How Did I Get Here
Posted: Thu Oct 20, 2022 1:47 am
"Oh, fuck..." he sputtered, dragging his left hand across his face.
The adrenaline rush had come to its inevitable conclusion. It had risen steadily from the moment he woke, peaked when he fired the shot, and now, it was coming to its final crash.
Everything felt so real now.
S043: DONOVAN LAUER — CONTINUED FROM "UWU with the best of 'em"
Donovan was sitting on a stump, sweating like it was the middle of summer, panting like a dog. He hurt to the bones, his legs tired from running the whole way; he'd booked it all the way here, no breaks, with the speed that only a track star could muster.
"Fuck," he wondered, "I—why do I feel like shit?"
He was winning, wasn't he? He'd—he'd gotten everything he wanted. He proved his point and got the bag. He should feel like a million bucks—like the winner he wanted to be. So, then, tell him: why did he, at this moment, feel like total scum?
And then his mind thought back to that flash-fast haze. It repeated endlessly, like an NBA instant replay in his head. Everything was still a blur, yet, it was all too clear, blinking through his head in 4K high-definition.
A gag lodged in his throat. Donovan felt the bile in his mouth. He could've, fuck—he could've fucking killed someone. That wasn't part of the plan. All he wanted was some extra supplies, not someone's death on his conscience. He didn't want that.
"Fuck, man." he thought, "Fuck."
He gulped down the bitterness and drew a short breath. The acid burned all the way down to his stomach. He needed to suck it up. His right hand lowered the pistol—one bullet gone from a clip of eighteen—into his pocket and reached for one of the bags he'd stolen, that last word lingering in his head.
He pulled it closer, eyes sticking on the marking, which read "S007." He rifled through it quickly, chucking everything he thought he might need—the food, the water, the first-aid kit, the batteries from the extra flashlight—into his own. He tossed the rest of it into the snow.
He didn't need it—didn't want it either. It was just so much dead weight. He pulled the other bag—black, skulls-and-crossbones motif—closer and opened it too. There wasn't a whole lot, some sandwiches—homemade, half-frozen—and a pillow. He took all of it and then threw the backpack away.
He couldn't look at it anymore. Afterward, he zipped up his bag, stood up, and started walking again. Donovan felt terrible, but that was something he had to live with now. It wasn't enough to make him want to turn back that clock—or to stop.
After all, he didn't want to lose.
S043: DONOVAN LAUER — CONTINUED IN "Ocean Man"
The adrenaline rush had come to its inevitable conclusion. It had risen steadily from the moment he woke, peaked when he fired the shot, and now, it was coming to its final crash.
Everything felt so real now.
S043: DONOVAN LAUER — CONTINUED FROM "UWU with the best of 'em"
Donovan was sitting on a stump, sweating like it was the middle of summer, panting like a dog. He hurt to the bones, his legs tired from running the whole way; he'd booked it all the way here, no breaks, with the speed that only a track star could muster.
"Fuck," he wondered, "I—why do I feel like shit?"
He was winning, wasn't he? He'd—he'd gotten everything he wanted. He proved his point and got the bag. He should feel like a million bucks—like the winner he wanted to be. So, then, tell him: why did he, at this moment, feel like total scum?
And then his mind thought back to that flash-fast haze. It repeated endlessly, like an NBA instant replay in his head. Everything was still a blur, yet, it was all too clear, blinking through his head in 4K high-definition.
A gag lodged in his throat. Donovan felt the bile in his mouth. He could've, fuck—he could've fucking killed someone. That wasn't part of the plan. All he wanted was some extra supplies, not someone's death on his conscience. He didn't want that.
"Fuck, man." he thought, "Fuck."
He gulped down the bitterness and drew a short breath. The acid burned all the way down to his stomach. He needed to suck it up. His right hand lowered the pistol—one bullet gone from a clip of eighteen—into his pocket and reached for one of the bags he'd stolen, that last word lingering in his head.
He pulled it closer, eyes sticking on the marking, which read "S007." He rifled through it quickly, chucking everything he thought he might need—the food, the water, the first-aid kit, the batteries from the extra flashlight—into his own. He tossed the rest of it into the snow.
He didn't need it—didn't want it either. It was just so much dead weight. He pulled the other bag—black, skulls-and-crossbones motif—closer and opened it too. There wasn't a whole lot, some sandwiches—homemade, half-frozen—and a pillow. He took all of it and then threw the backpack away.
He couldn't look at it anymore. Afterward, he zipped up his bag, stood up, and started walking again. Donovan felt terrible, but that was something he had to live with now. It wasn't enough to make him want to turn back that clock—or to stop.
After all, he didn't want to lose.
S043: DONOVAN LAUER — CONTINUED IN "Ocean Man"