There are times in everyoneapos;s life when theyapos;d be better off just leaving well enough alone. Unfortunately for me, Iapos;d gotten worse about recognizing that fact after Iapos;d died -- I hadnapos;t felt at peace, Iapos;d felt curious. An insatiable need to know circumstances, and not just my own. A compulsion to help make things better for other people.
After the breakfast debacle, I really should have known better.
It was common knowledge on the island that the rec room bookcase enjoyed screwing with people. If it had something it wanted you to read or watch, chances were that youapos;d not be afforded the opportunity to read or watch anything else until you gave in. It had only happened to me once before -- After Masonapos;s disappearance -- and Iapos;d become complacent about the possibility of what it might choose to give me.
I should make one thing clear: For someone who was supposed to be clever and experienced, I could be really stupid sometimes.
It was the morning after the masked ball at New Pemberley, and half the island was still tucked in bed after a long night of dancing and socializing. Iapos;d made a brief appearance and had gone home early, and had spent the better part of the morning baking and enjoying the temporarily subdued atmosphere of the Compound. After my last batch of pumpkin spice muffins was finished, Iapos;d headed into the rec room to grab something to read, thought I might carry it back to the boat and spend a lazy day lounging around in the sun.
Color me surprised, then, to find myself faced with shelf after shelf of film cans, and a growing sense of dread. Fleetingly, Iapos;d thought that maybe this was finally the day that the island decided to show me I was fictional, but as soon as Iapos;d pulled a can out and read the label, I knew that was unlikely. "Band of Brothers" sounded as inappropriate a name for my life as I could imagine. Iapos;d had one brother, not an entire band of them.
After a few momentapos;s consideration, I steeled myself and decided to give in. If the shelf wanted me to see this, there wasnapos;t much else I could do about it, anyway. Better to just square my shoulders and get on with it. How bad could it be?
Again, I remind you that I was really stupid sometimes.
"Episode Seven," the label read. "The Breaking Point." That sounded plenty ominous, but it didnapos;t make much sense to start with episode seven, so I shelved the can and pulled out another. And another. And another after that. The whole damned case was filled with episode seven, and my creeping sense of dread was back.
"Okay," I murmured to the shelf, film can in hand. "I get the message. Episode seven it is." A deep breath, and I was headed downstairs to fetch the projector.
Even on a lazy Sunday, the rec room would be busy, so I set the projector and screen up in the basement storeroom, across the room from the radio equipment. It seemed like a good place for it -- I could keep the room dark, Iapos;d have relative privacy, and I spent enough time down there listening to records that if somebody needed to find me, it was a probable place to look. I tugged the chair over from the DJ table, swallowed hard once to brace myself, and switched the projector on.
HBO, of all things, and how incredibly strange it was to see that logo projected on a movie screen instead of a television. There was no title sequence, no explanation of what the hell I was about to watch, just the immediate cutting to an old man, talking about death, like a documentary, and for a minute I was really confused. But then I saw it, on the wall behind him -- The paratrooper logo, 506, E -- and I swear to God my stomach dropped right out.
There were no names, so I didnapos;t know who that was, or any of the old men that followed -- Did I know these guys? Surely none of them were George, the accent wasnapos;t right. Why wasnapos;t the damned thing telling me who they were? What kind of half-assed documentary were you running here, HBO?
Music swelled and there were titles, finally, and you just canapos;t imagine the feeling of watching something like that and seeing your boyfriend and his friends up there, clear as anything, and I was feeling a whole lot of things, but confusion was the most prevalent. Well, that and anxiety. What could I do, though? So I just sat there, literally poised on the edge of my seat, my entire body tense, a hand pressed over my chest with my heart beating hard beneath my fingers.
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