Chapter Text
Orel wished he had never come on this stupid trip.
He shouldn’t have went along with in the first place that night. He knew his dad made bad decisions when he was drunk. He must’ve been too blindsided by the fact that his father finally wanted to do something with him that he forgot their situation.
He laid there, on the cold forest floor, all by himself. Clay had passed out an hour or two ago and now it was just him. Him and his thoughts. Oh and a severe leg injury, but we’ll get into that later.
Blood still was somehow coming out of his leg and trickling down his pant leg into the grass around it in a decently sized pool and he felt nauseous and dizzy, like the entire forest was spinning like a top. Was this what dying felt like?
Septic was a worry on his mind but he couldn’t bring himself to care at the moment. He couldn’t even bring himself to pray.
How he wanted to though. He wanted cry, he wanted to scream in pain, he wanted to clasp his hands and poor his heart out, he wanted to shout out to God for mercy, he just wanted the pain to stop. Even for 5 seconds, just to catch his breath.
But most of all he wanted to ask God why. What he did he do to deserve this?
Reverend Putty always said that God would punish the evil, those who went against him, those who disobeyed him, those who sinned. So why was God punishing him?
Orel felt so weak. He was so tired, but he was scared. The fear pooling in the pit of his stomach was enough to keep him up, along with the gnawing hunger rippling through him due to not eating since that morning.
Orel was afraid, but not of death, but of what would happen to his brother and mother after this.
God knows that no one in that house cares for shapey. They let him sleep with an electric cutting knife for crying out loud. Orel felt like Shapey wasn’t only his brother, but his responsibility, like a parent. He was the only one who took care of him, and then got scolded for that too.
And his mother was more self explanatory. He loved Blobera with every ounce of his body, he just often felt like such feelings weren’t reciprocated.
Nothing in Orel’s life seemed to work out. And his parents made a habit of reminding him of this information as well.
Every time he’d try to do something for Jesus he’d end up messing it up someway and getting sent to his father’s study to be taught some “lesson” before being sent out again only for the cycle to continue.
It was physically and mentally exhausting.
And wasn’t that the definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over again?
He didn’t care though. He didn’t care about anything. He didn’t even care about the bear he just shot laying dead in front of his feet. He just wanted to go home.
And there, on the cold hard ground, Orel wept.