Buried himself on Sunday...
Gus should have known, on reflection, that everything was going too well. He'd felt like he was settling in on the island (how different, after all, was one island from another, really?). He'd laid feelings for Jill to rest and could settle into being her friend now without complication. He was getting to know Mayko. He was even drinking less and, up on the stage giving a speech (although he didn't stand a dead man's chance of being elected), Gus had felt almost at home.
He should have known, really.
He'd been in the rec-room, looking for something to read which wasn't a misprinted Bible and the shelf had practically pushed it into his hands; a battered cannister marked BURIED ON SUNDAY, which had amused Gus. He'd hummed to himself while he'd threaded the film onto the projector.
Solomon Grundy born on a Monday, christened on a Tuesday, married on a Wednesday, grew ill on Thursday, worse on Friday, died on Saturday...
It had not been what Gus was expecting.
Gus hadn't even been able to sit down after the movie started. He couldn't decide if he hated the sight of himself or not. He hated the sound of his own voice, though. He watched with increasing horror.
"Are you scared?"
"Oh, yes."
Noelle was more beautiful on the screen than she had been in real life. He almost laughed, when, on the screen, they realised that the nuclear weapon was armed, but it was a nervous laugh.
And then Dexter died, and Gus couldn't laugh anymore.
He ended up on the beach, the taste of moonshine and vomit bitter, and there wasn't alcohol, and there wasn't any tears. He'd been so proud of himself. The People's Republic of Solomon Gundy. Christ. Jesus Christ. Gus lay on his back on the sand with a bottle in one hand and the other draped across dry eyes. Gus was a Minister, not a priest. There was no Act of Contrition in the Anglican church, no self flagellation. Gus' chest felt tight, and he did the only thing that he could do.
He lifted the bottle and took another long swig.
"Oh, Jesus, Dexter, I'm sorry. I'm so, so, sorry."
In his pocket, the sideletter was crumpled into a ball, and could cause no more trouble.
The damage, though, was done.
ooc: The Minister is Canon Punctured but, as yet, has not worked out that he's actual fictional. He's very drunk, but he could do with a friendly face (new, or old). Gus's canon is the odd little Canadian movie, Buried On Sunday.
He should have known, really.
He'd been in the rec-room, looking for something to read which wasn't a misprinted Bible and the shelf had practically pushed it into his hands; a battered cannister marked BURIED ON SUNDAY, which had amused Gus. He'd hummed to himself while he'd threaded the film onto the projector.
Solomon Grundy born on a Monday, christened on a Tuesday, married on a Wednesday, grew ill on Thursday, worse on Friday, died on Saturday...
It had not been what Gus was expecting.
Gus hadn't even been able to sit down after the movie started. He couldn't decide if he hated the sight of himself or not. He hated the sound of his own voice, though. He watched with increasing horror.
"Are you scared?"
"Oh, yes."
Noelle was more beautiful on the screen than she had been in real life. He almost laughed, when, on the screen, they realised that the nuclear weapon was armed, but it was a nervous laugh.
And then Dexter died, and Gus couldn't laugh anymore.
He ended up on the beach, the taste of moonshine and vomit bitter, and there wasn't alcohol, and there wasn't any tears. He'd been so proud of himself. The People's Republic of Solomon Gundy. Christ. Jesus Christ. Gus lay on his back on the sand with a bottle in one hand and the other draped across dry eyes. Gus was a Minister, not a priest. There was no Act of Contrition in the Anglican church, no self flagellation. Gus' chest felt tight, and he did the only thing that he could do.
He lifted the bottle and took another long swig.
"Oh, Jesus, Dexter, I'm sorry. I'm so, so, sorry."
In his pocket, the sideletter was crumpled into a ball, and could cause no more trouble.
The damage, though, was done.
ooc: The Minister is Canon Punctured but, as yet, has not worked out that he's actual fictional. He's very drunk, but he could do with a friendly face (new, or old). Gus's canon is the odd little Canadian movie, Buried On Sunday.