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(This *does* imply that you can hear the laugh track, but who knows whether the show's regulars would be aware of it.)
|
[WP] You're mysteriously trapped in a cheesy sitcom with a seemingly random laugh track. After a string of murders, it becomes apparent that the laugh track signals when the killer is near.
|
I am awakened by the end of a catchy tune. There used to be 13, now there are 3.
There has been a murder every night since I've become trapped in this weird hell. I seem to be in a TV show, but with less beautiful women. I seem to be the only one really affected by these occurrences. The other people - no, the other characters - carry on as if no one had died the previous day.
Their routines start predictably. They all come to my house in the morning. I think they have keys or something; I can't seem to keep them out. Last week I wedged a chair against the door and they 7 of them came in through the fire escape. On some days, they seem to take up my concern and investigate, but it's all very light-hearted, as if the deceased were not their friend just one day prior. But most of the time, they have a problem of the day and are completely focused on that one issue for one day. Then they all go to sleep, another one dies, and they continue on with their lives.
Am I the only one who remembers, who is concerned with these murders?
Today, there are only 3. Sean and Ronny burst in my room, joking about something amusing that happened during the walk over; whatever today's main topic will be. By process of elimination, Tony is dead. I guess my suspicions yesterday were off.
It has to be Ronny. He's way too cheerful not to be a psychopath. I spend ten minutes grilling about his whereabouts for the last few nights. "Look," he chuckles, "You want to go with me to meet the ladies tonight? That new club is hot! I've been with a different woman every night!"
I wanted to press on, but Sean stops me. "Look man, I know New York City going down the sh-" as a noisy truck passed on my street,"-er, with all these random murders on the news and everything, but you can't go accusing your friends like that.
I finally convince them to go over to Tony's. "Fine, fine, let's meet your new friend," as if they hadn't been together every day for the last week.
As I enter, I see Tony's body, mostly obscured by the couch. I hold on to the wall by the front door, feeling nauseous. Sean kneels over the body, looking like a real detective. He points at the opposite wall to where some of the blood was splattered. "Something's not right," he says, pointing to the knife embedded in the adjacent wall. Ronny is the last to enter the room. Checking out the fourth wall, he shrugs emphatically, "Well, it couldn't have been me!"
That laughter. I hear it again. It's never after something truly funny though.
I seem to be the only one who hears that laughter: I stopped asking after the third day. I think the laughter is associated with the real murderer. It has to be Ronny. I am sure.
I will pretend to not suspect anything, to continue on as normal. After they leave for the day, I will follow Ronny and make catch him in the act. They always hang around for the entire day, so I am exhausted at night. I don't really remember what happens after they leave, and I have been wrong the previous days, but I'm sure I will catch Ronny tonight.....
-----
I am awakened by the end of a catchy tune. There used to be 13, now there are 2.
|
The parking garage is dead silent. Every car you pass is the same car over and over. The lights of this dilapidated structure flicker on and off. You look around nervously to begin with, but you begin to pick up your pace.
Now you're jogging. "Harold, that's a tomato, not a potato..."
"What's the difference?" There it is again. That same goddamned laugh. You'd normally cringe, but the thought it's getting closer keeps you alert. The laugh, over and over, echoes in your mind, you're running, sprinting, you climb the stairs like a pole vaulter, pulling yourself up violently quick using the handrail, the same car, stairs, "how tall is this building?"
You hear it again.
No fighter jet can keep up with you now, you feel as though you're breaking the sound barrier, "how can I still hear it?" you think to yourself, another cheesy joke, the cars, the stairs, the laugh, the cars, the stairs, the laugh!
Finally.
You're at the top level, this is where you parked, you're goddamn sure of it, you finally see it. Your car.
You bolt across the concrete, "this is your final stretch, you can make it" you think to yourself-- SHIT!
Your keys.
You hear them jingle as they hit the floor...
You stand there, breathing heavily, as the laughing overwhelms you.
You slowly walk back to grab the keys.
Fingers crossed, eyes closed.
You briefly flash back to when you were 10, watching Seinfeld on TV, while your mother quietly crocheted and your dad worked on his essay. "That's right," you recall. "He was working on his master's in communications." You can't quite remember what was going on in the show, but you know damn well you can hear the laugh track... mocking you, your memories and everything you could remember.
The darkness from the parking garage takes over... You're laying on the ground in the fetal position, waiting to be saved Someone is playing some very upbeat sounding music. Maybe jazz? There's the bass making a popping sound, and... bubbles? It makes you feel warm, until you realize that you remember it from somewhere. You attempt to stand back up, but lo and behold, there he is... Standing over you.
"Hey... How about that airplane food?"
|
(This *does* imply that you can hear the laugh track, but who knows whether the show's regulars would be aware of it.)
|
[WP] You're mysteriously trapped in a cheesy sitcom with a seemingly random laugh track. After a string of murders, it becomes apparent that the laugh track signals when the killer is near.
|
"Oh, dear god," Joe thought. "I've killed another one."
The laughter in Joe's head reached new heights after the explosion. He had no idea that turning on the gas of his stove would, through a series of Rube Goldberg style interactions, cause an explosion next door.
How many was this now? Six? No, Seven.
Joe remembered the first person he killed. He was walking down the street and saw a piano dangling from a frayed rope as movers hauled the instrument up to a 10th story apartment. Joe saw the fibers splitting and knew the piano would drop. He looked on in horror as he realized that an elderly woman with a walker was about to be crushed.
Joe realized that this was his dare-to-be-great moment and lunged into a sprint. Joe threw himself at the elderly woman and pushed her over into a nearby pile of garbage that he hoped was soft, but was certain to be less deadly than the piano dropping.
As Joe hit the ground, he heard the rope holding the piano snap audibly. He knew he wouldn't be able to get out in time. He turned to look up, unable to stop himself, only he couldn't see the piano falling. An awning blocked his view.
Joe watched as the awning stretched when the piano hit it and closed his eyes thinking, "this is it."
Then Joe heard a very audible BOOOINNNGG sound. The piano bounced off of the awning like a gymnast off a trampoline, changing course, and landing directly on the nearby elderly woman. Then Joe heard laughter.
To this day, Joe couldn't understand how the awning had redirected the piano. It was physically impossible. The piano should have torn through it like tissue paper.
If Joe hadn't pushed the old lady out of the way, she would would have been saved by the awning.
The next time Joe killed someone, he was vacationing at Niagara falls. Joe tripped over his untied shoelace and bumped into a man who was leaning over a railing to get a picture of the falls. As the man fell, Joe heard him scream just like Goofy, "AH HA HA HA HOOOOEY." Then the laughter began again.
After that, the laughter started to come before someone died, like someone knew the gag and was anticipating the event. It was the worst part. Whenever Joe heard the laughter, he knew he was about to kill another person, but he never knew how.
How could Joe have known that when he threw pitch at one of his softball league games, the ball came from a shipment that had been used to smuggle volatile explosives. Somehow, one of the balls in which the explosives were hidden had found its way into Joe's local sporting goods store.
When the other player hit the softball, it detonated the hidden explosives. All that was left was a pair of smoking baseball cleats next to home plate.
Each death was more improbable than the last. I mean, who could anticipate that when Joe bought his former mother-in-law a sweater, it was a cheap knockoff made from flammable materials, and she would go up like a Roman candle when Joe asked her to pass the gravy at thanksgiving. The way she lit up as her sleeve passed over the candles on the table, you'd have thought the thing was soaked in kerosene.
Naturally, Joe's marriage hadn't survived that. In fact, Joe had been a shut-in since that day. He figured if he didn't go outside, he couldn't hurt anyone, and he'd never hear the dreaded, cacophonous laughter again.
That is, until today, when Joe blew up his neighbor Randall, whose scorched body the fire department found in the top of a tree 50 yards away.
The investigator from the fire department said he had never seen anything like it.
"I mean, you can't make this stuff up," the investigator told Joe.
___________________
"We need fresh ideas people," Zorglblax told the rest of the writing team as he flicked at his third eye-stalk. "Our ratings have been way up since we turned this bland, slice-of-life drama into a horror comedy, but the audience is starting to get bored. We should have gotten way more laughs when we blew up Randall, especially since he was on the toilet at the time."
"I mean, it was a stroke of genius when Joe's internal mic malfunctioned and he could hear the laughter and we decided to run with it, it really gave the show an interactive feeling and the audience loved it, but we haven't broken any new ground since then." Opting not to have Joe tranquilized and brought up to the network ship to have his mic fixed was actually because the show's underperformance before they changed the theme meant they didn't have the budget for the repair, but Zorglblax liked to pretend it was a brilliant idea of his.
"What if we give him a new love interest who also happens to be accident prone and constantly puts herself into dangerous situations and we tease the audience by making them think Joe will accidentally kill her, but we delay the payoff, maybe even for a whole season?" said Zeebumpbf.
"Get that fegnorian a raise!" Zorglblax slammed his hand on the conference room table. "You guys start putting together some scenarios and get started on a few spec scripts, I think this could be our best season yet. Get a few fleshbots setup as Joe's new girlfriend, we might have to parade a couple in front of him before we get the right one to snag his interest."
|
The parking garage is dead silent. Every car you pass is the same car over and over. The lights of this dilapidated structure flicker on and off. You look around nervously to begin with, but you begin to pick up your pace.
Now you're jogging. "Harold, that's a tomato, not a potato..."
"What's the difference?" There it is again. That same goddamned laugh. You'd normally cringe, but the thought it's getting closer keeps you alert. The laugh, over and over, echoes in your mind, you're running, sprinting, you climb the stairs like a pole vaulter, pulling yourself up violently quick using the handrail, the same car, stairs, "how tall is this building?"
You hear it again.
No fighter jet can keep up with you now, you feel as though you're breaking the sound barrier, "how can I still hear it?" you think to yourself, another cheesy joke, the cars, the stairs, the laugh, the cars, the stairs, the laugh!
Finally.
You're at the top level, this is where you parked, you're goddamn sure of it, you finally see it. Your car.
You bolt across the concrete, "this is your final stretch, you can make it" you think to yourself-- SHIT!
Your keys.
You hear them jingle as they hit the floor...
You stand there, breathing heavily, as the laughing overwhelms you.
You slowly walk back to grab the keys.
Fingers crossed, eyes closed.
You briefly flash back to when you were 10, watching Seinfeld on TV, while your mother quietly crocheted and your dad worked on his essay. "That's right," you recall. "He was working on his master's in communications." You can't quite remember what was going on in the show, but you know damn well you can hear the laugh track... mocking you, your memories and everything you could remember.
The darkness from the parking garage takes over... You're laying on the ground in the fetal position, waiting to be saved Someone is playing some very upbeat sounding music. Maybe jazz? There's the bass making a popping sound, and... bubbles? It makes you feel warm, until you realize that you remember it from somewhere. You attempt to stand back up, but lo and behold, there he is... Standing over you.
"Hey... How about that airplane food?"
|
(This *does* imply that you can hear the laugh track, but who knows whether the show's regulars would be aware of it.)
|
[WP] You're mysteriously trapped in a cheesy sitcom with a seemingly random laugh track. After a string of murders, it becomes apparent that the laugh track signals when the killer is near.
|
I am awakened by the end of a catchy tune. There used to be 13, now there are 3.
There has been a murder every night since I've become trapped in this weird hell. I seem to be in a TV show, but with less beautiful women. I seem to be the only one really affected by these occurrences. The other people - no, the other characters - carry on as if no one had died the previous day.
Their routines start predictably. They all come to my house in the morning. I think they have keys or something; I can't seem to keep them out. Last week I wedged a chair against the door and they 7 of them came in through the fire escape. On some days, they seem to take up my concern and investigate, but it's all very light-hearted, as if the deceased were not their friend just one day prior. But most of the time, they have a problem of the day and are completely focused on that one issue for one day. Then they all go to sleep, another one dies, and they continue on with their lives.
Am I the only one who remembers, who is concerned with these murders?
Today, there are only 3. Sean and Ronny burst in my room, joking about something amusing that happened during the walk over; whatever today's main topic will be. By process of elimination, Tony is dead. I guess my suspicions yesterday were off.
It has to be Ronny. He's way too cheerful not to be a psychopath. I spend ten minutes grilling about his whereabouts for the last few nights. "Look," he chuckles, "You want to go with me to meet the ladies tonight? That new club is hot! I've been with a different woman every night!"
I wanted to press on, but Sean stops me. "Look man, I know New York City going down the sh-" as a noisy truck passed on my street,"-er, with all these random murders on the news and everything, but you can't go accusing your friends like that.
I finally convince them to go over to Tony's. "Fine, fine, let's meet your new friend," as if they hadn't been together every day for the last week.
As I enter, I see Tony's body, mostly obscured by the couch. I hold on to the wall by the front door, feeling nauseous. Sean kneels over the body, looking like a real detective. He points at the opposite wall to where some of the blood was splattered. "Something's not right," he says, pointing to the knife embedded in the adjacent wall. Ronny is the last to enter the room. Checking out the fourth wall, he shrugs emphatically, "Well, it couldn't have been me!"
That laughter. I hear it again. It's never after something truly funny though.
I seem to be the only one who hears that laughter: I stopped asking after the third day. I think the laughter is associated with the real murderer. It has to be Ronny. I am sure.
I will pretend to not suspect anything, to continue on as normal. After they leave for the day, I will follow Ronny and make catch him in the act. They always hang around for the entire day, so I am exhausted at night. I don't really remember what happens after they leave, and I have been wrong the previous days, but I'm sure I will catch Ronny tonight.....
-----
I am awakened by the end of a catchy tune. There used to be 13, now there are 2.
|
My head pounds. I sit up, wincing at the bright light. My vision clears and I see the room around me. I’m lying on a bed in a room that is horribly outdated. The obnoxious floral bedding, popcorn ceiling, and brass fixtures suggest the room hasn't been updated since the 80’s. I glance down and my heart stops. I look like I haven't updated my wardrobe since the 80’s. I’m wearing light blue jeans, and an obnoxious flannel shirt. I jump out of the bed and run to the mirror over the dresser.
“No…..”
I have a mullet. A full on, business in the front, party in the back, mullet. My hair wasn’t that long before; it must be a wig. I tug on it to pull it off and I wince in pain. It must have been glued to my scalp. Figures. I hear cheesy theme song music playing through the walls.
“It's the Ham-il-tons, the Ham-il-tons. They’re crazy, and zany, but fun!”
“It’s the ham-il-tons, the Ham-il-tons. They’re friendly, and frazzled, and maimed!”
I must’ve misheard the last word. Behind me is a window with heavy curtains closed. I walk to it and pull it open.
“Whoa”
I’m in the mountains, all covered in snow. People are skiing down the slopes. The air is crisp and clear. It’s beautiful.
The door opens behind me. Hair stands up on the back of my neck as I whirl around.
“MOMMY!” A little boy with a God-awful bowl cut screams, “THERE’S SOMEONE IN HERE!”
“I’m so sorry,” a woman with obnoxious blonde curls scoops him up, “They’ve triple-booked us, honey,” she called into the hall, “Come on,” she gestured for me to follow. I plodded after her in the hall, taking in the dark wood paneling and plush red carpeting. The hall opens into a large living room. Large wooden beams line the ceiling and in front of me is a fireplace facing tacky white sofas all a step down from the rest of the room. Still, it looks cozy. A group of people comes down the staircase, immediately recognizable as a family. They all have dark complexions and hair and look too perfect. The mom’s hair is silky perfect. The girl’s is in perky pigtails. The dad’s teeth are gleaming white and his wrinkles look painted on. The boy is smiling despite being stuck at a cabin with his family.
“This is the Adams,” The blonde woman said, naming them in the same order I saw them, “Kendra, Kate, Kevin, and Kyle”
Kevin approached me, “Nice to meet you, Mr.?”
I awkwardly extend my hand, “Uh, Jackson, but you call—can call— me Alex”
“Good to meet you Alex”
“Sorry about the circumstances,” Kendra said as she gracefully descended the stairs, “But we’re going to try to make the most of it”
“The circumstances?”
“You know, all ten of us being stuck at the cabin”
“Stuck?”
“You must a real sound sleeper,” the blonde woman said, “It thunder-snowed all night. The roads are covered with over a foot and several trees are down. The power’s out and the roads won’t be cleared for a couple days”
“But I saw people on the slopes”
A man with grey-tinged hair walked in from a hallway, “They’re from the resort. It’s farther than it looks. They managed to keep power”
“So we’re stuck here?”
“I’m afraid so”
Suddenly, the front door flew open and two kids plowed into the house, sending icy snow flying everywhere.
“I’m gonna get you, nerd!”
A snow ball smacked into a lamp, knocking it off balance. I dove and managed to catch it before it hit the ground.
“Nice try, short stack!”
“MAVIS! MATT!” the blonde woman yelled, “STOP IT, RIGHT NOW”
The two sheepishly dropped their snowballs.
The mom groaned and put the kid down, rubbing her temples, “I meant, put them outside”
The man with grey tinged hair helped me up, “Nice save, uh”
“Alex,” I put the lamp down, “Thanks”
“Marvin Hamilton,” he shook my hand, “These two demons are mine, Marge and Matt, and that angel,” he pointed to the kid the blonde woman picked up, “Is Mark”
The woman came over, “And I’m Mavis, sorry I didn’t introduce myself earlier”
I shrugged, “It’s fine, good to meet you all”
“I know we’re stuck here,” but at least the back generator’s still running,” Kevin said to the two kids cleaning up their mess, “It could be a lot worse”
A laugh track played, one of those cheesy old ones. I remembered I read somewhere that they were recorded in the forties and fifties, and that all the people in them were dead now, so we were listening to dead people laugh every time a laugh track played. Weird.
The ground lurched. Everyone scrambled for something to hold onto. The power went out and the room was plunged into darkness. There were crashes and thuds. There were screams and cries and a squelching sound. I felt around in the darkness. I found the lamp I had saved, on the floor in pieces. I opened the drawer of the table it had been on and felt around. I grabbed a flashlight and flipped it on.
“Is everyone okay?” I shone the light around the room. Mark crawled toward his mother and latched onto her, sobbing. Matt and Marge were holding each other in front of the couch. Marvin had hit his head on the corner of a table as he fell and was holding a handkerchief to a gash on his head. I couldn’t find the Adams’.
There was a shriek. I panned over towards it. The flashlight beam caught something red. Kendra—Mrs. Adams—was lying against the wall. Her throat slit and wet crimson staining her perfect sweater.
There had been a small avalanche. The windows and door were covered with snow and the generator had been smothered by it. We couldn’t leave the cabin. We lit a few lanterns to see and all went back to our rooms.
Shadows from the lantern danced on the walls as I pondered everything. It all seemed like a 1980’s sitcom. Up until Kendra was killed. I could hear Kevin’s muffled sobs through the wall. He had wrapped his wife in a tarp in the basement. The accusations were going to start flying soon and probably turn into a witch hunt. There was a knock at the door.
“Come in”
Marge came in and sat on my bed. I looked at her face and noticed that she was about my age—22.
“I’m worried,” she confided.
“Worried about what?”
“Worried about who did it. About why”
“I know it wasn’t you,” she crossed her legs and faced me, “You couldn’t have gotten across the room in time”
“Glad to know I won’t get burned at the stake”
She smirked, “At this point I think everyone going Donner Party is more likely”
A draft suddenly blew through the house, blowing out the lamp. Marge grabbed my hand and squeezed. I squeezed back. The laugh track played rapidly three times. I quickly dropped Marge’s hand and grabbed matches from my bedside table and relit the lamp. The wick caught and slowly lit up the room. Marge was huddled over herself, petrified, her hair spilling over her back. I put my hand on her shoulder, “It’s oka—“
She fell back onto the floor with a thud. Her lips were blue and her eyes bloodshot. Her neck was black and blue.
I screamed.
The bodies were piling up quickly. The latest victims were Marge, Matt, and Kyle. After Kevin and I carried Marge to the basement, we got Kyle. He had been gutted, his sweater was the only thing keeping his organs from falling out. Mavis wouldn’t say what happened to Matt. I teared up when Marvin kissed Marge on the head, whispering, “My baby girl,” as he shut her eyes.
The survivors and I all met in the living room.
“Someone’s killed my wife and son,” Kevin said, “And I want to know who”
“I want an answer too,” Marvin said, tearing up, “A parent shouldn’t ever have to bury their children”
“Does Mark have to be here?” Mavis patted her son, sniffing.
“We need to stay together so we can keep ourselves safe,” Kevin replied, putting his arm around Kate.
“But there is more than one murderer,” I chimed in.
“What?!”
“Marge, Matt, and Kyle were all in different parts of the house and were only out of sight for a minute, max”
“max?”
“At the most”
“He’s right,” Kevin said. “No one man could’ve done this”
The group nodded in agreement.
Laughing began ringing in my ears. I covered them and fell to the ground.
“R-run!” I yelled, “RUN! RUN!”
The lamp went out, plunging the room into darkness. I heard snapping and screams and squishing. Hot sticky blood splattered onto my face and into my mouth. I gagged and spat it out. The lights came on, the electric lights. I stood up, shaking. Marge stood in front of me, bloodied knife in hand, playing with her hair.
“M-marge?! I thought you were dead”
“Yeah, that’s the point,” she smudged the bruises on her neck with her sleeve.
“Y-you…you killed them all….your whole family”
“And the Adams, don’t forget the Adams”
“Why? Why? Why would you do this?”
"I wanted to make sure you were special”
“Special?”
“You know none of this is real. It’s not”
“Is that what the laugh track’s about?”
“Exactly. None of them could here it. They weren’t real…not anymore”
“Not anymore?”
“We need to get out of here while we still can before we become part of The Hamiltons for good,” she turned on the TV, which promptly blared static.
“What are you talking about?”
“Get in, now”
“Into the TV?”
“Yes”
“Bu—“ she climbed into the TV so that only her arms and torso were visible, “Hurry. They aren’t real and now that they know we know, they’ll kill us”
“Wh—“
“Welcome home, honey!” Mrs. Hamilton stood up, her neck swinging back and forth broken, “I’ll get started on dinner,” she grabbed a meat cleaver from her husband’s back.
“What’re you thinking, dear?” Mr. Hamilton asked.
They started toward the us. I quickly hurried to the TV.
“I’m thinking something exotic”
I struggled to crawl into the TV.
“Exotic? Kate whined, blood dripping from her eyes, ears, mouth, and nose, “That sounds gross”
I was in the TV up to my waste. Marge was pulling me in when a laugh track played. Her face paled. “I-I’m sorry”
I felt something tug on my leg.
“No, No, NO!”
Marge pulled as hard as she could, but the Hamiltons pulled harder. The last thing I saw was her sobbing on the other side of the TV screen.
|
(This *does* imply that you can hear the laugh track, but who knows whether the show's regulars would be aware of it.)
|
[WP] You're mysteriously trapped in a cheesy sitcom with a seemingly random laugh track. After a string of murders, it becomes apparent that the laugh track signals when the killer is near.
|
I am awakened by the end of a catchy tune. There used to be 13, now there are 3.
There has been a murder every night since I've become trapped in this weird hell. I seem to be in a TV show, but with less beautiful women. I seem to be the only one really affected by these occurrences. The other people - no, the other characters - carry on as if no one had died the previous day.
Their routines start predictably. They all come to my house in the morning. I think they have keys or something; I can't seem to keep them out. Last week I wedged a chair against the door and they 7 of them came in through the fire escape. On some days, they seem to take up my concern and investigate, but it's all very light-hearted, as if the deceased were not their friend just one day prior. But most of the time, they have a problem of the day and are completely focused on that one issue for one day. Then they all go to sleep, another one dies, and they continue on with their lives.
Am I the only one who remembers, who is concerned with these murders?
Today, there are only 3. Sean and Ronny burst in my room, joking about something amusing that happened during the walk over; whatever today's main topic will be. By process of elimination, Tony is dead. I guess my suspicions yesterday were off.
It has to be Ronny. He's way too cheerful not to be a psychopath. I spend ten minutes grilling about his whereabouts for the last few nights. "Look," he chuckles, "You want to go with me to meet the ladies tonight? That new club is hot! I've been with a different woman every night!"
I wanted to press on, but Sean stops me. "Look man, I know New York City going down the sh-" as a noisy truck passed on my street,"-er, with all these random murders on the news and everything, but you can't go accusing your friends like that.
I finally convince them to go over to Tony's. "Fine, fine, let's meet your new friend," as if they hadn't been together every day for the last week.
As I enter, I see Tony's body, mostly obscured by the couch. I hold on to the wall by the front door, feeling nauseous. Sean kneels over the body, looking like a real detective. He points at the opposite wall to where some of the blood was splattered. "Something's not right," he says, pointing to the knife embedded in the adjacent wall. Ronny is the last to enter the room. Checking out the fourth wall, he shrugs emphatically, "Well, it couldn't have been me!"
That laughter. I hear it again. It's never after something truly funny though.
I seem to be the only one who hears that laughter: I stopped asking after the third day. I think the laughter is associated with the real murderer. It has to be Ronny. I am sure.
I will pretend to not suspect anything, to continue on as normal. After they leave for the day, I will follow Ronny and make catch him in the act. They always hang around for the entire day, so I am exhausted at night. I don't really remember what happens after they leave, and I have been wrong the previous days, but I'm sure I will catch Ronny tonight.....
-----
I am awakened by the end of a catchy tune. There used to be 13, now there are 2.
|
I’m not a patterns guy. Maybe some people would have figured it out in less than two hundred episodes, but I didn’t. In my defense, I don’t think a lot of people would have handled being inside a sitcom for ten seasons as well as I have, so that’s okay.
Anyways, I was talking to Barry about chicks or parenthood or something, and suddenly there’s all this laughter coming from nowhere. And I’m like “Damn, not Barry!” Then I was like, “Wait, what am I talking about?” Then I realized that every time I’d heard that weird laughter someone I knew had died. I’d seen literally hundreds of people die, and somebody always started giggling right before it happened. I guess my subconscience had been waiting for a chance to tell me.
I didn’t know what to do about it, so I just smiled and nodded, which is what I had been doing before that anyways, so it didn’t really matter. Couple minutes later, Barry’s head is being carried off by a dog and me and my roommate are running after it.
Did we catch it? I don’t know. Probably. I mainly remember spending that time dealing with my dilemma. I now knew when people would die before it happened. It was a crazy power. I’d be sitting there with a coworker, or a barrista, or somebody’s pet monkey and then I’d hear the laughing. Next thing I knew they’d be accidentally drinking acid, scalding their face off, or being pooped out of a bigger monkey.
What do I do? I’m a nuclear scientist. What is a “nuclear scientist,” and why would we need acid? Good questions. Pass.
Does the laughter scare me? No, not really, and I’ll tell you why. After all I’ve seen, all the hilarious ways people have died before my eyes for ten years and me never even taking a scratch, I must be the star of this thing. Sweet, right?
What’s that? Not a lot of sitcoms make it more than ten years? Thanks, I know. I’m very proud. Oh. Wait. Now I see what you mean. Crap.
|
(This *does* imply that you can hear the laugh track, but who knows whether the show's regulars would be aware of it.)
|
[WP] You're mysteriously trapped in a cheesy sitcom with a seemingly random laugh track. After a string of murders, it becomes apparent that the laugh track signals when the killer is near.
|
Last week I was hit by a car
It struck me, my head hit a bar
I fell in a ditch
My vision like pitch
The sirens I heard from afar
To the hospital I was sent
This bill's not as bad as my rent!
The nurse is quite pretty
but I don't know to which city
the ambulance carrying me went
The man in the bed next to mine
Holds a picture frame bordered with pine
The image is blurry
I ask with slight worry
"Picture of you under a swine?"
He sighs, "My entire life
has been nothing but trouble and strife.
Never have I heard
a question so absurd.
That's not a pig, that's my wife!"
Chuckles echo the air like a mist
I hear a shriek in the room next to this
"Oh god no wait please
no please wait just please"
I wonder if I should assist
Once again, I hear the strange laughter
Wondering what will come right after
The door swings ajar
I ask man with crowbar,
"Wh-
|
My skin began to crawl as I heard the maniacal laughter that I had become so familiar with. It reverberated against the walls of the room, seemingly coming from everywhere. My arms tensed up as I grabbed the baseball bat that was leaning against the couch.
The killer was known for being up close and personal with his victims, so I knew, when he came, it would not be a surprise. He would want me to see him, to understand what he was about to do, how helpless I would be in the situation.
******
The laughter shrieked through the room again, this time louder. It ran through me and forced me to submit to its concussive sounds. *He was getting closer.*
Suddenly, the front door to the room flung open, and the man appeared in the doorway. He smiled with that infamous smile that those unfortunate enough to see his work had seen; a haunting smile that few could forget.
He shut the door and started walking towards me.
"You wanna know how I got these scars?"
|
(This *does* imply that you can hear the laugh track, but who knows whether the show's regulars would be aware of it.)
|
[WP] You're mysteriously trapped in a cheesy sitcom with a seemingly random laugh track. After a string of murders, it becomes apparent that the laugh track signals when the killer is near.
|
"Oh, dear god," Joe thought. "I've killed another one."
