let the judgers judge

it's a bit colder at the beach than you had anticipated for, and for a second you wish you'd at least worn shoes. but then you remember it's what chiron's been wanting you to do, what alice has been trying to get you to do for ages, and maybe it's childish but you won't play into their hands. you won't.

you dig your hand into your pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and your lighter. it's exhausting, having to put up with all the campers and having to fake play nice. you don't want to, you wouldn't do it if it weren't for the fact that they've felt the need to give you a supervisor. gods, you need a smoke.

you bring the cigarette up to your lips with a shaking hand, lighting it while it's resting between your lips. the drag is just barely enough to settle the shaking in your bones, the weariness that follows you around day after day after day. you're so sick of it. you miss your mom. you miss your brother. you hate the fact that, once upon a time, you had a family, a place where you belonged, and then your mom up and left, and your brother got taken from you, and you don't know where he is anymore. you don't know if he's okay.

you sit down in the sand, letting out a heaving, shuddering breath. the sand will take ages to get out of your jeans and off of your sweatshirt, you know these facts, but it's too difficult to stand right now; you haven't got the strength.

you hear someone being a jackass behind you, and, gods, you don't have the patience for this today. you'll probably end up getting kicked out of camp for trying to throttle whoever it is, and boy, won't that be fun?

"could you shut the hell up?" you shoot back, words feeling raw like gravel in your throat. gods, you just need to sit and have a smoke or twenty, not have someone bothering you for "blocking their sun," or, "breathing their air," or whatever the hell it is you've done wrong this time.