let's tessellate | {rusty/scar}

[ s c a r ]
"you're a shark
and i'm swimming"

Things have gone silent.

When we arrived, it was always excitement and dancing, dressing to impress, smiling at the strangers we all live with. Now, I walk the corridors completely aware of the maddening form of quietness that follows closely behind me. No one speaks to me. I don't speak to any of them, really. We all eat at different times and enjoy the luxuries Mr. black has offered us separately.

I am beginning to wonder if I have made the right choice in coming here.

At times, I know without a doubt that this opportunity was possibly one of the best I would be afforded in my lifetime. But there are those moments, usually when I am in my room at night, when the loneliness begins to set in. (It truly is not something I am equipped to handle, being alone.) My entire life, I have been noticed. Maybe not always positively, but my name was always a word that left an addictive taste in a person's mouth.

I expected this could happen, that we could all alienate one another, but I always kept hope that it wouldn't happen. Turns out, money is powerful enough to do things like this. And I bet the others all feel the same pang of loneliness. I bet they all question their decisions when they are trying to sleep at night. But I can guarantee that, like me, they are all competitors. No one will blink first. It's a time bomb waiting to explode, and the person who manages to be the furthest away will get the least amount of damage. So that is what I have to do: get away from the dwindling supply of time. I have to distract myself.

I need some interaction.

For whatever reason, I have decided to look for it in a person I have not really thought of as much of a competitor. Rusty the gardener. Or, handy-man. Whatever he is. The only thing I truly know about the boy is that he walks around with a bitter chip on his shoulder and a glare that could melt marble. He is exceptionally tall and I have decided that if he didn't always look so angry, he could be kind of attractive.

He would not be the first person I would choose to talk to first on the island, but my intuition has been completely demolished since arriving here. (The memory of Brently's cruel words flashes before my eyes.) And besides, Rusty is the person I see first, doing his duties in the garden I suppose. His face is smeared with dirt. A thin layer of sweat glistens in the afternoon light. He doesn't really pay me any attention until I step between him and the rose bush he is clipping. "Hello, Rusty. It's a little hot out for all of this labor, don't you think?"

I watch to see his expression change. Half of me expects it to twist into a scowl. The other half thinks he may just roll his eyes and walk the other way. Neither option is really ideal, so I hope I am wrong. (For the first time in my life.)