The laughter in Joe's head reached new heights after the explosion. He had no idea that turning on the gas of his stove would, through a series of Rube Goldberg style interactions, cause an explosion next door.
How many was this now? Six? No, Seven.
Joe remembered the first person he killed. He was walking down the street and saw a piano dangling from a frayed rope as movers hauled the instrument up to a 10th story apartment. Joe saw the fibers splitting and knew the piano would drop. He looked on in horror as he realized that an elderly woman with a walker was about to be crushed.
Joe realized that this was his dare-to-be-great moment and lunged into a sprint. Joe threw himself at the elderly woman and pushed her over into a nearby pile of garbage that he hoped was soft, but was certain to be less deadly than the piano dropping.
As Joe hit the ground, he heard the rope holding the piano snap audibly. He knew he wouldn't be able to get out in time. He turned to look up, unable to stop himself, only he couldn't see the piano falling. An awning blocked his view.
Joe watched as the awning stretched when the piano hit it and closed his eyes thinking, "this is it."
Then Joe heard a very audible BOOOINNNGG sound. The piano bounced off of the awning like a gymnast off a trampoline, changing course, and landing directly on the nearby elderly woman. Then Joe heard laughter.
To this day, Joe couldn't understand how the awning had redirected the piano. It was physically impossible. The piano should have torn through it like tissue paper.
If Joe hadn't pushed the old lady out of the way, she would would have been saved by the awning.
The next time Joe killed someone, he was vacationing at Niagara falls. Joe tripped over his untied shoelace and bumped into a man who was leaning over a railing to get a picture of the falls. As the man fell, Joe heard him scream just like Goofy, "AH HA HA HA HOOOOEY." Then the laughter began again.
After that, the laughter started to come before someone died, like someone knew the gag and was anticipating the event. It was the worst part. Whenever Joe heard the laughter, he knew he was about to kill another person, but he never knew how.
How could Joe have known that when he threw pitch at one of his softball league games, the ball came from a shipment that had been used to smuggle volatile explosives. Somehow, one of the balls in which the explosives were hidden had found its way into Joe's local sporting goods store.
When the other player hit the softball, it detonated the hidden explosives. All that was left was a pair of smoking baseball cleats next to home plate.
Each death was more improbable than the last. I mean, who could anticipate that when Joe bought his former mother-in-law a sweater, it was a cheap knockoff made from flammable materials, and she would go up like a Roman candle when Joe asked her to pass the gravy at thanksgiving. The way she lit up as her sleeve passed over the candles on the table, you'd have thought the thing was soaked in kerosene.
Naturally, Joe's marriage hadn't survived that. In fact, Joe had been a shut-in since that day. He figured if he didn't go outside, he couldn't hurt anyone, and he'd never hear the dreaded, cacophonous laughter again.
That is, until today, when Joe blew up his neighbor Randall, whose scorched body the fire department found in the top of a tree 50 yards away.
The investigator from the fire department said he had never seen anything like it.
"I mean, you can't make this stuff up," the investigator told Joe.
___________________
"We need fresh ideas people," Zorglblax told the rest of the writing team as he flicked at his third eye-stalk. "Our ratings have been way up since we turned this bland, slice-of-life drama into a horror comedy, but the audience is starting to get bored. We should have gotten way more laughs when we blew up Randall, especially since he was on the toilet at the time."
"I mean, it was a stroke of genius when Joe's internal mic malfunctioned and he could hear the laughter and we decided to run with it, it really gave the show an interactive feeling and the audience loved it, but we haven't broken any new ground since then." Opting not to have Joe tranquilized and brought up to the network ship to have his mic fixed was actually because the show's underperformance before they changed the theme meant they didn't have the budget for the repair, but Zorglblax liked to pretend it was a brilliant idea of his.
"What if we give him a new love interest who also happens to be accident prone and constantly puts herself into dangerous situations and we tease the audience by making them think Joe will accidentally kill her, but we delay the payoff, maybe even for a whole season?" said Zeebumpbf.
"Get that fegnorian a raise!" Zorglblax slammed his hand on the conference room table. "You guys start putting together some scenarios and get started on a few spec scripts, I think this could be our best season yet. Get a few fleshbots setup as Joe's new girlfriend, we might have to parade a couple in front of him before we get the right one to snag his interest."
|
My skin began to crawl as I heard the maniacal laughter that I had become so familiar with. It reverberated against the walls of the room, seemingly coming from everywhere. My arms tensed up as I grabbed the baseball bat that was leaning against the couch.
The killer was known for being up close and personal with his victims, so I knew, when he came, it would not be a surprise. He would want me to see him, to understand what he was about to do, how helpless I would be in the situation.
******
The laughter shrieked through the room again, this time louder. It ran through me and forced me to submit to its concussive sounds. *He was getting closer.*
Suddenly, the front door to the room flung open, and the man appeared in the doorway. He smiled with that infamous smile that those unfortunate enough to see his work had seen; a haunting smile that few could forget.
He shut the door and started walking towards me.
"You wanna know how I got these scars?"
|
(This *does* imply that you can hear the laugh track, but who knows whether the show's regulars would be aware of it.)
|
[WP] You're mysteriously trapped in a cheesy sitcom with a seemingly random laugh track. After a string of murders, it becomes apparent that the laugh track signals when the killer is near.
|
The office is in a frenzy. My sergeants are practically tripping over themselves as they exchange their theories. Typewritten reports fly. A freshly brewed pot of coffee spills. It’s crazy what a little rumor of federal involvement can do to a green-as-grass police department. Our little Colorado town hasn’t seen this much action in some time. It’s all I can manage to pop some ibuprofen.
“You alright Skip?” asks Paulison. He plops down the latest batch of vic pics. Empty faces leer at me. An entire goddamned family, chopped up in the night. I wave him off, desperately fishing in my pocket for one of my last cigarettes.
“Get this shit off my desk,” I grumble.
“I just had an idea…”
“Are you deaf?!”
Paulison recoils. For a brief moment, the office frenzy hiccups. Everyone casts a furtive glance my direction. Unspoken messages are communicated via eyeballs. They’re all wondering if this last straw is the one that finally breaks my back. *The Case that Sent Skip to the Loony Bin.* I make sure to scowl at every one of them, but to be honest, it all bears a kernel of truth: I’ve taken this case much too personally.
I sigh at Paulison’s raised eyebrows.
“Sorry. I--it’s this case,” I say, rubbing my forehead. “It’s driving me plum crazy.”
The frenzy resumes. Paulison nods and quickly scoops up the bloody snapshots. He shrugs an apology and says something consoling. But it’s drowned out by laughter. A cackling, incessant laughter that began soon after the first murders. The unseen audience is inescapable, like one of those cartoon clouds following me around. Some days it unleashes a storm of laughter. Others, it’s just a drizzle of *awws*.
As the thoughts play in my head, the laughing increases. I swear I hear someone in the audience wheeze. I fish in the pill bottle more meds, but the damned thing is empty, so I scoop up my jacket and head for the door.
“Heading out for the day,” I say to nobody in particular.
The door slams behind me.
Lis says I need a therapist, but I tell her I might as well just be charging *her*. I tell her we should get back together; that she is my life raft in this crazy-ass whirlpool. Most times she smiles and nods, and I do my best to tell her if it wasn’t for her...I think the voices would win.
Lis says she’s up for coffee. I let the warmth of my latte soak through the cup while I wait. I turn the cup in my palm, thinking *this coffee is warm, this coffee is warm*, trying my damndest to ignore the audience’s yawns.
At long last, Lis arrives. She brushes her brown curls over her shoulder, shakes off the outside cold. I pull out her chair as she strides over.
“I heard about the Winslows,” she says, eyes gleaming. “How are you holding up?”
Her look asks the real question.
I’ve heard the voices for months now, and she’s the only one who knows. I tell her they’re still there. “I know it sounds batshit, but I think they’re tied to this,” I say. “They increase before each killing.”
Lis sips from her coffee. I see her chewing over something, picking the right words.
Her eyes are sad when she looks at me.
I can spot the pity.
“George, you’ve heard them since Sarah. They’re tied to our daughter.”
The audience *gasps*. But Lis can’t be right. Our daughter died years ago.
“I’m worried about you,” Lis says.
She caresses my wrist as I wrench my eyes closed. I feel her fingertips trace the curve of my knuckles. My throat goes raw as I choke back my tears.
*Aww*’s this time. Enough to erode the foundation of my sanity.
“Lis, I’m hearing them now,” I whisper.
Lis swallows and nods.
“If you came home with me, do you think you could manage?”
Adrenaline is coursing through my veins. My insides are murmuring. A thousand voices whispering at once, vying for control of my sanity.
“Yeah, sure.”
Our house is the same. Pictures of us still everywhere. Lis smiles at me as she hangs up our coats. Mementos dangle--macaroni projects, doodles of dinos--little sandcastles I’d foolishly kicked over long ago. I’m left dumbstruck, caught in a riptide.
Lis pads around the kitchen, fishing through cabinets.
“Tea?” Lis asks.
“Mmm,” I say, distracted. I’m staring transfixed at the picture of our late daughter. She’s smiling on a soccer field, a siren calling me back into the past. Suddenly, I’m lost in memories. I used to coach, I remember. I used to run up the sidelines screaming.
As Lis fiddles with a teapot, I move to another picture.
Once, Sarah shook a bird feeder to get at the seed. When I asked what she was doing, she smiled at me with black slivers in her teeth. “I’m turning into a bird,” she’d giggled.
The audience sobs.
As the memories fly by, I fall into myself. My limbs begin to numb. My eyes glaze over. Strangely enough, I feel the bounce of my bed as Sarah jumps and cackles. I feel her victory shriek shake my shoulders after she’d kicked the game winning goal.
And I feel, too, how my reality had shattered as her pulse fluttered and died inside my arms.
From miles away, Lis grabs my elbow.
“George? You’re shaking.”
I want to say I am fine. I want to squeeze Lis into my chest and feel the tickle of her hair against my cheek. But I can’t move my jaw. I can’t move anything. I’m inside myself, surrounded by darkness.
A hand grabs my shoulder.
I turn to see: me.
Hundreds of copies with bright, shining eyes.
“It’s alright bub,” one says to me. “His turn to drive.”
“George? What are you doing?” Lis says. Her voice is distant and scared.
I am shocked when my voice replies.
“Not George anymore.”
I feel a handgrip in my palm. The echoey click of my pistol’s safety.
Then I’m surrounded by an audience of strangers, with every voice going *noooooo*.
_______________________________
r/writerscrywhiskey
|
My skin began to crawl as I heard the maniacal laughter that I had become so familiar with. It reverberated against the walls of the room, seemingly coming from everywhere. My arms tensed up as I grabbed the baseball bat that was leaning against the couch.
The killer was known for being up close and personal with his victims, so I knew, when he came, it would not be a surprise. He would want me to see him, to understand what he was about to do, how helpless I would be in the situation.
******
The laughter shrieked through the room again, this time louder. It ran through me and forced me to submit to its concussive sounds. *He was getting closer.*
Suddenly, the front door to the room flung open, and the man appeared in the doorway. He smiled with that infamous smile that those unfortunate enough to see his work had seen; a haunting smile that few could forget.
He shut the door and started walking towards me.
"You wanna know how I got these scars?"
|
(This *does* imply that you can hear the laugh track, but who knows whether the show's regulars would be aware of it.)
|
[WP] You're mysteriously trapped in a cheesy sitcom with a seemingly random laugh track. After a string of murders, it becomes apparent that the laugh track signals when the killer is near.
|
The door opens, propelled by Joe’s body weight, and meets the plain wall, scratched from an inestimable number of similar incidents, causing a loud but hollow *thud* that rips me away from the paper. My jolt of fright trickles coffee over the morning's headline. As if they are a single unit, the handle pulls the small wiry man inside, his white socked feet sliding on the cheap wooden floor. Both Joe and the door come to a momentary halt. Without so much as a hello, self-amused smile plastered on an unkempt and generally unappealing face, he directs himself to the refrigerator. The door remains open, leaving the messy room exposed to the judgement of whoever passes through communal hall. Unless I were to close it, I'm fairly sure it would remain open all day.
While persistent and irritating, I’ve gotten used to Joe’s visits. His behaviour no longer strikes me as particularly strange or rude, the way it had when I’d first moved in. Besides, I have more sinister problems to concern myself with.
More bizarre than my mooching neighbour or the nearly scripted relationship between the two men who had rented their spare room to me, the way they fought over the same seat on an uncomfortable sofa or constantly pushed, what were, in my opinion, fairly well established boundaries, is the laugh track. It’s more of a menace than Dave's arguments, begun like clockwork, with waiters at restaurants as soon as the food is set before us. It’s less predictable than Heinrich’s occasional angered German phone calls. This tinny recording of mixed laughter, ‘ha ha ha’s stacked atop one another, stopping and starting as if it were the candid tittering of an amused group, never plays during any of the few solitary and genuinely funny moments of my day. It rarely even graces the pauses between the, frankly, inordinate number of poorly delivered jokes and awkward situations.
Worse than its presence, which is both confusing and terrifying, is that fact that I am alone in hearing it. An auditory hallucination indicative of only one thing. Murder.
It began, first, with someone I’d never met. A homeless man who Heinrich had become familiar with during his short stint living in the alleyway behind a popular diner where, despite Dave’s insolent behaviour, we eat most weekends. The laugh track rang out as I was washing my hands in the bathroom. My reflection looked up, perplexed.
When we left the small local eatery, rounded the corner to take the shortcut past Heinrich’s former place of residence, there he was. The homeless man, dead. The business end of a diner fork stuck in his throat, skin speckled with red oozing spots.
Next it was the woman in room 351, the apartment three doors down from ours. These little spaces were cookie cutter, all the same layout with the same ugly basic coating of paint stuffed full of different cheap furniture, typically a mix match of style, fabric, and light or dark wood. Not hers, though. She had all pink plush fabrics, light woods and plants everywhere, as if the home was bought exclusively for the care and keeping of succulents and African violets.
The laugh track sounded as I walked into our apartment. All eyes were on me and there was a breathy suggestion that I take a shower, which I abided by as even I was aware of my own rather strong body odour.
She was found the next morning. Time of death was right around the time I’d come home from work, coinciding perfectly with the laugh track.
This has happened three more times, the murders had captivated newscasters and papers, blogs and television shows, who’d begun using his M.O. of killing with strange proximate objects such as forks, gardening tools, and a plastic child’s screwdriver. The last of which perplexes me the most.
I live in fear of the track, wondering when it, and the killer, will strike again.
Tired of the bickering incited by Joe’s rummaging through our cabinets, though this activity and the following argument are nothing new, I leave the room. The bathroom is something of a sanctuary for me. It’s decorated much like the bathroom in my grandparent’s home, pale pink walls and a red stained faux porcelain sink, an old scratched metal frame around the mirror.
When I look down again, I’m washing my hands.
The laugh track sounds. But this time, it doesn’t stop. The same loop of laughter plays over and over and over, either growing louder or making me so claustrophobic that I feel consumed by the cacophonous expressions of joy.
The red stain in the sink is bright, water splashing it up to stain the silver metal of the spigot. My reflection in the mirror is terrified, face splattered red and eyes wide.
|
My skin began to crawl as I heard the maniacal laughter that I had become so familiar with. It reverberated against the walls of the room, seemingly coming from everywhere. My arms tensed up as I grabbed the baseball bat that was leaning against the couch.
The killer was known for being up close and personal with his victims, so I knew, when he came, it would not be a surprise. He would want me to see him, to understand what he was about to do, how helpless I would be in the situation.
******
The laughter shrieked through the room again, this time louder. It ran through me and forced me to submit to its concussive sounds. *He was getting closer.*
Suddenly, the front door to the room flung open, and the man appeared in the doorway. He smiled with that infamous smile that those unfortunate enough to see his work had seen; a haunting smile that few could forget.
He shut the door and started walking towards me.
"You wanna know how I got these scars?"
|
(This *does* imply that you can hear the laugh track, but who knows whether the show's regulars would be aware of it.)
|
[WP] You're mysteriously trapped in a cheesy sitcom with a seemingly random laugh track. After a string of murders, it becomes apparent that the laugh track signals when the killer is near.
|
Last week I was hit by a car
It struck me, my head hit a bar
I fell in a ditch
My vision like pitch
The sirens I heard from afar
To the hospital I was sent
This bill's not as bad as my rent!
The nurse is quite pretty
but I don't know to which city
the ambulance carrying me went
The man in the bed next to mine
Holds a picture frame bordered with pine
The image is blurry
I ask with slight worry
"Picture of you under a swine?"
He sighs, "My entire life
has been nothing but trouble and strife.
Never have I heard
a question so absurd.
That's not a pig, that's my wife!"
Chuckles echo the air like a mist
I hear a shriek in the room next to this
"Oh god no wait please
no please wait just please"
I wonder if I should assist
Once again, I hear the strange laughter
Wondering what will come right after
The door swings ajar
I ask man with crowbar,
"Wh-
|
You stumble, room to room, panicking as the chuckles and grunts begin to slowly build...
You have seen no one for what seems like an eternity, yet the crescendo of laughter is drawing near...
You black out, and awaken to a roar of unprompted mirth drowning out the sounds of the rest of the world...but you can see...
Others around you, in shock, reeling against the laughter, many of them with blood splattered upon their clothes or hands or even face...
You feel the warm crimson pooling in your own palms, see the dismembered bodies strewn about the room. Your eyes lock with many of the others as you each seem to come to the realization that from this moment on...
The laughter will never stop for you...
|
(This *does* imply that you can hear the laugh track, but who knows whether the show's regulars would be aware of it.)
|
[WP] You're mysteriously trapped in a cheesy sitcom with a seemingly random laugh track. After a string of murders, it becomes apparent that the laugh track signals when the killer is near.
|
"Oh, dear god," Joe thought. "I've killed another one."
The laughter in Joe's head reached new heights after the explosion. He had no idea that turning on the gas of his stove would, through a series of Rube Goldberg style interactions, cause an explosion next door.
How many was this now? Six? No, Seven.
Joe remembered the first person he killed. He was walking down the street and saw a piano dangling from a frayed rope as movers hauled the instrument up to a 10th story apartment. Joe saw the fibers splitting and knew the piano would drop. He looked on in horror as he realized that an elderly woman with a walker was about to be crushed.
Joe realized that this was his dare-to-be-great moment and lunged into a sprint. Joe threw himself at the elderly woman and pushed her over into a nearby pile of garbage that he hoped was soft, but was certain to be less deadly than the piano dropping.
As Joe hit the ground, he heard the rope holding the piano snap audibly. He knew he wouldn't be able to get out in time. He turned to look up, unable to stop himself, only he couldn't see the piano falling. An awning blocked his view.
Joe watched as the awning stretched when the piano hit it and closed his eyes thinking, "this is it."
Then Joe heard a very audible BOOOINNNGG sound. The piano bounced off of the awning like a gymnast off a trampoline, changing course, and landing directly on the nearby elderly woman. Then Joe heard laughter.
To this day, Joe couldn't understand how the awning had redirected the piano. It was physically impossible. The piano should have torn through it like tissue paper.
If Joe hadn't pushed the old lady out of the way, she would would have been saved by the awning.
The next time Joe killed someone, he was vacationing at Niagara falls. Joe tripped over his untied shoelace and bumped into a man who was leaning over a railing to get a picture of the falls. As the man fell, Joe heard him scream just like Goofy, "AH HA HA HA HOOOOEY." Then the laughter began again.
After that, the laughter started to come before someone died, like someone knew the gag and was anticipating the event. It was the worst part. Whenever Joe heard the laughter, he knew he was about to kill another person, but he never knew how.
How could Joe have known that when he threw pitch at one of his softball league games, the ball came from a shipment that had been used to smuggle volatile explosives. Somehow, one of the balls in which the explosives were hidden had found its way into Joe's local sporting goods store.
When the other player hit the softball, it detonated the hidden explosives. All that was left was a pair of smoking baseball cleats next to home plate.
Each death was more improbable than the last. I mean, who could anticipate that when Joe bought his former mother-in-law a sweater, it was a cheap knockoff made from flammable materials, and she would go up like a Roman candle when Joe asked her to pass the gravy at thanksgiving. The way she lit up as her sleeve passed over the candles on the table, you'd have thought the thing was soaked in kerosene.
Naturally, Joe's marriage hadn't survived that. In fact, Joe had been a shut-in since that day. He figured if he didn't go outside, he couldn't hurt anyone, and he'd never hear the dreaded, cacophonous laughter again.
That is, until today, when Joe blew up his neighbor Randall, whose scorched body the fire department found in the top of a tree 50 yards away.
The investigator from the fire department said he had never seen anything like it.
"I mean, you can't make this stuff up," the investigator told Joe.
___________________
"We need fresh ideas people," Zorglblax told the rest of the writing team as he flicked at his third eye-stalk. "Our ratings have been way up since we turned this bland, slice-of-life drama into a horror comedy, but the audience is starting to get bored. We should have gotten way more laughs when we blew up Randall, especially since he was on the toilet at the time."
"I mean, it was a stroke of genius when Joe's internal mic malfunctioned and he could hear the laughter and we decided to run with it, it really gave the show an interactive feeling and the audience loved it, but we haven't broken any new ground since then." Opting not to have Joe tranquilized and brought up to the network ship to have his mic fixed was actually because the show's underperformance before they changed the theme meant they didn't have the budget for the repair, but Zorglblax liked to pretend it was a brilliant idea of his.
"What if we give him a new love interest who also happens to be accident prone and constantly puts herself into dangerous situations and we tease the audience by making them think Joe will accidentally kill her, but we delay the payoff, maybe even for a whole season?" said Zeebumpbf.
"Get that fegnorian a raise!" Zorglblax slammed his hand on the conference room table. "You guys start putting together some scenarios and get started on a few spec scripts, I think this could be our best season yet. Get a few fleshbots setup as Joe's new girlfriend, we might have to parade a couple in front of him before we get the right one to snag his interest."
|
You stumble, room to room, panicking as the chuckles and grunts begin to slowly build...
You have seen no one for what seems like an eternity, yet the crescendo of laughter is drawing near...
You black out, and awaken to a roar of unprompted mirth drowning out the sounds of the rest of the world...but you can see...
Others around you, in shock, reeling against the laughter, many of them with blood splattered upon their clothes or hands or even face...
You feel the warm crimson pooling in your own palms, see the dismembered bodies strewn about the room. Your eyes lock with many of the others as you each seem to come to the realization that from this moment on...
The laughter will never stop for you...
|
(This *does* imply that you can hear the laugh track, but who knows whether the show's regulars would be aware of it.)
|
[WP] You're mysteriously trapped in a cheesy sitcom with a seemingly random laugh track. After a string of murders, it becomes apparent that the laugh track signals when the killer is near.
|
"Oh, dear god," Joe thought. "I've killed another one."
The laughter in Joe's head reached new heights after the explosion. He had no idea that turning on the gas of his stove would, through a series of Rube Goldberg style interactions, cause an explosion next door.
How many was this now? Six? No, Seven.
Joe remembered the first person he killed. He was walking down the street and saw a piano dangling from a frayed rope as movers hauled the instrument up to a 10th story apartment. Joe saw the fibers splitting and knew the piano would drop. He looked on in horror as he realized that an elderly woman with a walker was about to be crushed.
Joe realized that this was his dare-to-be-great moment and lunged into a sprint. Joe threw himself at the elderly woman and pushed her over into a nearby pile of garbage that he hoped was soft, but was certain to be less deadly than the piano dropping.
As Joe hit the ground, he heard the rope holding the piano snap audibly. He knew he wouldn't be able to get out in time. He turned to look up, unable to stop himself, only he couldn't see the piano falling. An awning blocked his view.
Joe watched as the awning stretched when the piano hit it and closed his eyes thinking, "this is it."
Then Joe heard a very audible BOOOINNNGG sound. The piano bounced off of the awning like a gymnast off a trampoline, changing course, and landing directly on the nearby elderly woman. Then Joe heard laughter.
To this day, Joe couldn't understand how the awning had redirected the piano. It was physically impossible. The piano should have torn through it like tissue paper.
If Joe hadn't pushed the old lady out of the way, she would would have been saved by the awning.
The next time Joe killed someone, he was vacationing at Niagara falls. Joe tripped over his untied shoelace and bumped into a man who was leaning over a railing to get a picture of the falls. As the man fell, Joe heard him scream just like Goofy, "AH HA HA HA HOOOOEY." Then the laughter began again.
After that, the laughter started to come before someone died, like someone knew the gag and was anticipating the event. It was the worst part. Whenever Joe heard the laughter, he knew he was about to kill another person, but he never knew how.
How could Joe have known that when he threw pitch at one of his softball league games, the ball came from a shipment that had been used to smuggle volatile explosives. Somehow, one of the balls in which the explosives were hidden had found its way into Joe's local sporting goods store.
When the other player hit the softball, it detonated the hidden explosives. All that was left was a pair of smoking baseball cleats next to home plate.
Each death was more improbable than the last. I mean, who could anticipate that when Joe bought his former mother-in-law a sweater, it was a cheap knockoff made from flammable materials, and she would go up like a Roman candle when Joe asked her to pass the gravy at thanksgiving. The way she lit up as her sleeve passed over the candles on the table, you'd have thought the thing was soaked in kerosene.
Naturally, Joe's marriage hadn't survived that. In fact, Joe had been a shut-in since that day. He figured if he didn't go outside, he couldn't hurt anyone, and he'd never hear the dreaded, cacophonous laughter again.
That is, until today, when Joe blew up his neighbor Randall, whose scorched body the fire department found in the top of a tree 50 yards away.
The investigator from the fire department said he had never seen anything like it.
"I mean, you can't make this stuff up," the investigator told Joe.
___________________
"We need fresh ideas people," Zorglblax told the rest of the writing team as he flicked at his third eye-stalk. "Our ratings have been way up since we turned this bland, slice-of-life drama into a horror comedy, but the audience is starting to get bored. We should have gotten way more laughs when we blew up Randall, especially since he was on the toilet at the time."
"I mean, it was a stroke of genius when Joe's internal mic malfunctioned and he could hear the laughter and we decided to run with it, it really gave the show an interactive feeling and the audience loved it, but we haven't broken any new ground since then." Opting not to have Joe tranquilized and brought up to the network ship to have his mic fixed was actually because the show's underperformance before they changed the theme meant they didn't have the budget for the repair, but Zorglblax liked to pretend it was a brilliant idea of his.
"What if we give him a new love interest who also happens to be accident prone and constantly puts herself into dangerous situations and we tease the audience by making them think Joe will accidentally kill her, but we delay the payoff, maybe even for a whole season?" said Zeebumpbf.
"Get that fegnorian a raise!" Zorglblax slammed his hand on the conference room table. "You guys start putting together some scenarios and get started on a few spec scripts, I think this could be our best season yet. Get a few fleshbots setup as Joe's new girlfriend, we might have to parade a couple in front of him before we get the right one to snag his interest."
|
I hear it every time I close my eyes. That twisted horrible noise and I see them. Their corpses. Their lifeless eyes. Their faces twisted in.....Laughter? No that can't be right.... laughter isn't scary. Right as death took them they were smiling. They looked so happy. Like smiling statues. That image has been "carved" into my mind. I can tell that the audience liked that one because I can hear their laughter right behind my ears
|
(This *does* imply that you can hear the laugh track, but who knows whether the show's regulars would be aware of it.)
|
[WP] You're mysteriously trapped in a cheesy sitcom with a seemingly random laugh track. After a string of murders, it becomes apparent that the laugh track signals when the killer is near.
|
"Oh, dear god," Joe thought. "I've killed another one."
The laughter in Joe's head reached new heights after the explosion. He had no idea that turning on the gas of his stove would, through a series of Rube Goldberg style interactions, cause an explosion next door.
How many was this now? Six? No, Seven.
Joe remembered the first person he killed. He was walking down the street and saw a piano dangling from a frayed rope as movers hauled the instrument up to a 10th story apartment. Joe saw the fibers splitting and knew the piano would drop. He looked on in horror as he realized that an elderly woman with a walker was about to be crushed.
Joe realized that this was his dare-to-be-great moment and lunged into a sprint. Joe threw himself at the elderly woman and pushed her over into a nearby pile of garbage that he hoped was soft, but was certain to be less deadly than the piano dropping.
As Joe hit the ground, he heard the rope holding the piano snap audibly. He knew he wouldn't be able to get out in time. He turned to look up, unable to stop himself, only he couldn't see the piano falling. An awning blocked his view.
Joe watched as the awning stretched when the piano hit it and closed his eyes thinking, "this is it."
Then Joe heard a very audible BOOOINNNGG sound. The piano bounced off of the awning like a gymnast off a trampoline, changing course, and landing directly on the nearby elderly woman. Then Joe heard laughter.
To this day, Joe couldn't understand how the awning had redirected the piano. It was physically impossible. The piano should have torn through it like tissue paper.
If Joe hadn't pushed the old lady out of the way, she would would have been saved by the awning.
The next time Joe killed someone, he was vacationing at Niagara falls. Joe tripped over his untied shoelace and bumped into a man who was leaning over a railing to get a picture of the falls. As the man fell, Joe heard him scream just like Goofy, "AH HA HA HA HOOOOEY." Then the laughter began again.
