#off-sensive

Seashells feel cool against his fingertips. They're not like the black, seemingly sun-charred rocks that line the coastside. They're not like the white-hot sand that his feet sink into day after day. Seashells are smooth. Limestone softened by the weathering of waves, of time, of perpetual movement, day after day after day.

He doesn't know how many days have passed anymore.

The plane wreckage still sits, on the cusp of shore and jungle a few miles away. There's nothing for him there now— every cushion and strap ripped off with stray glass shards and every button, instrument, gauge checked, rechecked, triplechecked for any signs of life.

But there was None. None at all. Not even in the corpses strewn about the plane's twisted interior.

He couldn't bring himself to see his cousin again.

These days he fills his time walking up and down the shore. Fishing provides sustenance. There's the fruit, too— coconuts, crabs, some things he didn't have a name for but still ate anyway. Collecting water in palm leaves. Finding firewood. Making traps with vine and sticks. Anything to pass the time. Before, he'd spend whole days crying, curled up in the nook of a tree, shivering at every shudder of darkness, every howl and every nightfall. He doesn't cry anymore. Neither does he shake.  He couldn't remember the last time he slept. He didn't care.  He didn't want to dream, anyway. He didn't want to wake up and remember that he wasn't at home, in Boston, with his family. He didn't want to remember gore spattered across the carrier. He didn't want to remember Alex.

He wanted this to be over.

"Okay, I don't really get it, but I guess we're doing this thing now?"

Alexander squints at the piece of paper in his hand that reads: HUNGER GMAES AU in all caps. He looks at his cousin, Keith, who looks back at him expectantly, waiting for an answer. He's ignored, the blond instead turning away to hide the exasperation practically oozing from his face.

"Why are we doing this," he asks hollowly. "I don't remember ever signing up for some cheap version of Whose Line is it Anyway."

Keith blinks. "I dunno man, but it sounds like fun, yeah?"

"Fun? Are you kidding me?" Alex turns around. "What exactly about cannibalism and total death and starvation spells out fun for you?"

Keith backs up, holding his hands up in mock-surrender. "I mean, if it was reaaally happening, duh it wouldn't be fun. But it ain't so—"

"And who even names their kids so tragically? Peeta and Catpiss? Who expects anyone to take this novel seriously?"

"It's, uh, Catniss."

"Same difference."

"You're so weird, dude."

"What?"

Keith walks off, waving Alex away. "I'm gonna play myself some Left4dead. Have fun being a dweeb by yourself."

"Keith—"