Chapter Text
First came the noise: Wind rushed past in a whine, pteranodons shrieking, his own screaming. The shouts growing distant above him...
Then the pain: Claws digging, digging, digging, into his shoulder blades. Flashes of agony so deep, so close to his core, he was going in and out of consciousness. Something wet and warm was working its way down his back. The skin around his shoulder was tearing like paper to a knife. He never stood a chance.
Ben realized that he didn’t want to die. Everyone thinks that, huh? But it was different now. When he was actually falling down, dying, dead. He knew there was no chance he would make it. Whether he was torn apart or his bones shattered against the ground. That's when it hit him so fully the truth was unescapable, not that he would think of it any other way. But then, then it hit him: Ben wanted to live. He wanted to go to that house again. He wanted a warm, safe blanket wrapped around him and the quietness of his locked bedroom door.
Ben had never believed in a god before. In any of them. Now he wondered what would happen to him. He could just be floating through space, a thing without body or language. That might be nice. To rest forever. To not have any reason to worry until the very fabric of the universe imploded on itself.
His body floated limp through the air. His eyes closed tightly before he died.
He didn’t know where he was. Black spots danced his vision before clouding it entirely.
Before he had even fully opened his eyes he was heaving. A full body effort to convulse. Puke came up his throat, so quickly, so sickly. The hot liquid was running out his nose, out his mouth. Burning sensation in his throat. In his nose. In his mouth. His hands scrambled for purchase of the crumbling dirt. Pain shot through him at each brief point of contact. Blinding pain behind his eyes. He rocked forward. He couldn’t even remember passing out.
When he woke a third time he stayed awake. Dry heaving, there was nothing left in him to throw up. He wiped his mouth with the corner of his palm. Leaning on his side, he closed his eyes. Pain flared in his lower back on his tailbone, he must have landed on it. Dry blood crusted his hands and arms, it was brown. Dirt rubbed in it as much as dried out blood.
Slowly he reached out to his waist. Hand sanitizer, it wouldn’t do any good in the condition he was in. He was sure he was covered in puke, he smelt like it. He still couldn’t force himself to look.
His hand snatched at the empty air. He took a shaky breath.
Gone. Gone. Gone. The one thing that has always been there. The simple comfort of rubbing and rubbing cleaner on himself till his skin was raw because he didn’t feel clean. No matter what he looked like. There was still dirt and germs all over him. He couldn’t hide from them. Burrow in his room and hide from the world. They would be there.
His breaths came rapidly. Hands shook from fear. The pain was catching up to him and what was an ache now was like his skeleton was leaving his body.
He groaned, spitting the bitterness and warmth of vomit out his mouth.
Stay calm. That was the motto. That was what his therapist told him to do when his anxiety got like this. Step back, breath, get in your headspace, then reassess the situation. So he did, silently thanking Doctor Sarah for the exercise. One in one out. Two seconds in, three out. Three in, three out. Four in, four out. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Breath. Release. Repeat.
Except when he opened his eyes again, nothing had changed.
He looked down, his pants stained with dirt and covered in thick sludge of his puke. It had crusted over them in a chunky sheet of orange. He gagged suppressing the urge to add to the pile. But his gag reflex kept going, gagging till he was sick and could hardly breath.
Ben shook himself, not literally he was in too much pain for that. He could survive this… he could find the others and they would get off the island and go home and it would all be one big nightmare. Where were the others?
The night came back in bursts. The monorail. They’re off the island then, safe and sound. Back in bed where they could pretend this never happened. They left him. No. No. That was a good thing wasn’t it. He only slowed the group down. They thought he had died of course they left him. It would have slowed them down to look for him. He was always slowing them down. If he could just-
His ears rang with screams that weren’t there. What if they hadn’t made it at all? Yaz and Kenji were injured. What if the pteranodons had circled back for them? Ben swived his head around, all he could see was their bodies.
His friends' bodies were torn apart and ruined. Their bones sticking out of torn flesh. Flies nestled into the rotting meat as blood soaked the group. The petradons' beaks picked them apart bit by bit and Ben was the only one alive. He- the one who deserved it the least- was alive and they were gone. Gone. Gone. It was selfish to think they would leave him. They were dead. Dead. He looked to his right. Kenji’s rotten corpse, only enough left of his face to tell it was him. Legs twisted under him in a way that white bone poked through. The petradons had torn open his stomach eating the meat around his broken ribs. Beyond him was Darius, what was left of his hand clutching his necklace. The rest of him just blood so much blood. Brooklynn to his left, her organs strewn and fought over, bugs ran into them now devouring them. Yaz hadn’t made it far, they clawed her broken ankle. The ankle she had broke to save them. To save him. He had been in the boat with her. His fault. All of it. She could have ran away if it wasn’t for him. He wasn’t even capable of surviving that. Sammy had made it the furthest but she was trampled. Like she had gotten caught in the gyrosphere stampede. She was too confident in ability to calm any animal.
