Population Control

Jason II

Nursery Rhyme - a simple traditional song or poem for children

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Even though silence probably has two definitions, there are so many different types. We are in what two of my ex-classmates used to call 'silence-silence'. Meaning, it's not comfortable, but it's not uncomfortable, it's awkward, yet it's also not at the same time. On the other hand, this type of silence may be a new silence because I don't think there's a name for friend-murdering-a-classmate-that-was-about-to-eat-you-to-shreds silence.

Stiffly, we sat in our required, bound seating areas. But this time, I was in the middle, and so my shoulders and arms occasionally bumped uncomfortably against theirs. Camille sat directly in the seat, not touching the car's build or the seat in front. It looked like such an uncomfortable position. Matthew was scrambling through the dashboard again. Hopefully, he'll pull out a time machine so we can reverse the past ten minutes.

He pulls out a few CD's, all white with marker pen scribbled on the front: 'summer', 'Best of'. Some written by Sam. The ones by Sam had S written in the corner, and there were ones with actual casing that were probably left here by.

Deciding like he had all the time in the world, Matthew chose one that read 'Late Nights'. It was all music sad and upsetting. 'If we die tonight-' Sami skipped that one, 'What a day for this to end-' Matthew hit next, 'If I killed someone-' Camille turned the stereo off.

"Jacob means 'someone who circumvents'. They overcome things, seize stuff." It's all I could offer, but it was more than the others were offering. Like a comedian having his worst gig, my comment only seemed to worsen the atmosphere.

Sitting in the middle, non-moving, I can't peer out the window to look at the night sky. Stars covered by clouds. It is not too dark that I can't see because of the coldly glistening streetlights and the obnoxiously glowing headlights. I can see the dashboard, and Sam's tired hands as he slumps them on the steering wheel. We need to sleep somewhere. Preferably, not out in the open. But I don't mention it, because the last time I spoke I was met with a silent audience.

"Stop the car." Uttered Camille: I barely saw her jaw move.

Sam didn't seem to be paying attention, or he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "What?"

"Stop the car."

"Dude just stop the car." I told him, hoping it would do something.
Sam put the car in park, and Camille robotically opened the door, but then rushed to the boot. In the back there was whatever food Dylan and Mr Jones had packed, and a third of the small crates of bottled water. Quick as she could, Camille grabbed a bottle, struggling to open the lid. She huffed and puffed as her increasingly sweaty and fidgety fingers failed to unscrew it.

As she went to throw it away in a fit of frustration, I leant forward, taking the bottle from her firm grip. Allowing herself to calm slightly, I twisted the lid. She wanted the blood off her hands, her face, but it was like a temporary tattoo.

I handed Camille the bottle, attempting to say 'do not do anything' with my eyes. Not seeing a cloth anywhere, I expanded the rip on my shirt until it wound its way around my waist and fell off into my hands. After, I cut it into three even pieces.

Pouring water onto the fabric, it soaked through and I applied it to Camille's right hand, which I cradled in my other palm. Like taking care of a new-born, I applied as little force as possible. Then, I moved to her face, which she and I both seemed nervous for. What am I doing?

Before I could think more, my hand - along with the folded cloth - inched closer to her cheek and I was softly soaking the blood onto it. Once it was all gone, I used the tip of my sleeve to wipe away the water, bringing my thumb closer to her eye to swipe an unshed tear. She pulled me into a hug, and when the moment passed, we got back in the car. Camille in the middle and me behind the driver.