After the intensity of my earlier actions, the thought of simply co-existing alongside Paul, even in strained silence, seemed a daunting task. The residual anger from our confrontation with Luke lingered, a constant reminder of the emotional turmoil that had led to my outburst. Despite my best efforts to maintain a semblance of distance, the reality of our situation in Clivilius made isolation impossible. Reluctantly, I found myself joining Paul in the task of setting up our shelter—a necessary, if unwelcome, distraction from the tension that hung between us.
As Paul knelt in the dust, his attention fixed on the picture of the ten-man tent emblazoned on the side of the box, a sense of irony struck me. The complexity of the task at hand, juxtaposed with our earlier conflict, seemed almost comical in its timing. Clutching the instruction booklet I'd fortuitously discovered, I couldn't help but feel a twisted sense of amusement at the prospect of watching Paul navigate the assembly without guidance. It was a petty thought, born out of a desire to find some levity in our grim circumstances. This is going to be fun to watch, I mused silently, a smirk tugging at the corners of my mouth. Yet, the recognition of our shared predicament, of the need to support one another, tempered my inclination for mischief. I resolved to let Paul in on the existence of the instructions, but not before allowing myself a brief moment of entertainment at his expense.
I read the first step of the instructions, a simple directive that seemed almost laughably straightforward given the complexity of our current situation: Check that all components are present. It was a logical beginning, a reminder of the importance of organisation and thoroughness, even in the most unconventional of settings. I surveyed our makeshift campsite, my eyes moving from box to box, mentally ticking off each one as accounted for. The logic was undeniable—If all the boxes are here, I reasoned, there’s no need to pull everything out of them to check. A sense of satisfaction washed over me as I mentally checked off the first step.
"Step two," I announced, breaking the silence that had enveloped us. The sound of my voice felt jarring in the quiet, a stark reminder of the need to communicate, to collaborate, despite the undercurrents of frustration and resentment. As I prepared to read aloud the next instruction, the act felt symbolic—a step towards not just erecting a physical shelter but towards bridging the gap that had formed between us. In the shared endeavour of constructing the tent, there lay an opportunity for reconciliation, for finding common ground amidst the dust and uncertainty of Clivilius.
As I focused on assembling the tent, the sound of footsteps through the dust momentarily distracted me. My hands mechanically continued their task, snapping tent poles into place, but my attention was elsewhere—on Luke's approach to Paul. An uneasy knot tightened in my stomach, the sight of Luke walking past without acknowledging me reigniting a simmering tension. I swallowed the lump in my throat, attempting to quell the rising anxiety with silent self-reassurances. It's not my fault, I told myself, trying to offload the blame. Luke's the one that brought us here. Yet, the justification did little to ease the discomfort of the situation.
Paul's question to Luke was simple, yet loaded with the unspoken complexities of our predicament. "What are you doing?" The simplicity of the inquiry masked the deeper undercurrents of confusion and concern that we all felt.
Luke's actions, pulling his mobile phone from his pocket and attempting a call, piqued my curiosity. His question to Paul, "Did your phone ring?" added a new layer of intrigue to the unfolding situation. The notion that we were testing our mobiles for connectivity in Clivilius seemed almost absurd, yet desperate times called for desperate measures.
I watched the interaction with interest, while I pulled another dismantled tent pole from its box.
I continued to work on the tent, my hands moving of their own accord, as I listened to their exchange. Paul's response, slow and uncertain, "No, should it have?" highlighted the faint hope we all harboured that some semblance of normalcy, some link to our world, might still function here.
Luke's admission that he had tried calling Paul's phone, only to confirm the futility of our mobile devices in this place, was a sobering reminder of our isolation. His request for Paul to hand over his phone, under the pretext of it being useful for "sorting stuff out on the other side," was met with a mixture of skepticism and resignation on my part. The reality that our phones, our last tangible connection to the world we knew, were now rendered useless artefacts in Clivilius, underscored the severity of our situation.
Watching Paul fumble with his phone, the unmistakable signs of panic setting into his features, confirmed the grim reality we were all starting to grasp. Luke's assertion about the futility of our mobile devices in Clivilius wasn't just speculation; it was our new, harsh truth. As I felt the outline of my own phone through my trousers, a wave of reluctance washed over me. The desire to check, to cling to some sliver of hope that my phone would be the exception, was strong. Yet, witnessing Paul's dismay, I couldn't bring myself to face the same disappointment. It seemed better, somehow, to leave it untouched, unconfirmed.
The moment Paul threw his phone at Luke's feet, my heart skipped a beat. It was so out of character for the Paul I knew—the level-headed, always rational Paul—that it underscored the severity of our situation. His actions were a clear indication of the stress we were under, a stress that was beginning to crack even the most optimistic among us.
