the other two shirts he'd worn so far on the island, and it decidedly emphasized his gangly appearance. Then, he put on a white and gray windbreaker; a waterproof one. It was his windbreaker, not Camila's. It was an important distinction to make.

The Many-Eyed Bearyl was wearing Camila's windbreaker. He slipped it off the bear. He had to figure out how to worm the dildarm out, but he got there eventually. He stuffed the Bearyl back in the bag and zipped it back up, its head poking out, as always. He gave it an affectionate pat.

"There ya' go, friend."

He put his backpack on again and took the windbreaker to the bedroom. He stepped close to Camila and looked down at her face. He closed his eyes and inhaled quietly. He was crying a little bit. His voice was soft.

"I've... been thinking about what you said about, like... 'who am I if I'm not me', and... I don't have an answer yet, but I guess I have some words of wisdom, maybe, if they'll help."

He paused, grimaced. A song lyric, as always. The words hurt to say, and they were true. They hurt because he knew they were true.

"...It's harder to be yourself than it is to be anybody else."

Quietly, he nodded, and draped Camila's windbreaker over her face.

Dignity in death, or whatever.

"Try to hold on to your heart, I guess. I dunno."


He stepped outside, walking with no particular destination. As he walked, he sang softly, bitterly. It wasn't loud enough to attract undue attention. It was a song that meant a lot to him right now.

Youth, by Daughter.

"Shadows settle on the place that you left.
Our minds are troubled by the emptiness.
Destroy the middle, it's a waste of time;
From the perfect start to the finish line.

"And if you're still breathing, you're the lucky ones.
'Cause most of us are heaving through corrupted lungs.
We're setting fire to our insides for fun.
Collecting names of the lovers that went wrong,
The lovers that went wrong.

"We are the reckless, we are the wild youth;
Chasing visions of our futures.
One day, we'll reveal the truth;
That one will die before they get there.

"And if you're still bleeding, you're the lucky ones.
'Cause most of our feelings, they are dead and they are gone.
We're setting fire to our insides for fun.
Collecting pictures from a flood that wrecked our home.
It was a flood that wrecked this home.

"And you caused it.
And you caused it.
And you caused it.

"Well, I've lost it all, I'm just a silhouette.
I'm a lifeless face that you'll soon forget.
And my eyes are damp from the words you left
Ringing in my head, when you broke my chest;
Ringing in my head, when you broke my chest.

"And if you're in love, then you're the lucky one.
'Cause most of us are bitter over someone.
Setting fire to our insides for fun.
To distract our hearts from ever missing them,
But I'm forever missing them.

"And you caused it.
And you caused it.
And you caused it."

((Michael continued in How Many Owl Puns Can I Make Before Vicky Kills Me?))