23 Chapter Twenty-Three

The silent, peaceful days that followed after the total bunker lock down was everything Branch ever dreamed of. His walls were now fortified to the teeth and he was in a safe, cozy environment that not even dynamite could penetrate. Honestly, he should have done this sooner. He was all alone, yes, but his appetite rose and he slept better; it was almost like Branch could be normal again, though his skin was becoming more dim and grey than a foggy night in December.

"Pickled plums, pickled plums," Branch sang to himself, lounging in his recliner in the living area with a giant jar placed in his lap. It was huge, bigger than three combined squishballs, and filled to the brim with sweet and sour fruits that have been marinating on the shelf for years. The grey troll pulled out another piece from the sticky liquid and popped it into his mouth, making a comical face before swallowing it down. He lolled his head back and looked over his shoulder over at his remote on the side table, lifting a brow animatedly. "You can't eat it, Gary, you'll break. What a silly notion," he chuckled, reaching in and snagging another treat.

This happiness he felt… Was it really happiness? It was refreshing, awkward, and most definitely a fake feeling, but the grey troll didn't care. The trick was just ignoring everything, even his own thoughts. Real, fake, real; it was all the same now. It was just him, himself, Gary, and his bunker for the next ten years. Branch aggressively pushed all his deep thinking away, refusing to acknowledge anything of the past. Nothing mattered, not even the future. The new goal was simple enough; all he had to do was make his provisions last as long as they could before he was forced to return to the surface. His own company could be the best in the world and he finally wanted to relish in it after all of the fighting and self hatred... or so he thought.

Branch spent a lot of his endless free time laying around, moving from his chair, to his bed, to his library, and then back again. After so much lazying his back became sore, so the troll decided it was time to clean up the chaotic mess strewn all over the floors. He was only a few days into solitude; he couldn't possibly become bored now. Branch took his sweet time, humming soft melodies and tossing the broken items and garbage into bags and throwing them into the incinerator pit. Ghosted pangs of regret taunted him each time he picked up an item that used to mean a lot to him but he ignored it vehemently, telling himself that things could be replaced. Everything was replaceable. Absolutely everything and everyone.

Day number three of being alone. It was fine, everything was fine. He'd do a bit of sweeping, that would make time go by faster. Picking out a broom from the closet, Branch swept along the hallways and drug the bristles along the ceiling, loosening the dust and collecting everything into tiny piles. This is what he lived for; caring for his bunker and nothing else. Cleaning was one of his favorite pastimes and he could do this all day.

He stalled when he walked past Creek's bedroom door. Branch stopped outside of it and looked over the dark oak wood then down to the handle, a lump forming inside his throat. Every single droplet of fake happiness flushed out of his body right then and there and he gripped his broom in a tight fist. He recalled carving the door and hammering the metal, sweating over his workbench to make sure it looked absolutely symmetrical and made from the finest materials he could get his grubby hands on. He did it for Creek, wanting to show as much hospitality as he could despite their circumstances when the purple troll first moved in. It was like he was trying to prove himself worthy of being a host to someone as sophisticated as him. Those moments felt so long ago already… so much had happened since then.

He deserved better than you.

"No, stop," Branch hissed at himself, ripping his eyes away from the door and briskly walking away from it. He wasn't going to keep overthinking. Nothing good would come from it. He couldn't keep doing this!

Branch hurled his broom on the ground in frustration and headed back to his bedroom, throwing himself on the bedspread.

He couldn't… he didn't want it.

It's your fault he's gone.

He groaned, curling up into a ball. The voice in his head was right, of course. Branch clutched his pillow and hugged it, burying his face into the casing. His heart throbbed painfully. He tried desperately tried to fight it, but to no avail. He cried again, covering his mouth so tightly that no sound escaped. He would cry but he didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to acknowledge that he was a broken troll. Ignore it. Ignore everything.

Episodes like these weren't rare or far between. It seemed to happen every day now, whenever Branch came across something that reminded him of Creek. Almost everything reminded him – every room had the essence of that troll, either in memory or random possessions that seemed to pop up out of thin air. Branch's emotional roller coaster was unpredictable while he teetered on the balance beams between the first three stages of grief, denying every truth he didn't want to see but being overturned by guilt, only to become incredibly angry with himself because of his weakness.

Five days through forced solitude and he was back into having fits of rage. Branch left nothing untouched in his path, hating his bunker and hating himself for being alive. What once was clean was now tattered and destroyed, more so than before. He ended up back at his long bedroom mirror, slumped on the floor and begging for an image of Creek to present itself. He was so incredibly tired, worn out emotionally and hopeful for just a little relief; he'd give anything to just get one more look at the troll that he loved. He dug his eyes into the reflection for hours, pitifully wishing and trying to forcefully conjure something even remotely perceptible as his best friend.

