November 15, 1980
Today I managed to do the one thing I thought I was finally getting better at not doing: I made Hope cry. Nice going, Higgins. It started stupid, like most bad things do. We were at our bunks. Evelyn was asleep on her bunk, Harrison was off in his corner glaring at the wall like it did something to him, and the rest were scattered around pretending they weren't thinking about the "final game." Hope was on my bed, cross-legged, sketchbook open. I was at the foot of the bunk, pretending to read but really just watching Harrison and thinking about how many ways a person can bleed.
"You know," Hope said, tapping her pencil against the page, continuing as she spoke,
"I was thinking… if we actually get out of here, we could make that story we talked about even better."
"Mm." I hummed, not taking her seriously.
"I mean it," she went on, ignoring my very enthusiastic response.
"We already have characters. Conflicted main guy, traumatized best friend, mysterious therapist girl. I could draw them, you could write them. We could show people what it's like in here without actually saying it's here, you know?" She sounded… happy. Genuinely happy. In this place. I didn't answer. I was too busy staring at Harrison's stupid face and imagining the sound the gun would make when I finally shut him up.
"Franklin?" she tried again, tilting her head.
"Hello? Earth to Journal Boy?" I snapped, the book closed harder than I meant to.
"What?" She flinched a little.
"Oh. I just… wanted to ask what kind of ending you'd want. Like, do you like happy endings? Or more bittersweet? I feel like you're a bittersweet kinda guy." She said,
"Why are you planning endings," I said,
"when we don't even know if we're gonna live to see tomorrow?" Her smile faltered, just a tiny bit.
"Because… that's kinda the point? If we don't think about any future, what's the motivation?" She said as if it was so obvious.
"The motivation is not getting shot in the head. That's it, that's the whole list" I said. She frowned, she pointed at me, putting her hand on her hip.
"That's not true. You promised Riley you'd look for Lance's sister. That's more than just not dying." Riley's name hit harder than any punch Harrison ever threw. I felt my jaw clench.
"Yeah," I muttered. "And I can't do that if I don't make it to the end. Which means I don't have time to sit here picking out fairy-tale endings with you like we're twelve." Her eyes widened, hurt flickering across her face.
"I'm not trying to play make-believe, Franklin. I'm trying to give us something to hold onto." She said,
"It's a delusion," I shot back before I could stop myself.
"You draw in that book like we're not in a place where people's brains get blown out for entertainment. Stories, dreams, Dunkin drinks. None of it matters if we die tomorrow. You get that, right?" She stared at me like I'd slapped her. For a second, I thought she'd just shut down, do that fake smile thing and walk away. Instead, her voice came out small but sharp.
"So that's what you think I'm doing? Just… ignoring everything?"
"Aren't you?" I said.
"You smile through everything. You joke. You talk about some future art career like these people aren't lining us up to kill us. It's like you live on another planet half the time." I said, more rudder than I realized. She laughed once, a short, humorless sound.
"You think I don't know where I am?" she said.
"You think I don't know people are dying? I can still see their faces when I close my eyes, Franklin." She said, painfully.
"Could've fooled me," I muttered. Her hands tightened around the sketchbook. I noticed her knuckles go white.
"At least I'm trying," she said, voice shaking now.
"All you do lately is stare at Harrison like you're already dead and just waiting for your turn to take him with you." She said, bluntly.
"Good," I said.
"Because that's what's going to happen." Her eyes flashed.
"You think that's what Riley would've wanted? For you to waste whatever time you have left obsessing over killing someone instead of… I don't know, actually living?" She said, I felt something hot in my chest.
"Don't bring him into this." I said, before Hope doubled down.
"I have to," she snapped,
"Because you only talk about the future when it's, 'I'm gonna make Harrison suffer'. That's it. That's your big plan. You think that's honoring Riley? He trusted you with something important, and all you can see is revenge."
"Maybe that's all this place has left," I bit out.
"You saw what Harrison did. He used Riley like a shield and then threw him away. If I don't stop him, he's going to do that to someone else. You. Evelyn. Anyone. So forgive me if I'm not in the mood to talk about villains and heroes for your future best-selling comic." She flinched like I'd hit a nerve. Then her eyes hardened. I didn't see that look on her a lot.