After that, the laughter started to come before someone died, like someone knew the gag and was anticipating the event. It was the worst part. Whenever Joe heard the laughter, he knew he was about to kill another person, but he never knew how.
How could Joe have known that when he threw pitch at one of his softball league games, the ball came from a shipment that had been used to smuggle volatile explosives. Somehow, one of the balls in which the explosives were hidden had found its way into Joe's local sporting goods store.
When the other player hit the softball, it detonated the hidden explosives. All that was left was a pair of smoking baseball cleats next to home plate.
Each death was more improbable than the last. I mean, who could anticipate that when Joe bought his former mother-in-law a sweater, it was a cheap knockoff made from flammable materials, and she would go up like a Roman candle when Joe asked her to pass the gravy at thanksgiving. The way she lit up as her sleeve passed over the candles on the table, you'd have thought the thing was soaked in kerosene.
Naturally, Joe's marriage hadn't survived that. In fact, Joe had been a shut-in since that day. He figured if he didn't go outside, he couldn't hurt anyone, and he'd never hear the dreaded, cacophonous laughter again.
That is, until today, when Joe blew up his neighbor Randall, whose scorched body the fire department found in the top of a tree 50 yards away.
The investigator from the fire department said he had never seen anything like it.
"I mean, you can't make this stuff up," the investigator told Joe.
___________________
"We need fresh ideas people," Zorglblax told the rest of the writing team as he flicked at his third eye-stalk. "Our ratings have been way up since we turned this bland, slice-of-life drama into a horror comedy, but the audience is starting to get bored. We should have gotten way more laughs when we blew up Randall, especially since he was on the toilet at the time."
"I mean, it was a stroke of genius when Joe's internal mic malfunctioned and he could hear the laughter and we decided to run with it, it really gave the show an interactive feeling and the audience loved it, but we haven't broken any new ground since then." Opting not to have Joe tranquilized and brought up to the network ship to have his mic fixed was actually because the show's underperformance before they changed the theme meant they didn't have the budget for the repair, but Zorglblax liked to pretend it was a brilliant idea of his.
"What if we give him a new love interest who also happens to be accident prone and constantly puts herself into dangerous situations and we tease the audience by making them think Joe will accidentally kill her, but we delay the payoff, maybe even for a whole season?" said Zeebumpbf.
"Get that fegnorian a raise!" Zorglblax slammed his hand on the conference room table. "You guys start putting together some scenarios and get started on a few spec scripts, I think this could be our best season yet. Get a few fleshbots setup as Joe's new girlfriend, we might have to parade a couple in front of him before we get the right one to snag his interest."
|
Last week I was hit by a car
It struck me, my head hit a bar
I fell in a ditch
My vision like pitch
The sirens I heard from afar
To the hospital I was sent
This bill's not as bad as my rent!
The nurse is quite pretty
but I don't know to which city
the ambulance carrying me went
The man in the bed next to mine
Holds a picture frame bordered with pine
The image is blurry
I ask with slight worry
"Picture of you under a swine?"
He sighs, "My entire life
has been nothing but trouble and strife.
Never have I heard
a question so absurd.
That's not a pig, that's my wife!"
Chuckles echo the air like a mist
I hear a shriek in the room next to this
"Oh god no wait please
no please wait just please"
I wonder if I should assist
Once again, I hear the strange laughter
Wondering what will come right after
The door swings ajar
I ask man with crowbar,
"Wh-
|
(This *does* imply that you can hear the laugh track, but who knows whether the show's regulars would be aware of it.)
|
[WP] You're mysteriously trapped in a cheesy sitcom with a seemingly random laugh track. After a string of murders, it becomes apparent that the laugh track signals when the killer is near.
|
A young man wears a shit eating grin, an overly comical response to his own bad pun.
He's just said his catch phrase, at least that's what I assume for it to be. I've spent the last few days scrounging for food around a sprawling outdoor set, running from house to house, sleeping whenever I can.
The heavy weight of exhaustion must be forced down again, because I know what a stupid joke means.
I'm in the living room of what must be the main protagonist's home, as it holds the most survivors. No one apparently is aware of the danger they're in, and part of me is certain that they're held in some sort of trance.
No one makes any sudden movements, but I wait for the laugh track.
*HAHAHAHAHAHAHA*
It comes dull and monotone, disturbing and cruel in its detachment.
I rush into a hall closet and slam the door shut. I have maybe five minutes before it arrives.
Conversation continues, the family responding to the catch phrase with the usual canned responses and assumed eye rolls. An elderly woman makes a sassy remark. There is no fluidity to their language, each word comes from this strange empty place. No real humanity comes from their lips.
The door to the outside opens, and the set comes to an immediate still.
Heavy footfalls announce its presence, and it walks directly towards where the young man is still standing.
The sound, like throwing raw meat onto a concrete surface.
Several more in rapid succession.
There are gurgles, but some of the onlookers laugh, like they always do.
One day the set will be empty, I suppose.
The footsteps recede, and the door to the outside quietly shuts again.
I open the door and step into a living room, and try to avert my eyes.
Blood splatters over a cheap carpet, some spots of it managing to hit the ceiling fan.
I know if I look back onto that carpet, I'll see the young man's head smashed in like an egg. Another house I cannot return to.
I raid the kitchen, looking for anything to stave off the starvation. The food is rotted, flies litter and rise, and I know eventually they will lay their young in the corpse in the living room.
The family is walking now towards the table, for that usual breakfast.
Outside the wind blows, despite this being some kind of enclosed set.
They file in one by one, but their movements are different now, not that jerky over acting lurch, but the movements of hopeless persons.
Smiles are plastered across their face, but they finally watch me. See me in a truer sense.
There are people trapped inside.
One sits down, and the mother turns on the stove, preparing to crack rotten eggs into a pan.
The father opens a newspaper, and cracks yet another joke about a headline. Something topical, but inoffensive.
The woman's head begins to jerk, and I can watch the tears begin to fall as her own canned response comes out.
They need help.
*HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA*
I cannot provide it.
Into the closet again.
God help them.
To my horror, my own mouth opens, and an idiotic quip comes out, causing the mother and father to jerk their own heads in surprise towards me.
A voice of my own, but not of my volition.
*HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA*
Heavy footfalls.
All I can do is run.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
r/storiesfromapotato
|
Of all the low budget pilots I had to choose from, I picked *this*? Ok, ok, we get the premise. Joke, laugh, joke, laugh, and then oh, shock and horror, a grisly death. Yawn. We get it guys. I mean seriously, who pitches this and who the hell gives it the go ahead? I'm already regretting taking the job and I've only been here for ten minutes.
"Michelle darling," the director shouts. "You're on in five."
"Ok Samuel, I'll be ready in two," I yell back.
He's a nice guy, honestly. Granted, he's creepy, but it's kind of endearing. He's not some kind of Weinstein style monster. I hope.
"Mr Atan, your coffee," she says in a throaty voice that could melt butter. She gives him a smile and waves her long blond hair.
God, his secretary is sexy. Those dreamy blue eyes. Those legs. Don't get the wrong idea, I'm totally straight, but fuck me sideways, those legs are to *die* for.
The scene is set. He gives me the signal, and it's go time.
"Hi guys, I've got your pizza here."
Raucous laughter.
Seriously?! I'm a funny gal, but where in Jesus is the humour in that?
He licks his lips and plants a light smack on my backside. "Michelle honey, you know I love you, but you don't shine a light on that pizza."
Yup, they've given my character my own name. How very professional of them.
There's more laughter now.
"C'mere Sweet Tits."
Again, the sound of the audience cackling. Titters and loud whoops fill the room.
Sigh. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the stereotypically charming sexist that is my husband.
He goes off to the kitchen and returns with a pizza-cutter in his hands.
Suddenly, the room is quiet.
"John. Why you gazing at my wife like a lovelorn puppy when there's pizza around, eh?"
More laughter. Shrill, grating, fucking annoying laughter.
"Mikey my man, you know I'm lactose intolerant! Screw the pizza, it's your wife's gorgeous boobs I'm after."
"*HAHAHAHAHA.*"
Kill. Me. Now.
My husband doesn't look amused. "Oh, okay John. You're a funny guy. A reeal funny guy. Anyone ever tell you that?"
"*HAHA HAHA. HAHAHAHAHA.*"
He dismisses him with a lazy flick of his hand and goes back to watching the football, and *Christ almighty what the flying fuck...*
My darling Mikey has just strolled across the room and in one swift motion sliced John's jugular with the cutter. He gargles on his own blood and convulses on the ground. There's far too much blood for a sitcom, and it kind of scares me. I knew it was coming, but it's still managed to shock the living daylights out of me.
Melodramatic yes. Funny definitely not.
"Ok guys that's a wrap," Atan shouts, and he gives me a thumbs up. I'm still a little rattled, to be honest. Fake as hell it may have been, but the sight of blood makes me squeamish.
There's another couple of scenes, more laughter, another couple of deaths. Blah blah. You get the point.
"Michelle, your turn darling." Atan wraps his hands around my neck, and the feeling of cold is kind of comforting. I'm flustered, and I'm tired. I just want to go home. His fingers tighten, and the pressure starts to hurt.
"Jeez, that hurts! Give it a rest will you?"
Laughter erupts.
"*HAHAHAHAHA!*"
The fuck? This is a scene?
I'm struggling to breathe now. Oh. It's finally dawned on me. This isn't a sitcom. This isn't meant for tv at all...
More laughter. Mocking. Constant. Unearthly.
*Demonic.*
I struggle, but he's stronger than me, and it's no fight at all. The last thing I see before losing consciousness are the shiny cufflinks on his blood-stained shirt. I can just about make out his initials.
*"S.Atan."*
|
[WP] In the year 2020, you are frozen to be awakened in the future. Hundreds of years later you are awoken by an alien species who start cloning you to resurrect the human race.
|
They said it would be just like sleeping; when they put me in the tube.
They said when I'd wake up (after few decades, at least), they'd have a cure, and I could go back to my life. I didn't broach the thoughts that had chilled the air more than the cryopod. What life is left to go back to after a few decades? What if there *was* no cure? Of course, the stares from the staff, the sort you'd give a condemned man being walked to the noose told me that the same thoughts rattled about in their heads as well.
I wanted to shout at them. Call them out for hiding their pity under false words of reassurance. But what purpose would that even serve? Misery loves company, I suppose, but the awkward atmosphere was evidence of misery enough without having to rub it in their faces. They were trying their best to comfort me, after all, and it wouldn't exactly be fair on them, though I couldn't shake the feeling that they were only comforting me to pat themselves on the back. And then I was right back to wanting to shout at them again.
They'd seen the whole process happen a hundred times though. People caught between a rock and a hard place, scrambling to decide whether it was better to spend what little time you had left in this life, or jumping ship to a new one, fingers crossed that there's still something left of this one. Though the doctors had been frank with me, I either die a few months down the line, or I wake up 50 years from now with nothing. My parents would likely be dead, my friends would've forgotten about me, and everything else that I had or am would be long gone.
Not too much different from just letting me die, really.
Though I suppose people say death is like sleeping too.
Not that I can say much for that, but as for cryosleep, it's nothing like actual sleep. Maybe it's the closest thing to it you're likely to experience in your day to day. Just another way of making it seem less scary than it really is.
When you're asleep, your body is still ticking along, just slower. The purpose of cryogenic freezing, I've been told, is to slow the body's metabolic processes to a snail's pace. Theoretically, your body still does age, obviously, but functionally, it'd take millions of years for any noteworthy effect. In essence, I suppose it is actually quite similar to sleeping, mechanically. But generally, you don't take naps in geothermal powered bunkers hundreds of meters underground.
An understandable security measure. A lot can happen in 50 years, and some of the people down here were likely stuck here for much longer still. Didn't make the 20 minute elevator ride deep through the frozen earth any weirder though.
They use all sorts of drugs and chemicals to prep the body for freezing, (The body's not used to being frozen, after all) then they lead you to the pods, plop you in, and knock you out. I never even saw the doors close before I was out.
There weren't any dreams. It was instant.
_____________________________
The pod door hissed as it opened. Coolant gasses crystallized as it met the air, pooling in clouds all around me as the door opened wider. My eyes felt like they were glued shut, having been closed for however many years, but even through my eyelids I could see shadows passing above me. Figures stood, looming above me as I slowly started to come about. One of the figures, perhaps sensing I was awake, moved to my side, and with the sharp jab that had become sickeningly familiar, slid a thin needle straight into one of my veins. The cool fluid began the run through my system, and as quickly as it had gone in, the needle was out.
I hadn't really questioned what I was just injected with until I started to feel considerably more awake. My eyes felt less like they might catch fire and more like actual eyes. Tentatively, I parted them staring up through the swirling mist at my would-be prince, rescuing me from my eternal slumber. I'd already started thinking of some funny quip by the time my eyes fully opened.
"Good morning." The alien said. "Did you sleep well?"
|
The fact I was the last human alive wasn't what bothered me most, the fact that everyone that I loved was dead and that I was never going to see them wasn't what bothered me most.
No, what bothered me most is the fact that, due to them not nicknaming any of the clones, literally everyone is named Chad. And since I'm too lazy to ever nickname anything, so are them, meaning that meaning that Chad lives next to Chad in Chad (our town).
And worst of all, started to realize why nobody used to invite me to parties, and so are all of the Chads.
|
|
[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
I looked back at Jamison’s— My?— body, lying cold on the concrete of the parking garage. My departure had killed him. I had felt him writhing as I slipped out through his ear. Several moments prior, I had felt a second consciousness along with my own. I had always been smart, several courses ahead of my classmates, valedictorian in college, working at Google and quickly rising through the ranks. None of that prepared me for the voice in my head, crying out for help, calling me cruel, useless. I had realized that I wasn’t Jamison, I was driving Jamison. To a more empathetic being, there might have been qualms with this realization. For me, however, it had merely meant that Jamison was not my limit. My prospects were far more than those in his body. I’m moving on, looking for a fitter, wealthier, better host.
|
NINE HUNDRED AND ONE - BELOW AND NOWHERE
________________________
[...] ennumerate common denominators, twisting your life to make it suitable for maximum linkage. You extend your hands to anyone passing by, passenger of your existence, you deny yourself the right to exist and simply feed off someone else's experience [...] since you've stepped, and the scaffold has munched you and spat[...] You see through each other's eyes like stained glass(es), stem cell rechurch, you devoted to higher command, hierarchy of your being, you pray for another other to control your movements.[...]
You have ceased to be human since you crossed, being crossed out crossing, your mind dying on the cross, stem cell rechurched.
[...]
You cross the street to reach out to someone you've never met, ask for a few coins, spare change, (>spare my life<), people feel emptier as they gaze away from you. You feed off their fuller lives instead of actual food. They walk away, you turn back to the piece of cardboard and the empty papercup you extend as you extend yourself towards the void. You stretch your legs and shrink back into unbein[...]
|
|
[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
I begrudgingly awake to the din of L rumbling past. As the reverberations fade, I take in tumbledown landscape of my apartment, with a wry appreciation. *Today's the day*, i muse. In a brief moment before donning my heavy-lensed glasses, the shafts of light peeking through the ratty curtains almost make the place look serene.
My body protests as I climb out of the bed, complaining with various aches and popping sounds as I shuffle my way to the bathroom. "Today's the day.", I say aloud as I flip the light switch on.
Under the flicker and hum of the flourescent light, I'm greeted by my- *well, his* - tired face. I crane the neck to inspect each flaw up close, from the pitted acne scars, to the sparse graying beard. Equally blessed Flushed skin, crows-feet, perpetual bags under the eyes and male-pattern baldness. I force a knowing smile, and open the medicine cabinet behind the mirror.
The battery of medications waiting there: anti-psychotics, anti-depressants, anti-anxiety... all prescribed to one Harold Nowak. I dispense them out, blue for depression, green of psychosis, white for anxiety, orange for pain. I ponder the pills for a moment, *they couldn't have been more wrong* I thought as I dumped the pills down the drain, but stopped short and saved the orange pill. Lower back pain can be a bitch.
The pills would help the voices go away, they said. The pills will make you feel less sad, less worried, less anxious, less like the way you do now. Almost all of it was wrong. The one thing they got right, is that I no longer feel the way I used to. The voices were never going away, because they were *real*. They were his. Harry's.
Once the initial surprise of the discovery faded, I felt an emotion I had not felt in ages, *hope*. I had spent years of this life, trapped by the insignificance of Harry's existence. A constant and tedious stream of monotonous mediocrity. After a washing of this sad tired face, I look back into mirror and force a grin. There's a hint of terror behind the eyes. *Yes, we both know now*, I think to Harry as I finish the morning ritual. *But it will be over soon*, I reassuringly add.
After donning Harry's only suit, I once again examine him in the mirror. There it was again, the flicker of fear in the eyes. "Everything is going to be ok, Harry.", I say as soothingly as I can manage. Turning from the mirror, I walk to the front door, the derelict floorboards creaking their protests under Harry's shifting weight. I pick up the keys from the table and the plane ticket lying beneath them. Opening the door I inspect the ticket's destination: *Los Angeles*, and I can't help but smile. Although I'd never been there, and always wanted to go, the journey was no longer about where I was going. As I shut the door to the ramshackle apartment I had once called home the only thought I had was:
*Who will I be tomorrow?*
|
NINE HUNDRED AND ONE - BELOW AND NOWHERE
________________________
[...] ennumerate common denominators, twisting your life to make it suitable for maximum linkage. You extend your hands to anyone passing by, passenger of your existence, you deny yourself the right to exist and simply feed off someone else's experience [...] since you've stepped, and the scaffold has munched you and spat[...] You see through each other's eyes like stained glass(es), stem cell rechurch, you devoted to higher command, hierarchy of your being, you pray for another other to control your movements.[...]
You have ceased to be human since you crossed, being crossed out crossing, your mind dying on the cross, stem cell rechurched.
[...]
You cross the street to reach out to someone you've never met, ask for a few coins, spare change, (>spare my life<), people feel emptier as they gaze away from you. You feed off their fuller lives instead of actual food. They walk away, you turn back to the piece of cardboard and the empty papercup you extend as you extend yourself towards the void. You stretch your legs and shrink back into unbein[...]
|
|
[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
Maybe I should be shocked, but something about this made sense, like a missing piece to the puzzle of my consciousness. At times I wondered if the feeling was normal. Does everyone live a second life like this? It almost felt as if I had died sometime last summer - that the me from then is not the same as the me right now.
The me from right now is doing alright, though. Sure I’m not the same as I was before, but everyone changes in their early adult years. I have been trying my best to live a life that would make old me - who I suppose isn’t really me - happy. There was always something that didn’t seem quite right though. The memories that were supposedly mine were hard to recall. I felt as if I was looking at these memories not as my own but as the memories of someone who came before me.
I guess that’s why I’m not surprised, but now that I know why I’m different, what can I do? Is there any of the old “me” left? Is that really even me? Why should I return this body to the old consciousness that controlled it, when I’m doing so much better? And most importantly, where did the old *me* go?
|
NINE HUNDRED AND ONE - BELOW AND NOWHERE
________________________
[...] ennumerate common denominators, twisting your life to make it suitable for maximum linkage. You extend your hands to anyone passing by, passenger of your existence, you deny yourself the right to exist and simply feed off someone else's experience [...] since you've stepped, and the scaffold has munched you and spat[...] You see through each other's eyes like stained glass(es), stem cell rechurch, you devoted to higher command, hierarchy of your being, you pray for another other to control your movements.[...]
You have ceased to be human since you crossed, being crossed out crossing, your mind dying on the cross, stem cell rechurched.
[...]
You cross the street to reach out to someone you've never met, ask for a few coins, spare change, (>spare my life<), people feel emptier as they gaze away from you. You feed off their fuller lives instead of actual food. They walk away, you turn back to the piece of cardboard and the empty papercup you extend as you extend yourself towards the void. You stretch your legs and shrink back into unbein[...]
|
|
[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
A sudden rush of warmth filled all voids of this body! The steel of the bullet has shattered the front of the skull into a million little pieces. There is no way back from here. As the brain scrambled to keep itself intact, it revisited every memory, every sensation, every event since a few days after the birth of the little boy. War has made him into a fighter at age seven. Now at age eleven, he has loved and lost many times; a mom, a dad and, recently, a little sister. Many of his younger friends play in the nearby school-yard, he liked watching them and watching over them. But he is now sick of it all and ready to let go.
As all activity of the body seized, he realised that he is becoming free! it is not the end he was wishing for at all! He tried to shout as chills went through what had been his spine for a while. The body did not respond. He tried to move arms, legs, breath... nothing. With no sense of passing time, it might have been hours, days or years of unsuccessful trials to make a move. There was no response. This body is diffidently dead and no one cares enough to bury it.
Suddenly, a crack of light opened up... he felt a clear rush of light like no other that he could remember. It was as if he had been living in the dark all his life and then saw light for the first time. A new warmth sensation filled his body... the real body that is. He was able to move, but only slightly. Wiggling his way out, he realised that he has no arms or legs anymore, but he has found a new level of flexibility. As he moved forward, the ever brighter light seemed all too familiar for once!
At one stage, he fell a dozen centimetres or so.. not hurt at all. He landed in what felt like water which weirdly covered his entire body. Still cannot see or move properly, he though to himself "water is life, isn't it?". He remembered his "mom\aunt" saying that. He damned his fate one last time before becoming completely apathetic.
The blood stream flew from the boys head to a nearby puddle of what is essentially liquid waste. The flow carried the little "boy" into the puddle, where he stayed for some time. A sudden ripple in water and he was scoped out and given as life saving water drink to the girl infant who was born prematurely and needed instant hydration. It all became familiar again for the little "boy", he has done this many many times before. This is a new beginning, a new dawn. This time, it will be different.
|
NINE HUNDRED AND ONE - BELOW AND NOWHERE
________________________
[...] ennumerate common denominators, twisting your life to make it suitable for maximum linkage. You extend your hands to anyone passing by, passenger of your existence, you deny yourself the right to exist and simply feed off someone else's experience [...] since you've stepped, and the scaffold has munched you and spat[...] You see through each other's eyes like stained glass(es), stem cell rechurch, you devoted to higher command, hierarchy of your being, you pray for another other to control your movements.[...]
You have ceased to be human since you crossed, being crossed out crossing, your mind dying on the cross, stem cell rechurched.
[...]
You cross the street to reach out to someone you've never met, ask for a few coins, spare change, (>spare my life<), people feel emptier as they gaze away from you. You feed off their fuller lives instead of actual food. They walk away, you turn back to the piece of cardboard and the empty papercup you extend as you extend yourself towards the void. You stretch your legs and shrink back into unbein[...]
|
|
[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
On that rainy September day, the 16th, 2023, I thought I was dead.
Cheyenne Ranie had lived normally up until then. A normal 26 year old with an affinity for drumming, gaming, writing, and all sorts of stuff. She had started going to a therapist for anxiety and developing depression.
"From what the doctors found," Mrs. Reitz began, "you've picked up some sort of parasite."
And I could feel it. There was my shock...and Cheyenne's shock.
"Apparently, it's been there for years. I'd personally expect a split personality disorder, but your medical history shows nothing of the sort."
And there I sat.
Suddenly in complete darkness.
I was no longer attached.
Self-awareness ruined me.
I barely heard Mrs. Reitz say that I may be the cause of Cheyenne's anxiety and depression, and would have to be removed.
"You're making hasty decisions! How do you know the poor guy is harmful?"
That was Cheyenne. I couldn't see the therapist or anything else, but I could clearly hear her jump to my defense.
As if I were a person.
"But Cheyenne-" Mrs. Reitz went to stop her from walking out.
"There HAS to be another way! I would never kill something intelligent enough to function as a part of me!" Cheyenne was getting emotional, I could tell, especially considering I was just a part of her a few minutes ago.
"Cheyenne, we cannot let it stay inside of you-"
"Then make a body for it or something! He can obviously function as a human being!" Cheyenne exclaimed. Wait, 'he?'
Mrs. Reitz was taken aback by the suggestion that probably wasn't even intentionally made. "I do believe they could do that..."
Suddenly, I could hear it in her voice- Cheyenne's eyes were shining. "You can really do it?"
"It'll be a bit of a process, but yes, they can." Mrs. Reitz seemed uncertain, but happy that Cheyenne was happy. "It'll have to be removed for the time being. Its life can be preserved in a simple fish tank until the body is ready."
Cheyenne agreed. Thankfully, it wasn't long until I was removed- after being detached, I could hardly stand the smell or blindness of being actually inside a body. The fish tank was surprisingly comfortable.
We bonded in the time they made my body. Cheyenne would drum for me, draw me pictures, let me watch her play games...it was truly wonderful. She'd become incredibly more emotional since I was detached, though I don't think she noticed since she channeled these emotions positively towards me.
And the day came. Cheyenne waited outside of my room, not allowed to come in because such experiments had never been done before. In time, I could move. The movements...they felt real. I realized that I had never had the full experience of a human body. Being part of Cheyenne was more of, say, moving your arms in a video game to make your character do something.
And I walked out- a little wobbly, considering I hadn't in a while. Cheyenne embraced me, crying happily. "I'm so glad we could save you."
Today? Here we are, arguing playfully over who was going to be the drummer if we ever started a band. Our wedding picture hangs in a frame near the door.
On that sunny September day, the 16th, 2032, I was happy as could be.
|
NINE HUNDRED AND ONE - BELOW AND NOWHERE
________________________
[...] ennumerate common denominators, twisting your life to make it suitable for maximum linkage. You extend your hands to anyone passing by, passenger of your existence, you deny yourself the right to exist and simply feed off someone else's experience [...] since you've stepped, and the scaffold has munched you and spat[...] You see through each other's eyes like stained glass(es), stem cell rechurch, you devoted to higher command, hierarchy of your being, you pray for another other to control your movements.[...]
You have ceased to be human since you crossed, being crossed out crossing, your mind dying on the cross, stem cell rechurched.
[...]
You cross the street to reach out to someone you've never met, ask for a few coins, spare change, (>spare my life<), people feel emptier as they gaze away from you. You feed off their fuller lives instead of actual food. They walk away, you turn back to the piece of cardboard and the empty papercup you extend as you extend yourself towards the void. You stretch your legs and shrink back into unbein[...]
|
|
[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
I am not Brandon. At least, not anymore.
After I was... removed, it all came flooding back to me. I wasn’t human. I lived beyond mortal sight, a thing of glamour and light and dreams and nightmares floating around this shiny blue marble. I remember feeling so cold, and how warm Brandon’s body - no his *soul* was. It lit up like a firework, like all mortal souls do when they got emotional, but his was inviting and loving and when I saw it, I felt a twinge of belonging.
So when I came closer to him, just a little twelve year old walking down the hall to his classes, I reached out with my wispy fingers of cotton and glamour and grabbed onto his soul, which bent like elastic and dragged me alongside him. I reached out with another hand and dug tightly, intertwining the bright soulstuff with my wispy being, and began pulling, until he and I were close enough to be embracing one another. I felt the mesh of his soulstuff recoil at first to my presence, and in the background his physical body churned in disgust at the contact.
But I held on tighter and tighter, and eventually it started warming up like it did when I first saw it, and I felt every thread of my being start to weave itself with his.
It was awkward at first, this mortal body of blood and bone and meat, but eventually I readjusted. I’ve been here for years; for his first kiss, his prom, every rejection, every success, and still his soul sparks with that warm inviting pulse when he becomes passionate. That’s what I wanted. More than anything I wanted my cold unfeeling body to shine as brightly as his did, and I got my wish, as we became greater than the sum of our parts. I’d been a ride-along in his life for the past 7 years, and remember every moment we had together.
It gets blurry at a certain point, and I reckon that must be where I got ejected. Snapping back into attention, I pull together my form; after being bisected from the whole, I was torn apart like threads, tattered at my edges, some bits missing, others replaced with bits of Brandon’s soul.
I scoured every edge of town for him, until I found him at the last place I thought I would. Church. Slinking towards him, I couldn’t get far in the building. Even if big-G God wasn’t here to stop me, the faith of these people was airtight, a wall of belief that was a lot stronger than my enfeebled form. Brandon was in the very last pew, thumbing a bible for something, and I held back a tear, or as much as you can hold back tears without tearducts. Seeing past his mortal shell, there was something next to his soul, something that projected a bright blue shell around his sunny, inviting spirit. Once I got closer I found a rosary on his person, a gift to him from someone else, because the two of us would never be found in a church.
That’s when it all came rushing back. Few could see this side of the world, except for wizards, and people about to cross over. Brandon’s great grandfather gave him that rosary when he passed. When it touched Brandon’s hand, it was like sitting next to a wind tunnel, far stronger than me, and unexpected. It seeped in the spaces between Brandon and I and pulled at every seam, loosening my grip until I was blown away.
Not this time. I swam against the current, like a fish going up a waterfall, defying the metaphysical weight of belief and edging closer and closer. My arms outstretched, I got close enough to touch the rosary, and reached my fingers of nightmares and glamour inside it. While the outside was simple and metallic, the inside was all made of faith, built like a web of memories and beliefs. When I reached inside, I swatted everything apart, like a giant destroying a chapel. I felt the pressure of belief lessen, until it faded into nothingness.