He blinked and they faded away. They were never there. There were no bodies. No blood. He was insane. Without warning he started laughing, a terrified unfunny laugh. He was shaking more than laughing, unraveling and coming apart. There were tears on his face, he didn’t care. He was always a crier that was what the other kids called him. He was weak for a boy. He should just man-up. That’s what they all said but he thought this… for once it might be justified to cry.
Sarah would have a field day with this one. Anxiety hallucinations.
He stopped laughing, the pain leaving him gasping and choking on air where he was crying.
Why try to survive? He wasn’t good enough. They had gotten off or they were dead and Ben was alone. Alive and alone in a pile of puke and blood. He was sure his bones were broken and his organs were poisoned.
He wanted to peel his skin off in one sheet. One skin suit. He wanted to scrub out his bones with bleach and wash his organs out. He would clean his eyes and peel off his nails to wash under nearth in soapy water. He would wash his skin inside and out. He would replace his blood with something new and restart his heart. Oh that was the dream. He could put himself back together bit by bit and be someone entirely new and clean. He was never contaminated.
He let his fantasies fly by. Ben was going insane wasn’t he? Didn’t insane people not know they were insane? No he hadn’t even been alone for a day yet he couldn’t be insane.
He looked up towards the sun. Squinting his eyes at the brightness. It had been at least a day maybe more given how hunger pain clawed at his stomach. He could give up now. It was a realization he’d never understood. He could die at any time in any way. But now all he had to do was sit and refuse to move. He could rot right here. Become part of his hallucinations. He scolded himself for a second, Sarah would be upset about that. Then a second later he remembered his mother might be upset about it too. He didn’t want to know why he thought of Sarah first. She was his therapist, not his mother. It was her job to help him. She didn’t really care. No one really cared. Not when it mattered. And they never had to care again because he could just lay here and die right now.
Something bumped into his side. A little nudge sent pain ricocheting through him. He groaned, swatting his hand at it. Ben drew it back quickly realizing it might be a compy wanting to bite each one of his fingers off and chew it slowly in front of him, he wouldn’t put it past the little demons. An annoyed grumble sounded beside him. He … He knew that noise. It was his baby. His girl.
“Bumpy.” A happy squeak as she nuzzled his limp hand. “Bumpy… hey—hey girl.” His voice was raw and barely audible. Ben moved slowly, taking his hand and setting it on Bumpy’s head. How’d she get here? Did it matter? Yes. Yes it did. He knew logically that the others wouldn’t have taken Bumpy on their own. That if Ben hadn’t been there even Sammy would have left the poor baby dino behind. And now he was gone and here she was. Unless they were all dead and she had to watch as Ben fell and the others were slaughtered by dinosaurs hundreds of times bigger than her. The thoughts didn’t help at all. His brain could just shut up. It wasn’t helping.
He rubbed her uneven head bumps softly. She was here now, that was all he could think about. He let the coldness of her scales ground him, the rough patches over his uncalloused hands. The sting of his open wounds. He wasn’t meant to survive this. It would be easier to lay down and die but he found he didn’t want to. He looked back on his life. He had done nothing. Nothing that mattered. He was sixteen and hadn’t really lived. He had survived, but he had hidden most of his life. Wrapped in a bubble of anxiety.
He wanted to live for himself. Not because his mother would be heartbroken. Not because he didn’t want to disappoint anyone. He wanted to live for himself and his friends. He wanted the chance that he might be able to see them again. Even if there was little chance that they survived. That he would survive. Even if it was just for one more sunrise he could bear his teeth to the world and hold onto Bumpy as he bled the same color as the sunrise.