Luke's response to Paul's frustration, a request for the passcode, was met with a sarcastic gesture from Paul—a pantomime search for a pen that both acknowledged the request and highlighted the absurdity of our circumstances. The futility of searching his pockets, knowing full well he wouldn't find a pen, was a small act of defiance, a moment of levity in an otherwise tense situation.
"Don't worry. I'm way ahead of you," Luke's smug revelation that he had anticipated the need for pen and paper, holding out a bag filled with such items, was both irritating and reassuring. His preparedness, while annoying in its presentation, was a reminder that despite our dire circumstances, Luke was thinking ahead, trying to maintain some level of organisation and control over what little we could manage in Clivilius.
The simmering anger within me felt like a brewing storm, ready to break at any moment. Luke's request, his entire demeanour, struck a nerve deep inside me. Luke really is an arsehole, I seethed internally. The notion of relinquishing our mobile phones felt akin to surrendering the last vestige of hope we clung to. In this alien place, where every familiar aspect of our lives had been stripped away, those phones represented more than just devices; they were our final, tenuous link to the world we knew, to the identities and lives we had been forced to leave behind.
Watching Paul comply with Luke's request, hastily scribbling down his passcode without a second thought, only fuelled my growing resentment. What a pushover. It was hard to watch, hard to understand how he could so easily give in. Perhaps for Paul, the action held little significance, a simple exchange in the face of our overwhelming situation. But for me, it symbolised so much more—a capitulation I was not yet ready to make.
"Your turn, Jamie," Paul's voice broke through my thoughts, an unwelcome intrusion. I couldn't even bring myself to look at him, to acknowledge the request. Instead, I focused on the task at hand, channelling my frustration into securing the tent pegs into the ground. Each push, each stab of the peg, was a defiance, a refusal to give in to Luke's demands.
"Jamie!" Luke's voice, more insistent this time, demanded my attention. I couldn't ignore him any longer. Lifting my gaze to meet his, I let the anger and determination in me find voice. "You're not having my fucking phone, Luke," I declared, my words laced with defiance. I returned to my task, pushing another tent peg into the ground with more force than necessary, each movement a clear statement of my stance.
"In the meantime," said Luke, glancing over at me purposefully, "You should both consider what your immediate needs are. Write them down and I'll get busy keeping you both alive, okay?"
Luke's suggestion that we should consider our immediate needs felt almost mocking in its practicality. The notion of writing down what we needed to survive, as if we were making a shopping list, seemed ludicrous in the context of our dire situation. Show some balls, would you, Paul? I thought bitterly as Paul readily agreed, his compliance at complete odds with the frustration boiling within me.
"Good. So, Paul wants to stay alive. Jamie?" Luke's attempt to include me, to gauge my needs, only served to stoke the flames of my discontent. My response was terse, filled with the pent-up resentment that had continued to fester. "Fuck off,” I shot back, unwilling to engage in what I perceived as a pointless exercise.
Luke rolled his eyes at my outburst, a gesture that somehow managed to convey both annoyance and resignation. "I have a few things to take care of back on Earth. I'll come back for your list soon," he said, dismissing my hostility with an ease that only fuelled my anger further.
"What things have you got to take care of?" The question burst from me, a mixture of curiosity and challenge.
"Oh, you know. Just things that will keep you alive. I could just not bother if you'd prefer...?" Luke's retort was sharp, a clear reminder of our dependence on him, however much I loathed to admit it.
"Just fuck off already, Luke," I snapped, the veneer of control I was clinging to shattering under the weight of my barely suppressed rage. It was a plea as much as it was a dismissal, a demand for him to leave if he was not going to be straightforward with us.
"Fine," Luke replied, his voice carrying a hint of resignation. He gave Paul a final shrug, a silent gesture of goodbye or perhaps apology, before turning to walk towards the Portal, leaving us behind.
"And put some bloody clothes on while you're there!" I couldn't resist the parting shot, yelling after Luke's fading figure. It was a petty remark, born out of frustration and the need to assert some form of dominance, however trivial, in a situation where I felt increasingly powerless.
As Luke walked away, a wave of existential dread washed over me, prompting a barrage of introspective questions. Am I ever going to escape? Is this my punishment for my indiscretions with Ben? The rational part of my mind recognised the absurdity of such thoughts—there was no cosmic justice at play here, merely the harsh reality of our unforeseen circumstances. Yet, the ingrained guilt, a relic from my upbringing, stubbornly persisted, colouring my thoughts with unwarranted self-blame.