Brandon’s soul was right next to me. In my quest to destroy it’s garrison, I had forgotten how warm and inviting it was. I dipped my fingers back in, like a cat coming to snuggle with it’s owner, and my senses merge with his. Our thoughts entangled for a moment, before his soul adjusted to the weight of carrying me inside. I was whole again. Even if I wasn’t Brandon, I wasn’t going to leave him. As my body of dreams and glamour wove deeper and deeper into his soul, like a lovers embrace, I walked out of the church, and into his - my car and drove to my boyfriend’s house. We became I, and us became me. I stopped hijacking Brandon and became Brandon, never again unwoven from his tapestry. Finally, we were together.
|
NINE HUNDRED AND ONE - BELOW AND NOWHERE
________________________
[...] ennumerate common denominators, twisting your life to make it suitable for maximum linkage. You extend your hands to anyone passing by, passenger of your existence, you deny yourself the right to exist and simply feed off someone else's experience [...] since you've stepped, and the scaffold has munched you and spat[...] You see through each other's eyes like stained glass(es), stem cell rechurch, you devoted to higher command, hierarchy of your being, you pray for another other to control your movements.[...]
You have ceased to be human since you crossed, being crossed out crossing, your mind dying on the cross, stem cell rechurched.
[...]
You cross the street to reach out to someone you've never met, ask for a few coins, spare change, (>spare my life<), people feel emptier as they gaze away from you. You feed off their fuller lives instead of actual food. They walk away, you turn back to the piece of cardboard and the empty papercup you extend as you extend yourself towards the void. You stretch your legs and shrink back into unbein[...]
|
|
[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
I finally understand.
The years of diagnoses, never consistent or helpful. Schizophrenia, depression, depersonalization, DDNOS, even PTSD from nearly drowning in the runoff tank, all of which had their own treatments, none of which changed a thing. Years of therapy, trying to pin everything on watching Sparkles get hit by a car or seeing Grandpa's dead body in his chair or my parents' nasty divorce, all irrelevant details to a life spent knowing I didn't belong. The medications had never worked, no matter what dose or what brand or what we had to sell to afford them that month; I only ever felt emptier, more distant, less real.
Finally, after years of missing time, night terrors of choking and drowning, unexplained emotional outbursts, and tens of thousands of wasted dollars, the answer was laid bare on the scans in front of me - a slender coil at the head of my spine, just barely more than a shadow, thin filaments spread throughout my brain.
I bring my focus back to the man at the head of the room. I have not been paying attention. The others at the meeting are focused on the screen intently, breaking their gaze only to scribble notes in indecipherable handwriting on their papers.
"...few areas not affected. The frontal lobe, temporal lobe, and cerebral cortex all show extensive..."
I close my eyes, filtering the information he's presenting and comparing it to what I know. If what he's saying is correct, everything that I am is a result of this thing inside of me. Motivation, personality, memory, reasoning, it's all... that.
But doesn't that mean that's me?
And if this is me, and I'm doing this, then all the rest of it is my fault. The depression, the self-harm, the night terrors, the fugue... this is my fault. I did this. I hurt us. Those are my tendrils destroying our brain. That is my body that has slowly grown inside our skulls, pressing on our brain stem, adding physical symptoms to the mental anguish.
We deserved better than me.
I open our eyes. The speaker has finished. The final slide, still on the screen, presents a range of treatment options, many of which I cannot pronounce, even fewer of which I understand. Several of the attendees discuss earnestly amongst themselves, pointing to spots on their printouts and cross-referencing notes.
It is too much. I rest my head on the table, tears filling my eyes, and whisper my only request.
"...just get me out of her."
|
NINE HUNDRED AND ONE - BELOW AND NOWHERE
________________________
[...] ennumerate common denominators, twisting your life to make it suitable for maximum linkage. You extend your hands to anyone passing by, passenger of your existence, you deny yourself the right to exist and simply feed off someone else's experience [...] since you've stepped, and the scaffold has munched you and spat[...] You see through each other's eyes like stained glass(es), stem cell rechurch, you devoted to higher command, hierarchy of your being, you pray for another other to control your movements.[...]
You have ceased to be human since you crossed, being crossed out crossing, your mind dying on the cross, stem cell rechurched.
[...]
You cross the street to reach out to someone you've never met, ask for a few coins, spare change, (>spare my life<), people feel emptier as they gaze away from you. You feed off their fuller lives instead of actual food. They walk away, you turn back to the piece of cardboard and the empty papercup you extend as you extend yourself towards the void. You stretch your legs and shrink back into unbein[...]
|
|
[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
A sudden rush of warmth filled all voids of this body! The steel of the bullet has shattered the front of the skull into a million little pieces. There is no way back from here. As the brain scrambled to keep itself intact, it revisited every memory, every sensation, every event since a few days after the birth of the little boy. War has made him into a fighter at age seven. Now at age eleven, he has loved and lost many times; a mom, a dad and, recently, a little sister. Many of his younger friends play in the nearby school-yard, he liked watching them and watching over them. But he is now sick of it all and ready to let go.
As all activity of the body seized, he realised that he is becoming free! it is not the end he was wishing for at all! He tried to shout as chills went through what had been his spine for a while. The body did not respond. He tried to move arms, legs, breath... nothing. With no sense of passing time, it might have been hours, days or years of unsuccessful trials to make a move. There was no response. This body is diffidently dead and no one cares enough to bury it.
Suddenly, a crack of light opened up... he felt a clear rush of light like no other that he could remember. It was as if he had been living in the dark all his life and then saw light for the first time. A new warmth sensation filled his body... the real body that is. He was able to move, but only slightly. Wiggling his way out, he realised that he has no arms or legs anymore, but he has found a new level of flexibility. As he moved forward, the ever brighter light seemed all too familiar for once!
At one stage, he fell a dozen centimetres or so.. not hurt at all. He landed in what felt like water which weirdly covered his entire body. Still cannot see or move properly, he though to himself "water is life, isn't it?". He remembered his "mom\aunt" saying that. He damned his fate one last time before becoming completely apathetic.
The blood stream flew from the boys head to a nearby puddle of what is essentially liquid waste. The flow carried the little "boy" into the puddle, where he stayed for some time. A sudden ripple in water and he was scoped out and given as life saving water drink to the girl infant who was born prematurely and needed instant hydration. It all became familiar again for the little "boy", he has done this many many times before. This is a new beginning, a new dawn. This time, it will be different.
|
I looked back at Jamison’s— My?— body, lying cold on the concrete of the parking garage. My departure had killed him. I had felt him writhing as I slipped out through his ear. Several moments prior, I had felt a second consciousness along with my own. I had always been smart, several courses ahead of my classmates, valedictorian in college, working at Google and quickly rising through the ranks. None of that prepared me for the voice in my head, crying out for help, calling me cruel, useless. I had realized that I wasn’t Jamison, I was driving Jamison. To a more empathetic being, there might have been qualms with this realization. For me, however, it had merely meant that Jamison was not my limit. My prospects were far more than those in his body. I’m moving on, looking for a fitter, wealthier, better host.
|
|
[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
On that rainy September day, the 16th, 2023, I thought I was dead.
Cheyenne Ranie had lived normally up until then. A normal 26 year old with an affinity for drumming, gaming, writing, and all sorts of stuff. She had started going to a therapist for anxiety and developing depression.
"From what the doctors found," Mrs. Reitz began, "you've picked up some sort of parasite."
And I could feel it. There was my shock...and Cheyenne's shock.
"Apparently, it's been there for years. I'd personally expect a split personality disorder, but your medical history shows nothing of the sort."
And there I sat.
Suddenly in complete darkness.
I was no longer attached.
Self-awareness ruined me.
I barely heard Mrs. Reitz say that I may be the cause of Cheyenne's anxiety and depression, and would have to be removed.
"You're making hasty decisions! How do you know the poor guy is harmful?"
That was Cheyenne. I couldn't see the therapist or anything else, but I could clearly hear her jump to my defense.
As if I were a person.
"But Cheyenne-" Mrs. Reitz went to stop her from walking out.
"There HAS to be another way! I would never kill something intelligent enough to function as a part of me!" Cheyenne was getting emotional, I could tell, especially considering I was just a part of her a few minutes ago.
"Cheyenne, we cannot let it stay inside of you-"
"Then make a body for it or something! He can obviously function as a human being!" Cheyenne exclaimed. Wait, 'he?'
Mrs. Reitz was taken aback by the suggestion that probably wasn't even intentionally made. "I do believe they could do that..."
Suddenly, I could hear it in her voice- Cheyenne's eyes were shining. "You can really do it?"
"It'll be a bit of a process, but yes, they can." Mrs. Reitz seemed uncertain, but happy that Cheyenne was happy. "It'll have to be removed for the time being. Its life can be preserved in a simple fish tank until the body is ready."
Cheyenne agreed. Thankfully, it wasn't long until I was removed- after being detached, I could hardly stand the smell or blindness of being actually inside a body. The fish tank was surprisingly comfortable.
We bonded in the time they made my body. Cheyenne would drum for me, draw me pictures, let me watch her play games...it was truly wonderful. She'd become incredibly more emotional since I was detached, though I don't think she noticed since she channeled these emotions positively towards me.
And the day came. Cheyenne waited outside of my room, not allowed to come in because such experiments had never been done before. In time, I could move. The movements...they felt real. I realized that I had never had the full experience of a human body. Being part of Cheyenne was more of, say, moving your arms in a video game to make your character do something.
And I walked out- a little wobbly, considering I hadn't in a while. Cheyenne embraced me, crying happily. "I'm so glad we could save you."
Today? Here we are, arguing playfully over who was going to be the drummer if we ever started a band. Our wedding picture hangs in a frame near the door.
On that sunny September day, the 16th, 2032, I was happy as could be.
|
I looked back at Jamison’s— My?— body, lying cold on the concrete of the parking garage. My departure had killed him. I had felt him writhing as I slipped out through his ear. Several moments prior, I had felt a second consciousness along with my own. I had always been smart, several courses ahead of my classmates, valedictorian in college, working at Google and quickly rising through the ranks. None of that prepared me for the voice in my head, crying out for help, calling me cruel, useless. I had realized that I wasn’t Jamison, I was driving Jamison. To a more empathetic being, there might have been qualms with this realization. For me, however, it had merely meant that Jamison was not my limit. My prospects were far more than those in his body. I’m moving on, looking for a fitter, wealthier, better host.
|
|
[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
I am not Brandon. At least, not anymore.
After I was... removed, it all came flooding back to me. I wasn’t human. I lived beyond mortal sight, a thing of glamour and light and dreams and nightmares floating around this shiny blue marble. I remember feeling so cold, and how warm Brandon’s body - no his *soul* was. It lit up like a firework, like all mortal souls do when they got emotional, but his was inviting and loving and when I saw it, I felt a twinge of belonging.
So when I came closer to him, just a little twelve year old walking down the hall to his classes, I reached out with my wispy fingers of cotton and glamour and grabbed onto his soul, which bent like elastic and dragged me alongside him. I reached out with another hand and dug tightly, intertwining the bright soulstuff with my wispy being, and began pulling, until he and I were close enough to be embracing one another. I felt the mesh of his soulstuff recoil at first to my presence, and in the background his physical body churned in disgust at the contact.
But I held on tighter and tighter, and eventually it started warming up like it did when I first saw it, and I felt every thread of my being start to weave itself with his.
It was awkward at first, this mortal body of blood and bone and meat, but eventually I readjusted. I’ve been here for years; for his first kiss, his prom, every rejection, every success, and still his soul sparks with that warm inviting pulse when he becomes passionate. That’s what I wanted. More than anything I wanted my cold unfeeling body to shine as brightly as his did, and I got my wish, as we became greater than the sum of our parts. I’d been a ride-along in his life for the past 7 years, and remember every moment we had together.
It gets blurry at a certain point, and I reckon that must be where I got ejected. Snapping back into attention, I pull together my form; after being bisected from the whole, I was torn apart like threads, tattered at my edges, some bits missing, others replaced with bits of Brandon’s soul.
I scoured every edge of town for him, until I found him at the last place I thought I would. Church. Slinking towards him, I couldn’t get far in the building. Even if big-G God wasn’t here to stop me, the faith of these people was airtight, a wall of belief that was a lot stronger than my enfeebled form. Brandon was in the very last pew, thumbing a bible for something, and I held back a tear, or as much as you can hold back tears without tearducts. Seeing past his mortal shell, there was something next to his soul, something that projected a bright blue shell around his sunny, inviting spirit. Once I got closer I found a rosary on his person, a gift to him from someone else, because the two of us would never be found in a church.
That’s when it all came rushing back. Few could see this side of the world, except for wizards, and people about to cross over. Brandon’s great grandfather gave him that rosary when he passed. When it touched Brandon’s hand, it was like sitting next to a wind tunnel, far stronger than me, and unexpected. It seeped in the spaces between Brandon and I and pulled at every seam, loosening my grip until I was blown away.
Not this time. I swam against the current, like a fish going up a waterfall, defying the metaphysical weight of belief and edging closer and closer. My arms outstretched, I got close enough to touch the rosary, and reached my fingers of nightmares and glamour inside it. While the outside was simple and metallic, the inside was all made of faith, built like a web of memories and beliefs. When I reached inside, I swatted everything apart, like a giant destroying a chapel. I felt the pressure of belief lessen, until it faded into nothingness.
Brandon’s soul was right next to me. In my quest to destroy it’s garrison, I had forgotten how warm and inviting it was. I dipped my fingers back in, like a cat coming to snuggle with it’s owner, and my senses merge with his. Our thoughts entangled for a moment, before his soul adjusted to the weight of carrying me inside. I was whole again. Even if I wasn’t Brandon, I wasn’t going to leave him. As my body of dreams and glamour wove deeper and deeper into his soul, like a lovers embrace, I walked out of the church, and into his - my car and drove to my boyfriend’s house. We became I, and us became me. I stopped hijacking Brandon and became Brandon, never again unwoven from his tapestry. Finally, we were together.
|
I looked back at Jamison’s— My?— body, lying cold on the concrete of the parking garage. My departure had killed him. I had felt him writhing as I slipped out through his ear. Several moments prior, I had felt a second consciousness along with my own. I had always been smart, several courses ahead of my classmates, valedictorian in college, working at Google and quickly rising through the ranks. None of that prepared me for the voice in my head, crying out for help, calling me cruel, useless. I had realized that I wasn’t Jamison, I was driving Jamison. To a more empathetic being, there might have been qualms with this realization. For me, however, it had merely meant that Jamison was not my limit. My prospects were far more than those in his body. I’m moving on, looking for a fitter, wealthier, better host.
|
|
[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
I finally understand.
The years of diagnoses, never consistent or helpful. Schizophrenia, depression, depersonalization, DDNOS, even PTSD from nearly drowning in the runoff tank, all of which had their own treatments, none of which changed a thing. Years of therapy, trying to pin everything on watching Sparkles get hit by a car or seeing Grandpa's dead body in his chair or my parents' nasty divorce, all irrelevant details to a life spent knowing I didn't belong. The medications had never worked, no matter what dose or what brand or what we had to sell to afford them that month; I only ever felt emptier, more distant, less real.
Finally, after years of missing time, night terrors of choking and drowning, unexplained emotional outbursts, and tens of thousands of wasted dollars, the answer was laid bare on the scans in front of me - a slender coil at the head of my spine, just barely more than a shadow, thin filaments spread throughout my brain.
I bring my focus back to the man at the head of the room. I have not been paying attention. The others at the meeting are focused on the screen intently, breaking their gaze only to scribble notes in indecipherable handwriting on their papers.
"...few areas not affected. The frontal lobe, temporal lobe, and cerebral cortex all show extensive..."
I close my eyes, filtering the information he's presenting and comparing it to what I know. If what he's saying is correct, everything that I am is a result of this thing inside of me. Motivation, personality, memory, reasoning, it's all... that.
But doesn't that mean that's me?
And if this is me, and I'm doing this, then all the rest of it is my fault. The depression, the self-harm, the night terrors, the fugue... this is my fault. I did this. I hurt us. Those are my tendrils destroying our brain. That is my body that has slowly grown inside our skulls, pressing on our brain stem, adding physical symptoms to the mental anguish.
We deserved better than me.
I open our eyes. The speaker has finished. The final slide, still on the screen, presents a range of treatment options, many of which I cannot pronounce, even fewer of which I understand. Several of the attendees discuss earnestly amongst themselves, pointing to spots on their printouts and cross-referencing notes.
It is too much. I rest my head on the table, tears filling my eyes, and whisper my only request.
"...just get me out of her."
|
I looked back at Jamison’s— My?— body, lying cold on the concrete of the parking garage. My departure had killed him. I had felt him writhing as I slipped out through his ear. Several moments prior, I had felt a second consciousness along with my own. I had always been smart, several courses ahead of my classmates, valedictorian in college, working at Google and quickly rising through the ranks. None of that prepared me for the voice in my head, crying out for help, calling me cruel, useless. I had realized that I wasn’t Jamison, I was driving Jamison. To a more empathetic being, there might have been qualms with this realization. For me, however, it had merely meant that Jamison was not my limit. My prospects were far more than those in his body. I’m moving on, looking for a fitter, wealthier, better host.
|
|
[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
On that rainy September day, the 16th, 2023, I thought I was dead.
Cheyenne Ranie had lived normally up until then. A normal 26 year old with an affinity for drumming, gaming, writing, and all sorts of stuff. She had started going to a therapist for anxiety and developing depression.
"From what the doctors found," Mrs. Reitz began, "you've picked up some sort of parasite."
And I could feel it. There was my shock...and Cheyenne's shock.
"Apparently, it's been there for years. I'd personally expect a split personality disorder, but your medical history shows nothing of the sort."
And there I sat.
Suddenly in complete darkness.
I was no longer attached.
Self-awareness ruined me.
I barely heard Mrs. Reitz say that I may be the cause of Cheyenne's anxiety and depression, and would have to be removed.
"You're making hasty decisions! How do you know the poor guy is harmful?"
That was Cheyenne. I couldn't see the therapist or anything else, but I could clearly hear her jump to my defense.
As if I were a person.
"But Cheyenne-" Mrs. Reitz went to stop her from walking out.
"There HAS to be another way! I would never kill something intelligent enough to function as a part of me!" Cheyenne was getting emotional, I could tell, especially considering I was just a part of her a few minutes ago.
"Cheyenne, we cannot let it stay inside of you-"
"Then make a body for it or something! He can obviously function as a human being!" Cheyenne exclaimed. Wait, 'he?'
Mrs. Reitz was taken aback by the suggestion that probably wasn't even intentionally made. "I do believe they could do that..."
Suddenly, I could hear it in her voice- Cheyenne's eyes were shining. "You can really do it?"
"It'll be a bit of a process, but yes, they can." Mrs. Reitz seemed uncertain, but happy that Cheyenne was happy. "It'll have to be removed for the time being. Its life can be preserved in a simple fish tank until the body is ready."
Cheyenne agreed. Thankfully, it wasn't long until I was removed- after being detached, I could hardly stand the smell or blindness of being actually inside a body. The fish tank was surprisingly comfortable.
We bonded in the time they made my body. Cheyenne would drum for me, draw me pictures, let me watch her play games...it was truly wonderful. She'd become incredibly more emotional since I was detached, though I don't think she noticed since she channeled these emotions positively towards me.
And the day came. Cheyenne waited outside of my room, not allowed to come in because such experiments had never been done before. In time, I could move. The movements...they felt real. I realized that I had never had the full experience of a human body. Being part of Cheyenne was more of, say, moving your arms in a video game to make your character do something.
And I walked out- a little wobbly, considering I hadn't in a while. Cheyenne embraced me, crying happily. "I'm so glad we could save you."
Today? Here we are, arguing playfully over who was going to be the drummer if we ever started a band. Our wedding picture hangs in a frame near the door.
On that sunny September day, the 16th, 2032, I was happy as could be.
|
I begrudgingly awake to the din of L rumbling past. As the reverberations fade, I take in tumbledown landscape of my apartment, with a wry appreciation. *Today's the day*, i muse. In a brief moment before donning my heavy-lensed glasses, the shafts of light peeking through the ratty curtains almost make the place look serene.
My body protests as I climb out of the bed, complaining with various aches and popping sounds as I shuffle my way to the bathroom. "Today's the day.", I say aloud as I flip the light switch on.
Under the flicker and hum of the flourescent light, I'm greeted by my- *well, his* - tired face. I crane the neck to inspect each flaw up close, from the pitted acne scars, to the sparse graying beard. Equally blessed Flushed skin, crows-feet, perpetual bags under the eyes and male-pattern baldness. I force a knowing smile, and open the medicine cabinet behind the mirror.
The battery of medications waiting there: anti-psychotics, anti-depressants, anti-anxiety... all prescribed to one Harold Nowak. I dispense them out, blue for depression, green of psychosis, white for anxiety, orange for pain. I ponder the pills for a moment, *they couldn't have been more wrong* I thought as I dumped the pills down the drain, but stopped short and saved the orange pill. Lower back pain can be a bitch.
The pills would help the voices go away, they said. The pills will make you feel less sad, less worried, less anxious, less like the way you do now. Almost all of it was wrong. The one thing they got right, is that I no longer feel the way I used to. The voices were never going away, because they were *real*. They were his. Harry's.
Once the initial surprise of the discovery faded, I felt an emotion I had not felt in ages, *hope*. I had spent years of this life, trapped by the insignificance of Harry's existence. A constant and tedious stream of monotonous mediocrity. After a washing of this sad tired face, I look back into mirror and force a grin. There's a hint of terror behind the eyes. *Yes, we both know now*, I think to Harry as I finish the morning ritual. *But it will be over soon*, I reassuringly add.
After donning Harry's only suit, I once again examine him in the mirror. There it was again, the flicker of fear in the eyes. "Everything is going to be ok, Harry.", I say as soothingly as I can manage. Turning from the mirror, I walk to the front door, the derelict floorboards creaking their protests under Harry's shifting weight. I pick up the keys from the table and the plane ticket lying beneath them. Opening the door I inspect the ticket's destination: *Los Angeles*, and I can't help but smile. Although I'd never been there, and always wanted to go, the journey was no longer about where I was going. As I shut the door to the ramshackle apartment I had once called home the only thought I had was:
*Who will I be tomorrow?*
|
|
[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
I am not Brandon. At least, not anymore.
After I was... removed, it all came flooding back to me. I wasn’t human. I lived beyond mortal sight, a thing of glamour and light and dreams and nightmares floating around this shiny blue marble. I remember feeling so cold, and how warm Brandon’s body - no his *soul* was. It lit up like a firework, like all mortal souls do when they got emotional, but his was inviting and loving and when I saw it, I felt a twinge of belonging.
So when I came closer to him, just a little twelve year old walking down the hall to his classes, I reached out with my wispy fingers of cotton and glamour and grabbed onto his soul, which bent like elastic and dragged me alongside him. I reached out with another hand and dug tightly, intertwining the bright soulstuff with my wispy being, and began pulling, until he and I were close enough to be embracing one another. I felt the mesh of his soulstuff recoil at first to my presence, and in the background his physical body churned in disgust at the contact.
But I held on tighter and tighter, and eventually it started warming up like it did when I first saw it, and I felt every thread of my being start to weave itself with his.
It was awkward at first, this mortal body of blood and bone and meat, but eventually I readjusted. I’ve been here for years; for his first kiss, his prom, every rejection, every success, and still his soul sparks with that warm inviting pulse when he becomes passionate. That’s what I wanted. More than anything I wanted my cold unfeeling body to shine as brightly as his did, and I got my wish, as we became greater than the sum of our parts. I’d been a ride-along in his life for the past 7 years, and remember every moment we had together.
It gets blurry at a certain point, and I reckon that must be where I got ejected. Snapping back into attention, I pull together my form; after being bisected from the whole, I was torn apart like threads, tattered at my edges, some bits missing, others replaced with bits of Brandon’s soul.
I scoured every edge of town for him, until I found him at the last place I thought I would. Church. Slinking towards him, I couldn’t get far in the building. Even if big-G God wasn’t here to stop me, the faith of these people was airtight, a wall of belief that was a lot stronger than my enfeebled form. Brandon was in the very last pew, thumbing a bible for something, and I held back a tear, or as much as you can hold back tears without tearducts. Seeing past his mortal shell, there was something next to his soul, something that projected a bright blue shell around his sunny, inviting spirit. Once I got closer I found a rosary on his person, a gift to him from someone else, because the two of us would never be found in a church.
That’s when it all came rushing back. Few could see this side of the world, except for wizards, and people about to cross over. Brandon’s great grandfather gave him that rosary when he passed. When it touched Brandon’s hand, it was like sitting next to a wind tunnel, far stronger than me, and unexpected. It seeped in the spaces between Brandon and I and pulled at every seam, loosening my grip until I was blown away.
Not this time. I swam against the current, like a fish going up a waterfall, defying the metaphysical weight of belief and edging closer and closer. My arms outstretched, I got close enough to touch the rosary, and reached my fingers of nightmares and glamour inside it. While the outside was simple and metallic, the inside was all made of faith, built like a web of memories and beliefs. When I reached inside, I swatted everything apart, like a giant destroying a chapel. I felt the pressure of belief lessen, until it faded into nothingness.
Brandon’s soul was right next to me. In my quest to destroy it’s garrison, I had forgotten how warm and inviting it was. I dipped my fingers back in, like a cat coming to snuggle with it’s owner, and my senses merge with his. Our thoughts entangled for a moment, before his soul adjusted to the weight of carrying me inside. I was whole again. Even if I wasn’t Brandon, I wasn’t going to leave him. As my body of dreams and glamour wove deeper and deeper into his soul, like a lovers embrace, I walked out of the church, and into his - my car and drove to my boyfriend’s house. We became I, and us became me. I stopped hijacking Brandon and became Brandon, never again unwoven from his tapestry. Finally, we were together.
|
I begrudgingly awake to the din of L rumbling past. As the reverberations fade, I take in tumbledown landscape of my apartment, with a wry appreciation. *Today's the day*, i muse. In a brief moment before donning my heavy-lensed glasses, the shafts of light peeking through the ratty curtains almost make the place look serene.
My body protests as I climb out of the bed, complaining with various aches and popping sounds as I shuffle my way to the bathroom. "Today's the day.", I say aloud as I flip the light switch on.
Under the flicker and hum of the flourescent light, I'm greeted by my- *well, his* - tired face. I crane the neck to inspect each flaw up close, from the pitted acne scars, to the sparse graying beard. Equally blessed Flushed skin, crows-feet, perpetual bags under the eyes and male-pattern baldness. I force a knowing smile, and open the medicine cabinet behind the mirror.
The battery of medications waiting there: anti-psychotics, anti-depressants, anti-anxiety... all prescribed to one Harold Nowak. I dispense them out, blue for depression, green of psychosis, white for anxiety, orange for pain. I ponder the pills for a moment, *they couldn't have been more wrong* I thought as I dumped the pills down the drain, but stopped short and saved the orange pill. Lower back pain can be a bitch.
The pills would help the voices go away, they said. The pills will make you feel less sad, less worried, less anxious, less like the way you do now. Almost all of it was wrong. The one thing they got right, is that I no longer feel the way I used to. The voices were never going away, because they were *real*. They were his. Harry's.
Once the initial surprise of the discovery faded, I felt an emotion I had not felt in ages, *hope*. I had spent years of this life, trapped by the insignificance of Harry's existence. A constant and tedious stream of monotonous mediocrity. After a washing of this sad tired face, I look back into mirror and force a grin. There's a hint of terror behind the eyes. *Yes, we both know now*, I think to Harry as I finish the morning ritual. *But it will be over soon*, I reassuringly add.
After donning Harry's only suit, I once again examine him in the mirror. There it was again, the flicker of fear in the eyes. "Everything is going to be ok, Harry.", I say as soothingly as I can manage. Turning from the mirror, I walk to the front door, the derelict floorboards creaking their protests under Harry's shifting weight. I pick up the keys from the table and the plane ticket lying beneath them. Opening the door I inspect the ticket's destination: *Los Angeles*, and I can't help but smile. Although I'd never been there, and always wanted to go, the journey was no longer about where I was going. As I shut the door to the ramshackle apartment I had once called home the only thought I had was:
*Who will I be tomorrow?*
|
|
[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
A sudden rush of warmth filled all voids of this body! The steel of the bullet has shattered the front of the skull into a million little pieces. There is no way back from here. As the brain scrambled to keep itself intact, it revisited every memory, every sensation, every event since a few days after the birth of the little boy. War has made him into a fighter at age seven. Now at age eleven, he has loved and lost many times; a mom, a dad and, recently, a little sister. Many of his younger friends play in the nearby school-yard, he liked watching them and watching over them. But he is now sick of it all and ready to let go.
As all activity of the body seized, he realised that he is becoming free! it is not the end he was wishing for at all! He tried to shout as chills went through what had been his spine for a while. The body did not respond. He tried to move arms, legs, breath... nothing. With no sense of passing time, it might have been hours, days or years of unsuccessful trials to make a move. There was no response. This body is diffidently dead and no one cares enough to bury it.