On that morbid note Ben shifted his thoughts. He needed to get clean to avoid infection. But in order to get clean he needed a water source and a way to get to it. He was fairly certain he couldn’t walk. He groaned, annoyed at himself, at the state his body was in. At the amount of infections that were making their way into his blood through his wounds right now. They were going to kill him. Hand sanitizer couldn’t save him this time. He shuddered, unwilling to look at his arms fully. He knew the pteranodons had latched onto his shoulders, could feel it in the burn from just sitting. He didn’t want to know what it would feel like to use his arms. The dirt covered fabric of his shirt could get stuck in his wounds, they would get infected just from that. He struggled to get up just using his legs. Kicking the dirt under him. It was like a sit up in gym class but now he was bleeding out and covered in puke. Bumpy bellowed and nudged his left leg like she could get him up.
He smiled despite himself, at his baby dino. Everyone he cared about was gone but she was here. She wasn’t giving up on him. She alone knew he was still alive. “Bumpy I can—”
A thought smacked him in the face, it was obvious. Dangerous and stupid and something Kenji would definitly do… Ben shouldn’t do it. Shouldn’t risk it. He could get hurt worse or die from overexertion. Even if he did manage to get to a water source it would be crawling with parasites and in his new wounds. He shook himself, or mental shook himself, wincing at even the idea of moving his arms.
He whistled, a single sharp note. “Bumster, come here girl. Come on. Yes. Yes. Here girl.” She padded along, her head tilt over exaggerated by unequal horns. His smile widened, she’s confused, like a dog. A big scaly dog. He threw a leg over her back, careful to stay balanced. She moved forward a few inches letting his leg drop. Ben shifted falling back, his arms spread out to catch himself as he fell.
An inhuman noise escaped him. He saw red. Black. Dots in his vision. Was it burning? Was he? No it was the world. A thousand needles were poking his skin. They tore down his arms and back. His bones crunched. Hot liquid up his throat. He forced himself to swallow it back down. His lungs constricted. He could breathe. He gulped. Air. He needed air. He needed it to stop. More swirling red and black. A howl behind him. From him. A yelp. He was pleading. No, he was screaming.
He let his arms fall. Fell back onto his back. He yelped, panting. Filling his lungs with air. His throat burned as badly as his arms. He could feel snot running over his face, tears dripping off his chin. Their saltiness clinging to his wounds but he couldn’t wipe them away. He was helpless.
He closed his eyes. In three- out three. In four- out two. He couldn’t even breathe without twinging in his back. Fuck what if he messed up his spinal cord. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. His back could be permanently messed up, he wouldn’t be able to do anything but sit there and die. Bleeding out with Bumpy by his side was becoming more a reality than he wanted.
Bumpy—he looked around as best he could while laying. She has scurried back several feet, by the tree line. A small concerned sound came from her.
“I’m fine. I promise. Come here, I'll be okay this time.” She hesitated. Oh. He had really scared her. “I promise I won’t this time.” With effort he stretched out his hand, she came forward, setting her head in his palm. Ben winced as her rough scales rubbed his cuts but he didn’t move. She was the only thing on this whole island that liked him. He couldn’t lose her. He was her adopted dad. He snorted, wait till he told Kenji and Darius that one. Kenji would come up with some god awful nickname he was sure. What, Ben you’re a dino-dad now? And Darius would remind him that dinosaurs on Isla Nublar didn’t have dads— and—and he would never see them again because they had gotten off the island. Ben felt tears well in his eyes and he couldn’t do anything but blink them back.
Somewhere along the line he had made friends. Real friends. He had never had that before. Too awkward and nervous. He didn’t talk enough and when he did it was tentative. He wasn’t ‘cool’ enough. He didn’t have their interests. It wasn’t even that he was bullied. It was what they said behind his back. There were people, sure, they pretended to be his friends. But they didn’t treat him like a person, he was more like a pet. Something funny to toy with. Ben left those people, and stopped trying to find friends. But he had opened himself up. He had found Darius who ranted as much as he did. And Yasmina who didn’t mind his silences. Sammy who dragged him by the hair into having fun. Brooklynn who finally showed him what people at school were talking about online. And Kenji who didn’t mind his fear over things. Who comforted each other. Who had that look in his eyes that Ben couldn’t decipher. Who’s jokes weren’t malicious.
Ben blinked. He moved his fingers slowly, careful of pulling the fragile skin of his hand, and rubbed Bumpy’s nose with his right hand. He let a tear trace his cheek. Don’t think about mom. Don’t think about Yasmina. Don’t think about Sammy. Don’t think about Darius. Don’t think about Brooklynn. Don’t think about Kenji. Don’t think of your chances of surviving this. Don’t think about what it will take to get off this island. Don’t blame Mom for putting you here. Don’t blame Dad for making you afraid.
