The Ruins

managed to say all they'd said; they'd beg each other for forgiveness, would embrace, begin to cry.

And now here they were again, sprinting down that familiar path.

'Sometimes you can be so stupid,' Amy said.

'Fuck off,' Stacy muttered, barely audible.

'What?'

'Just drop it, okay?'

'You're not even sorry, are you?'

'How many times do I have to say it?'

Eric tried to sit up, felt a tearing sensation from his wound, and thought better of it. 'Maybe you guys should-'

Amy gave him a look of pure disdain. He could see her drunkenness in her face, exaggerating her expressions. 'Stay out of it, Eric. You've already caused enough problems.'

'Leave him be,' Stacy said. Both of their voices were too loud; it hurt his head to listen. He wanted to get up and leave them to this, but he was still bleeding, still in pain, still quite drunk; he didn't feel like he could move.

'If he fucking cuts himself again, I'm just gonna let him bleed.'

'You're being a bitch, Amy. You realize that?'

'Slut.'

Stacy looked astonished by this, as if Amy had spit on her. 'What?'

'He's right-that's who you'd be.'

Stacy waved this insult aside, struggling for an expression of detachment, aiming for the high ground, but Eric could see it wasn't working. They were approaching the scratching stage, he knew-the slapping, the kicking. 'You're drunk,' she said. 'You're making a fool of yourself.'

'Slut. That's who you are. '

'Can't you hear yourself slur?'

'Shut up, slut.'

'Youshut up, bitch.'

'No. You shut up.'

'Bitch.'

'Slut.'

'Bitch.'

'Slut.'

And then something odd happened. They both fell silent, staring off to Eric's right. Or not silent, because the two words continued, in their voices, going back and forth, back and forth-Bitch…Slut…Bitch…Slut… Bitch…Slut-only Amy and Stacy weren't speaking anymore; they were staring, first in surprise, then in something closer to horror, out across the hilltop, where their voices were rising now, shouting that harsh pair of words, beginning to blur together, one merging into the other.

BitchSlutBitchSlutBitchSlutBitchSlutBitchSlut…

It was the vine. It was mimicking them, as if mocking their fight, imitating the sound of their voices so perfectly that even as Eric realized what was happening, even as he stared at Stacy and Amy and saw that their mouths were no longer moving, that they'd fallen silent, that it couldn't possibly be the two of them he was hearing, he didn't quite accept it. Because it was their voices-stolen somehow, misappropriated, but their voices nonetheless.

BitchSlutBitchSlutBitchSlutBitchSlutBitchSlut…

Mathias was standing over them suddenly, looking sleep-tousled, blinking, visibly waking up even as Eric watched him. 'What is it?' he asked.

No one answered him. What, after all, was there to say? The voices grew softer, then louder again, branching out beyond those two words: If he fucking cuts himself…You're not even sorry, are you?

'It's the vines,' Stacy said, as if this needed explanation.

Mathias was silent, his eyes moving about, taking things in-the plastic bag with its four remaining grapes, the bloody T-shirt pressed to Eric's abdomen, Pablo's motionless form, the nearly empty bottle of tequila. 'Where's Jeff?' he asked.

I peed on my foot, the vine shouted. They can have the orange.

'Down the hill,' Amy said.

'Shouldn't someone have relieved him?'

No one answered. They were all looking off into the distance, feeling shamed, wishing the voices would stop, that Mathias would leave them be. Eric's chest tightened-the first stirrings of anger. How could Mathias claim the right to judge them? He wasn't one of them, was he? They hardly even knew him; he was practically a stranger.

Sometimes you can be so stupid.

'Have you been drinking?' Mathias asked.

Again, they remained mute. And suddenly, there was Eric's voice, too, coming toward them from across the hilltop: Mathias is the villain-definitely. And then, almost like a record skipping: Nazi…Boy Scout…Nazi…Boy Scout…

Eric could feel Mathias turning to look at him, but he kept his gaze averted, peering off to the south, toward the clouds, which continued to darken and build. They were going to let loose soon, very soon; he wished it were now.

You shut up.

Leave him be.

Tell us something funny.

I'm the funny guy.

'How long has this been going on?' Mathias asked.

'It just started,' Amy said.

They saved the knees.

Nazi.

Let him bleed.

You're drunk.

Nazi.

Fuck off.

Nazi. Nazi. Nazi.

Eric could see Mathias disengaging, making the decision, his face seeming to close somehow. 'I'll go relieve him,' he said.

Amy nodded. So did Stacy. Eric just lay there. He felt like he could hear the plant inside him, sense it vibrating against his rib cage, speaking, calling out. Couldn't anyone else hear it? Slut, it said in Amy's voice. And then, in Stacy's: Bitch. The balled-up T-shirt was completely soaked through now, like a sodden sponge; when he squeezed at it, blood cascaded warmly down his side.

Nazi.

Slut.

Nazi.

Bitch.

Nazi.

They watched Mathias turn, walk out of the clearing.

The voices continued for some time yet-Amy's and Stacy's and Eric's, coming from all different directions, talking one over the other, occasionally rising to a shout-and then, just as abruptly as they'd begun, they stopped. The silence wasn't as much of a relief as Eric would've expected, though; there was a tension to it, everything freighted with the knowledge that the vine could start again at any moment. And also the sense of being listened