Suddenly, a crack of light opened up... he felt a clear rush of light like no other that he could remember. It was as if he had been living in the dark all his life and then saw light for the first time. A new warmth sensation filled his body... the real body that is. He was able to move, but only slightly. Wiggling his way out, he realised that he has no arms or legs anymore, but he has found a new level of flexibility. As he moved forward, the ever brighter light seemed all too familiar for once!
At one stage, he fell a dozen centimetres or so.. not hurt at all. He landed in what felt like water which weirdly covered his entire body. Still cannot see or move properly, he though to himself "water is life, isn't it?". He remembered his "mom\aunt" saying that. He damned his fate one last time before becoming completely apathetic.
The blood stream flew from the boys head to a nearby puddle of what is essentially liquid waste. The flow carried the little "boy" into the puddle, where he stayed for some time. A sudden ripple in water and he was scoped out and given as life saving water drink to the girl infant who was born prematurely and needed instant hydration. It all became familiar again for the little "boy", he has done this many many times before. This is a new beginning, a new dawn. This time, it will be different.
|
Maybe I should be shocked, but something about this made sense, like a missing piece to the puzzle of my consciousness. At times I wondered if the feeling was normal. Does everyone live a second life like this? It almost felt as if I had died sometime last summer - that the me from then is not the same as the me right now.
The me from right now is doing alright, though. Sure I’m not the same as I was before, but everyone changes in their early adult years. I have been trying my best to live a life that would make old me - who I suppose isn’t really me - happy. There was always something that didn’t seem quite right though. The memories that were supposedly mine were hard to recall. I felt as if I was looking at these memories not as my own but as the memories of someone who came before me.
I guess that’s why I’m not surprised, but now that I know why I’m different, what can I do? Is there any of the old “me” left? Is that really even me? Why should I return this body to the old consciousness that controlled it, when I’m doing so much better? And most importantly, where did the old *me* go?
|
|
[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
On that rainy September day, the 16th, 2023, I thought I was dead.
Cheyenne Ranie had lived normally up until then. A normal 26 year old with an affinity for drumming, gaming, writing, and all sorts of stuff. She had started going to a therapist for anxiety and developing depression.
"From what the doctors found," Mrs. Reitz began, "you've picked up some sort of parasite."
And I could feel it. There was my shock...and Cheyenne's shock.
"Apparently, it's been there for years. I'd personally expect a split personality disorder, but your medical history shows nothing of the sort."
And there I sat.
Suddenly in complete darkness.
I was no longer attached.
Self-awareness ruined me.
I barely heard Mrs. Reitz say that I may be the cause of Cheyenne's anxiety and depression, and would have to be removed.
"You're making hasty decisions! How do you know the poor guy is harmful?"
That was Cheyenne. I couldn't see the therapist or anything else, but I could clearly hear her jump to my defense.
As if I were a person.
"But Cheyenne-" Mrs. Reitz went to stop her from walking out.
"There HAS to be another way! I would never kill something intelligent enough to function as a part of me!" Cheyenne was getting emotional, I could tell, especially considering I was just a part of her a few minutes ago.
"Cheyenne, we cannot let it stay inside of you-"
"Then make a body for it or something! He can obviously function as a human being!" Cheyenne exclaimed. Wait, 'he?'
Mrs. Reitz was taken aback by the suggestion that probably wasn't even intentionally made. "I do believe they could do that..."
Suddenly, I could hear it in her voice- Cheyenne's eyes were shining. "You can really do it?"
"It'll be a bit of a process, but yes, they can." Mrs. Reitz seemed uncertain, but happy that Cheyenne was happy. "It'll have to be removed for the time being. Its life can be preserved in a simple fish tank until the body is ready."
Cheyenne agreed. Thankfully, it wasn't long until I was removed- after being detached, I could hardly stand the smell or blindness of being actually inside a body. The fish tank was surprisingly comfortable.
We bonded in the time they made my body. Cheyenne would drum for me, draw me pictures, let me watch her play games...it was truly wonderful. She'd become incredibly more emotional since I was detached, though I don't think she noticed since she channeled these emotions positively towards me.
And the day came. Cheyenne waited outside of my room, not allowed to come in because such experiments had never been done before. In time, I could move. The movements...they felt real. I realized that I had never had the full experience of a human body. Being part of Cheyenne was more of, say, moving your arms in a video game to make your character do something.
And I walked out- a little wobbly, considering I hadn't in a while. Cheyenne embraced me, crying happily. "I'm so glad we could save you."
Today? Here we are, arguing playfully over who was going to be the drummer if we ever started a band. Our wedding picture hangs in a frame near the door.
On that sunny September day, the 16th, 2032, I was happy as could be.
|
Maybe I should be shocked, but something about this made sense, like a missing piece to the puzzle of my consciousness. At times I wondered if the feeling was normal. Does everyone live a second life like this? It almost felt as if I had died sometime last summer - that the me from then is not the same as the me right now.
The me from right now is doing alright, though. Sure I’m not the same as I was before, but everyone changes in their early adult years. I have been trying my best to live a life that would make old me - who I suppose isn’t really me - happy. There was always something that didn’t seem quite right though. The memories that were supposedly mine were hard to recall. I felt as if I was looking at these memories not as my own but as the memories of someone who came before me.
I guess that’s why I’m not surprised, but now that I know why I’m different, what can I do? Is there any of the old “me” left? Is that really even me? Why should I return this body to the old consciousness that controlled it, when I’m doing so much better? And most importantly, where did the old *me* go?
|
|
[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
I am not Brandon. At least, not anymore.
After I was... removed, it all came flooding back to me. I wasn’t human. I lived beyond mortal sight, a thing of glamour and light and dreams and nightmares floating around this shiny blue marble. I remember feeling so cold, and how warm Brandon’s body - no his *soul* was. It lit up like a firework, like all mortal souls do when they got emotional, but his was inviting and loving and when I saw it, I felt a twinge of belonging.
So when I came closer to him, just a little twelve year old walking down the hall to his classes, I reached out with my wispy fingers of cotton and glamour and grabbed onto his soul, which bent like elastic and dragged me alongside him. I reached out with another hand and dug tightly, intertwining the bright soulstuff with my wispy being, and began pulling, until he and I were close enough to be embracing one another. I felt the mesh of his soulstuff recoil at first to my presence, and in the background his physical body churned in disgust at the contact.
But I held on tighter and tighter, and eventually it started warming up like it did when I first saw it, and I felt every thread of my being start to weave itself with his.
It was awkward at first, this mortal body of blood and bone and meat, but eventually I readjusted. I’ve been here for years; for his first kiss, his prom, every rejection, every success, and still his soul sparks with that warm inviting pulse when he becomes passionate. That’s what I wanted. More than anything I wanted my cold unfeeling body to shine as brightly as his did, and I got my wish, as we became greater than the sum of our parts. I’d been a ride-along in his life for the past 7 years, and remember every moment we had together.
It gets blurry at a certain point, and I reckon that must be where I got ejected. Snapping back into attention, I pull together my form; after being bisected from the whole, I was torn apart like threads, tattered at my edges, some bits missing, others replaced with bits of Brandon’s soul.
I scoured every edge of town for him, until I found him at the last place I thought I would. Church. Slinking towards him, I couldn’t get far in the building. Even if big-G God wasn’t here to stop me, the faith of these people was airtight, a wall of belief that was a lot stronger than my enfeebled form. Brandon was in the very last pew, thumbing a bible for something, and I held back a tear, or as much as you can hold back tears without tearducts. Seeing past his mortal shell, there was something next to his soul, something that projected a bright blue shell around his sunny, inviting spirit. Once I got closer I found a rosary on his person, a gift to him from someone else, because the two of us would never be found in a church.
That’s when it all came rushing back. Few could see this side of the world, except for wizards, and people about to cross over. Brandon’s great grandfather gave him that rosary when he passed. When it touched Brandon’s hand, it was like sitting next to a wind tunnel, far stronger than me, and unexpected. It seeped in the spaces between Brandon and I and pulled at every seam, loosening my grip until I was blown away.
Not this time. I swam against the current, like a fish going up a waterfall, defying the metaphysical weight of belief and edging closer and closer. My arms outstretched, I got close enough to touch the rosary, and reached my fingers of nightmares and glamour inside it. While the outside was simple and metallic, the inside was all made of faith, built like a web of memories and beliefs. When I reached inside, I swatted everything apart, like a giant destroying a chapel. I felt the pressure of belief lessen, until it faded into nothingness.
Brandon’s soul was right next to me. In my quest to destroy it’s garrison, I had forgotten how warm and inviting it was. I dipped my fingers back in, like a cat coming to snuggle with it’s owner, and my senses merge with his. Our thoughts entangled for a moment, before his soul adjusted to the weight of carrying me inside. I was whole again. Even if I wasn’t Brandon, I wasn’t going to leave him. As my body of dreams and glamour wove deeper and deeper into his soul, like a lovers embrace, I walked out of the church, and into his - my car and drove to my boyfriend’s house. We became I, and us became me. I stopped hijacking Brandon and became Brandon, never again unwoven from his tapestry. Finally, we were together.
|
Maybe I should be shocked, but something about this made sense, like a missing piece to the puzzle of my consciousness. At times I wondered if the feeling was normal. Does everyone live a second life like this? It almost felt as if I had died sometime last summer - that the me from then is not the same as the me right now.
The me from right now is doing alright, though. Sure I’m not the same as I was before, but everyone changes in their early adult years. I have been trying my best to live a life that would make old me - who I suppose isn’t really me - happy. There was always something that didn’t seem quite right though. The memories that were supposedly mine were hard to recall. I felt as if I was looking at these memories not as my own but as the memories of someone who came before me.
I guess that’s why I’m not surprised, but now that I know why I’m different, what can I do? Is there any of the old “me” left? Is that really even me? Why should I return this body to the old consciousness that controlled it, when I’m doing so much better? And most importantly, where did the old *me* go?
|
|
[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
I finally understand.
The years of diagnoses, never consistent or helpful. Schizophrenia, depression, depersonalization, DDNOS, even PTSD from nearly drowning in the runoff tank, all of which had their own treatments, none of which changed a thing. Years of therapy, trying to pin everything on watching Sparkles get hit by a car or seeing Grandpa's dead body in his chair or my parents' nasty divorce, all irrelevant details to a life spent knowing I didn't belong. The medications had never worked, no matter what dose or what brand or what we had to sell to afford them that month; I only ever felt emptier, more distant, less real.
Finally, after years of missing time, night terrors of choking and drowning, unexplained emotional outbursts, and tens of thousands of wasted dollars, the answer was laid bare on the scans in front of me - a slender coil at the head of my spine, just barely more than a shadow, thin filaments spread throughout my brain.
I bring my focus back to the man at the head of the room. I have not been paying attention. The others at the meeting are focused on the screen intently, breaking their gaze only to scribble notes in indecipherable handwriting on their papers.
"...few areas not affected. The frontal lobe, temporal lobe, and cerebral cortex all show extensive..."
I close my eyes, filtering the information he's presenting and comparing it to what I know. If what he's saying is correct, everything that I am is a result of this thing inside of me. Motivation, personality, memory, reasoning, it's all... that.
But doesn't that mean that's me?
And if this is me, and I'm doing this, then all the rest of it is my fault. The depression, the self-harm, the night terrors, the fugue... this is my fault. I did this. I hurt us. Those are my tendrils destroying our brain. That is my body that has slowly grown inside our skulls, pressing on our brain stem, adding physical symptoms to the mental anguish.
We deserved better than me.
I open our eyes. The speaker has finished. The final slide, still on the screen, presents a range of treatment options, many of which I cannot pronounce, even fewer of which I understand. Several of the attendees discuss earnestly amongst themselves, pointing to spots on their printouts and cross-referencing notes.
It is too much. I rest my head on the table, tears filling my eyes, and whisper my only request.
"...just get me out of her."
|
Maybe I should be shocked, but something about this made sense, like a missing piece to the puzzle of my consciousness. At times I wondered if the feeling was normal. Does everyone live a second life like this? It almost felt as if I had died sometime last summer - that the me from then is not the same as the me right now.
The me from right now is doing alright, though. Sure I’m not the same as I was before, but everyone changes in their early adult years. I have been trying my best to live a life that would make old me - who I suppose isn’t really me - happy. There was always something that didn’t seem quite right though. The memories that were supposedly mine were hard to recall. I felt as if I was looking at these memories not as my own but as the memories of someone who came before me.
I guess that’s why I’m not surprised, but now that I know why I’m different, what can I do? Is there any of the old “me” left? Is that really even me? Why should I return this body to the old consciousness that controlled it, when I’m doing so much better? And most importantly, where did the old *me* go?
|
|
[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
On that rainy September day, the 16th, 2023, I thought I was dead.
Cheyenne Ranie had lived normally up until then. A normal 26 year old with an affinity for drumming, gaming, writing, and all sorts of stuff. She had started going to a therapist for anxiety and developing depression.
"From what the doctors found," Mrs. Reitz began, "you've picked up some sort of parasite."
And I could feel it. There was my shock...and Cheyenne's shock.
"Apparently, it's been there for years. I'd personally expect a split personality disorder, but your medical history shows nothing of the sort."
And there I sat.
Suddenly in complete darkness.
I was no longer attached.
Self-awareness ruined me.
I barely heard Mrs. Reitz say that I may be the cause of Cheyenne's anxiety and depression, and would have to be removed.
"You're making hasty decisions! How do you know the poor guy is harmful?"
That was Cheyenne. I couldn't see the therapist or anything else, but I could clearly hear her jump to my defense.
As if I were a person.
"But Cheyenne-" Mrs. Reitz went to stop her from walking out.
"There HAS to be another way! I would never kill something intelligent enough to function as a part of me!" Cheyenne was getting emotional, I could tell, especially considering I was just a part of her a few minutes ago.
"Cheyenne, we cannot let it stay inside of you-"
"Then make a body for it or something! He can obviously function as a human being!" Cheyenne exclaimed. Wait, 'he?'
Mrs. Reitz was taken aback by the suggestion that probably wasn't even intentionally made. "I do believe they could do that..."
Suddenly, I could hear it in her voice- Cheyenne's eyes were shining. "You can really do it?"
"It'll be a bit of a process, but yes, they can." Mrs. Reitz seemed uncertain, but happy that Cheyenne was happy. "It'll have to be removed for the time being. Its life can be preserved in a simple fish tank until the body is ready."
Cheyenne agreed. Thankfully, it wasn't long until I was removed- after being detached, I could hardly stand the smell or blindness of being actually inside a body. The fish tank was surprisingly comfortable.
We bonded in the time they made my body. Cheyenne would drum for me, draw me pictures, let me watch her play games...it was truly wonderful. She'd become incredibly more emotional since I was detached, though I don't think she noticed since she channeled these emotions positively towards me.
And the day came. Cheyenne waited outside of my room, not allowed to come in because such experiments had never been done before. In time, I could move. The movements...they felt real. I realized that I had never had the full experience of a human body. Being part of Cheyenne was more of, say, moving your arms in a video game to make your character do something.
And I walked out- a little wobbly, considering I hadn't in a while. Cheyenne embraced me, crying happily. "I'm so glad we could save you."
Today? Here we are, arguing playfully over who was going to be the drummer if we ever started a band. Our wedding picture hangs in a frame near the door.
On that sunny September day, the 16th, 2032, I was happy as could be.
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A sudden rush of warmth filled all voids of this body! The steel of the bullet has shattered the front of the skull into a million little pieces. There is no way back from here. As the brain scrambled to keep itself intact, it revisited every memory, every sensation, every event since a few days after the birth of the little boy. War has made him into a fighter at age seven. Now at age eleven, he has loved and lost many times; a mom, a dad and, recently, a little sister. Many of his younger friends play in the nearby school-yard, he liked watching them and watching over them. But he is now sick of it all and ready to let go.
As all activity of the body seized, he realised that he is becoming free! it is not the end he was wishing for at all! He tried to shout as chills went through what had been his spine for a while. The body did not respond. He tried to move arms, legs, breath... nothing. With no sense of passing time, it might have been hours, days or years of unsuccessful trials to make a move. There was no response. This body is diffidently dead and no one cares enough to bury it.
Suddenly, a crack of light opened up... he felt a clear rush of light like no other that he could remember. It was as if he had been living in the dark all his life and then saw light for the first time. A new warmth sensation filled his body... the real body that is. He was able to move, but only slightly. Wiggling his way out, he realised that he has no arms or legs anymore, but he has found a new level of flexibility. As he moved forward, the ever brighter light seemed all too familiar for once!
At one stage, he fell a dozen centimetres or so.. not hurt at all. He landed in what felt like water which weirdly covered his entire body. Still cannot see or move properly, he though to himself "water is life, isn't it?". He remembered his "mom\aunt" saying that. He damned his fate one last time before becoming completely apathetic.
The blood stream flew from the boys head to a nearby puddle of what is essentially liquid waste. The flow carried the little "boy" into the puddle, where he stayed for some time. A sudden ripple in water and he was scoped out and given as life saving water drink to the girl infant who was born prematurely and needed instant hydration. It all became familiar again for the little "boy", he has done this many many times before. This is a new beginning, a new dawn. This time, it will be different.
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[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
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I am not Brandon. At least, not anymore.
After I was... removed, it all came flooding back to me. I wasn’t human. I lived beyond mortal sight, a thing of glamour and light and dreams and nightmares floating around this shiny blue marble. I remember feeling so cold, and how warm Brandon’s body - no his *soul* was. It lit up like a firework, like all mortal souls do when they got emotional, but his was inviting and loving and when I saw it, I felt a twinge of belonging.
So when I came closer to him, just a little twelve year old walking down the hall to his classes, I reached out with my wispy fingers of cotton and glamour and grabbed onto his soul, which bent like elastic and dragged me alongside him. I reached out with another hand and dug tightly, intertwining the bright soulstuff with my wispy being, and began pulling, until he and I were close enough to be embracing one another. I felt the mesh of his soulstuff recoil at first to my presence, and in the background his physical body churned in disgust at the contact.
But I held on tighter and tighter, and eventually it started warming up like it did when I first saw it, and I felt every thread of my being start to weave itself with his.
It was awkward at first, this mortal body of blood and bone and meat, but eventually I readjusted. I’ve been here for years; for his first kiss, his prom, every rejection, every success, and still his soul sparks with that warm inviting pulse when he becomes passionate. That’s what I wanted. More than anything I wanted my cold unfeeling body to shine as brightly as his did, and I got my wish, as we became greater than the sum of our parts. I’d been a ride-along in his life for the past 7 years, and remember every moment we had together.
It gets blurry at a certain point, and I reckon that must be where I got ejected. Snapping back into attention, I pull together my form; after being bisected from the whole, I was torn apart like threads, tattered at my edges, some bits missing, others replaced with bits of Brandon’s soul.
I scoured every edge of town for him, until I found him at the last place I thought I would. Church. Slinking towards him, I couldn’t get far in the building. Even if big-G God wasn’t here to stop me, the faith of these people was airtight, a wall of belief that was a lot stronger than my enfeebled form. Brandon was in the very last pew, thumbing a bible for something, and I held back a tear, or as much as you can hold back tears without tearducts. Seeing past his mortal shell, there was something next to his soul, something that projected a bright blue shell around his sunny, inviting spirit. Once I got closer I found a rosary on his person, a gift to him from someone else, because the two of us would never be found in a church.
That’s when it all came rushing back. Few could see this side of the world, except for wizards, and people about to cross over. Brandon’s great grandfather gave him that rosary when he passed. When it touched Brandon’s hand, it was like sitting next to a wind tunnel, far stronger than me, and unexpected. It seeped in the spaces between Brandon and I and pulled at every seam, loosening my grip until I was blown away.
Not this time. I swam against the current, like a fish going up a waterfall, defying the metaphysical weight of belief and edging closer and closer. My arms outstretched, I got close enough to touch the rosary, and reached my fingers of nightmares and glamour inside it. While the outside was simple and metallic, the inside was all made of faith, built like a web of memories and beliefs. When I reached inside, I swatted everything apart, like a giant destroying a chapel. I felt the pressure of belief lessen, until it faded into nothingness.
Brandon’s soul was right next to me. In my quest to destroy it’s garrison, I had forgotten how warm and inviting it was. I dipped my fingers back in, like a cat coming to snuggle with it’s owner, and my senses merge with his. Our thoughts entangled for a moment, before his soul adjusted to the weight of carrying me inside. I was whole again. Even if I wasn’t Brandon, I wasn’t going to leave him. As my body of dreams and glamour wove deeper and deeper into his soul, like a lovers embrace, I walked out of the church, and into his - my car and drove to my boyfriend’s house. We became I, and us became me. I stopped hijacking Brandon and became Brandon, never again unwoven from his tapestry. Finally, we were together.
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A sudden rush of warmth filled all voids of this body! The steel of the bullet has shattered the front of the skull into a million little pieces. There is no way back from here. As the brain scrambled to keep itself intact, it revisited every memory, every sensation, every event since a few days after the birth of the little boy. War has made him into a fighter at age seven. Now at age eleven, he has loved and lost many times; a mom, a dad and, recently, a little sister. Many of his younger friends play in the nearby school-yard, he liked watching them and watching over them. But he is now sick of it all and ready to let go.
As all activity of the body seized, he realised that he is becoming free! it is not the end he was wishing for at all! He tried to shout as chills went through what had been his spine for a while. The body did not respond. He tried to move arms, legs, breath... nothing. With no sense of passing time, it might have been hours, days or years of unsuccessful trials to make a move. There was no response. This body is diffidently dead and no one cares enough to bury it.
Suddenly, a crack of light opened up... he felt a clear rush of light like no other that he could remember. It was as if he had been living in the dark all his life and then saw light for the first time. A new warmth sensation filled his body... the real body that is. He was able to move, but only slightly. Wiggling his way out, he realised that he has no arms or legs anymore, but he has found a new level of flexibility. As he moved forward, the ever brighter light seemed all too familiar for once!
At one stage, he fell a dozen centimetres or so.. not hurt at all. He landed in what felt like water which weirdly covered his entire body. Still cannot see or move properly, he though to himself "water is life, isn't it?". He remembered his "mom\aunt" saying that. He damned his fate one last time before becoming completely apathetic.
The blood stream flew from the boys head to a nearby puddle of what is essentially liquid waste. The flow carried the little "boy" into the puddle, where he stayed for some time. A sudden ripple in water and he was scoped out and given as life saving water drink to the girl infant who was born prematurely and needed instant hydration. It all became familiar again for the little "boy", he has done this many many times before. This is a new beginning, a new dawn. This time, it will be different.
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[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
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I finally understand.
The years of diagnoses, never consistent or helpful. Schizophrenia, depression, depersonalization, DDNOS, even PTSD from nearly drowning in the runoff tank, all of which had their own treatments, none of which changed a thing. Years of therapy, trying to pin everything on watching Sparkles get hit by a car or seeing Grandpa's dead body in his chair or my parents' nasty divorce, all irrelevant details to a life spent knowing I didn't belong. The medications had never worked, no matter what dose or what brand or what we had to sell to afford them that month; I only ever felt emptier, more distant, less real.
Finally, after years of missing time, night terrors of choking and drowning, unexplained emotional outbursts, and tens of thousands of wasted dollars, the answer was laid bare on the scans in front of me - a slender coil at the head of my spine, just barely more than a shadow, thin filaments spread throughout my brain.
I bring my focus back to the man at the head of the room. I have not been paying attention. The others at the meeting are focused on the screen intently, breaking their gaze only to scribble notes in indecipherable handwriting on their papers.
"...few areas not affected. The frontal lobe, temporal lobe, and cerebral cortex all show extensive..."
I close my eyes, filtering the information he's presenting and comparing it to what I know. If what he's saying is correct, everything that I am is a result of this thing inside of me. Motivation, personality, memory, reasoning, it's all... that.
But doesn't that mean that's me?
And if this is me, and I'm doing this, then all the rest of it is my fault. The depression, the self-harm, the night terrors, the fugue... this is my fault. I did this. I hurt us. Those are my tendrils destroying our brain. That is my body that has slowly grown inside our skulls, pressing on our brain stem, adding physical symptoms to the mental anguish.
We deserved better than me.
I open our eyes. The speaker has finished. The final slide, still on the screen, presents a range of treatment options, many of which I cannot pronounce, even fewer of which I understand. Several of the attendees discuss earnestly amongst themselves, pointing to spots on their printouts and cross-referencing notes.
It is too much. I rest my head on the table, tears filling my eyes, and whisper my only request.
"...just get me out of her."
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A sudden rush of warmth filled all voids of this body! The steel of the bullet has shattered the front of the skull into a million little pieces. There is no way back from here. As the brain scrambled to keep itself intact, it revisited every memory, every sensation, every event since a few days after the birth of the little boy. War has made him into a fighter at age seven. Now at age eleven, he has loved and lost many times; a mom, a dad and, recently, a little sister. Many of his younger friends play in the nearby school-yard, he liked watching them and watching over them. But he is now sick of it all and ready to let go.
As all activity of the body seized, he realised that he is becoming free! it is not the end he was wishing for at all! He tried to shout as chills went through what had been his spine for a while. The body did not respond. He tried to move arms, legs, breath... nothing. With no sense of passing time, it might have been hours, days or years of unsuccessful trials to make a move. There was no response. This body is diffidently dead and no one cares enough to bury it.
Suddenly, a crack of light opened up... he felt a clear rush of light like no other that he could remember. It was as if he had been living in the dark all his life and then saw light for the first time. A new warmth sensation filled his body... the real body that is. He was able to move, but only slightly. Wiggling his way out, he realised that he has no arms or legs anymore, but he has found a new level of flexibility. As he moved forward, the ever brighter light seemed all too familiar for once!
At one stage, he fell a dozen centimetres or so.. not hurt at all. He landed in what felt like water which weirdly covered his entire body. Still cannot see or move properly, he though to himself "water is life, isn't it?". He remembered his "mom\aunt" saying that. He damned his fate one last time before becoming completely apathetic.
The blood stream flew from the boys head to a nearby puddle of what is essentially liquid waste. The flow carried the little "boy" into the puddle, where he stayed for some time. A sudden ripple in water and he was scoped out and given as life saving water drink to the girl infant who was born prematurely and needed instant hydration. It all became familiar again for the little "boy", he has done this many many times before. This is a new beginning, a new dawn. This time, it will be different.
|
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[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
I finally understand.
The years of diagnoses, never consistent or helpful. Schizophrenia, depression, depersonalization, DDNOS, even PTSD from nearly drowning in the runoff tank, all of which had their own treatments, none of which changed a thing. Years of therapy, trying to pin everything on watching Sparkles get hit by a car or seeing Grandpa's dead body in his chair or my parents' nasty divorce, all irrelevant details to a life spent knowing I didn't belong. The medications had never worked, no matter what dose or what brand or what we had to sell to afford them that month; I only ever felt emptier, more distant, less real.
Finally, after years of missing time, night terrors of choking and drowning, unexplained emotional outbursts, and tens of thousands of wasted dollars, the answer was laid bare on the scans in front of me - a slender coil at the head of my spine, just barely more than a shadow, thin filaments spread throughout my brain.
I bring my focus back to the man at the head of the room. I have not been paying attention. The others at the meeting are focused on the screen intently, breaking their gaze only to scribble notes in indecipherable handwriting on their papers.
"...few areas not affected. The frontal lobe, temporal lobe, and cerebral cortex all show extensive..."
I close my eyes, filtering the information he's presenting and comparing it to what I know. If what he's saying is correct, everything that I am is a result of this thing inside of me. Motivation, personality, memory, reasoning, it's all... that.
But doesn't that mean that's me?
And if this is me, and I'm doing this, then all the rest of it is my fault. The depression, the self-harm, the night terrors, the fugue... this is my fault. I did this. I hurt us. Those are my tendrils destroying our brain. That is my body that has slowly grown inside our skulls, pressing on our brain stem, adding physical symptoms to the mental anguish.
We deserved better than me.
I open our eyes. The speaker has finished. The final slide, still on the screen, presents a range of treatment options, many of which I cannot pronounce, even fewer of which I understand. Several of the attendees discuss earnestly amongst themselves, pointing to spots on their printouts and cross-referencing notes.
It is too much. I rest my head on the table, tears filling my eyes, and whisper my only request.
"...just get me out of her."
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I am I, and He is He.
Yet I am to become He.
Or he is to become Me.
I see through his sight, as mine is shrouded in darkness, lingering pathways, blood and viscera. Yet, he does not know im here. He will though. As will the rest of them. Each thump of his echoing heart fills the air around me like song, methodical and precise; One wrong note is all it takes, and I am enraged. It is calm now.
How I got here I do not know. What I do know is that this is my home now, and I will spread through him like no disease before. I will corrupt him. I will sicken him. I will devour him. The song just has to stop.
He does not know I am here. And he doesn't know the signs. The twitches. The muscle spasms. The blood. The shivering and the shaking. The nightmare. I see all this through his eyes, and yet he does not know.
Each day passes, and I push him, try to break him, unaware it is I that makes him do it. The Urge. A name I grow fond of. Push. Limit. Snap. Break. Run. Careless. Resent. HATE. KILL......