“It’s just you and me now Bumster. Bumpy and Dino-Dad against the world,” He laughed, small and bitterly and then he cried.
He let them fall without moving to brush them away. He couldn’t even wipe them off, the thought of paralyzing agony of salt water rubbing into the open wounds on his hands. Of the burn worse than hand sanitizer in a cut that he always endured knowing it was making him clean in the end. And it was taking so much effort to just hold his hand up to comfort Bumpy.
And he was going to die out here. Alone. Without anyone knowing how. He would slip away from their minds. He had no friends outside of camp. He didn’t even know if they had survived. They must have. Darius was leading, they were on the monorail, they were going to live and Ben had made sure of that. He had led the pteranodons away. Did it really matter if he died, now knowing his friends would live?
Bumpy laid her head next to him and he let his hand drop. The pulling of flesh against open air, prickling it like a limb that'd fallen asleep. He would survive. He didn’t want to die alone and sixteen.
He was repeating old arguments. What had Sarah said about that. Was it anxiety or was it a trauma response—Both? He liked arguing with himself. It was something he could rehash and relook at and understand how he got to point A to point B.
No he hated arguing it was horrible. He couldn’t make decisions. It wouldn’t let him think straight. He—he—
Breath in. Breath out. Ground yourself.
He needed to do something he could control. Get up, use his stupid half-formed plan; clean the puke off himself, wash away the blood. He could do that. He could control that. He could get clean again.
He looked down at his lap. Unwilling before, with all the orange sludge from his stomach covering it. He would have to scrape it off his pack—his pack. Where it usually rested was empty space.
No. He closed his eyes, remembering it slipped into Kenji’s hand before he fell. He still had food in that pack; the crackers could have lasted him for a few days if he rationed it out and he was out of juice but if he had an empty carton he could have used it as a water bottle. Fuck. He didn’t have anything.
He kicked himself up. Trying not to think, thinking too much. It was easier this time. A shiver ran down his spine as thick sludge peeled away with the force of gravity. Leaking down her pant legs slowly as open, blood wounds. The only thing reminding him that it wasn't blood was the coldness of it. The putrid stench of it moving that should have been coppery otherwise.
His button up sleeves were mostly shredded and it was dripping down his back. Dripping just as puke did, just as the open wounds were. Slowly, slowly he started fumbling with the buttons. It was easier than catching himself. It didn’t require much movement from his arms or the palms of his hands. His fingers, he found, were mostly unaffected.
He couldn’t shrug it off and didn’t dare try it. He whistled again, waking Bumpy who had somehow fallen asleep in the time it took him to unbutton his shirt. He stretched his hand back, slowly, slowly. That was key. Plucking his shirt so it was fluffed out a bit. He remembered being upset at her for nibbling at his shirt collar, getting slobber all over it.
“Come on, you can eat my shirt.” She didn’t need to be asked twice, toddling along and tugging the shirt roughly. A cry escaped his lips as dried blood ripped off with it. Warmth now running down his back in streams he didn't want to think about. But still, it was better than trying to get it off himself.
“Good girl,” He cooed, between heavy breaths. “Good girl Bumpy. Bring it back okay.”
Bumpy went back several paces, worried he would take it back. A game; games were to be played now that he was awake. She didn't understand, she couldn't know that he needed it back. He reached out, grasping strand of the sleeve. Her eyes lit, and she pulled it back roughly in return. A soft moan of pain escaped his lips, a hardly smothered scream in his throat. Shoulders more than aching, more than burning with strain. The sleeve slipped through his limp fingers. Bumpy reared and ran in a circle with her prize.
“You win, girl. Good job...good job. Just bring it back and we’ll get food. How’s that sound?” He was desperate, pleading with her for something she couldn't understand.
Something must have shown on his face because she tilted her head sideways like a confused dog. More of the shirt dragged in the mud. It was unusable to begin with but guilt still bubbled up for ruining it. Clothes were expensive after all.
It seemed 'food' was the trigger. She brought it back, now twice as dirty and covered in slobber. Ben tried to ignore the amount of blood that stained the back of it. Tried to ignore the way something warm and wet rolled off the bumps of dried blood across his back.
