Island of the Slaughtered One-Shots

Broken

(Listen to this while reading this one. Fits the mood I was going for.)

Everything was still as tired grey eyes slowly forced their way open. No breeze. No sounds. No sign of movement elsewhere. It was completely silent as Ezekiel opened heavy lidded eyes.

The only thing he could see was blurry green blades of grass. They tickled, brushing harshly under the side of his face. Where was he? What happened? It was hard to think around the feeling of dense cotton filling his brain. His mouth tasted of iron, though it was faint. Almost as if it was merely a memory of the metallic taste. All of his senses were subdued, like he was experiencing them second hand. He furrowed his eyebrows, frowning when he couldn't lift his head.

.....he couldn't feel his body.

No...wait....there were his fingers. Though, strangely, they felt....far away? That was definitely wood under his fingertips, not grass. He took in a deep breath, taking in the faint scent of grass and earth. Also strangely, the air didn't....seem to do anything? It was almost as if it was coming back out of his neck, though that in and of itself caused a odd sensation. Why did everything feel so far away?

He blinked heavily, swallowing the iron taste. Iron. Wasn't that what blood tasted like? Why would his mouth be full of blood? Why was he on the ground anyway? The last thing he remembered...he was....what had he been doing? Running? Why had he been running? He'd been going to the confessional, hadn't he? He'd wanted to talk about something Harold had told him, right? Or was it that he'd been intending to go? He could remember heading quickly to the outhouse, grass crunching under his sneakers....

".....N...No....", he rasped wetly, eyes widening as memories flooded back...

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The grass crunched softly under his sneakers as he made his way through the common area of the camp. The challenges were set to begin that afternoon, their now second day on the island, and he was nervous. He'd never been around so many people before, especially not ones his own age. He wasn't quite sure how to talk to them. They were all so...strange...in how they conversed. Not at all like what he was used to. Strange phrases and weird ways of speaking. They were so mean to one another too. He wasn't quite sure what to do with that. His parents hadn't prepared him for this.

He sighed, stopping and looking up at the cloudless sky. He didn't belong here. The host of the show, he thought his name was Chris, had already shown him pity from their first meeting. From his first misunderstanding. None of his new teammates had seemed all that thrilled to be with him. Oh! Except for Harold! A smile curled his lips as he thought about the redhead. He'd played rock-paper-scissors with him over a bunk they'd both wanted. Harold had won, but Ezekiel was fine with it. He was just glad to have at least one friend. Even if that friend was one of the ones who spoke oddly.

Speaking of Harold, he'd said something that wasn't sitting right with him. That maybe his parents weren't as knowledgeable as Ezekiel thought they were. He'd made a confused remark to his new friend during breakfast about why were they letting girls compete, eh. Harold had very quickly silenced him, a chapped hand over his mouth, as he'd checked to make sure no one had heard.

"Gosh, Zeke, you can't just say things like that!", he'd said. Confused, Zeke had told him what his dad told him before he came. That girls were weaker and that they needed to be protected. Though, already he had doubts. That one girl had muscles bigger than his head. She could probably squash him like a bug if she wanted to. Then Harold had dropped what he called a 'knowledge bomb'. "Maybe your parents are wrong, man. Maybe they don't know as much as they think they do." Confused, he'd headed off alone to think.

He looked down at his sneakers as he passed the pole with the speakers. His parents were wrong? Was every bit of wisdom he'd ever been taught wrong too? He did his best thinking outloud and in the confessional he could vent on camera. Just him and the camera. That sounded good. He smiled a little, looking up towards the sky again. Based on the sun's position, he had an hour or two before the challenges were set to begin. Just enough time to get his head in order.

His steps slowed for a moment as he could hear a second set of steps behind him. Following him. They were too heavy to be Harold's. Owen's maybe? Something....didn't quite feel right about them. The hair on the back of his neck was prickling. Should he run? Was he in danger? The footsteps were closer. He broke into a run, darring for the confessional. Maybe it had a lock! Maybe-

He screamed as his right arm was grabbed, forcefully whirled around by a large meaty hand. The silver glint of a meat cleaver caught his eyes, dilated with fear, just as it swung down towards him. He couldn't look away, tilting his head back to try and duck away from the blade. Any sound was immediately silenced as the metal bit into the flesh of his throat, blood bubbling passed his lips as he was suddenly falling. Falling. Falling.

F
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His last few seconds of consciousness were spent staring at the sky, wanting his mom..

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"No...."

Tears welled up as he began to silently sob into the grass. He remembered now. He was dead. He'd been decapitated, dying almost instantly. He wasn't sure what had happened to the rest of him after his death. Judging by the sensations he was picking up on, he could guess. His body was in pieces, scattered, the pieces of his ghostly form scattered just the same. That's what he was now. A ghost. Doomed to haunt this island for the rest of eternity. What about the others? Were they safe? Had they befallen the same fate he had? He needed to know. He needed to pick himself up first.

Arms connected to shoulders, elbows met at the three-way joint, wrists met with the ulna and radius.....

Legs were less complicated.

He lifted his chin, resting it on the ground below him so he could look up. The sky was overcast, the beautiful blue of the atmosphere hidden behind grey clouds. It occured to him as well that he had no idea what day it was. Had anyone even noticed he was gone? Was Harold looking for him? Or had he been that insignificant, forgotten by those who hadn't even tried to know him? Had Chris sent a search party to find him? Or had they assumed he'd chickened out and run off?

The almost silent sound of his own footsteps had never been as comforting as they were now. A few more tears slipped down his cheeks as he buried his fingers into his hair in order to pick up his head. He stared blankly at the red stained stump of his neck, his faded clothing in tatters from the cuts that had severed his limbs. He put his head back where it belonged, letting out a sigh of relief at feeling whole again. That was the funny part, though, wasn't it? He would never be whole ever again.

Ezekiel looked morosely down at translucent hands, his skin paler than he'd ever seen it in life. Paler than the skin hidden by his clothes that never saw the sun. Paler than when he didn't take his vitamin D pills. Guess I won't be needing those anymore. He curled his fingers into shaking fists, tears dripping from his chin and vanishing into nothingness before they could hit the ground. He was only sixteen. He'd never kissed anyone. Never driven anything other than a tractor. Never had any friends his age. He'd never get to see the "subway" in person now. He'd never be able to make biscuits again or pet his favorite cow.

He was dead.

H̴̜͚̊̈́e̷̲̼͌̀ ̵̼̙̚w̴̦̠̆͑a̵̩͌͊s̸̩͆ ̸̳̣͑͝b̸̭̽ŕ̴͓͊ͅo̸̥̾̌k̸̦͂̐e̶̤͋n̶̯͠.

.....and he was never going home...