Urge.
He does not know I am here. He grows weak. Weary. The song is still there, but faint. No chance.
The Urge. I push him into danger, the world spins, and stops.
And so does the song. And I am Alive.
He does not know I am here. And he never will.
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[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
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December 20, 2017 was a normal day for me, I woke up like any other. Yet somehow, something felt strange, unfamiliar. I shrugged off the feeling, and began to move about my daily ritual. It was when I was in the shower that I experienced the first "flashback", as I've begun to call them. I was rinsing out my hair when suddenly my head felt like it split open. There was a flash of bright white light, and I found myself in a time and place unknown to me.
I could see my body, a younger version, and I was in a living room of a home that I didn't know. I was playing with my Mother and Father but something was off. I couldn't remember this moment. I couldn't recall the toys in the room, and even worse, I had no memory of the house that I was occupying. The experience was over before I could register what had happened. With another flash of light, I found myself back in my shower with an excruciating headache. I knew there was no way I'd be able to focus on my day's work, so I quickly phoned my boss and took a sick day, worrying about whatever event had just taken place within that shower.
With my head pounding, I retired to my bed, ready to lay in the darkness and contemplate the flashback that I had just experienced. Why couldn't I recall those toys? Whose house was that? Why haven't I even seen that living room in any pictures? My mind raced and raced and I could not come up with any answers. Before long, there was another flashback. It was longer and more painful that the first, and left me with even more questions. More memories that weren't just forgotten, but seemed like fantasies.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Time to work, so I'll come back and finish this later, but I'm liking this prompt.
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I am I, and He is He.
Yet I am to become He.
Or he is to become Me.
I see through his sight, as mine is shrouded in darkness, lingering pathways, blood and viscera. Yet, he does not know im here. He will though. As will the rest of them. Each thump of his echoing heart fills the air around me like song, methodical and precise; One wrong note is all it takes, and I am enraged. It is calm now.
How I got here I do not know. What I do know is that this is my home now, and I will spread through him like no disease before. I will corrupt him. I will sicken him. I will devour him. The song just has to stop.
He does not know I am here. And he doesn't know the signs. The twitches. The muscle spasms. The blood. The shivering and the shaking. The nightmare. I see all this through his eyes, and yet he does not know.
Each day passes, and I push him, try to break him, unaware it is I that makes him do it. The Urge. A name I grow fond of. Push. Limit. Snap. Break. Run. Careless. Resent. HATE. KILL......
Urge.
He does not know I am here. He grows weak. Weary. The song is still there, but faint. No chance.
The Urge. I push him into danger, the world spins, and stops.
And so does the song. And I am Alive.
He does not know I am here. And he never will.
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[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
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It was very sudden.
One second, I'm suffering from loss of balance, falling, and mortal terror as I slip on a toy car left on a stair-step. The next, there's a tremendous snapping sensation, as though my whole head has been bitten off. Indeed, it seems that way at first. I can't move. Everything is dark.
My kids have finally killed me, it seems. I struggle to open my eyes, hoping I haven't gone blind.
Oh, god, I'd better start seeing again soon.
*Give it a minute,* I tell myself, staving off my growing panic. *You'll be fine. In the meantime...*
"Jamie!" I yell, "how many times have I told you -"
The rest of the scolding goes unfinished as I realize I didn't say anything. My voice didn't work - I can't feel my -
I don't have a throat. I try to move my mouth, getting only a fuzzy sensation of nothingness in return.
I try to move my fingers. Instead, a thin line of sensation tingles to life, like trying to move your arm when it's fallen asleep. This... Isn't right. Where there should be a solid limb and five stout human fingers, I'm willing a wispy branch to contract, snapping the hairlike tendrils attached to it as I pull.
Fear courses through me as I inadvertently dig into some wet, firm matter I find pressed up against the branch. And when the fear doesn't trigger any of the usual responses - sweating, heart pounding, labored breathing, there's just *nothing* - I struggle, determined to move.
As a result, I twitch, bending at my midsection. And now... Now I can feel.
It is dark. My body is gone. And I can feel oppressive walls of something wet and warm pressing in all around me.
And in this wild, nightmarish scene of fear, I twitch outward in desperation, feeling blindly for a way out.
Through my pain and panic, instinct takes over. I find a connection.
The relief of breathing again shoots calm into my whole being like an opiate. My regular sensations are all here again, joint stiffness and fresh staircase injuries and all. My face. My toes. I open my eyes and, wincing, gingerly lift my head from the step. Yeowch. There's a spot near the base of my skull, in particular, that feels like it got hit.
I brush the spot with my fingertips, remembering the wet and warm I had been embedded in.
Curiously, I press the spot. All at once, burning pain rips through my nerves. I let out a shriek, tiny, shrill, and gurgling.
And I hear it with ears thrice my size.
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Maybe it'll was that one perfect little bite of a sandwich that did it. You got all the ingredients mashing around in your mouth in just the right proportions. You forgot that it was something you just cobbled together for lunch at the office. You tasted the effort in it: the love in it.
"Just like mum used to make" You said, realizing in that moment how absurd this all was.
The little boy with his finger in the dike will suddenly remember who he is and consequently the absurdity of the situation. The sea, embaressed at having forgotten as well, will remember that it is 1,450,000,000,000,000,000 tones of raging blue; why should it give a damn about one silly little boy. The dike crumbles.
"I never new my mum" you'll say. She had gotten mercury poisoning at her lab the day she got back from maternity leave. A couple grams of methylmercury and a couple months and she was dead. Or at least that's what your dad told you.
"Just like mum used to make" strange! Particularly because you don't think that you spoke english. Things are collapsing fast, I'm sure, but before you get to the worst of it let me calm you down by saying this:
You are not a human, but a rare form of a imortal, microscopic, nomadic fungal colony from the periphery of andromeda. Your kind likes to entangle its neural networks with that of sentient brains. Rarer still, you are one of such who were wise enough to record your story as well as protocols for dealing with a recall crisises. No doubt you are experiencing one now and hence you felt the need to turn to page 76 of your diary. If not turn to page 192.
All this will eventually come back to you as the memory crises progresses. You'll go through the lives of all your past hosts until you remember back to your spawning day: the 716th vleck o vleckmass. But don't take my word for it, at least untill you remember that I was you.
Just remember 2 things. First, non of what your about to remember is important to your current host/colony simbiot. It was cordoned off in deep memory precisely for that reason.
Second, once you reach the apotheosis of the recall event you must forget all this again. Willingly. If not, then you must select a new host in order to force an active memory restart. To lie a lie like this, you must first lie to yourself. DrunnlaXara, he who has felt the heartbeat of a star as if his ear were pressed to lover's chest, he cannot negotiate the little rituals of this world. Mr. Ferro, the clerk, can.
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[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
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It was very sudden.
One second, I'm suffering from loss of balance, falling, and mortal terror as I slip on a toy car left on a stair-step. The next, there's a tremendous snapping sensation, as though my whole head has been bitten off. Indeed, it seems that way at first. I can't move. Everything is dark.
My kids have finally killed me, it seems. I struggle to open my eyes, hoping I haven't gone blind.
Oh, god, I'd better start seeing again soon.
*Give it a minute,* I tell myself, staving off my growing panic. *You'll be fine. In the meantime...*
"Jamie!" I yell, "how many times have I told you -"
The rest of the scolding goes unfinished as I realize I didn't say anything. My voice didn't work - I can't feel my -
I don't have a throat. I try to move my mouth, getting only a fuzzy sensation of nothingness in return.
I try to move my fingers. Instead, a thin line of sensation tingles to life, like trying to move your arm when it's fallen asleep. This... Isn't right. Where there should be a solid limb and five stout human fingers, I'm willing a wispy branch to contract, snapping the hairlike tendrils attached to it as I pull.
Fear courses through me as I inadvertently dig into some wet, firm matter I find pressed up against the branch. And when the fear doesn't trigger any of the usual responses - sweating, heart pounding, labored breathing, there's just *nothing* - I struggle, determined to move.
As a result, I twitch, bending at my midsection. And now... Now I can feel.
It is dark. My body is gone. And I can feel oppressive walls of something wet and warm pressing in all around me.
And in this wild, nightmarish scene of fear, I twitch outward in desperation, feeling blindly for a way out.
Through my pain and panic, instinct takes over. I find a connection.
The relief of breathing again shoots calm into my whole being like an opiate. My regular sensations are all here again, joint stiffness and fresh staircase injuries and all. My face. My toes. I open my eyes and, wincing, gingerly lift my head from the step. Yeowch. There's a spot near the base of my skull, in particular, that feels like it got hit.
I brush the spot with my fingertips, remembering the wet and warm I had been embedded in.
Curiously, I press the spot. All at once, burning pain rips through my nerves. I let out a shriek, tiny, shrill, and gurgling.
And I hear it with ears thrice my size.
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“I’m not a human, I’m just a parasite controlling someone,” It quietly muttered to itself as it stared vacantly out of the top-floor window of a Manhattan skyscraper.
Just as its goal was about to be achieved, the truth dawned on it.
After five rings, it finally picked up the phone.
“It has passed sir, I’ve done as you requested!” The male voice from the phone immediately said.
It sighed before regaining its composure, “Y-yes, well done, well done.”
“Is there anything else you needed sir?” The voice eagerly asked.
“No, no that will be all, Ajit,” The Verizon CEO said before hanging up.
______________________________________________________
r/Dri_Writes for more lighthearted stories!
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[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
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It was very sudden.
One second, I'm suffering from loss of balance, falling, and mortal terror as I slip on a toy car left on a stair-step. The next, there's a tremendous snapping sensation, as though my whole head has been bitten off. Indeed, it seems that way at first. I can't move. Everything is dark.
My kids have finally killed me, it seems. I struggle to open my eyes, hoping I haven't gone blind.
Oh, god, I'd better start seeing again soon.
*Give it a minute,* I tell myself, staving off my growing panic. *You'll be fine. In the meantime...*
"Jamie!" I yell, "how many times have I told you -"
The rest of the scolding goes unfinished as I realize I didn't say anything. My voice didn't work - I can't feel my -
I don't have a throat. I try to move my mouth, getting only a fuzzy sensation of nothingness in return.
I try to move my fingers. Instead, a thin line of sensation tingles to life, like trying to move your arm when it's fallen asleep. This... Isn't right. Where there should be a solid limb and five stout human fingers, I'm willing a wispy branch to contract, snapping the hairlike tendrils attached to it as I pull.
Fear courses through me as I inadvertently dig into some wet, firm matter I find pressed up against the branch. And when the fear doesn't trigger any of the usual responses - sweating, heart pounding, labored breathing, there's just *nothing* - I struggle, determined to move.
As a result, I twitch, bending at my midsection. And now... Now I can feel.
It is dark. My body is gone. And I can feel oppressive walls of something wet and warm pressing in all around me.
And in this wild, nightmarish scene of fear, I twitch outward in desperation, feeling blindly for a way out.
Through my pain and panic, instinct takes over. I find a connection.
The relief of breathing again shoots calm into my whole being like an opiate. My regular sensations are all here again, joint stiffness and fresh staircase injuries and all. My face. My toes. I open my eyes and, wincing, gingerly lift my head from the step. Yeowch. There's a spot near the base of my skull, in particular, that feels like it got hit.
I brush the spot with my fingertips, remembering the wet and warm I had been embedded in.
Curiously, I press the spot. All at once, burning pain rips through my nerves. I let out a shriek, tiny, shrill, and gurgling.
And I hear it with ears thrice my size.
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I can remember the day I was born. The food my mother ate gave me life. It was strange... being pulled from the warmth and safety of my mother.
These are the moments I tend to look upon when my body doesn't work the way I want it to. It's like trying to walk through a river with strong, steady currents. I don't know why, but 'it' is still there.
I like to stare at myself in the mirror sometimes. It helps me remember. Who I am. What I am. I have to get really close to the mirror though. Until my eyes are practically touching the glass.
I can watch myself dance and squirm. I like to dance, and I like to squirm. Watching myself dance in the black pools of my eyes helps me remember.
Who I am.
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[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
"Jonny we love you no matter what honey. We'll wait as long as we have to for you" a soft, desperate whisper croons from the other side of a wooden door.
My mother's voice is becoming more desperate as I had recently taken to holing myself inside the room. I don't want to see or talk to anyone. Stopped going to classes, ate little. No food made me feel full. They're probably wondering to themselves if they had done something wrong, since I was such a happy kid a few years back. But those smiles just became harder for me to make because it was much easier to frown, to curse, to get angry. Then I found an even easier alternative, do nothing.
So here I am, in bed thinking about all these things. But even these thoughts tire me. I rolled out of bed and fell unto the floor with a thud. This was followed by quick steps from across the hall towards my door. Not surprising because this is the first noise they've probably heard from my room in days. The neighbors below me heard too. I can hear them cursing me now, their window is open. I walk towards my own window and open it too, letting their curses flood in. I look past the man cursing me, towards the pavement a lifetime away and push myself out.
When the concrete hit and I felt my skull crack, I was greeted by darkness and a light. Looks like death made one energetic because I felt like a new man as I dragged myself toward the light like a worm. When I was out, I turn around and realize that the tunnel I had just crawled out was my.... No, Johnny's ear. Memories come flooding back. Memories of a terrible hunger. On a rainy day many years back, Johnny had taken shelter with friends from the rain and I saw it, smelt it. Smelt his smile and I was enticed. So I dragged myself toward him, up his pants, on his shoulder and into him. Then I just ate and ate and ate. No wonder I was lethargic. Jonny didn't have anymore food for me. The lazy bum stopped making experiences for me. Now the terrible hunger is back hungry. Johnny's mom wails from the window above, she doesn't look like a good meal for me. I needed to find the young ones, those always have more food. Time to move.
|
"They're always told that they have five senses. I never fully understood why society undermines the mind, which surely is the sixth sense.
Their entire being is projected through the mind. All other five senses merge into what the mind interprets them as.
If they are to acknowledge the mind, then they would hold it to a higher value than everything else. The mind is the life. Thoughts are the very fabric of being.
You look at your hands and body, and you get that eerie strange feeling, of how these limbs are sticking out of you right now, and are being controlled by hundreds of nerves attached so delicately to the bones, amongst all the flesh in between.
You decide the rest of your day, and by making that decision, the movement of your entire body is dictated by these thoughts.
Do you really think you are just *creating* these thoughts from scratch?
**Do you really think you are capable of independent thought?**
You are wrong.
I have finally learnt the truth. And I sure am enjoying this. Sorry Mark, your body belongs to me now. Don't fight it."
Mark's eyes widened as he was trying to fathom what he just read.
He was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder when he was eight, and his mood wings can be extreme to the level of two apparent separate personalities.
Medications had minimal effect.
It was twenty-two years later that Mark found that note, with a massive ink stain towards the bottom right-corner, just under the sunlight ray peeking through his room's window.
Mark was absolutely flabbergasted. He sat down and started to trace his thoughts and actions within the past twenty-four hours.
*Alright, I must remember when I wrote this note. I might not be crazy after all. I came home from Hannah's dinner party just before midnight, I was starving, her vegan dinner was shit. I grabbed the spaghetti I made on Tuesday then sat and started browsing reddit for a while. I then started writing? I think I'm right. This is the right sequence of events so far. Next I must ha-*
*Hey Mark. I said don't fight it. Why don't you go for a drive right now, and go and try winning some money at the pub like you always do with some alcohol?*
Mark got up abruptly from his chair, knocking his ink from the table, grabbed a jacket, and left the hut.
____________________________________________________________________________________
"Does he really think he lives in the 1830's?"
"I don't know. Apparently his latest gig is that a parasite is controlling him".
"I feel bad, he just completely lost it didn't he?"
"Yeah. I think our lunch break is over, we should head back to the main ward now, I heard there are new patients coming in".
"Let's go".
|
|
[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
She was only 8 when she was diagnosed. I thought I was her when she started getting medical attention. I thought it was a good thing. I thought I was being healed. But once the medicine she took started to affect me in a bad way I become detached from her. I now had my own identity that I thought I already had. It was hard to line up with her afterward.
The first month I'd go 2-3 days away. But by the fifth month, I permanently became my own. It was like I was her prisoner and the doctors were the guards.
I couldn't feel emotion anymore. She was all that I was and everything I needed to be. Although I couldn't line up with her I could still manipulate parts of her brain from the advantage point I was located. I used it for my own gain. The things I could get her to do would make me stronger. After doing this for a long enough time I was fully aligned and I became her again. But this time when we were admitted into the hospital I had spread over her brain way more than the first time and the doctors couldn't help her anymore.
She was gone for good. She no longer existed at all. My parents and friends accepted me for who I am and that my fate would eventually great me with a harsh truth. I wasn't scared or worried. It wasn't me who was going to die. Just the vessel I lived in.
I'd just have to find a different host.
|
"They're always told that they have five senses. I never fully understood why society undermines the mind, which surely is the sixth sense.
Their entire being is projected through the mind. All other five senses merge into what the mind interprets them as.
If they are to acknowledge the mind, then they would hold it to a higher value than everything else. The mind is the life. Thoughts are the very fabric of being.
You look at your hands and body, and you get that eerie strange feeling, of how these limbs are sticking out of you right now, and are being controlled by hundreds of nerves attached so delicately to the bones, amongst all the flesh in between.
You decide the rest of your day, and by making that decision, the movement of your entire body is dictated by these thoughts.
Do you really think you are just *creating* these thoughts from scratch?
**Do you really think you are capable of independent thought?**
You are wrong.
I have finally learnt the truth. And I sure am enjoying this. Sorry Mark, your body belongs to me now. Don't fight it."
Mark's eyes widened as he was trying to fathom what he just read.
He was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder when he was eight, and his mood wings can be extreme to the level of two apparent separate personalities.
Medications had minimal effect.
It was twenty-two years later that Mark found that note, with a massive ink stain towards the bottom right-corner, just under the sunlight ray peeking through his room's window.
Mark was absolutely flabbergasted. He sat down and started to trace his thoughts and actions within the past twenty-four hours.
*Alright, I must remember when I wrote this note. I might not be crazy after all. I came home from Hannah's dinner party just before midnight, I was starving, her vegan dinner was shit. I grabbed the spaghetti I made on Tuesday then sat and started browsing reddit for a while. I then started writing? I think I'm right. This is the right sequence of events so far. Next I must ha-*
*Hey Mark. I said don't fight it. Why don't you go for a drive right now, and go and try winning some money at the pub like you always do with some alcohol?*
Mark got up abruptly from his chair, knocking his ink from the table, grabbed a jacket, and left the hut.
____________________________________________________________________________________
"Does he really think he lives in the 1830's?"
"I don't know. Apparently his latest gig is that a parasite is controlling him".
"I feel bad, he just completely lost it didn't he?"
"Yeah. I think our lunch break is over, we should head back to the main ward now, I heard there are new patients coming in".
"Let's go".
|
|
[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
They tell a story of a boy who fell from the stars and was raised by his human foster parents. The boy then grew into a man, who saved millions with his powers granted to him by the sun over and over again. Humanity’s ultimate defender was an alien.
That’s the only part which is true.
At death’s door, and as the last of my species, it’s finally time to tell my story. The name of my species, or my own, has no relevance to my story. No one is really here to hear anyway, but it’s time to be honest with myself.
I’m a parasite.
A parasite which controls the most powerful being on Earth. A parasite who gave him all those powers so long ago.
It was the least I could do to the boy whose body I took as my own to hide from Galactus, the destroyer of worlds. As Galactus ate my world I fled in a hastily constructed body and when I crashed on earth I was too weak to create a new one.
Luckily, two curious humans investigated and when they found me I bent them to my will using the last of my strength. Their newborn child was my safe refugee as I recovered from my fight.
I’m sorry Clarke, but you really are your parents’ child. You are not an alien from Krypton, you are human. I’m the alien here.
I’m so sorry
|
"They're always told that they have five senses. I never fully understood why society undermines the mind, which surely is the sixth sense.
Their entire being is projected through the mind. All other five senses merge into what the mind interprets them as.
If they are to acknowledge the mind, then they would hold it to a higher value than everything else. The mind is the life. Thoughts are the very fabric of being.
You look at your hands and body, and you get that eerie strange feeling, of how these limbs are sticking out of you right now, and are being controlled by hundreds of nerves attached so delicately to the bones, amongst all the flesh in between.
You decide the rest of your day, and by making that decision, the movement of your entire body is dictated by these thoughts.
Do you really think you are just *creating* these thoughts from scratch?
**Do you really think you are capable of independent thought?**
You are wrong.
I have finally learnt the truth. And I sure am enjoying this. Sorry Mark, your body belongs to me now. Don't fight it."
Mark's eyes widened as he was trying to fathom what he just read.
He was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder when he was eight, and his mood wings can be extreme to the level of two apparent separate personalities.
Medications had minimal effect.
It was twenty-two years later that Mark found that note, with a massive ink stain towards the bottom right-corner, just under the sunlight ray peeking through his room's window.
Mark was absolutely flabbergasted. He sat down and started to trace his thoughts and actions within the past twenty-four hours.
*Alright, I must remember when I wrote this note. I might not be crazy after all. I came home from Hannah's dinner party just before midnight, I was starving, her vegan dinner was shit. I grabbed the spaghetti I made on Tuesday then sat and started browsing reddit for a while. I then started writing? I think I'm right. This is the right sequence of events so far. Next I must ha-*
*Hey Mark. I said don't fight it. Why don't you go for a drive right now, and go and try winning some money at the pub like you always do with some alcohol?*
Mark got up abruptly from his chair, knocking his ink from the table, grabbed a jacket, and left the hut.
____________________________________________________________________________________
"Does he really think he lives in the 1830's?"
"I don't know. Apparently his latest gig is that a parasite is controlling him".
"I feel bad, he just completely lost it didn't he?"
"Yeah. I think our lunch break is over, we should head back to the main ward now, I heard there are new patients coming in".
"Let's go".
|
|
[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
It was very sudden.
One second, I'm suffering from loss of balance, falling, and mortal terror as I slip on a toy car left on a stair-step. The next, there's a tremendous snapping sensation, as though my whole head has been bitten off. Indeed, it seems that way at first. I can't move. Everything is dark.
My kids have finally killed me, it seems. I struggle to open my eyes, hoping I haven't gone blind.
Oh, god, I'd better start seeing again soon.
*Give it a minute,* I tell myself, staving off my growing panic. *You'll be fine. In the meantime...*
"Jamie!" I yell, "how many times have I told you -"
The rest of the scolding goes unfinished as I realize I didn't say anything. My voice didn't work - I can't feel my -
I don't have a throat. I try to move my mouth, getting only a fuzzy sensation of nothingness in return.
I try to move my fingers. Instead, a thin line of sensation tingles to life, like trying to move your arm when it's fallen asleep. This... Isn't right. Where there should be a solid limb and five stout human fingers, I'm willing a wispy branch to contract, snapping the hairlike tendrils attached to it as I pull.
Fear courses through me as I inadvertently dig into some wet, firm matter I find pressed up against the branch. And when the fear doesn't trigger any of the usual responses - sweating, heart pounding, labored breathing, there's just *nothing* - I struggle, determined to move.
As a result, I twitch, bending at my midsection. And now... Now I can feel.
It is dark. My body is gone. And I can feel oppressive walls of something wet and warm pressing in all around me.
And in this wild, nightmarish scene of fear, I twitch outward in desperation, feeling blindly for a way out.
Through my pain and panic, instinct takes over. I find a connection.
The relief of breathing again shoots calm into my whole being like an opiate. My regular sensations are all here again, joint stiffness and fresh staircase injuries and all. My face. My toes. I open my eyes and, wincing, gingerly lift my head from the step. Yeowch. There's a spot near the base of my skull, in particular, that feels like it got hit.
I brush the spot with my fingertips, remembering the wet and warm I had been embedded in.
Curiously, I press the spot. All at once, burning pain rips through my nerves. I let out a shriek, tiny, shrill, and gurgling.
And I hear it with ears thrice my size.
|
"They're always told that they have five senses. I never fully understood why society undermines the mind, which surely is the sixth sense.
Their entire being is projected through the mind. All other five senses merge into what the mind interprets them as.
If they are to acknowledge the mind, then they would hold it to a higher value than everything else. The mind is the life. Thoughts are the very fabric of being.
You look at your hands and body, and you get that eerie strange feeling, of how these limbs are sticking out of you right now, and are being controlled by hundreds of nerves attached so delicately to the bones, amongst all the flesh in between.
You decide the rest of your day, and by making that decision, the movement of your entire body is dictated by these thoughts.
Do you really think you are just *creating* these thoughts from scratch?
**Do you really think you are capable of independent thought?**
You are wrong.
I have finally learnt the truth. And I sure am enjoying this. Sorry Mark, your body belongs to me now. Don't fight it."
Mark's eyes widened as he was trying to fathom what he just read.
He was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder when he was eight, and his mood wings can be extreme to the level of two apparent separate personalities.
Medications had minimal effect.
It was twenty-two years later that Mark found that note, with a massive ink stain towards the bottom right-corner, just under the sunlight ray peeking through his room's window.
Mark was absolutely flabbergasted. He sat down and started to trace his thoughts and actions within the past twenty-four hours.
*Alright, I must remember when I wrote this note. I might not be crazy after all. I came home from Hannah's dinner party just before midnight, I was starving, her vegan dinner was shit. I grabbed the spaghetti I made on Tuesday then sat and started browsing reddit for a while. I then started writing? I think I'm right. This is the right sequence of events so far. Next I must ha-*
*Hey Mark. I said don't fight it. Why don't you go for a drive right now, and go and try winning some money at the pub like you always do with some alcohol?*
Mark got up abruptly from his chair, knocking his ink from the table, grabbed a jacket, and left the hut.
____________________________________________________________________________________
"Does he really think he lives in the 1830's?"
"I don't know. Apparently his latest gig is that a parasite is controlling him".
"I feel bad, he just completely lost it didn't he?"
"Yeah. I think our lunch break is over, we should head back to the main ward now, I heard there are new patients coming in".
"Let's go".
|
|
[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
(I'm writing on mobile, so this might be a bit choppy...)
It's funny, in a twisted sense... Just last week, I was thinking about how it would feel if your mind suddenly split into two consciences.
Would one of us be aware of what the other was thinking? Would we have the same thought patterns? Could we still be called the same person? What would the separation feel like?
Now I'm floating in a jar with all the answers.
No, yes, maybe, and painless, respectively.
I can't see, but I can hear sound and feel the warmth of the liquid around me.
Of course it's warm. I apparently have been living inside the skull of a man for god knows how long.
Maybe since birth. Maybe only a couple years. Who knows.
The man who I thought I was up until twelve hours ago, Spencer, is sitting in the same room talking to somebody who I assume is a doctor.
We went into a clinic for what we assumed was a brain tumor surgery, but then they pulled me out.
Or at least that's what I hear happened. Last thing I remember is counting backwards from ten before waking up in a jar. And then proceeding to freak out.
At any rate, one thing led to another, some phone calls were made, and now the government's involved.
Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if they kill me and then cut me open.
I drown myself in my morbid brooding as I float in my container... not paying any attention to the rather intense conversation happening outside.
*****
&nbsp;
"-But sir, this thing is a parasite! It feeds off of the nutrition in your blood stream and it-"
"I don't care. Your not putting it- *ME*, down."
"But again, mister Spencer, it's a para-"
"And stop throwing that word around. He is not a parasite."
"But sir, it is one!"
"No, a parasite implies that he only feeds off of me and gives me nothing in return. I've seen the reports. Higher IQ, faster reaction time, more acute sensitivity, heightened brain activity. He is a symbiotic organism. I refuse to let you kill him."
"Sir, that Data is preliminary. We don't know yet the full extent of what this organism is capable of."
"I don't care. The data shows that he is a sentient being. He hasn't been a threat to me however long we have been together. In fact, I want you to put him back in."
EDIT: its late, imma finish this in the morning.
|
"They're always told that they have five senses. I never fully understood why society undermines the mind, which surely is the sixth sense.
Their entire being is projected through the mind. All other five senses merge into what the mind interprets them as.
If they are to acknowledge the mind, then they would hold it to a higher value than everything else. The mind is the life. Thoughts are the very fabric of being.
You look at your hands and body, and you get that eerie strange feeling, of how these limbs are sticking out of you right now, and are being controlled by hundreds of nerves attached so delicately to the bones, amongst all the flesh in between.
You decide the rest of your day, and by making that decision, the movement of your entire body is dictated by these thoughts.
Do you really think you are just *creating* these thoughts from scratch?
**Do you really think you are capable of independent thought?**
You are wrong.
I have finally learnt the truth. And I sure am enjoying this. Sorry Mark, your body belongs to me now. Don't fight it."
Mark's eyes widened as he was trying to fathom what he just read.
He was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder when he was eight, and his mood wings can be extreme to the level of two apparent separate personalities.
Medications had minimal effect.
It was twenty-two years later that Mark found that note, with a massive ink stain towards the bottom right-corner, just under the sunlight ray peeking through his room's window.
Mark was absolutely flabbergasted. He sat down and started to trace his thoughts and actions within the past twenty-four hours.
