|
Post by Ethan Rom on Sept 1, 2007 7:32:27 GMT -5
Organization was the key to survival, he'd been told once upon a time. That you had to be organized. To have all your affairs in order, to understand where your friends stood, to know what your enemies were up to. By being organized, you could almost predict the next series of circumstances.
But Ethan wasn't organized. He was uncertain. Conflicted. Uncertain and conflicted about where his loyalty lay, about his feelings for Gwen, about how he perceived the world around him, about his own sanity. Nothing was simple anymore, and it was weighing on him. Things were better simple.
He was doing push-ups in his shelter, almost all morning. He didn't want to leave his shelter, even though it was noon by now. Interaction with people was just...painful. People just weren't no good. Not these people.
|
|
|
Post by Ethan Rom on Sept 3, 2007 15:56:23 GMT -5
***Ethan leaves for F3 Camp***
|
|
|
Post by Hollywood Heidi on Oct 3, 2007 20:48:04 GMT -5
DAY 6 ENDS, SEVERAL HOURS HAVE GONE BY, DAY 7 BEGINS
|
|
|
Post by Ethan Rom on Oct 5, 2007 18:03:02 GMT -5
Ethan stared upwards, the roof of his makeshift home staring back down at him. With seven-day stubble, dark, tired eyes and the prominent smell of alcohol on his breath, he wasn't exactly respectable. His head was pounding, and the light from outside stung his eyes.
Groaning loudly, he sat up, looking at the scene around him. He'd been lying in the sand, on his back, with an empty bottle next to him. He fitted the homeless drunk cliche almost perfectly. He was still disorientated and tired, and the combination of pain and heat wasn't helping.
He reached up, and ripped at the arms of his Wisconsin sweatshirt, tearing the sleeves off, turning it into a make-shift tank top. He stood, wiping his mouth on his wrist, and wearily ventured outside.
***Ethan leaves for the fuselage***
|
|