Those Who Can't

[Chase†]

As I'm writing this I wonder what the hell was I thinking bringing a journal along on the senior trip, am I that much of a recluse that I'd spend my time writing in it instead of living it up with my classmates? Truth is, I probably would have, because at some point I would alienate myself from everyone. Too many people in one place, and I become that much closer to agoraphobia.
Well fuck, now that everyone's on an island bent on killing each other, I guess it's probably good I did have it with me. My head is swimming with decisions and all I have is a tightening in my chest. People I knew have died, gone, all mutilated or something I bet. The sad thing, I suppose, is that sorrow is not a feeling I am experiencing. And while I'm in the shadows, passing into scenes of violence that are so vivid they make a NC-17 look PG. Care Bears and Saw wouldn't make a dent into the real horror of watching a human murder someone else.

She leaned against the boulder nearby the cliff and patiently jotted what she could in the notebook, a canister of what looked like contact solution in her right hand. Her day pack was open with a few items strewn nearby, most likely in her search for a pencil. You could call her a spectator; Melissa had watched a couple of the events that lead towards a lower body count. The first time she had to use every ounce of restraint to keep from vomiting and giving away her position. The next two were captivating to her, she could smell the air thick with blood, and often she would wait until the killer was gone, and the blood dried.

A couple of moments later she closed her book and shoved the items back in her day pack, slung it over her shoulder, and moved on.

I know it's sick, but sometimes I imagine myself in the place of those killers and I wonder what it's like. I get some fascination from it.

((Continued in The Fifth Announcement))