"I'm not asking you to forget what he did," she said quietly.
"I'm asking you not to become him." She answered. That made my heart drop.
"I'm nothing like him." I said, angrily.
"Aren't you?" she whispered and continued,
"You said you'd feel no remorse when you kill him. That's his line, Franklin, not yours." My hands curled into fists.
"You have no idea what's in my head." I said, trying to fight back with what little I had.
"And you don't know what's in mine," she fired back, voice breaking.
"You think I'm 'delusional'? 'Smiling through everything'? You saw my nose. You know what I did to myself, and you still think I'm just playing pretend?" That one shut me up. She wiped at her eyes angrily.
"You were the one who told me I wasn't a burden. That I could talk to you. That I wasn't just… broken beyond fixing. And now you're acting like everything I do to cope is stupid." She said,
"I never said stupid," I muttered.
"You didn't have to," she said,
"You made it very clear." She hugged her sketchbook to her chest like a shield and slid off the bed.
"You know what, if my drawings and stories are so pointless to you, then fine. I won't bother you with them anymore."
"Hope—" she cut me off.
"But don't you dare act like you're the only one who lost something,"
she added, voice suddenly cold in a way I'd never heard from her.
"Riley was my friend too. And I am terrified every second that I'm going to lose you and Evelyn next. So maybe let me imagine a world where that doesn't happen for five minutes without tearing it apart." She turned on her heel and walked away, heading toward the bathroom. I saw her shoulders shaking as she went. I didn't follow. Because apparently I am still a coward, just a louder one now. Time passed. I don't know how much. Could've been ten minutes. Could've been an hour. The cameras kept sweeping the room like vultures. Harrison snickered to himself over something only he thought was funny. Evelyn sat on her bunk, arms folded, watching everything with that therapist stare. Eventually, she slid off her mattress and came over to me.
"You know," she said mildly,
"For someone who claims he studied people his whole life, you can be surprisingly dense."
"Hi Evelyn," I muttered.
"Nice chat." She ignored that.
"She wasn't just talking about stories." Evelyn said.
"Yeah, I figured," I grumbled.
"And you weren't just talking about Harrison," she went on.
"You were talking about being afraid to want anything that isn't survival or revenge. Because every time you did, someone died." She stated. Read me like a book. I glared at the floor. I hate when she's right.
"Riley would have hit you with a pillow for that conversation, by the way. And then made you apologize" she added,
"He's not here," I said. It came out harsher than I meant.
"No," she said quietly.
"But you are. And so is she. Go fix it." She said, calmly.
"I don't know how," I admitted. "You're the professional." She snorted.
"I drugged a guy once. Hardly professional. Just… be honest. That's all she ever wanted from you." I let out a slow breath, slid off the bed, and headed toward the bathroom. I knew I couldn't go into the girls bathroom, but it's not like there were anymore girls to worry about being there, so I just walked in. The light in there always buzzes like it's dying. It fits the mood. Hope was at the sink, hands braced on the edge, head down. Her sketchbook was sitting closed on the little ledge under the cloudy mirror. For once, she wasn't faking a smile at her reflection. I hovered in the doorway like an idiot for a second, then forced myself to move inside.
"Hey," I said. Real smooth. She didn't look up.
"Bathroom's not reserved, you know. You can use it."
"Not here for that." I responded.
"Then you're wasting your turn," she muttered. I leaned against the wall next to the mirror, arms crossed so I didn't fidget like an idiot.
"I, uh…" The words stuck in my throat. Apologizing isn't exactly my area of expertise.
"I shouldn't have said what I said. About your stories. Or you being delusional." I finally said. She sniffed but didn't answer.
"I know you're not ignoring what's happening," I went on, forcing myself to keep talking.
"I was just… pissed. At Harrison. At this place. At the fact that every time I start to want something, it gets ripped away. So hearing you talk about futures and books and millions of people reading our stuff felt like… like another thing I wasn't allowed to want." She finally glanced over at me, eyes red.