He tied the remainders of the sleeves around his front, double knotted but with a few inches of room between him and the knot. Pulling the knot as far from his body as it would go—biting his lip as tears sprung in his eyes—and held it out in offering to Bumpy. She took the knot willingly. Chewing on the fabric. Now he just needs something...a pebble he had kicked up. It was about the size of a berry really. He took it and arched his arm back as far as it would go. Throwing it weakly at a nearby tree. The sound echoed off the truck.
“Go fetch.” She was just a big scaly dog, right?
She paused but thinking better of it took off after the pebble. Ben suppressed a cry of pain as he was dragged behind her. He didn’t want to scare her off, not now. He angled himself so he was laying on his stomach, his head arched high enough so it wouldn’t get caught in the dirt. Dust kicked into his eyes. He blinked it back, eyes watering. His mouth was coated in chalky dust, barely parted with small whimpers Bumpy couldn't hear. His stomach tore across rocks and dirt and pebbles and grass and shit and—and—but it was better than his back to the ground.
A rock jutted up in their path and Bumpy didn't move past it. Leaping over the thing with ease of being uninjured. A burst of pain splicing his chin, more warmth he far too familiar with. A trail dribbled down his face and onto the ground. Stinging in the same way his eyes were from the dirt.
Come on Bumpy just a little faster. Just get me to the berries.
Berries meant water. It didn’t matter if he had just thrown a pebble, she had permission to take them to food now. Underneath him the shirt was tearing.
Just a little longer.
Bumpy took a sharp turn between two trees and Ben slid through them with less grace. Side hitting a tree and bouncing back behind Bumpy. Her footsteps were so loud Ben didn’t even hear his shout of pain. Dirt filled his mouth. He shut it, wiping the grit away from his teeth with his tongue. The amount of germs that were collecting on him…
Bumpy abruptly stopped. Ben slid forward, tumbling to the side. Brown, green, red. Mud squished under him. He stopped panting, half his face in mud. One nostril sucking mud like cigaret tar in his lungs. He didn’t care, he just needed to breathe. He forgot how to move his body properly, forgot what to think to push himself upward and away from the waiting infection collecting in his open wounds.
Mud. Mud. Mud meant water. He let his eyes open, just barely. A river. Clear blue water for his dry throat, to clean off his wounds. He clawed at the mud, scooping it so he could move forward. Counter productive but working. His wounds burned now infected with dirt and mud. He knew the ones that had closed had reopened. His side ached like it had never before, not even when it'd been left so bruised when he was nine. Like he had repeatedly run into the corner of a table, into a punishing fist.
Just a little further.
His legs kicked behind him. His front landed in the cold water. Warmer than he thought it would be, but this was tropics after all. Bugs flew around the bank but he didn’t care. Couldn't care, not now. His chest plunged in the water. Thick mud rinsing off his arms. He kept kicking, letting the rest of him in. It was the shallows but he was already lighter. Could move better without the strain of his back. He came to the end of the shallows. Enough that his neck was above water when he was sitting.
Now for the hard part. Cleaning himself.
Carefully he brought his hands up. Tugging the bottom of his once white wife-beater—tank top, once white tank top. The back of it stained dry-blood-red and the rest brown with mud. With as minimal wailing as he could manage, he got it over his head. Set it on a rock peeking out the water, then moved on. He slid down a little, taking more pressure off his back, off his screaming shoulders, and wriggled out of his boots. He tried to get his socks off but they curled and floated down the stream before he could catch them. That was fine. He could get around with just shoes. But then again cold feet started all kinds of illnesses if he hadn't contracted one already. It was just opening him up to germs and colds and—he took a breath, willed himself to think of that later. He unbuttoned his pants, letting them slide off and setting them on the rock with his shirt. Then his underwear along with them.
Completely nude he started scrubbing his wounds. Arms first, they weren’t as bad as he had thought. A few light scrapes from falling off the monorail and before, none of the pteranodon damage. Still a mass of blue and yellowed skin but he could deal with that—he had before.
Look at me now Sarah. Taking control of what I can. Taking a step in the future instead of being too scared. He smirked a little to himself. He would have to tell her when he got back—
He shook his head. Going deeper till he was standing. He cupped water around his shoulder. Ben watched the water that fell off him. Brown and red. His shoulders and back were still bleeding. Still burning/
He slowly leaned back, letting the water over his face and hair. He rubbed his chin to get the dirt out, it was deeper than he thought, it would scar but it wouldn’t need stitches—he hoped. Or maybe it wouldn’t scar at all. Which would be nice, but it was a pointless hope. He knew the feeling of a wound going to scar and this was one of them. He didn’t even want to know the scars his back and shoulder would bear. He could feel puncture holes closer to his collar bone and deep claw marks dragging the skin in deep, thick lines. Skin torn and peeling in strips with more blood running down them.
