Survival Of The Fittest

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Terrence sat at the kitchen table, bent over an old laptop. He’d been scrolling for a while, but now he was just staring blankly at the home screen of his browser. His phone was open next to him. He hadn’t slept. He had no intent to.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The clock was the loudest noise in the house.

The phone blipped, and Terrence turned to look at the newest text. Just two words.


nothing yet


Terrence responded.


ok


Then he went back to silently staring at the screen.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The screen of the laptop flickered off. He must not have touched it for a while, and the screensaver had kicked in. It was dark, but there was light in the kitchen. Enough for Terrence to be able to see his own face. Black (though greying) hair, that was wavy on top no matter what he did. Bright, blue eyes, a square jaw and curved nose. Features that his son had inherited. All he’d gotten from his mother was pink cheeks and exaggerated expressions.

Even if what he suspected about the bus crash was true… the chances of his son managing to reach this age would be less than 100 to 1.

...Lower, if he was honest with himself. That was assuming every child had an equal chance. There would be kids more suited to the game. Fighters. Liars. Even those who were just instinctively self-preserving and selfish. Those would be the kids that went far. That had a chance of getting out of this.

Tick.

As much as it made his gut curl up… Marshall wasn’t that sort of kid.

Tick.

Last time he’d seen his son, Marshall had been sitting right here. Studying, the second-last night before he went on the trip. The night before the trip, he’d been asleep by the time Terrence had got home, and gone in the morning. He’d gotten up early enough to make breakfast. Terrence had found some left for him.

Tick.

He could have got up earlier.

Tick.

He could have done a lot of things better. He could have accepted Marshall’s insistence that he didn’t need to go on the ski trip. Accept that, instead of pawning his watch – his one remaining link to his old, wealthy life – because he’d wanted Marshall to enjoy every last little bit of fun that high school had to offer.

Because he’d spent his own high school years hanging out with friends and girls, secure in the knowledge that his future was paid for, and the closer the end of high school got, the more he regretted not being able to give that to his son.

Tick.

He should have told Marshall before it was too late to take back.

Tick.

He shouldn’t have fucked up their lives to begin with.

Tick.

He shouldn’t have placed that bet back in 2018.

Tick.

Now the house was empty.

Tick.

And that clock--

Tick.

--wouldn’t stop--

Tick.

--fucking--

Ti--

Terrence got up, strode over to where the clock was and removed it from the wall, before he lifted it over his head and slammed it down as hard as he could on the floor. Pain sliced one of his legs as glass scattered across the floor.

Terrence sat back down, ignoring his bleeding leg, and continued to stare at the laptop.

The room was silent. He felt no better.

(Sent through email, after several ignored voicemails.)

Terrence,

This is a new low, even for you. Using what you borrowed on gambling, that was one thing beforehand. But I thought this time would be different. All we wanted was to help you say goodbye in a way that was proper. To give the family a chance to mourn beyond a public memorial. We gave you that money for a funeral, and now I’m told that there is no funeral? And that there’s no money left, to boot?

Don’t think that I don’t know where the money went. I know that it went where it always goes with you. I can’t begin to say how disgusted I am, that you would steal money from your own son’s funeral.

Don’t ever call me again. You’re as dead to me as Marshall is.

-

(No reply sent.)

-

(Sent through email.)

Terrence,

I am coming in tomorrow. I will not be leaving until you let me in. You don’t even have to talk to me, but I need to be there. I just want to see any photos, or belongings. Something. Anything.

I know I don’t deserve it. I’m just asking for this favour, and then I’ll be out of your life for good, I promise.

Regards,
Clara

-

Reply sent:

I’ll let you in if you can lend me any amount of money. As much as you can spare. Ideally cash. Consider it owed child support.

-

Reply sent:

Consider it done. I will arrive tomorrow between 5:30pm and 6:30pm.

Regards,
Clara

Clara looked nothing like their son. Tall, slim and with straight, blonde hair (though there were streaks of grey in it now). Dark eyes and delicate features.

But of course there was Marshall in her expressions. And in her voice. Terrence was reminded the moment that Clara opened her mouth.

“Terrence West, I cannot believe you didn’t contact me!” she shouted.

“I haven’t contacted you in nearly a decade, nor have you contacted me. Why would it matter now?” Terrence muttered. “That’s what you wanted.”

“I know, but you should have known it didn’t cover situations like this!”

“Do you want me to lock you out?”

“No!”

“Then come in and stop shouting at me. I though we’d agreed that you just here to look. Not to talk to me.”

“Right. You’re correct… that is what I intended to do.” Clara rubbed her eyes with a sigh. “I lost my temper, and I apologize. May I come in?”

“Mmhm. You got the money I asked for, right?”

In response, Clara handed him an envelope. “I do. But just what do you intend to do with it?”

