Turmoil

And so the Giants Fall

Atlanta

When we were children we used to play a game called Mercy. The game would go like this, two kids would challenge each other to a contest, and by lunch, word would have spread that so and so were having a face off. We'd have to keep quiet, because Mercy as we knew it was banned in our school, but nevertheless, by the time the tournament rolled around, everybody would know.

Everybody except the teachers.

The two kids, the nominee looking slightly scared, and the opponent radiating cool confidence, would quickly be surrounded by a pool of bobbing heads of people that were both nosy and served to block the contestants from the view of the teachers.

And then Mercy would begin. The rules of Mercy, are simple. One kid grabs the others hand, and squeezes, twists as hard as they can, bends fingers and digs nails into skin, anything is allowed. The whole purpose of this was to make the other person feel pain.

But that was not the challenge. The challenge was to withstand it. There was one rule though, that if the person who the damage was being done to yelled out Mercy, their hand would be let go of. It was all about who lasted the longest.

I don't know why I think of that game now, as I yawn and stretch and pull out stiff muscles. Some birds flicker out of view over head, like fuzzy images on a cheap TV, soaring then swooping, then gliding away. I wish that I could latch myself onto their feet and fly .

But I'd only bring it down. Like I do with people. The dew that has gathered on the grass seeps in and covers my toes. Still bare. Funny, I had forgotten that I lost my shoe.

"Good morning your highness, " a voice says behind me, and I turn to see Henry standing there, hair tousled, shirt unbuttoned. There's a crooked smile smeared across his face, painting his features sunshine. He looks so careless and casual in the morning air, that I can't help but envy him.

"Good morning asshole, " I greet him in return and turn away from the trees, beginning to walk towards him, picking my way nimbly across the wet grass.

"Oooh, someone's touchy this morning, " Henry laughs, then winces. His fingers flutter up to his temple, and I can't help but roll my eyes.

"Back from the land of drunken idiots I see, " I snort at him,   but fetch a glass ( the term is used loosely. The glass was in fact, a plastic cup) of water for him even so.

"How come you're not hung over? " Henry asks, bringing the glass to his lips " you drank more than all of us put together, "

"Well you know the way alcohol kills brain cells ? "

"Yeah and? "

I walk over to the basket of food, that lies amongst the scattered beer cans and after a careful root around, produce an apple. It shines in the morning sun, light bouncing of red, then escaping again. A trampoline.

"Well when there's no more brain cells to kill, the alcohol goes straight into your empty skull, and by sloshing around it causes you a head ache, " I bite into my apple, staring at Henry's narrowed eyes "thus giving you a hangover, "

For a second, I wonder why a hangover is called a hangover, and I'm about to ask Tim when ... when I remember he's not here.

None of them are. They're probably at the campsite, at our campsite, eating breakfast, and Lorraine is probably making sandwiches, and Tim has just finished his morning run, and Phoenix... Except it isn't really 'our' campsite, is it? Because there is no 'us' when I've messed up so badly. It's just 'them' and 'me'.

Suddenly, I feel sick.

"You are extremely bitchy, you know that? " Henry asks, but I don't get a chance to answer as he rushes out to vomit in the ditch. I want to go with him.