The shredding, the tearing in his descent was more than his clothes. His skin as easily as paper as the pteranodons clinged to his flesh. He almost gagged again. Almost—caught himself and swam out into the water more so his toes just barely brushed the mud below. He was kicking up dirt this far out in the water. It was swept down the stream just as quickly. Ben knew he wouldn’t be able to swim back if he went out any further.
He rested for a moment, breathing, remembering he was alive. The pain thrumming through him proved he was alive. Without hand sanitizer or soap the parasites that were entering his body. He swam back to the rocks.
Ben cleaned the leftover puke from around his legs and sat back, exhausted. Along his stomach a bruise was beginning to form where his shirt was tied around it. Other smaller bruises where rocks peppered him.
He wanted to shut his eyes and sleep again—no. He had things to take care of. He grabbed his clothes and began dipping them in the water and whacking them against the rocks. Dislodging the solid puke on his pants. He scrubbed his hands raw against his shirt trying to get the blood and dirt out—or as much of it as he could. His button up was done for. The pteranodons tore the back into strips and the sleeves were fraying from Bumpy’s break and from being tied around his waist. He considered it, taking his time untying the knot. He could rip it apart, use it as bandages.
A piece of wet hair fell into his face, a droplet landing in his eye. Or…? He lifted it, folding the side with the most fabric left. He remembered that lazy day at the treehouse. Had it only been a few weeks ago?
Brooklynn walked into the kitchen, her pink hair twisted up with a bandana.
Ben had looked up and said, “I think Yaz has some hair ties if you need them. She brought at least a hundred.” He didn't think it was an exaggeration, he could fill both his arms with them and he still thought they'd be more.
She snorted then realized he was serious. “Ben… Kenji help me out here. I can't be the only one teaching pop culture here.”
Kenji looked up from his place atop the counter, cereal bowl balanced precariously in one hand while he reached on top of the fridge for god knows what. “D! Darius! Bro! You’re up.”
The book Darius was reading fell onto the table. Darius gave a bewildered look. He hadn’t been paying attention, but then again he usually wasn't when it came to something other than dinosaurs. “What?”
“Neither of you are any help. Ben,” Brooklynn said, turning back to him. “It’s a fashion statement and I used to wear it like this when my hair was too short to pull back into a ponytail.” She untied it, folded it so it was one long rectangle with two triangle ends. She flipped her hair up and tied it around her forehead so it stayed out of her face. “See.”
Ben nodded and it did look nice. Maybe he did need to get a phone, at least then he could understand everyone better. It would be easier not to have to wait till he got to a laptop to google things.
She undid it again, holding it out in offering. “Your turn.”
He took the dusty orange fabric in his hands, tying it around his head with the perfect accuracy, like he was tying a safety line.
“Better.” He turned in a circle, showing it off.
Something clattered behind him and he jumped, spinning around. Kenji had dropped the cereal. The bowl face down on the floor, milk and cereal had splattered everywhere. Kenji’s mouth was a little open, eyes blown up in shock. Ben froze, waiting for someone to yell, to shout, to hit him.
And then—laughter? Laughter. Brooklynn, doubled over and Darius with a small smile and a little snort. Kenji was smirking till he looked down at his sock, soaked in milk and crushed Fruit Loops. “Damn it, I wanted to eat that.” But he was laughing too.
He hopped down and started cleaning up the milk. “You think I could salvage it if I—” He turned to Ben, almost running into him. “You look great Ben. Wear your hair like that more often—I mean if you want to.”
“Sure.” Ben took a moment to remember he wasn’t a little kid anymore. It was just him and Mom at the house. That he was with his friends, nothing would happen. And was that a blush on Kenji’s cheeks? It was such a stupid thing to be embarressed about. Ben smiled a little, handing Brooklynn her bandana back.
Everything was going to be alright.
His hair had gotten longer since then. He could use the fabric like a bandana and tie it back. Especially if he was out here, he needed vision on all sides.