"So you decided to make sure I didn't want it either?" She said, voice cracking slightly. I winced,
"Yeah. I guess I did."
"That's not very nice, you know," she said weakly.
"I'm aware," I said.
"I'm not exactly Mr. Nice Guy of the Year, in case you haven't noticed." I said, trying to make some sort of humor from this. A tiny, unwilling smile tugged at her mouth, then disappeared.
"I meant what I told you before," I said more quietly.
"You're not a burden. And I don't think your way of coping is stupid. If anything, it's… more productive than mine."
"Plotting a murder isn't a coping mechanism?" she asked dryly.
"It's not on the healthy list, apparently," I said.
"According to our resident fake therapist." That got a small huff out of her. Progress. I shifted my weight.
"You were right, by the way. About Riley. He'd probably hate what I've been doing. But I can't just let go of what Harrison did."
"I didn't say you had to let go," she murmured.
"I just… don't want to lose you to it." She said softly.
She looked down at her hands, I explained,
"When I hurt myself, it wasn't just because I felt guilty. It was because I didn't see a version of the future where I wasn't hurting someone. Or disappointing someone. Or… ruining something. Drawing, making stories, talking about 'after'. It's the only way I can convince myself there might be a version where I'm not just… damaged." I swallowed.
"I get it," I said. I slowly gripped my arm, and uttered,
"More than you think." She finally turned to face me fully. Up close, the little white line on her nose stood out. Proof she'd been where my head likes to live.
"I'm still gonna want Harrison dead," I said, because I refuse to lie.
"I'm not gonna pretend I suddenly found forgiveness in a jail cell. But… I also don't want that to be the only thing driving me. Riley deserved better than that. You deserve better than that." Her eyes softened.
"So… what else drives you then?" I looked at the sketchbook on the ledge, then back at her.
"Well," I said slowly,
"Apparently I'm supposed to help write a story millions of people are going to read. And I promised a cross-dressing teddy bear I'd find a kid who's probably scared out of her mind and get her away from her crappy family. That's at least two things." A real smile broke through this time from Hope, a small one but real.
"Those are pretty good reasons." Hope said, softly. I shrugged.
"I have good taste sometimes." I said. She bit her lip, then stepped a little closer.
"I'm sorry too," she said.
"I shouldn't have thrown Riley in your face like that. Or called you like Harrison. I was just… scared. Of losing you the same way I lost him. The same way you lost your brother. I… projected. That's the word Evelyn would use, right?"
"Yeah," I said.
"She'd probably give us both gold stars for using it, too."
Hope laughed softly.
"So… we're okay?" I asked, which felt more vulnerable than any loaded gun I've ever held. She hesitated only a second before nodding.
"Yeah. We're okay." She held out her pinky. I stared at it.
"You're kidding." I said, my eyebrow raising, although I found the pinky amusing nonetheless.
"Pinky promise," she insisted.
"You don't get to back out now. You said you'd be my partner. Writer and artist, remember? That means you're not allowed to die out of pure spite." I rolled my eyes, but I hooked my pinky with hers anyway. It felt ridiculous and… weirdly grounding.
"Fine," I said.
"I, Franklin Higgins, solemnly swear not to die purely out of spite. If I die, it'll be for a very reasonable, non-spite related reason." She giggled at that.
"And I, Hope-with-the-scar-on-her-nose, solemnly swear to keep bugging you about plot ideas until you admit you like it." She jokingly said.
"Don't push it," I said, but I didn't let go of her pinky right away. We stood there like idiots for a few seconds, hands linked, buzzing light above us, cameras probably zoomed in like creeps. For once, I didn't care. Back at the bunks, things felt… lighter. Not fixed. This place doesn't allow "fixed." But the air didn't feel like it was crushing my lungs anymore. Hope sat on my bed again, sketchbook open.
"So," she said, pencil poised, eyes bright but softer now.
"Tell me about our main character. What's the first thing he writes in his journal after he survives the final game?"
I smirked a little, grabbed my real journal, and flipped to a blank page.
"I don't know yet," I said.
"But I guess I should start figuring it out, right?"