VOLATILE (I) : peter pan ouat

When a Perspective Happened

I feel as if I should be mad that he sent me back to camp without warning, especially since he didn't accompany me, but I don't feel like complaining. Not after a successful day.

A few boys sit around the table, finishing off the meat on the bones of whatever unfortunate animal was killed today. No food left for me, which is alright since I'll get up early for breakfast tomorrow. I'll make sure the boys in the tent are doing alright before heading out to get Felix back.

At least I'll leave here knowing the boys are safe from danger. I have confidence Pan can take care of the Natives, and who knows how long this illness can really last for; certainly not long enough to cause any real harm.

Once Felix is back and Dominique is dead, I'll finally be able to leave in peace. Tomorrow marks the beginning of four days until the end.

I can't tell if the thought gives me butterflies because of excitement, or because of fear.

What will being home be like after this? I can't imagine living there, but I can't imagine surviving here. It slips my mind quite consistently that upon my discovery I could be killed. That's why I need to get home. Not because of anything other than the fact that I am a girl.

Seems not only sexist, but completely unjust as well, but who am I to oppose it?

I step forward, looking around for Harry and Alex, but no such luck. Quickly peaking around, I check the med tent, the clothing tent, the armoury, hoping maybe they are hiding in some corner, though I can't seem to find them anywhere.

Perhaps they are still training. I head towards the forest, rounding the corner. A cough echoes past me, followed by a guttural roar.

The sound trails from just off the path. I follow the sound, until I smell the retched scent of vomit. Grass surrounds me, up to my waist in fact, but I wade through.

"You alright?" I call out.

There is no answer other than the groan from the boy.

Another sick. This is the last thing we need.

I spot the body on the ground, and I place my hand on his back.

Keaton sits up, and my hand recoils off of him. He's the one who sounds like a dying lion, a loud cough escaping his lips. And I just touched him.

Body curled up, face much paler than it ought to be, and drool running down his purple lips.

The other boys are sick, but for the most part they look fine. All a little pale, and all in a decent amount of pain. James, Thomas, and Robert all look flushed, as if they've been living too hard. Their cheeks are red, their temperatures high, and they are all so tired. Max, however, looks the sickest out of all of them, his body looks as if the life is draining out of him. His freezing touch and glossy eyes are too similar to death for my comfort.

Keaton however looks as if he has already died. There's a fuzziness about him, as if he's fading away.

He wipes the clear liquid that drips out from his nose, attempting to clear his face of it. Instead, the liquid mixes with the tears escaping his crusting eyes.

Neither of us know what to say. The silence between us is more piercing then I imagine such a frail boy can muster.

I don't know what to do when he starts crying. My fingers can't bring themselves to find their way on to his shaking shoulder. I don't know how to give a dying boy energy, and even if I could I don't know that I'd give it to this boy. Keaton is a murderer, and it's only fair that an illness is sucking him away.

I manage to sit down across from him though, the paralysing feeling in my body starting to fade.

He doesn't make eye-contact with me.