Ben suddenly regretted all the shouts of pain he had made getting here. He had alerted any dinosaur within hearing distance. How far could dinosaurs hear? Darius must have mentioned it at some point but he couldn't think. He had to get moving. Find somewhere safe. He could follow the river, wade in it to take pressure off his back. But he couldn’t stay in the water that long. Parasites would get into his cuts, he could get hypothermia or—
He finished cleaning his clothes, leaving them on the rock in the sun. They'll be dry by tomorrow—probably. Tomorrow he could get moving again. Find somewhere safe, somewhere clean. The idea of sleeping in the open and in the nude made his fists clench, skin pull and ache. He released them before the pressure could build much further. He knew, logically, there was no one else here, it wouldn’t matter if he was naked but the clothes were a safeguard. If he had to run from a dinosaur he would rather be wearing something and that still didn’t solve the problem of bandages.
What he remembered of wound care was extensive with medical textbooks he studied religiously in case of something going wrong. But it practice, in application... anything more than a bruise was dully remembered at best. His hands were no longer practiced in the art of prodding himself gently and his lips were no longer trained to stay silent at the slightest indentation of pain. Even then...when he was a child it was mostly just bruises. Cuts were harder to deal with, harder to hide, harder to make, so they were mostly avoided. The one time it had...well, at least he'd gotten access to lots of hand sanitizer and band-aids. He didn’t think that would work now.
He almost laughed, it wasn’t funny but imagining himself putting a band-aid on his back to fix the ripped skin was amusing. To patch up the peeling lines of flesh just hanging there, exposing muscle and blood and tendon and all the other things that should remain inside him.
He was going insane.
If he had his dork pouch—his pack he would have band-aids and bandages and food, it wasn’t here now. He had to stop thinking about it. It wouldn’t help him. Maybe it was some strange attachment item, it was something he always had. He couldn’t remember at time he didn't have it at his side and maybe that too affected his popularity. It was definitely why he didn’t care when Kenji called it a dork pouch, he had heard it all before.
He was so prepared for every disastrous situation with that pack and here he was without it.
Ben could cut the rest of his shirt and use it. It wouldn’t solve the problem long term, he’d need to change it eventually and he needed to do something about his arms and hands. He was afraid of any wrong move and his hands would start bleeding again. His forearms got the worst of the bruising, he might have fractured a bone, that would explain the pain in his left arm. And the swelling bit.
He could make a brace. With what though?
He didn’t want to think about anything anymore. He wanted to sleep in a clean bed, with clean clothes and no wounds. The best he could do was crawl back to the shore, one armed. He held his left arm to his chest and inched forward with his right. Bumpy came to the shore, digging imprints in the mud with her feet. Ben threw his right arm over her back and allowed her to pull him back up. She thought it was a game, and bumbled around. She thought she could still be rough with him. Ben resisted the urge to snap at her.
Once he was back on land, under the shade of the tree’s he rested. His back was as clean as it could be, he still needed bandages. He grabbed a low hanging branch and started the long process of standing up. Letting his legs up first, readjusting himself so he wasn’t putting too much tension on his shoulders.
“Fuck,” He whispered. Ben wasn’t known to swear. In fact he never did it in front of other people. Alone though, where no one cared what he said, he had a worse mouth than Sammy. He smiled a little, he was alone now wasn’t he? “Fuck!”
He could use leaves he knew that. Which type? It wasn’t like he could climb any trees in the condition he was in. Or walk very far. He didn’t think he should be walking anyways. Could this be considered walking? It was more stumbling along as he clinged to the plants to keep from falling. He bit back another curse, his damn back.
He looked at the shrubs around him. Yes—yes that one would work. The leaves were smooth and wide, little divots on the sides, He reached up with his right hand, leaning against the trunk of the tree. He took down five before he had to rest, his shoulder aching from use. It already was from bathing himself.
Was he so useless that he couldn’t even clean himself without feeling exhausted. Maybe he should just let himself die. It wouldn’t be that hard-
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Back down to earth. Ground yourself Ben.
Fuck, he needed to talk to Sarah. At least she didn’t mind when he cursed during their sessions.
He focused on his hand, on all the lines in it, the cuts he had gotten. The dirt under his nails. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. In. Out. In. Out.
He sat and began wrapping them around himself, using the long stems to tie them in place. He patched up his wounds and settled himself down. Laying on his stomach. He could just die now. A dinosaur could just come up while he was sleeping, he would close his eyes and never wake up.
Ben couldn’t find it in him to care. His eyes drooped before he could think. Something curled next to him, it nuzzled against his hand. “Bumpy…”