Not even Creek's ghost cares to see you.

Branch clenched his jaw, another flash of fury blinding his eyes. The grey troll smashed his fist into the glass with a surprising force, a violent spiderweb crawling over the entire surface. He hit it again, causing the pieces to shatter and bounce out of the framework and fall all over the floor in sharp chunks. Branch panted and unclenched his fist slowly, looking down at his injured hand. The outside of his palm and along his pinky finger was cut and bleeding, tiny streams of blood falling down his forearm. He stared at it injury, completely lost. It didn't even hurt.

You deserved to be hurt, not Creek.

Branch's gaze darkened and he glanced over the broken glass laying over the floor in front of him. He spotted a larger, jagged piece and picked it up carefully, crawling back up to his feet. He walked slowly back down the hall to Creek's bedroom and entered the forbidden domain while feeling numb and blank, flicking on the light switch and looking over everything that hadn't been touched or moved since Creek was last in here. The room was disgustingly tidy and well kept, just like how he'd appreciate it.

A gentle lingering of a minty scent was stuck to the air and Branch's eyelids fluttered heavily, taking in a deep breath to pull in what he could.

The more he wanted, the more destroyed he became.

Branch moved to Creek's bed and sat down, sinking into the plush covers. He felt absolutely dead inside. What was the point of any of this...?

So, what are you waiting for?

His lips parted slightly for air, staring down into his hand that held the broken glass. A droplet of his blood fell onto the clean floor.

It should've been you, not him

"I know..."

If he would've been stronger… if he weren't so stupid;

Branch closed his eyes and brought the point of the glass to side his throat, his breath shallow while he touched it lightly to his grey skin.

This is how you atone. This what will satisfy Creek.

His heartbeat felt wild in his rib cage. Suddenly, he felt a jolt of energy strike through his nerves like a whip, stunning him and making his eyes snap open. He let the sharp piece slip from his fingers, allowing it to bounce on the floor, and put his hands to his face. Branch's shoulders trembling hard while he reeled in his cast on reality. No, this isn't what would satisfy someone who did nothing but care for him at every damned turn; someone who sacrificed himself just to keep him alive. Branch never felt so foolish. He leaned over and stretched out on the bed to press his face into sweet scent that clung on the sheets. The faint smell permeated him and caressed his soul, warily prodding at the darkness enveloping his psyche. The grey troll finally relaxed with a heavy exhale, sending out a silent plea for a dreamless sleep.

- - - -

The sun had already set over the horizon of the forest, bringing the temperature down at least twenty degrees but still within bearable levels. The wind was quiet, snowy breezes resting for the night after layering down their daily douse of winter, and the moon reflected against the white wonderland with a supernatural glow. Miles away, across the thicket of trees and massive expanse of dark water, there was a tiny campsite hidden away inside the rocky ravine. The clearing was nestled next to the lakeside, concealed by giant, stacked boulders with a cave that served as a makeshift home. The camp was owned by an unlikely character, separated and lost from his homeland, but not really missing it much to be quite fair. He'd built his shelter all by himself and was making due with nature for the last six months.

A twice-removed Bergen cousin, but much smaller in stature, Diego was a lizard-like creature with deep, green skin, a pointed face, and teeth as sharp as nails. Once a party crasher, always a party crasher, but he wouldn't be participating in crashing any time soon until he could figure out where the heck he was and how to get back to his town! He'd been stuck stranded in the wilderness all by himself, enjoying what it offered and learning along the way just how difficult it was to survive against ravaging critters and harsh weather elements. The colder it became, however, the more he wanted to get back home. That's what he gets for taking a leak while the rest of his party crasher crew packed up the bugbus and carried on to the next bash. Left behind in a desolate forest with no map or navigation skills, Diego would do what he could until someone – if they even cared – came to retrieve him.

The camp site outside his cave was dug out of the snow and covered with a sturdy canopy of cross-hatching branches and leaves sewn together in raw materials. It was a cozy little area and Diego was very fond of his handy work. He couldn't wait to share his newfound knowledge with the rest of his buddies. Sitting atop his favorite stone in front of the fire, he twirled the catch of the day on a stick through the flames. He sniffed the fish and nodded in approval, letting it roast for a few minutes more.

From the other side of the fire, a purple troll with two-toned hair bolted upright from his sleeping mat with a hand latched to his neck, startling Diego and making him drop their dinner.

"Whoa, easy there mate!" he said, fumbling with the stick and blowing out the tiny bits of flame that caught to the wood.

"My apologies," Creek muttered, rubbing his throat slowly and yawning.

Diego watched him carefully with a quirked brow then smoothed a hand over his webbed mohawk before jumping up from his seat and walking around the fire. He thrust the fish out to the troll and Creek looked up at him. His forehead was sweaty from his nightmare and his skin was paled, a small cause for concern.