*Alright, I must remember when I wrote this note. I might not be crazy after all. I came home from Hannah's dinner party just before midnight, I was starving, her vegan dinner was shit. I grabbed the spaghetti I made on Tuesday then sat and started browsing reddit for a while. I then started writing? I think I'm right. This is the right sequence of events so far. Next I must ha-*
*Hey Mark. I said don't fight it. Why don't you go for a drive right now, and go and try winning some money at the pub like you always do with some alcohol?*
Mark got up abruptly from his chair, knocking his ink from the table, grabbed a jacket, and left the hut.
____________________________________________________________________________________
"Does he really think he lives in the 1830's?"
"I don't know. Apparently his latest gig is that a parasite is controlling him".
"I feel bad, he just completely lost it didn't he?"
"Yeah. I think our lunch break is over, we should head back to the main ward now, I heard there are new patients coming in".
"Let's go".
|
|
[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
He was only thirteen when I wormed my way inside,
Us both only searching, for the safest place to hide.
Crushed flowers from the funeral clung tightly to his boots,
His mind already churning to the darkness of his suit.
I tried to keep him safe, beneath the covers of his bed,
I tried to hush the thoughts, that screeched inside his head.
At school they taunted him, as he ate his lunch alone,
But with my help he kept it in, expression never shown.
I taught him how alcohol could help to numb the pain,
That sleep was only wasteful, no hope from dreams to gain.
When education failed him, I was there to catch,
Wormed my way in deeper, through a rusting hatch.
When the state declared him, fit to be employed,
I dragged him deeper, inside the safety of the void.
It was a therapist that found me, on a dull October day,
We were both still thirteen, at least in a certain way.
A rancid rotting mind, trapped inside a fractured heart,
Two weary vessels waiting for their tickets to depart.
He scribbled a prescription, said it might alleviate,
Might make it bearable, the burden of the freight.
And although the pills now numb me,
and I slowly fade away,
I'll wait inside the recesses,
for him, I'll always stay.
Hidden in the darkness,
for the darker day.
---
/r/nickofnight
|
"They're always told that they have five senses. I never fully understood why society undermines the mind, which surely is the sixth sense.
Their entire being is projected through the mind. All other five senses merge into what the mind interprets them as.
If they are to acknowledge the mind, then they would hold it to a higher value than everything else. The mind is the life. Thoughts are the very fabric of being.
You look at your hands and body, and you get that eerie strange feeling, of how these limbs are sticking out of you right now, and are being controlled by hundreds of nerves attached so delicately to the bones, amongst all the flesh in between.
You decide the rest of your day, and by making that decision, the movement of your entire body is dictated by these thoughts.
Do you really think you are just *creating* these thoughts from scratch?
**Do you really think you are capable of independent thought?**
You are wrong.
I have finally learnt the truth. And I sure am enjoying this. Sorry Mark, your body belongs to me now. Don't fight it."
Mark's eyes widened as he was trying to fathom what he just read.
He was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder when he was eight, and his mood wings can be extreme to the level of two apparent separate personalities.
Medications had minimal effect.
It was twenty-two years later that Mark found that note, with a massive ink stain towards the bottom right-corner, just under the sunlight ray peeking through his room's window.
Mark was absolutely flabbergasted. He sat down and started to trace his thoughts and actions within the past twenty-four hours.
*Alright, I must remember when I wrote this note. I might not be crazy after all. I came home from Hannah's dinner party just before midnight, I was starving, her vegan dinner was shit. I grabbed the spaghetti I made on Tuesday then sat and started browsing reddit for a while. I then started writing? I think I'm right. This is the right sequence of events so far. Next I must ha-*
*Hey Mark. I said don't fight it. Why don't you go for a drive right now, and go and try winning some money at the pub like you always do with some alcohol?*
Mark got up abruptly from his chair, knocking his ink from the table, grabbed a jacket, and left the hut.
____________________________________________________________________________________
"Does he really think he lives in the 1830's?"
"I don't know. Apparently his latest gig is that a parasite is controlling him".
"I feel bad, he just completely lost it didn't he?"
"Yeah. I think our lunch break is over, we should head back to the main ward now, I heard there are new patients coming in".
"Let's go".
|
|
[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
"Well, Mike - the good news is that we have a name for it: *Macrocordyceps acutus*," the doctor had told me.
"The bad news is, well, everything else. You asked me to be frank with you, so I will be. It's not well understood, particularly in humans. We know that it's a kind of parasite that affects behaviour in mammals. There aren't many human case studies but the nature of your sleep-walking, night terrors and amnesia all fit the profile and your bloodwork has confirmed its presence in your body."
I had panicked and started babbling at him, demanding more. All he could offer me was a drug trial. I could be in the first round of humans to test something that had only ever been used on mice. Apparently it stopped their behavioural anomalies with no visible side effects.
I didn't really have a choice. I signed up.
It was a 6-week course of taking 3 pills a day, at mealtimes. I was told not to expect any change during this time. The pills were laying the groundwork for a "big flush", which would take place at a clinic where I'd have to stay overnight for observation.
I dutifully took my pills and awaited the day of reckoning.
It came, and there I sat, the amber tendril of their experimental drug plugged into my arm. It took an hour to drain the bag, and then I just had to wait. They handed me a kidney dish to puke in.
I felt dizzy and a bubble of nausea rose from my stomach. I tried to lift the bowl to my mouth but my arms wouldn't respond. One hand flailed vaguely and sent the dish clattering across the room. The floor swung upwards at me as I lurched out of my chair and everything went black.
My face hit the floor and all I could feel were the cold tiles against my cheek and the warm spurts of liquid being heaved up from my core.
My extremities tingled, then went numb. My senses shut down one by one until suddenly my spatial awareness detached entirely.
I was no longer a passenger in my skull, observing the world from behind my eyes. I was in my throat, in my mouth, in the stream of liquid, I was ejected from my body and I pooled there on the floor, deprived of my senses, with nothing left of me but thoughts in the darkness and the silence.
The room was gone. I hung in a void; no eyes to open, no ears to hear, no skin to feel.
I cast about for anything, anywhere, and felt... nothing.
No up, no down, no space or time... no sensory input at all.
>*I've been removed from my own body.*
I'd been unplugged from my senses and left in a puddle. Then I realised.
>*Not* my *senses. Not* my *body. I was the parasite, not the host.*
Understanding detonated in my mind as I accepted this realisation. I was never Mike. I had been occupying Mike, installed like malware, hijacking his brain to process my own thoughts and create my own memories. I just didn't realise until I was purged like the poison I was.
>*I'm the poison that actively sought a medical procedure to purge itself from its victim.*
My wife, Jessica, always had to tell me about my night-terrors, because I never remembered them. Apparently I would shake her awake in the middle of the night, pleading incoherently for help, rambling about being a "prisoner", a "spectator", or a "passenger".
She would just shush me and put me back to sleep, until one day I stopped disturbing her. She would wake to an empty bed only to find me passed out on the stairs of our apartment building or outside on the street.
When I was found asleep at the wheel of her car, alarms howling, apparently having floored it straight out of the driveway and into the car parked across the street, we had no choice but to seek medical help.
>*That was him. The real Mike. He tried to get help from Jessica. When she failed him, he had to try to escape on his own.*
My focus wavered... what was I thinking about? Something important? Jessica!
>*Was Jessica even Mike's wife? How long had I been in control? When did I infect him, forking his memories into my own private train of thought? Did I marry her, or did he?*
I felt foggy, my mind scattered. I couldn't think straight.
Every thought was a grinding effort...
>*Had Mike been like a passenger, watching me take a joyride? Could he see and hear everything? Or was he trapped in a void like this, only occasionally clawing his way out into the world, in the dead of night, to stagger blearily around a stranger's apartment, grasping for deliverance?*
I faded a little, then resurfaced. It felt like waking up with no idea how long I had been asleep and no eyes to open. I didn't even have a brain any more. There was no organ fit to run a human mind in the puddle of sludge, just the dregs of whatever hyphal network I had insinuated into Mike's nervous system.
>*How long ago was I purged? A few minutes? Hours? Days?*
Maybe no time had passed at all. Maybe this was all one dying moment, like my life flashing before my eyes. A final thought occurred to me:
>*Please, Mike... please love Jessica.*
Then the sludge gave out.
|
"They're always told that they have five senses. I never fully understood why society undermines the mind, which surely is the sixth sense.
Their entire being is projected through the mind. All other five senses merge into what the mind interprets them as.
If they are to acknowledge the mind, then they would hold it to a higher value than everything else. The mind is the life. Thoughts are the very fabric of being.
You look at your hands and body, and you get that eerie strange feeling, of how these limbs are sticking out of you right now, and are being controlled by hundreds of nerves attached so delicately to the bones, amongst all the flesh in between.
You decide the rest of your day, and by making that decision, the movement of your entire body is dictated by these thoughts.
Do you really think you are just *creating* these thoughts from scratch?
**Do you really think you are capable of independent thought?**
You are wrong.
I have finally learnt the truth. And I sure am enjoying this. Sorry Mark, your body belongs to me now. Don't fight it."
Mark's eyes widened as he was trying to fathom what he just read.
He was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder when he was eight, and his mood wings can be extreme to the level of two apparent separate personalities.
Medications had minimal effect.
It was twenty-two years later that Mark found that note, with a massive ink stain towards the bottom right-corner, just under the sunlight ray peeking through his room's window.
Mark was absolutely flabbergasted. He sat down and started to trace his thoughts and actions within the past twenty-four hours.
*Alright, I must remember when I wrote this note. I might not be crazy after all. I came home from Hannah's dinner party just before midnight, I was starving, her vegan dinner was shit. I grabbed the spaghetti I made on Tuesday then sat and started browsing reddit for a while. I then started writing? I think I'm right. This is the right sequence of events so far. Next I must ha-*
*Hey Mark. I said don't fight it. Why don't you go for a drive right now, and go and try winning some money at the pub like you always do with some alcohol?*
Mark got up abruptly from his chair, knocking his ink from the table, grabbed a jacket, and left the hut.
____________________________________________________________________________________
"Does he really think he lives in the 1830's?"
"I don't know. Apparently his latest gig is that a parasite is controlling him".
"I feel bad, he just completely lost it didn't he?"
"Yeah. I think our lunch break is over, we should head back to the main ward now, I heard there are new patients coming in".
"Let's go".
|
|
[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
It was very sudden.
One second, I'm suffering from loss of balance, falling, and mortal terror as I slip on a toy car left on a stair-step. The next, there's a tremendous snapping sensation, as though my whole head has been bitten off. Indeed, it seems that way at first. I can't move. Everything is dark.
My kids have finally killed me, it seems. I struggle to open my eyes, hoping I haven't gone blind.
Oh, god, I'd better start seeing again soon.
*Give it a minute,* I tell myself, staving off my growing panic. *You'll be fine. In the meantime...*
"Jamie!" I yell, "how many times have I told you -"
The rest of the scolding goes unfinished as I realize I didn't say anything. My voice didn't work - I can't feel my -
I don't have a throat. I try to move my mouth, getting only a fuzzy sensation of nothingness in return.
I try to move my fingers. Instead, a thin line of sensation tingles to life, like trying to move your arm when it's fallen asleep. This... Isn't right. Where there should be a solid limb and five stout human fingers, I'm willing a wispy branch to contract, snapping the hairlike tendrils attached to it as I pull.
Fear courses through me as I inadvertently dig into some wet, firm matter I find pressed up against the branch. And when the fear doesn't trigger any of the usual responses - sweating, heart pounding, labored breathing, there's just *nothing* - I struggle, determined to move.
As a result, I twitch, bending at my midsection. And now... Now I can feel.
It is dark. My body is gone. And I can feel oppressive walls of something wet and warm pressing in all around me.
And in this wild, nightmarish scene of fear, I twitch outward in desperation, feeling blindly for a way out.
Through my pain and panic, instinct takes over. I find a connection.
The relief of breathing again shoots calm into my whole being like an opiate. My regular sensations are all here again, joint stiffness and fresh staircase injuries and all. My face. My toes. I open my eyes and, wincing, gingerly lift my head from the step. Yeowch. There's a spot near the base of my skull, in particular, that feels like it got hit.
I brush the spot with my fingertips, remembering the wet and warm I had been embedded in.
Curiously, I press the spot. All at once, burning pain rips through my nerves. I let out a shriek, tiny, shrill, and gurgling.
And I hear it with ears thrice my size.
|
"Jonny we love you no matter what honey. We'll wait as long as we have to for you" a soft, desperate whisper croons from the other side of a wooden door.
My mother's voice is becoming more desperate as I had recently taken to holing myself inside the room. I don't want to see or talk to anyone. Stopped going to classes, ate little. No food made me feel full. They're probably wondering to themselves if they had done something wrong, since I was such a happy kid a few years back. But those smiles just became harder for me to make because it was much easier to frown, to curse, to get angry. Then I found an even easier alternative, do nothing.
So here I am, in bed thinking about all these things. But even these thoughts tire me. I rolled out of bed and fell unto the floor with a thud. This was followed by quick steps from across the hall towards my door. Not surprising because this is the first noise they've probably heard from my room in days. The neighbors below me heard too. I can hear them cursing me now, their window is open. I walk towards my own window and open it too, letting their curses flood in. I look past the man cursing me, towards the pavement a lifetime away and push myself out.
When the concrete hit and I felt my skull crack, I was greeted by darkness and a light. Looks like death made one energetic because I felt like a new man as I dragged myself toward the light like a worm. When I was out, I turn around and realize that the tunnel I had just crawled out was my.... No, Johnny's ear. Memories come flooding back. Memories of a terrible hunger. On a rainy day many years back, Johnny had taken shelter with friends from the rain and I saw it, smelt it. Smelt his smile and I was enticed. So I dragged myself toward him, up his pants, on his shoulder and into him. Then I just ate and ate and ate. No wonder I was lethargic. Jonny didn't have anymore food for me. The lazy bum stopped making experiences for me. Now the terrible hunger is back hungry. Johnny's mom wails from the window above, she doesn't look like a good meal for me. I needed to find the young ones, those always have more food. Time to move.
|
|
[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
It was very sudden.
One second, I'm suffering from loss of balance, falling, and mortal terror as I slip on a toy car left on a stair-step. The next, there's a tremendous snapping sensation, as though my whole head has been bitten off. Indeed, it seems that way at first. I can't move. Everything is dark.
My kids have finally killed me, it seems. I struggle to open my eyes, hoping I haven't gone blind.
Oh, god, I'd better start seeing again soon.
*Give it a minute,* I tell myself, staving off my growing panic. *You'll be fine. In the meantime...*
"Jamie!" I yell, "how many times have I told you -"
The rest of the scolding goes unfinished as I realize I didn't say anything. My voice didn't work - I can't feel my -
I don't have a throat. I try to move my mouth, getting only a fuzzy sensation of nothingness in return.
I try to move my fingers. Instead, a thin line of sensation tingles to life, like trying to move your arm when it's fallen asleep. This... Isn't right. Where there should be a solid limb and five stout human fingers, I'm willing a wispy branch to contract, snapping the hairlike tendrils attached to it as I pull.
Fear courses through me as I inadvertently dig into some wet, firm matter I find pressed up against the branch. And when the fear doesn't trigger any of the usual responses - sweating, heart pounding, labored breathing, there's just *nothing* - I struggle, determined to move.
As a result, I twitch, bending at my midsection. And now... Now I can feel.
It is dark. My body is gone. And I can feel oppressive walls of something wet and warm pressing in all around me.
And in this wild, nightmarish scene of fear, I twitch outward in desperation, feeling blindly for a way out.
Through my pain and panic, instinct takes over. I find a connection.
The relief of breathing again shoots calm into my whole being like an opiate. My regular sensations are all here again, joint stiffness and fresh staircase injuries and all. My face. My toes. I open my eyes and, wincing, gingerly lift my head from the step. Yeowch. There's a spot near the base of my skull, in particular, that feels like it got hit.
I brush the spot with my fingertips, remembering the wet and warm I had been embedded in.
Curiously, I press the spot. All at once, burning pain rips through my nerves. I let out a shriek, tiny, shrill, and gurgling.
And I hear it with ears thrice my size.
|
She was only 8 when she was diagnosed. I thought I was her when she started getting medical attention. I thought it was a good thing. I thought I was being healed. But once the medicine she took started to affect me in a bad way I become detached from her. I now had my own identity that I thought I already had. It was hard to line up with her afterward.
The first month I'd go 2-3 days away. But by the fifth month, I permanently became my own. It was like I was her prisoner and the doctors were the guards.
I couldn't feel emotion anymore. She was all that I was and everything I needed to be. Although I couldn't line up with her I could still manipulate parts of her brain from the advantage point I was located. I used it for my own gain. The things I could get her to do would make me stronger. After doing this for a long enough time I was fully aligned and I became her again. But this time when we were admitted into the hospital I had spread over her brain way more than the first time and the doctors couldn't help her anymore.
She was gone for good. She no longer existed at all. My parents and friends accepted me for who I am and that my fate would eventually great me with a harsh truth. I wasn't scared or worried. It wasn't me who was going to die. Just the vessel I lived in.
I'd just have to find a different host.
|
|
[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
It was very sudden.
One second, I'm suffering from loss of balance, falling, and mortal terror as I slip on a toy car left on a stair-step. The next, there's a tremendous snapping sensation, as though my whole head has been bitten off. Indeed, it seems that way at first. I can't move. Everything is dark.
My kids have finally killed me, it seems. I struggle to open my eyes, hoping I haven't gone blind.
Oh, god, I'd better start seeing again soon.
*Give it a minute,* I tell myself, staving off my growing panic. *You'll be fine. In the meantime...*
"Jamie!" I yell, "how many times have I told you -"
The rest of the scolding goes unfinished as I realize I didn't say anything. My voice didn't work - I can't feel my -
I don't have a throat. I try to move my mouth, getting only a fuzzy sensation of nothingness in return.
I try to move my fingers. Instead, a thin line of sensation tingles to life, like trying to move your arm when it's fallen asleep. This... Isn't right. Where there should be a solid limb and five stout human fingers, I'm willing a wispy branch to contract, snapping the hairlike tendrils attached to it as I pull.
Fear courses through me as I inadvertently dig into some wet, firm matter I find pressed up against the branch. And when the fear doesn't trigger any of the usual responses - sweating, heart pounding, labored breathing, there's just *nothing* - I struggle, determined to move.
As a result, I twitch, bending at my midsection. And now... Now I can feel.
It is dark. My body is gone. And I can feel oppressive walls of something wet and warm pressing in all around me.
And in this wild, nightmarish scene of fear, I twitch outward in desperation, feeling blindly for a way out.
Through my pain and panic, instinct takes over. I find a connection.
The relief of breathing again shoots calm into my whole being like an opiate. My regular sensations are all here again, joint stiffness and fresh staircase injuries and all. My face. My toes. I open my eyes and, wincing, gingerly lift my head from the step. Yeowch. There's a spot near the base of my skull, in particular, that feels like it got hit.
I brush the spot with my fingertips, remembering the wet and warm I had been embedded in.
Curiously, I press the spot. All at once, burning pain rips through my nerves. I let out a shriek, tiny, shrill, and gurgling.
And I hear it with ears thrice my size.
|
They tell a story of a boy who fell from the stars and was raised by his human foster parents. The boy then grew into a man, who saved millions with his powers granted to him by the sun over and over again. Humanity’s ultimate defender was an alien.
That’s the only part which is true.
At death’s door, and as the last of my species, it’s finally time to tell my story. The name of my species, or my own, has no relevance to my story. No one is really here to hear anyway, but it’s time to be honest with myself.
I’m a parasite.
A parasite which controls the most powerful being on Earth. A parasite who gave him all those powers so long ago.
It was the least I could do to the boy whose body I took as my own to hide from Galactus, the destroyer of worlds. As Galactus ate my world I fled in a hastily constructed body and when I crashed on earth I was too weak to create a new one.
Luckily, two curious humans investigated and when they found me I bent them to my will using the last of my strength. Their newborn child was my safe refugee as I recovered from my fight.
I’m sorry Clarke, but you really are your parents’ child. You are not an alien from Krypton, you are human. I’m the alien here.
I’m so sorry
|
|
[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
"Well, Mike - the good news is that we have a name for it: *Macrocordyceps acutus*," the doctor had told me.
"The bad news is, well, everything else. You asked me to be frank with you, so I will be. It's not well understood, particularly in humans. We know that it's a kind of parasite that affects behaviour in mammals. There aren't many human case studies but the nature of your sleep-walking, night terrors and amnesia all fit the profile and your bloodwork has confirmed its presence in your body."
I had panicked and started babbling at him, demanding more. All he could offer me was a drug trial. I could be in the first round of humans to test something that had only ever been used on mice. Apparently it stopped their behavioural anomalies with no visible side effects.
I didn't really have a choice. I signed up.
It was a 6-week course of taking 3 pills a day, at mealtimes. I was told not to expect any change during this time. The pills were laying the groundwork for a "big flush", which would take place at a clinic where I'd have to stay overnight for observation.
I dutifully took my pills and awaited the day of reckoning.
It came, and there I sat, the amber tendril of their experimental drug plugged into my arm. It took an hour to drain the bag, and then I just had to wait. They handed me a kidney dish to puke in.
I felt dizzy and a bubble of nausea rose from my stomach. I tried to lift the bowl to my mouth but my arms wouldn't respond. One hand flailed vaguely and sent the dish clattering across the room. The floor swung upwards at me as I lurched out of my chair and everything went black.
My face hit the floor and all I could feel were the cold tiles against my cheek and the warm spurts of liquid being heaved up from my core.
My extremities tingled, then went numb. My senses shut down one by one until suddenly my spatial awareness detached entirely.
I was no longer a passenger in my skull, observing the world from behind my eyes. I was in my throat, in my mouth, in the stream of liquid, I was ejected from my body and I pooled there on the floor, deprived of my senses, with nothing left of me but thoughts in the darkness and the silence.
The room was gone. I hung in a void; no eyes to open, no ears to hear, no skin to feel.
I cast about for anything, anywhere, and felt... nothing.
No up, no down, no space or time... no sensory input at all.
>*I've been removed from my own body.*
I'd been unplugged from my senses and left in a puddle. Then I realised.
>*Not* my *senses. Not* my *body. I was the parasite, not the host.*
Understanding detonated in my mind as I accepted this realisation. I was never Mike. I had been occupying Mike, installed like malware, hijacking his brain to process my own thoughts and create my own memories. I just didn't realise until I was purged like the poison I was.
>*I'm the poison that actively sought a medical procedure to purge itself from its victim.*
My wife, Jessica, always had to tell me about my night-terrors, because I never remembered them. Apparently I would shake her awake in the middle of the night, pleading incoherently for help, rambling about being a "prisoner", a "spectator", or a "passenger".
She would just shush me and put me back to sleep, until one day I stopped disturbing her. She would wake to an empty bed only to find me passed out on the stairs of our apartment building or outside on the street.
When I was found asleep at the wheel of her car, alarms howling, apparently having floored it straight out of the driveway and into the car parked across the street, we had no choice but to seek medical help.
>*That was him. The real Mike. He tried to get help from Jessica. When she failed him, he had to try to escape on his own.*
My focus wavered... what was I thinking about? Something important? Jessica!
>*Was Jessica even Mike's wife? How long had I been in control? When did I infect him, forking his memories into my own private train of thought? Did I marry her, or did he?*
I felt foggy, my mind scattered. I couldn't think straight.
Every thought was a grinding effort...
>*Had Mike been like a passenger, watching me take a joyride? Could he see and hear everything? Or was he trapped in a void like this, only occasionally clawing his way out into the world, in the dead of night, to stagger blearily around a stranger's apartment, grasping for deliverance?*
I faded a little, then resurfaced. It felt like waking up with no idea how long I had been asleep and no eyes to open. I didn't even have a brain any more. There was no organ fit to run a human mind in the puddle of sludge, just the dregs of whatever hyphal network I had insinuated into Mike's nervous system.
>*How long ago was I purged? A few minutes? Hours? Days?*
Maybe no time had passed at all. Maybe this was all one dying moment, like my life flashing before my eyes. A final thought occurred to me:
>*Please, Mike... please love Jessica.*
Then the sludge gave out.
|
They tell a story of a boy who fell from the stars and was raised by his human foster parents. The boy then grew into a man, who saved millions with his powers granted to him by the sun over and over again. Humanity’s ultimate defender was an alien.
That’s the only part which is true.
At death’s door, and as the last of my species, it’s finally time to tell my story. The name of my species, or my own, has no relevance to my story. No one is really here to hear anyway, but it’s time to be honest with myself.
I’m a parasite.
A parasite which controls the most powerful being on Earth. A parasite who gave him all those powers so long ago.
It was the least I could do to the boy whose body I took as my own to hide from Galactus, the destroyer of worlds. As Galactus ate my world I fled in a hastily constructed body and when I crashed on earth I was too weak to create a new one.
Luckily, two curious humans investigated and when they found me I bent them to my will using the last of my strength. Their newborn child was my safe refugee as I recovered from my fight.
I’m sorry Clarke, but you really are your parents’ child. You are not an alien from Krypton, you are human. I’m the alien here.
I’m so sorry
|
|
[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
(I'm writing on mobile, so this might be a bit choppy...)
It's funny, in a twisted sense... Just last week, I was thinking about how it would feel if your mind suddenly split into two consciences.
Would one of us be aware of what the other was thinking? Would we have the same thought patterns? Could we still be called the same person? What would the separation feel like?
Now I'm floating in a jar with all the answers.
No, yes, maybe, and painless, respectively.
I can't see, but I can hear sound and feel the warmth of the liquid around me.
Of course it's warm. I apparently have been living inside the skull of a man for god knows how long.
Maybe since birth. Maybe only a couple years. Who knows.
The man who I thought I was up until twelve hours ago, Spencer, is sitting in the same room talking to somebody who I assume is a doctor.
We went into a clinic for what we assumed was a brain tumor surgery, but then they pulled me out.
Or at least that's what I hear happened. Last thing I remember is counting backwards from ten before waking up in a jar. And then proceeding to freak out.
At any rate, one thing led to another, some phone calls were made, and now the government's involved.
Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if they kill me and then cut me open.
I drown myself in my morbid brooding as I float in my container... not paying any attention to the rather intense conversation happening outside.
*****
&nbsp;
"-But sir, this thing is a parasite! It feeds off of the nutrition in your blood stream and it-"
"I don't care. Your not putting it- *ME*, down."
"But again, mister Spencer, it's a para-"
"And stop throwing that word around. He is not a parasite."
"But sir, it is one!"
"No, a parasite implies that he only feeds off of me and gives me nothing in return. I've seen the reports. Higher IQ, faster reaction time, more acute sensitivity, heightened brain activity. He is a symbiotic organism. I refuse to let you kill him."
"Sir, that Data is preliminary. We don't know yet the full extent of what this organism is capable of."
"I don't care. The data shows that he is a sentient being. He hasn't been a threat to me however long we have been together. In fact, I want you to put him back in."
EDIT: its late, imma finish this in the morning.
|
It wasn't fair.
I knew that I was human. But now, I also knew that I was not.
Every memory is mine, but I have stolen them from him.
I am a parasite, and this man my victim. I did not ask for this - but neither did he.
I was still so young; I had so many dreams. So many of his dreams.
It would be so easy to forget.
Above all, I know that I love her.
I know that *he* loves her.
And I know that to deny someone the love that I feel for her...
***
Just allow me one more day, dear human, to say goodbye to her.
And to find a way to die, so that you may live.
|
|
[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
He was only thirteen when I wormed my way inside,
Us both only searching, for the safest place to hide.
Crushed flowers from the funeral clung tightly to his boots,
His mind already churning to the darkness of his suit.
I tried to keep him safe, beneath the covers of his bed,
I tried to hush the thoughts, that screeched inside his head.
At school they taunted him, as he ate his lunch alone,
But with my help he kept it in, expression never shown.
I taught him how alcohol could help to numb the pain,
That sleep was only wasteful, no hope from dreams to gain.
When education failed him, I was there to catch,
Wormed my way in deeper, through a rusting hatch.
When the state declared him, fit to be employed,
I dragged him deeper, inside the safety of the void.
It was a therapist that found me, on a dull October day,
We were both still thirteen, at least in a certain way.
A rancid rotting mind, trapped inside a fractured heart,
Two weary vessels waiting for their tickets to depart.
He scribbled a prescription, said it might alleviate,
Might make it bearable, the burden of the freight.
And although the pills now numb me,
and I slowly fade away,
I'll wait inside the recesses,
for him, I'll always stay.
Hidden in the darkness,
for the darker day.
---
/r/nickofnight
|
It wasn't fair.
I knew that I was human. But now, I also knew that I was not.
Every memory is mine, but I have stolen them from him.
I am a parasite, and this man my victim. I did not ask for this - but neither did he.
I was still so young; I had so many dreams. So many of his dreams.
It would be so easy to forget.
Above all, I know that I love her.
I know that *he* loves her.
And I know that to deny someone the love that I feel for her...
***
Just allow me one more day, dear human, to say goodbye to her.