Paul's sudden outburst snapped me out of my reverie, his words cutting through the silence with an intensity that took me by surprise. "Why do you have to be so bloody nasty all the time?" The anger in his voice, the visible frustration, was something new, an unexpected glimpse into the depth of emotion he usually kept so well hidden. For a moment, I was taken aback, realising that Paul, too, had his limits. So, Paul does have buttons, I mused silently, a newfound understanding—or perhaps an advantage—unfolding before me.
Despite the tension between us, Paul's scrutiny felt invasive, an unwelcome reminder of the fragile dynamics that now defined our interaction. As I avoided his gaze and focused on the tent pegs, Paul's departure to the riverbank provided a brief respite from the mounting pressure. "Good riddance," I whispered to myself, a part of me relieved to have the space to work without the weight of his judgment.
Watching Paul's retreating figure, I couldn't help but feel a mix of resentment and relief. I'll make quicker work of the tent without him anyway. The knowledge that both Paul and Luke shared a similar lack of practical skills did little to boost my confidence in our collective ability to navigate the challenges of Clivilius. Stories of their past failures, recounted by Luke with a mix of affection and exasperation, came back to me, painting a not-so-reassuring picture of our prospects for survival.
Time had become a fluid concept here in Clivilius, its passage seemingly untethered from the usual markers that dictated the rhythm of my days back on Earth. The frequent checks on my phone, a habit borne from a life once dictated by schedules and deadlines, now served only as a reminder of our disconnection from that world. Each glance at the device's unresponsive screen underscored our isolation, the battery's demise a result of my own negligence. The irony wasn't lost on me—here, in a place where time seemed irrelevant, I was concerned about a dead phone.
Attempting to use the sun as a makeshift clock felt laughably inadequate. The sky above, though familiar in its vastness, was a stranger in its details. The position of the sun, which I had hoped might offer some hint of the time, proved to be an exercise in futility. Whether it had been an hour or several since we'd started setting up the tent, the realisation dawned on me that it mattered little. Our tasks, our survival, didn't adhere to a schedule. There was no deadline to meet, no appointment to keep. Just the relentless, uncharted hours stretching before us, filled with challenges we were only beginning to comprehend.
Paul's return from his impromptu expedition broke the monotony of my thoughts. His absence, which I had initially deemed inconsiderate, was now something I viewed with a touch of envy. The idea of simply walking away, even just upstream, had its appeal—a brief respite from the tension that seemed to have taken root between us. I watched as he made his way back through the dust, a part of me curious about his journey, another resenting the ease with which he seemed to embrace our new reality.
The realisation that my own anger was a burden—exhausting in its intensity and persistence—was a reluctant admission. It was a force that consumed energy with little return, leaving me drained and no closer to finding a way back home. Perhaps it was time to consider a truce, however temporary, to conserve our strength for the challenges that lay ahead.
The sight of Paul's red eyes, coupled with the unmistakable odour that now seemed to cling to him, elicited a blunt reaction from me. "You stink like shit," I blurted out, my words sharp and without consideration. It was only after the fact, as the implications of what that smell signified hit me, that I regretted my harshness. Fuck, I thought, the realisation washing over me in an uncomfortable wave. The practicalities of living in Clivilius, stripped of the conveniences and privacy we took for granted back home, were beginning to make themselves known. The thought sent a shiver of dread through me. Will I be next? The question lingered ominously in my mind, the certainty of my own eventual need a source of burgeoning anxiety. My disdain for the situation was quickly replaced with fear, my hands betraying a tremor I couldn't control.
Paul's reaction to my comment, a mix of embarrassment and indignation, was palpable even as he struggled to find the right words. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a mixture of resignation and defiance. "I'm getting in the river. Don't come over," he stated, his flat tone leaving no room for argument.
Despite the initial harshness of my words, I found myself feeling a sudden, profound empathy for Paul. The challenges we were facing, from the most basic of human needs to the complex emotions stirred up by our predicament, were a common enemy. My nod, meant to convey understanding and agreement, was also an unspoken apology for my earlier insensitivity.
This moment, awkward and humbling, was a stark reminder of our shared vulnerability. The realisation that we were all grappling with the same fears, the same discomforts, and the same indignities, served as a grounding force. It underscored the fact that any semblance of normalcy we could cling to in this strange world would depend not just on our ability to adapt physically, but on our willingness to support each other emotionally.
As Paul made his way to the river, I was left to reflect on the harsh truths of our new reality. The barriers of privacy and decorum that we had lived by on Earth were dissolving, leaving us exposed in more ways than one.
Sitting beside Paul on the riverbank, the tension that had been weighing heavily on us began to lift, if only slightly. The camaraderie felt fragile, yet it was a welcome respite from the isolation that Clivilius imposed.
"What now?" I called out as Luke approached.
