silent sorrow / thompson day 2

It's like they put him in time out, which admittedly is embarrassing to consider at fifteen years old. As soon as the stone mass had been dealt with, the other two tributes sprinted off to do something on their own. And then it was just him, left at the doorstep of death. He gets it, okay? He fucked up. And they're not gonna tell him that he did, either. Like a puppy, they'll stroke his coat of fur and coo that "it's okay" and "accidents happen." Accidents like that make people die. They can't convince him that it's okay, especially when they run away from him the first chance they can.

His back met the walls of tree rots and vines that twist throughout the tunnels the forest formed. Thompson took a deep breath and slid down until the rivets in the ground cradle him. It's odd, the world can cradle him in a way his thoughts ever could. Even if they were still there, he couldn't communicate that. It's hard enough to be as big of a burden to them physically. Manifesting that insecurity into their minds isn't going to do any better.

A ringing sound released his mind from his conscious, and he found his hands on a notebook and pen. He could write that insecurity. Thompson has his journal at home, accompanied by the stacks of letters thumbtacked to the wall, is a living memorial for the boy. The stories and tales he wrote to strangers could never be anything bigger than his cry for help. He'll die that way, too. A silent, crumpled cry for help to become something better.