Terrence didn’t answer. Instead, he just pushed the apartment door open wider and walked back inside. “Mind your feet in the kitchen.” He hadn’t cleaned up the glass from the broken clock, despite the fact that days had elapsed since. “Marshall’s room hasn’t moved since you were last here, so you know where to go.”

Clara nodded. “Do you think he would object to me being there?”

“What does it matter? He’s not here.”

“Even so.”

“If you want the truth?” Terrence glanced back at her as he moved back towards where he’d left his laptop. “He hasn’t spoken about you since you left and he realised you weren’t coming back. Marshall talks about everything. He can’t keep a secret for the life of him. If he’s managed to not bring you up for so long… I can only assume you’re dead to him.”

He kept his eyes on the laptop as he sat down, and didn’t bother to watch her face crumple as he knew it would. Eventually, he heard her footsteps move away towards Marshall’s room.

Time passed.

He didn’t realise that she’d come back until he heard the sound of a broom sweeping up the broken glass.

“This is a hazard!” she told him as she swept.

“Mm.”

She finished sweeping up the glass, then sat down across from him at the little table. She’d taken Marshall’s usual seat. Not that there were other seats to take.

“Terrence… I heard there was no funeral.”

“You spoke to my brother, didn’t you?”

She nodded.

“Did he tell you about the money?”

She nodded again.

“Then why did you bring money?”

“Because I wanted to see Marshall’s room. As… as some sort of closure, I suppose. If I had to pay, then I would. But… but why?”

Terrence looked up from his laptop. This time, it was more than a glance.

“Clara… it was an entire high school class. Gone without a trace of the bodies. ...A high school class, Clara.”

“You… think he was kidnapped?” Clara swallowed, then said, “You think he’s still alive?”

“Now? ...Probably not. He’s too good a kid to ever do well in a game like that.”

Clara looked down for a few moments, struggling for control over her face. “That’s why you’re on the laptop. To find the stream when it happens.” Clara laces her fingers together and leans forward. “That doesn’t explain--”

“The money. I know.” Terrence looked upwards at her, clasping his hands together to mirror her own. “You won’t think well of me.”

“I haven’t thought well of you since you knocked me up,” Clara said bluntly. “Let’s not pretend we ever had a loving relationship.”

“Fair enough.”

Terrence pushed the laptop aside. The screen still in his view, but not his sole focus. He leaned a little further forward. “Last time this happened… there were bets on the outcome. All under the table, of course. I… I heard about it from acquaintances. I heard, later, that there was even some inside source that ranked all the kids on their chances of survival, specifically for betting purposes.”

Clara stared at him for a moment, then leaned back on her chair. A look of disgust had come over her face. “Oh, Terrence… you didn’t.”

“Three hundred on Boy 52. Not to win. Just to place high. I didn’t even look at the names or the list. I just… flipped a coin on gender, and picked a number at random. I heard from someone later that the list… it had placed Boy 52 as an early out. A very early out. So a lot of people were betting on his early death. But he… he lived longer than expected. Enough to make me 3k richer.”

Clara was silent – rare for her.

“I couldn’t get rid of the money fast enough. Even tried to give some to Marshall. Didn’t tell him what I’d got it from, obviously.” Terrence snorted bitterly and said, “Kid’s oblivious, normally, but I think even he knew that it’d come from somewhere bad. Maybe not ‘gangster money,’ but...”

He tailed off briefly, then looked at the laptop again.

“Marshall being taken feels like karma for profiting off the last game. I keep rolling it around in my head, and that’s all I can think about.”

“Karma is a concept used to explain coincidences. It's like destiny, fate, Murphy's law... it's just human nature to see patterns where there aren't any," Clara said dismissively. "I can't... pretend that what you did wasn't horrible. But it has nothing to do with Marshall. And it doesn't explain... why..."

Clara looked at him, then the laptop, then at the envelope of money sitting next to him. Realization flickered across his face.

“...You’re betting again.”

“Ten times what I put down, for a kid who didn’t even win.” Terrence stared blankly at the screen. “I scrape together every dollar I can find… call in any tiny favour I can, find any loan sharks who’ll give me something… even exploit family if I have to. And I put all of it on Marshall to win. The amount I could win… you might not like it, Clara, but the amount of money people pour into this is obscene. The sorts of people who bet on it...”

“So you’ve learned nothing is what you’re saying. No, worse. This is even worse than what your brother made it sound like.” Revulsion flooded from every syllable Clara could get out.

“No. No… not me. If Marshall comes home, he won’t come home the same. To win that game… he’d have to change. If he comes home, I want to be able to afford whatever he’ll need to recover. Whatever he’ll need to be comfortable, and make surviving worth it.”

Clara sat back. The disgust faded somewhat, though not entirely. The rest was replaced with a worried frown.

“...It’s a big if, Terrence. I want to believe he’ll come home. But… you know how unlikely it is, and if he loses… you put everything on this, and you’ll lose everything.”

Terrence reached over and shifted the laptop closer.

“They took everything when they took my son. I’ve got nothing left to lose.”