"I've got clothes on," he announced, his voice carrying across the distance. His playful twirl, jeans sweeping the dust into a swirl around him, was so quintessentially Luke—unconcerned with the gravity of our situation, finding moments of levity where none seemed to exist.
"You're such a dork," Paul laughed, the sound genuine and warm. It was a reminder of the lighter moments we used to share back on Earth, moments that now seemed as distant as home itself.
"I know," Luke replied with a smile and a soft shrug, embodying the role of the endearing dork without reservation. Then, holding up a roll of garbage bags, he offered a practical solution to a problem I hadn't yet considered. "I figured rather than dirty a beautiful, clean world, you can put all your rubbish in these and I can take them back to Earth."
The mention of Earth, of transporting something as mundane as rubbish back to our home planet, struck a chord within me. Earth? We can take rubbish back to Earth? The thought sparked a glimmer of hope, however faint. "But how is that possible? I thought we couldn't leave?" The words tumbled out, a mix of confusion and a desperate need for clarity.
"You can't," Luke confirmed, his tone matter-of-fact. "But it seems that items can. I took Paul's phone, remember?" His explanation, while offering a partial answer, only served to deepen the mystery of our circumstances.
The revelation that inanimate objects could traverse the void back to Earth, while we remained trapped, was a bitter pill to swallow. Luke's ability to transport our refuse, a seemingly trivial act, underscored the arbitrariness of the rules governing Clivilius. It raised questions about the nature of the barrier that kept us bound to this alien landscape, about what other possibilities might exist just beyond our understanding.
"You might want to keep anything combustible," Luke added. "We have no idea what the conditions are like here at night, remember."
As I cast a glance at Paul, who seemed to readily accept Luke's advice, I couldn't help but express my skepticism with an eye roll. Despite my outward show of disdain, the underlying concern about what lay ahead once the sun set was impossible to ignore. I am going to find a way home, I silently reaffirmed to myself, clinging to the hope of escape rather than facing the prospect of enduring a night in this place.
Reluctantly, I joined in the task of filling the garbage bag, my movements mechanical, driven more by a desire to keep busy than any real belief in the precaution's necessity. It was Luke's elongated "So..." that broke the monotony of the chore, his tone suggesting an impending topic that I wasn't sure I wanted to address.
"So, what?" I replied, my voice tinged with a hint of defensiveness. I braced myself for whatever Luke was about to broach, not pausing in my efforts to pick up the rubbish from the tent boxes we had unpacked.
"So... Why is it that you can make such a big deal about me, your partner, having no shirt on, yet you seem to be perfectly comfortable with my brother flashing himself around?" The accusation, laced with a hint of jealousy, took me by surprise.
Whoa! The thought hit me like a bolt from the blue. Where the hell did that come from? The idea that Luke might be jealous of his brother, of the attention or perhaps the comfort level I exhibited around Paul, was something I hadn't considered.
Paul fumbled with the corner of the bag, its contents spilling into the dust as the side dropped.
I sighed heavily. The reality of our basic needs, now starkly highlighted by Paul's shirtless state, pushed me to articulate our immediate requirements. "I think you better bring us a couple of towels, a few rolls of toilet paper and a shovel," I stated, trying to maintain a semblance of calm in the face of our growing list of necessities. Paul's addition, a request for his bag of clothes, was met with a nod from Luke, whose silence bespoke an understanding of the discomfort and embarrassment wrapped up in these requests.
As we busied ourselves with the task of repacking the rubbish, the awkwardness of our conversation lingered in the air, a tangible reminder of the adaptability and resilience being demanded of us. The act of preparing for Luke's departure, of handing over lists and discussing what items were essential for our survival, felt almost surreal.
Luke's assurance, as he pocketed Paul's list with a promise to fulfil our needs, provided a small but significant comfort. The sight of the Portal coming to life, its colours swirling into a mesmerising display, sent a rush of adrenaline through me. The possibility that Luke could successfully transport items back to Earth, that this connection between worlds was not entirely severed, offered a glimmer of hope.
The moment Luke stepped through the Portal, the garbage bags disappearing with him, was one of profound anticipation and anxiety. The collective gasp that escaped Paul and me was a testament to the high stakes of this experiment. Watching Luke vanish, the possibility of re-establishing a link with Earth that existed beyond the coming and goings of only Luke, however tenuous, became momentarily tangible.
As I turned to Paul, my face breaking into an involuntary grin, the words "There may be hope for us yet," spilled out. In that moment, the weight of our predicament seemed slightly less crushing. The successful transfer of the garbage bags through the Portal represented more than just a logistical victory; it symbolised a potential lifeline, a means through which we might eventually find our way back home.