"Another vision, I take it?" the reptile mused, shaking his offering impatiently before Creek took the fish with a mumble of thanks.

"A feeling rather than an image," he said quietly. "I'm worried about my… about Branch. He's not doing well. I have to get back soon."

"Don't we all," Diego laughed. "That's the grey one you told me about, right?" He shuffled back over to his seat and skewered another raw fish, propping it into the campfire with a hum. "Can't tell ya that I understand how you know but your leg ain't up to par yet. I wouldn't trek the cliffs for another three weeks, minimum."

Creek stared down at the roasted fish, feeling queasy just looking at it. He shifted uncomfortably, throwing the borrowed coat off his legs as it was suddenly too hot even in this weather.

Because of this guy he was lucky to be alive, but it didn't deter him from wanting to risk his life again in order to climb back up to where he belonged – to where he knew he was needed. When Creek fell, his life flashed before his eyes on the way down to the lake. He made quick promises to the moon, offering up everything he could give to make it out alive. There was so much more he wanted to accomplish in life, he couldn't fathom the ending this way and begged for another chance right before being consumed by the black, watery depths of the lake. His Mother from the other realm wasted no time in taking up his promises. Blacked out and injured, Creek washed up on the other side of the rocky banks, rolled over on his back by a curious stranger who happened to be strolling by while collecting supplies. He was ragged and torn from almost drowning, the currents dragging him along the rocky bottom of the water and then thrusting him out like he tasted something awful. Creek got away with everything mostly intact, spare just a few cuts and scrapes, a ding on his head, and a nasty fracture in his left leg. It was nothing short of a miracle.

Miracle, indeed. Creek could have been horribly mangled beyond repair or would be visiting the pearly gates in the sky. Diego patched the troll up with a makeshift splint and offered him a place to sleep in return for someone to talk to. It was a weird trade, Creek wasn't complaining about it. He was going to be forever grateful to this odd-ball of a creature and took advantage of his hospitality while he willed his body to heal faster, but three more weeks in the wilderness wasn't going to work for him.

"I will find my way back alone, starting tomorrow," Creek said, making a sour face before taking a hearty bite out of the crispy fish. He swallowed the meat with difficulty and then set it aside, pulling Diego's dark coat up and over his shoulders to keep out the night's chill. If it weren't for his indescribable kindness, even if Creek didn't drown he would have froze to death by now. His own cloak and shirt were too torn to wear so he opted going shirtless and offered the scraps to make something more useful.

"I wouldn't," Diego said with pursed his lips and he looked at the troll through the flickering fire. "Yer gonna risk getting eaten alive by some giant critter, or messin' up your leg some more, just because you can't wait to see this fella back home? Sounds really, really stupid if you ask me. I'm sure he can wait."

"Unfortunately, I'm not asking for your opinion."

Diego shrugged indifferently, rotating his fish. "I'm just sayin'. I didn't drag ya out of the water for you to go an' die again. You sure you don't have some kinda death wish?"

Creek covered his mouth then, furrowing his brows. "Mm," he responded shortly, then quickly took up the thick, wooden crutch that Diego had pulled from a brittle tree trunk The purple troll staggered to his feet and used it to hobble to the side of camp, away from the light of the fire. He leaned against the nearest boulder and puked the entire contents of his stomach.

"Doin' alright?" Diego asked worriedly.

Creek kept his back turned and waved his concern off, trying to settle the battle with his nausea, "M'good," he managed to say.

"And what's with that?" Diego asked gruffly, rattling his fish around before sinking his sharp teeth into the head, "Mmfh… You were perfectly fine the other day. Now all of a sudden you've caught some bug, or somethin'. Bad luck, man!"

Creek sighed and wiped his mouth, coming back to lay on his mat with less grace than a newborn fawn. His pride was tortured every time he forced himself to move around on his bad leg, but his companion made no comment about it. "Your guess is as good as mine," he said wearily, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes with his palm resting on his belly. It didn't feel like a normal sickness and a few scary doubts trickled through the back of his mind. It was just another item chocked to the list of reasons on why he shouldn't stay here any longer. Blast his leg and blast his health; there were much more pressing matters that begged Creek's attention.

Diego eyed his form and continued his fish feast, falling silent while Creek rested and tried to drift back to sleep. It was funny how much they've gotten to know one another in a month's time. Each night went through the same routine, a little bit of talk about their homeland here or there, checking on Creek's wounds and discussing all of the other worldly habits that Diego had no idea existed. He meditated and practiced yoga during the day, explaining different stretches and shared his knowledge of energy in its purest form. The purple troll was an odd-ball for sure, but he could get down for the refreshing ways he lived. It was going to be a bummer being stuck out here alone again.