On the Rocks

They left him to fend for himself. Bastards.
And where did he end up?
Up a mountain, alone, bleeding, and freezing to death.

A fuckup all my life. Everybody knows. Matty knew, but wouldn’t say. Yeah, Matty knew.
Huge, crushing drops fell onto his face, into his eyes. The cold had numbed his skin, and the freezing air had sliced through his thin clothing.
So damned cold.
Why didn’t he put on his heavy jacket when he had the chance? Too bloody stupid. That’s why not. The other lads in the party, the ones with the muscles that made girls fawn all over them, didn’t wrap up warm against the cold and the rain, so Martin hadn’t either. Stupid idiot. They’d shamed him into it and now he was going to die alone in nothing but a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and a light, summer jacket.
He’d been careless and the mountains were going to make him pay.
Overnight, the darkness had been total. No stars, no moon, no light. Nothing to see and nothing to hear but the wind whistling through the rocks, the hammering rain, and his pitiful weeping.
He tried not to cry like a girl but couldn’t help it.
If dying alone in misery wasn’t a good enough reason to cry, then what was? Besides, up here, no one could hear him. No one around to laugh at his blubbing.
Right on cue, a pulse of agony ripped up his left leg and into his knee. It was probably broken, and it would end up killing him.
How long would it take to die? Would he last the day?
He knew people could survive without food for days, but the cold—the fucking cold.
He couldn’t bear the thought of another endless night with nothing to focus on but the pain every time he moved and the blinding, screaming headache that clamped his temples so tight he thought his skull was going to explode.
Martin tried to keep still, but the shivering wouldn’t let him. Each shudder fired electric shocks through his arm and leg. Music—his normal escape from the world—wouldn’t come. Whatever he tried, he couldn’t make the tunes play in his head.
He’d been on the rocks more than a day and nobody had come for him. Why not? Did anyone know he was missing? Had anyone raised the alarm?
What would happen to Mum and Dad now?
Again, he cried. Not from anger or self-pity but for what his death would do to his ’rents.
They’d already been through so much. Mum collapsed into Dad’s arms when the police broke the news. Matty was one of the eighty-three people murdered by the madman, Ryan Kaine.
Ryan bloody Kaine.
Monster. Terrorist bastard. Fucking killer.
Ryan bloody Kaine killed Matty.

He killed Matt! Dear God.
At least he’d gone quickly. Always was the lucky one. Not like Martin. No, Martin was going to die alone on a bloody mountain. Exposure would get him, or gangrene. Painful and slow. And alone.
Matty, I’m so, so sorry.
The big brother who’d tormented and teased him all his life, but who’d have taken a bullet for him, would never come back. He’d never see Matty again.
Fuck.
He’d never see anyone again.
Should have stayed home. The desperation in Mum’s eyes when he told her he was still going to Scotland despite Matt’s death. He didn’t ask. Didn’t even bloody ask. Instead he’d been angry with her for insisting she walked him to school like he was a baby, too small to cross the road on his own.
“For God’s sake, Mum. Stop crying. It’s embarrassing,” he’d said under his breath outside the school gates while the other lads stood by, trying not to smirk. “I’m only away for a couple of days. I’ll be back in plenty of time for the funeral.”
Why had he even said that? What was he thinking? She’d reacted as though he’d slapped her across the face. And he hadn’t even apologised. He’d been a selfish bastard, didn’t even say goodbye, and where was he now? Dying on a Scottish mountain.

Bloody idiot.
All because he wanted to see eagles up close.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
To think he’d fallen for it.
What would Matty have said?
“You’re a complete moron, baby brother. What have I told you about reading between the lines? Don’t trust anyone! You fuckup. Fancy letting Mum and Dad down like this now I’m not here to save your sorry arse.”
He’d have said it with a kindly smile and maybe ruffled Martin’s hair at the same time, but he’d have said it just the same.

Sorry, Matty. Sorry for being a fuckup.
A raindrop fell on the tip of his nose and ran into his mouth. He licked the water away. No chance of dying of thirst in Scotland.
Had a better chance of fucking drowning.
He sneezed. The movement shot a knife through his leg, his throbbing shoulder screamed, and the crushing vice around his head tightened.
Martin pushed his free fist into his mouth, bit down hard on the knuckles, and screamed in silence. Once again, he let the tears flow.
He stared up at the jagged edge of the cliff face in the distance, the one with its recently crumbled ledge.
If there were any search teams, would the broken rocks point them down to him? Could he last long enough for that?
Time passed slower than every single maths lesson he’d ever had with Ma Bancroft. Jesus, when would they put the old cow out of everyone’s misery? She had to be pushing fifty.
Seconds, minutes, hours passed.
The rain lightened and finally stopped, but a heavy blanket of fog took its place.
Last night, before the sun set, the drubbing of a helicopter’s rotor blades had given him brief hope, but the bloody thing had flown right over him without stopping. The spotters hadn’t seen him, but why should they? The rocks hid him.
Maybe that helicopter hadn’t been searching for him after all. Perhaps someone else was lost on the mountain.

Oh God.
They weren’t coming. No one was coming.
He’d fucked up for the last time.
“Mum, Dad, Matty, I’m sorry I let you down. So, so sorry.”
Martin Princeton closed his eyes to the cold, grey mist, clamped his arms around his chest, and waited for death.

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