AN~ I wanted to write this because I felt that Chris' character wasn't explored enough. This is just one shot of the night he was killed.
Chris was nowhere to be found when it was time for the others to leave. They never spared a thought for what these consequences might be. Not a thought. It was a bad enough time when he was with them. He never felt at home like the others; never just had fun. Chris' definition of fun was to drink until you were sick or smoke weed until he felt better. Nothing could make him better.
His parents had left him, so why does his life matter? Why fight back, when you have nothing to fight for?
Chris spent most of his time well away from the camp. When the others left, they didn't know. It wasn't that he minded staying behind while the others went exploring; it was just another thing he missed out on.
Some knew him as a stoner, some as a genius. No one really knew who he was or what he was like. Not even Ellie, who was the only person who he showed his poems to. Chris didn't understand the poems himself; so why would Ellie?
No, Chris was just an average guy, screaming for attention.
Several days passed when he realised they're not coming back. Chris started to get lonely and restless waiting around. What he hadn't told the others was that he had brought in a private alcohol stash and was constantly downing it; one bottle after another. It was just another way to help numb the pain of loneliness and despair.
All Chris wanted was to feel love.
After 5 days, he had enough; he was out of there.
He spent little time planning and fled up the Satan's steps and out of Hell. It was dark by the time he made it out of Hell; just as well he remembered where the Landie was. It was at that moment, at the top of Hell, that he decided to go looking for more booze.
The ride along Tailor's Stitch was the same as every other one- bumpy and windy. There wasn't much he could do about it, except stick and stay and make it pay, as his father would say.
Chris drove to the nearest farm house who were sure to have something strong to drink. He wasn't stupid; he knew to look out for danger in civilization or anywhere out of Hell for that matter.
Chris parked the Landie not too far from the farm itself while he went to check it out.
He had returned with success with retrieving several cases of VB and other lesser known types of alcohol. Chris took a bottle out of the case and put the rest in the back. Already having a large amount of drink in his system already, he was starting to get tipsy, but he just kept on drinking and driving.
Out of sight from all roads, he took the whole case and sat there, drinking them all one by one until he was hammered. Stupidly, he took to the wheel again and drove off; swerving in all sorts of directions. Sometimes he was in the paddock on the other side of the road and sometimes he would be in the middle.
As Chris ventures over the other side of the road, he hits a small boulder on the roadside and the car rolls. It rolls down a slight hill about 5 times and then stops on all four tyres.
A spooky silence soon follows and there's no noise except an occasional bird making itself known out in the bush. Minutes pass and there's no action coming from the Land Rover. A hand slowly reaches out of the window and it starts to grab onto the roof of the car.
Clawing and groping his body out of the car, Chris makes it out and then starts to hobble down the small hill next to him. With a broken leg and a severe concussion, he collapses a few yards from the vehicle.
Not a sound is heard, just the eeriness of the death that fills the air. What was once a peaceful place for native wildlife was now a deathly covered earth.
They didn't love Chris; not like his parents. In some ways, they forced him to his death that chilled night. No one to hear his call for help; no one but the wind whistling in the trees.
Thanks for reading!