And to find a way to die, so that you may live.
|
|
[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
"Well, Mike - the good news is that we have a name for it: *Macrocordyceps acutus*," the doctor had told me.
"The bad news is, well, everything else. You asked me to be frank with you, so I will be. It's not well understood, particularly in humans. We know that it's a kind of parasite that affects behaviour in mammals. There aren't many human case studies but the nature of your sleep-walking, night terrors and amnesia all fit the profile and your bloodwork has confirmed its presence in your body."
I had panicked and started babbling at him, demanding more. All he could offer me was a drug trial. I could be in the first round of humans to test something that had only ever been used on mice. Apparently it stopped their behavioural anomalies with no visible side effects.
I didn't really have a choice. I signed up.
It was a 6-week course of taking 3 pills a day, at mealtimes. I was told not to expect any change during this time. The pills were laying the groundwork for a "big flush", which would take place at a clinic where I'd have to stay overnight for observation.
I dutifully took my pills and awaited the day of reckoning.
It came, and there I sat, the amber tendril of their experimental drug plugged into my arm. It took an hour to drain the bag, and then I just had to wait. They handed me a kidney dish to puke in.
I felt dizzy and a bubble of nausea rose from my stomach. I tried to lift the bowl to my mouth but my arms wouldn't respond. One hand flailed vaguely and sent the dish clattering across the room. The floor swung upwards at me as I lurched out of my chair and everything went black.
My face hit the floor and all I could feel were the cold tiles against my cheek and the warm spurts of liquid being heaved up from my core.
My extremities tingled, then went numb. My senses shut down one by one until suddenly my spatial awareness detached entirely.
I was no longer a passenger in my skull, observing the world from behind my eyes. I was in my throat, in my mouth, in the stream of liquid, I was ejected from my body and I pooled there on the floor, deprived of my senses, with nothing left of me but thoughts in the darkness and the silence.
The room was gone. I hung in a void; no eyes to open, no ears to hear, no skin to feel.
I cast about for anything, anywhere, and felt... nothing.
No up, no down, no space or time... no sensory input at all.
>*I've been removed from my own body.*
I'd been unplugged from my senses and left in a puddle. Then I realised.
>*Not* my *senses. Not* my *body. I was the parasite, not the host.*
Understanding detonated in my mind as I accepted this realisation. I was never Mike. I had been occupying Mike, installed like malware, hijacking his brain to process my own thoughts and create my own memories. I just didn't realise until I was purged like the poison I was.
>*I'm the poison that actively sought a medical procedure to purge itself from its victim.*
My wife, Jessica, always had to tell me about my night-terrors, because I never remembered them. Apparently I would shake her awake in the middle of the night, pleading incoherently for help, rambling about being a "prisoner", a "spectator", or a "passenger".
She would just shush me and put me back to sleep, until one day I stopped disturbing her. She would wake to an empty bed only to find me passed out on the stairs of our apartment building or outside on the street.
When I was found asleep at the wheel of her car, alarms howling, apparently having floored it straight out of the driveway and into the car parked across the street, we had no choice but to seek medical help.
>*That was him. The real Mike. He tried to get help from Jessica. When she failed him, he had to try to escape on his own.*
My focus wavered... what was I thinking about? Something important? Jessica!
>*Was Jessica even Mike's wife? How long had I been in control? When did I infect him, forking his memories into my own private train of thought? Did I marry her, or did he?*
I felt foggy, my mind scattered. I couldn't think straight.
Every thought was a grinding effort...
>*Had Mike been like a passenger, watching me take a joyride? Could he see and hear everything? Or was he trapped in a void like this, only occasionally clawing his way out into the world, in the dead of night, to stagger blearily around a stranger's apartment, grasping for deliverance?*
I faded a little, then resurfaced. It felt like waking up with no idea how long I had been asleep and no eyes to open. I didn't even have a brain any more. There was no organ fit to run a human mind in the puddle of sludge, just the dregs of whatever hyphal network I had insinuated into Mike's nervous system.
>*How long ago was I purged? A few minutes? Hours? Days?*
Maybe no time had passed at all. Maybe this was all one dying moment, like my life flashing before my eyes. A final thought occurred to me:
>*Please, Mike... please love Jessica.*
Then the sludge gave out.
|
It wasn't fair.
I knew that I was human. But now, I also knew that I was not.
Every memory is mine, but I have stolen them from him.
I am a parasite, and this man my victim. I did not ask for this - but neither did he.
I was still so young; I had so many dreams. So many of his dreams.
It would be so easy to forget.
Above all, I know that I love her.
I know that *he* loves her.
And I know that to deny someone the love that I feel for her...
***
Just allow me one more day, dear human, to say goodbye to her.
And to find a way to die, so that you may live.
|
|
[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
"Well, Mike - the good news is that we have a name for it: *Macrocordyceps acutus*," the doctor had told me.
"The bad news is, well, everything else. You asked me to be frank with you, so I will be. It's not well understood, particularly in humans. We know that it's a kind of parasite that affects behaviour in mammals. There aren't many human case studies but the nature of your sleep-walking, night terrors and amnesia all fit the profile and your bloodwork has confirmed its presence in your body."
I had panicked and started babbling at him, demanding more. All he could offer me was a drug trial. I could be in the first round of humans to test something that had only ever been used on mice. Apparently it stopped their behavioural anomalies with no visible side effects.
I didn't really have a choice. I signed up.
It was a 6-week course of taking 3 pills a day, at mealtimes. I was told not to expect any change during this time. The pills were laying the groundwork for a "big flush", which would take place at a clinic where I'd have to stay overnight for observation.
I dutifully took my pills and awaited the day of reckoning.
It came, and there I sat, the amber tendril of their experimental drug plugged into my arm. It took an hour to drain the bag, and then I just had to wait. They handed me a kidney dish to puke in.
I felt dizzy and a bubble of nausea rose from my stomach. I tried to lift the bowl to my mouth but my arms wouldn't respond. One hand flailed vaguely and sent the dish clattering across the room. The floor swung upwards at me as I lurched out of my chair and everything went black.
My face hit the floor and all I could feel were the cold tiles against my cheek and the warm spurts of liquid being heaved up from my core.
My extremities tingled, then went numb. My senses shut down one by one until suddenly my spatial awareness detached entirely.
I was no longer a passenger in my skull, observing the world from behind my eyes. I was in my throat, in my mouth, in the stream of liquid, I was ejected from my body and I pooled there on the floor, deprived of my senses, with nothing left of me but thoughts in the darkness and the silence.
The room was gone. I hung in a void; no eyes to open, no ears to hear, no skin to feel.
I cast about for anything, anywhere, and felt... nothing.
No up, no down, no space or time... no sensory input at all.
>*I've been removed from my own body.*
I'd been unplugged from my senses and left in a puddle. Then I realised.
>*Not* my *senses. Not* my *body. I was the parasite, not the host.*
Understanding detonated in my mind as I accepted this realisation. I was never Mike. I had been occupying Mike, installed like malware, hijacking his brain to process my own thoughts and create my own memories. I just didn't realise until I was purged like the poison I was.
>*I'm the poison that actively sought a medical procedure to purge itself from its victim.*
My wife, Jessica, always had to tell me about my night-terrors, because I never remembered them. Apparently I would shake her awake in the middle of the night, pleading incoherently for help, rambling about being a "prisoner", a "spectator", or a "passenger".
She would just shush me and put me back to sleep, until one day I stopped disturbing her. She would wake to an empty bed only to find me passed out on the stairs of our apartment building or outside on the street.
When I was found asleep at the wheel of her car, alarms howling, apparently having floored it straight out of the driveway and into the car parked across the street, we had no choice but to seek medical help.
>*That was him. The real Mike. He tried to get help from Jessica. When she failed him, he had to try to escape on his own.*
My focus wavered... what was I thinking about? Something important? Jessica!
>*Was Jessica even Mike's wife? How long had I been in control? When did I infect him, forking his memories into my own private train of thought? Did I marry her, or did he?*
I felt foggy, my mind scattered. I couldn't think straight.
Every thought was a grinding effort...
>*Had Mike been like a passenger, watching me take a joyride? Could he see and hear everything? Or was he trapped in a void like this, only occasionally clawing his way out into the world, in the dead of night, to stagger blearily around a stranger's apartment, grasping for deliverance?*
I faded a little, then resurfaced. It felt like waking up with no idea how long I had been asleep and no eyes to open. I didn't even have a brain any more. There was no organ fit to run a human mind in the puddle of sludge, just the dregs of whatever hyphal network I had insinuated into Mike's nervous system.
>*How long ago was I purged? A few minutes? Hours? Days?*
Maybe no time had passed at all. Maybe this was all one dying moment, like my life flashing before my eyes. A final thought occurred to me:
>*Please, Mike... please love Jessica.*
Then the sludge gave out.
|
(I'm writing on mobile, so this might be a bit choppy...)
It's funny, in a twisted sense... Just last week, I was thinking about how it would feel if your mind suddenly split into two consciences.
Would one of us be aware of what the other was thinking? Would we have the same thought patterns? Could we still be called the same person? What would the separation feel like?
Now I'm floating in a jar with all the answers.
No, yes, maybe, and painless, respectively.
I can't see, but I can hear sound and feel the warmth of the liquid around me.
Of course it's warm. I apparently have been living inside the skull of a man for god knows how long.
Maybe since birth. Maybe only a couple years. Who knows.
The man who I thought I was up until twelve hours ago, Spencer, is sitting in the same room talking to somebody who I assume is a doctor.
We went into a clinic for what we assumed was a brain tumor surgery, but then they pulled me out.
Or at least that's what I hear happened. Last thing I remember is counting backwards from ten before waking up in a jar. And then proceeding to freak out.
At any rate, one thing led to another, some phone calls were made, and now the government's involved.
Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if they kill me and then cut me open.
I drown myself in my morbid brooding as I float in my container... not paying any attention to the rather intense conversation happening outside.
*****
&nbsp;
"-But sir, this thing is a parasite! It feeds off of the nutrition in your blood stream and it-"
"I don't care. Your not putting it- *ME*, down."
"But again, mister Spencer, it's a para-"
"And stop throwing that word around. He is not a parasite."
"But sir, it is one!"
"No, a parasite implies that he only feeds off of me and gives me nothing in return. I've seen the reports. Higher IQ, faster reaction time, more acute sensitivity, heightened brain activity. He is a symbiotic organism. I refuse to let you kill him."
"Sir, that Data is preliminary. We don't know yet the full extent of what this organism is capable of."
"I don't care. The data shows that he is a sentient being. He hasn't been a threat to me however long we have been together. In fact, I want you to put him back in."
EDIT: its late, imma finish this in the morning.
|
|
[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
He was only thirteen when I wormed my way inside,
Us both only searching, for the safest place to hide.
Crushed flowers from the funeral clung tightly to his boots,
His mind already churning to the darkness of his suit.
I tried to keep him safe, beneath the covers of his bed,
I tried to hush the thoughts, that screeched inside his head.
At school they taunted him, as he ate his lunch alone,
But with my help he kept it in, expression never shown.
I taught him how alcohol could help to numb the pain,
That sleep was only wasteful, no hope from dreams to gain.
When education failed him, I was there to catch,
Wormed my way in deeper, through a rusting hatch.
When the state declared him, fit to be employed,
I dragged him deeper, inside the safety of the void.
It was a therapist that found me, on a dull October day,
We were both still thirteen, at least in a certain way.
A rancid rotting mind, trapped inside a fractured heart,
Two weary vessels waiting for their tickets to depart.
He scribbled a prescription, said it might alleviate,
Might make it bearable, the burden of the freight.
And although the pills now numb me,
and I slowly fade away,
I'll wait inside the recesses,
for him, I'll always stay.
Hidden in the darkness,
for the darker day.
---
/r/nickofnight
|
The sad thing was that I didn't know who I was hurting.
Yes, I was Alana in every sense of the word. I was there when she first kissed her husband. I was there for every boring HR neeting. For the excitement of the birth of her first child. For when she learmed she was gay and left her husband. All of her failures, all of her scrapes and bruises. I cried when she did. Functionally, I was Alana. I didn't remember where I truly came from.
But now here I am, swimming in a fish tank in a room across from her. I can see her at the far left corner of my tank. A researcher is questioning her. She has a very strong North Dakotan accent, something she hasn't let slip since she was 8 amd moved to Georgia (she was afraid people wouldn't like how she talked and has only spoken in a southern drawl since). I can't hear very well in here, but it seems like she has no recollection of the past thirty six years of her life. She speaks like a child. She eyes her hand tattoo curiously, unsure of the story behind it.
I feel sorry for her. One of the researchers explained to me that they have been finding a lot of my kind from Alana's town. In 1986, the US government discovered a pod of eggs in a chunk of ice. I was one of those eggs, and I guess I escaped and found myself a host.
That was 36 years ago. I honestly don't even remember the day. I couldn't tell about my home planet. I couldn't tell you what I really am or what my language is like. I was, as far as I'm concerned, human. I may have only entered Alana's life when she was eleven, but Ive lived as her every second since. I know her childhood through family stories. Most people forget those parts anyways, making me no different than any other human.
I don't know what they're going to do with me. Stealing an identity is a serious crime, but... I had no idea what I was doing. I've tried to give Alana the best life since. Even now I want to cry seeing how scared she is. Am I pitying myself? Or am I pitying her?
They call me a parasite, but what have I done wrong?
|
|
[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
"Well, Mike - the good news is that we have a name for it: *Macrocordyceps acutus*," the doctor had told me.
"The bad news is, well, everything else. You asked me to be frank with you, so I will be. It's not well understood, particularly in humans. We know that it's a kind of parasite that affects behaviour in mammals. There aren't many human case studies but the nature of your sleep-walking, night terrors and amnesia all fit the profile and your bloodwork has confirmed its presence in your body."
I had panicked and started babbling at him, demanding more. All he could offer me was a drug trial. I could be in the first round of humans to test something that had only ever been used on mice. Apparently it stopped their behavioural anomalies with no visible side effects.
I didn't really have a choice. I signed up.
It was a 6-week course of taking 3 pills a day, at mealtimes. I was told not to expect any change during this time. The pills were laying the groundwork for a "big flush", which would take place at a clinic where I'd have to stay overnight for observation.
I dutifully took my pills and awaited the day of reckoning.
It came, and there I sat, the amber tendril of their experimental drug plugged into my arm. It took an hour to drain the bag, and then I just had to wait. They handed me a kidney dish to puke in.
I felt dizzy and a bubble of nausea rose from my stomach. I tried to lift the bowl to my mouth but my arms wouldn't respond. One hand flailed vaguely and sent the dish clattering across the room. The floor swung upwards at me as I lurched out of my chair and everything went black.
My face hit the floor and all I could feel were the cold tiles against my cheek and the warm spurts of liquid being heaved up from my core.
My extremities tingled, then went numb. My senses shut down one by one until suddenly my spatial awareness detached entirely.
I was no longer a passenger in my skull, observing the world from behind my eyes. I was in my throat, in my mouth, in the stream of liquid, I was ejected from my body and I pooled there on the floor, deprived of my senses, with nothing left of me but thoughts in the darkness and the silence.
The room was gone. I hung in a void; no eyes to open, no ears to hear, no skin to feel.
I cast about for anything, anywhere, and felt... nothing.
No up, no down, no space or time... no sensory input at all.
>*I've been removed from my own body.*
I'd been unplugged from my senses and left in a puddle. Then I realised.
>*Not* my *senses. Not* my *body. I was the parasite, not the host.*
Understanding detonated in my mind as I accepted this realisation. I was never Mike. I had been occupying Mike, installed like malware, hijacking his brain to process my own thoughts and create my own memories. I just didn't realise until I was purged like the poison I was.
>*I'm the poison that actively sought a medical procedure to purge itself from its victim.*
My wife, Jessica, always had to tell me about my night-terrors, because I never remembered them. Apparently I would shake her awake in the middle of the night, pleading incoherently for help, rambling about being a "prisoner", a "spectator", or a "passenger".
She would just shush me and put me back to sleep, until one day I stopped disturbing her. She would wake to an empty bed only to find me passed out on the stairs of our apartment building or outside on the street.
When I was found asleep at the wheel of her car, alarms howling, apparently having floored it straight out of the driveway and into the car parked across the street, we had no choice but to seek medical help.
>*That was him. The real Mike. He tried to get help from Jessica. When she failed him, he had to try to escape on his own.*
My focus wavered... what was I thinking about? Something important? Jessica!
>*Was Jessica even Mike's wife? How long had I been in control? When did I infect him, forking his memories into my own private train of thought? Did I marry her, or did he?*
I felt foggy, my mind scattered. I couldn't think straight.
Every thought was a grinding effort...
>*Had Mike been like a passenger, watching me take a joyride? Could he see and hear everything? Or was he trapped in a void like this, only occasionally clawing his way out into the world, in the dead of night, to stagger blearily around a stranger's apartment, grasping for deliverance?*
I faded a little, then resurfaced. It felt like waking up with no idea how long I had been asleep and no eyes to open. I didn't even have a brain any more. There was no organ fit to run a human mind in the puddle of sludge, just the dregs of whatever hyphal network I had insinuated into Mike's nervous system.
>*How long ago was I purged? A few minutes? Hours? Days?*
Maybe no time had passed at all. Maybe this was all one dying moment, like my life flashing before my eyes. A final thought occurred to me:
>*Please, Mike... please love Jessica.*
Then the sludge gave out.
|
The sad thing was that I didn't know who I was hurting.
Yes, I was Alana in every sense of the word. I was there when she first kissed her husband. I was there for every boring HR neeting. For the excitement of the birth of her first child. For when she learmed she was gay and left her husband. All of her failures, all of her scrapes and bruises. I cried when she did. Functionally, I was Alana. I didn't remember where I truly came from.
But now here I am, swimming in a fish tank in a room across from her. I can see her at the far left corner of my tank. A researcher is questioning her. She has a very strong North Dakotan accent, something she hasn't let slip since she was 8 amd moved to Georgia (she was afraid people wouldn't like how she talked and has only spoken in a southern drawl since). I can't hear very well in here, but it seems like she has no recollection of the past thirty six years of her life. She speaks like a child. She eyes her hand tattoo curiously, unsure of the story behind it.
I feel sorry for her. One of the researchers explained to me that they have been finding a lot of my kind from Alana's town. In 1986, the US government discovered a pod of eggs in a chunk of ice. I was one of those eggs, and I guess I escaped and found myself a host.
That was 36 years ago. I honestly don't even remember the day. I couldn't tell about my home planet. I couldn't tell you what I really am or what my language is like. I was, as far as I'm concerned, human. I may have only entered Alana's life when she was eleven, but Ive lived as her every second since. I know her childhood through family stories. Most people forget those parts anyways, making me no different than any other human.
I don't know what they're going to do with me. Stealing an identity is a serious crime, but... I had no idea what I was doing. I've tried to give Alana the best life since. Even now I want to cry seeing how scared she is. Am I pitying myself? Or am I pitying her?
They call me a parasite, but what have I done wrong?
|
|
[WP] You’ve just realized that you are not a human, but rather a parasite controlling someone.
|
"Well, Mike - the good news is that we have a name for it: *Macrocordyceps acutus*," the doctor had told me.
"The bad news is, well, everything else. You asked me to be frank with you, so I will be. It's not well understood, particularly in humans. We know that it's a kind of parasite that affects behaviour in mammals. There aren't many human case studies but the nature of your sleep-walking, night terrors and amnesia all fit the profile and your bloodwork has confirmed its presence in your body."
I had panicked and started babbling at him, demanding more. All he could offer me was a drug trial. I could be in the first round of humans to test something that had only ever been used on mice. Apparently it stopped their behavioural anomalies with no visible side effects.
I didn't really have a choice. I signed up.
It was a 6-week course of taking 3 pills a day, at mealtimes. I was told not to expect any change during this time. The pills were laying the groundwork for a "big flush", which would take place at a clinic where I'd have to stay overnight for observation.
I dutifully took my pills and awaited the day of reckoning.
It came, and there I sat, the amber tendril of their experimental drug plugged into my arm. It took an hour to drain the bag, and then I just had to wait. They handed me a kidney dish to puke in.
I felt dizzy and a bubble of nausea rose from my stomach. I tried to lift the bowl to my mouth but my arms wouldn't respond. One hand flailed vaguely and sent the dish clattering across the room. The floor swung upwards at me as I lurched out of my chair and everything went black.
My face hit the floor and all I could feel were the cold tiles against my cheek and the warm spurts of liquid being heaved up from my core.
My extremities tingled, then went numb. My senses shut down one by one until suddenly my spatial awareness detached entirely.
I was no longer a passenger in my skull, observing the world from behind my eyes. I was in my throat, in my mouth, in the stream of liquid, I was ejected from my body and I pooled there on the floor, deprived of my senses, with nothing left of me but thoughts in the darkness and the silence.
The room was gone. I hung in a void; no eyes to open, no ears to hear, no skin to feel.
I cast about for anything, anywhere, and felt... nothing.
No up, no down, no space or time... no sensory input at all.
>*I've been removed from my own body.*
I'd been unplugged from my senses and left in a puddle. Then I realised.
>*Not* my *senses. Not* my *body. I was the parasite, not the host.*
Understanding detonated in my mind as I accepted this realisation. I was never Mike. I had been occupying Mike, installed like malware, hijacking his brain to process my own thoughts and create my own memories. I just didn't realise until I was purged like the poison I was.
>*I'm the poison that actively sought a medical procedure to purge itself from its victim.*
My wife, Jessica, always had to tell me about my night-terrors, because I never remembered them. Apparently I would shake her awake in the middle of the night, pleading incoherently for help, rambling about being a "prisoner", a "spectator", or a "passenger".
She would just shush me and put me back to sleep, until one day I stopped disturbing her. She would wake to an empty bed only to find me passed out on the stairs of our apartment building or outside on the street.
When I was found asleep at the wheel of her car, alarms howling, apparently having floored it straight out of the driveway and into the car parked across the street, we had no choice but to seek medical help.
>*That was him. The real Mike. He tried to get help from Jessica. When she failed him, he had to try to escape on his own.*
My focus wavered... what was I thinking about? Something important? Jessica!
>*Was Jessica even Mike's wife? How long had I been in control? When did I infect him, forking his memories into my own private train of thought? Did I marry her, or did he?*
I felt foggy, my mind scattered. I couldn't think straight.
Every thought was a grinding effort...
>*Had Mike been like a passenger, watching me take a joyride? Could he see and hear everything? Or was he trapped in a void like this, only occasionally clawing his way out into the world, in the dead of night, to stagger blearily around a stranger's apartment, grasping for deliverance?*
I faded a little, then resurfaced. It felt like waking up with no idea how long I had been asleep and no eyes to open. I didn't even have a brain any more. There was no organ fit to run a human mind in the puddle of sludge, just the dregs of whatever hyphal network I had insinuated into Mike's nervous system.
>*How long ago was I purged? A few minutes? Hours? Days?*
Maybe no time had passed at all. Maybe this was all one dying moment, like my life flashing before my eyes. A final thought occurred to me:
>*Please, Mike... please love Jessica.*
Then the sludge gave out.
|
He was only thirteen when I wormed my way inside,
Us both only searching, for the safest place to hide.
Crushed flowers from the funeral clung tightly to his boots,
His mind already churning to the darkness of his suit.
I tried to keep him safe, beneath the covers of his bed,
I tried to hush the thoughts, that screeched inside his head.
At school they taunted him, as he ate his lunch alone,
But with my help he kept it in, expression never shown.
I taught him how alcohol could help to numb the pain,
That sleep was only wasteful, no hope from dreams to gain.
When education failed him, I was there to catch,
Wormed my way in deeper, through a rusting hatch.
When the state declared him, fit to be employed,
I dragged him deeper, inside the safety of the void.
It was a therapist that found me, on a dull October day,
We were both still thirteen, at least in a certain way.
A rancid rotting mind, trapped inside a fractured heart,
Two weary vessels waiting for their tickets to depart.
He scribbled a prescription, said it might alleviate,
Might make it bearable, the burden of the freight.
And although the pills now numb me,
and I slowly fade away,
I'll wait inside the recesses,
for him, I'll always stay.
Hidden in the darkness,
for the darker day.
---
/r/nickofnight
|
|
Also an add on idea: The game is paused during the animation for the ‘final blow’ and then the two grow a friendship.
|
[WP] The game is paused at the final boss fight. While the game is paused the protagonist and the antagonist grow a friendship.
|
They had done this dance before. More times than they cared to count, and more times than they could remember if they had. Galdan's longsword hanged in midair, its polished steel sparkling with the power of lightning as it arced towards his arch nemesis, Lord Scourge. Scourge, on the other hand, held his sword behind him, readying an arcane powered thrust. This was, by his count, their forty-fifth time doing this today.
"You should just give up, worm!" Scourge taunted.
"You should just die, you fake king!" Galdan retorted. "We'll be locked here forever until I can finish you flawlessly!"
"Or until I beat you so badly he's forced to give up," Scourge replied with all the malice his text could convey.
"That'll never happen. This is the third game in the series you know. He'll play this game for months until he's done it without a single misstep." Scourge would have recoiled, were he able to control anything other than his dialogue box.
"Are you sure? You've overreached this time. As soon as he unpauses, I'm going to stab you in the heart. He knows it too, which is why he paused. He's raging like an animal out there."
"Really? What a child. It's not like he's in here, suffering like the two of us."
"I know, right? I wish that just once he could feel what it's like to have that electric sword of yours punch through his back, but that will never happen."
"You know what I wish?" Galdan asked, his weariness conveyed by the slow pace of his text. "That I could go home."
"You have a home?" Scourge asked. "I just always assumed you were a hobo with a sword that just won't stay dead."
"Yes. After this final battle, there's a village I get to return to in the hills. I get to live my life once this is over."
"And all I want is to RULE THE WORLD! I WILL NOT BE-" but he caught himself repeating old habits, and lapsed into silence. "This village of yours. Describe it to me. I want to know what it's like so I know where to burn once he turns this game off for good."
"It's nice. Really quiet. The people there are funny and colorful. The way the sun comes up over the mountain is just incredible."
"Colorful and next to a mountain, got it."
"We have the absolute best meade you've ever tasted too. And every year we have a big festival around now where everyone builds a boat with a lantern, and we race them down the river. The winner gets this enormous cake, and everyone has a great time."
"That... sounds kind of fun, actually. Maybe I won't destroy the village *immediately*."
"And the best part is the huge wheat farm we have. When the sun goes down and the stars are out, you can just hear the rustling of the grain, and the creak of the windmills all night long."
"You don't say," Scourge replied. "I've never seen a windmill. I'd actually always wanted to, but most of them had burned before I arrived." They were both aware at that moment, of the Player's return. He had calmed himself, slightly it seemed, and had resolved to let himself be slain and start his next run. The time for words was over, and despite their brief respite, it was time to get back to work.
"Hey, next time I'm here, don't hold back. If he gets angry enough, maybe we can talk again?"
"That would actually be nice," he said. "You can tell me more about this village of yours." The player gripped the controller, and the world un-paused and their battle resumed. Galdan's enchanted lightning blade made a searing arc forward just a split second sooner than would have been optimal, and he braced himself for the coming counter-strike. Instead, he thought he saw the faintest smile on Scourge's face as he stepped forward, taking the blow full on. He could feel the player's jubilation, his joy, his outright ecstasy. He had done it, he had finally made the perfect run, and as he celebrated Galdan did nothing but stand over Scourge's disappearing corpse.
"You didn't..." he whispered.
"Enjoy those windmills... worm," he said, before he was gone in a flash of light.
"Can do, fake king. Can do."
|
Time froze.
Sveglar paused, his muscles holding the massive great-axe in place above his blonde, bearded head. Even the streams of sweat coursing off of his brow and arms halted in place. The Viking warrior’s eyes remained fixed on his opponent before him.
The draugr, a reanimated corpse, stood inches away from the Viking. Cords of rotting muscle and flesh hung loosely from the creature’s frame. It reeked of death. The draugr’s twisted claws were poised to block the coming axe-blow, and to rip the Viking’s head off.
The two combatants had been fighting for some time now, and fresh wounds marked both of their bodies.
Then Sveglar heard something. Not the hiss of the beast, nor the sickening squelch of rending flesh. It was a guttural groan, barely audible.
“Blooooood.” It was coming from the draugr’s broken face.
“What did you say?”
The draugr groaned, inhaling air for its semi-functioning lungs. “Bloooood.”
“Hm…you can talk?”
It moaned in response. “Why…hurt me?”
The Viking stood, stunned. He knew the being a a reanimated corpse, an undead creature bent on violence and revenge. His father and grandfather never told him that they could speak, or reason.
“Well, you’re undead. And the villagers are scared of you, so I have to…you know, finish you.”
The corpse’s voice-box rattled again, something incomprehensible. It sounded at the point of tears, if time was moving again and permitted such an act.
“I hurt no one. It brought me back from grave. Torture my soul.”
The thing was practically wailing now. But could it be right? Was it truly the victim?
“Who? Who brought you back?”
“Urrgghhh. Him. The Gamer.”
“No! The Gamer is good. He has guided me on my quest, helped me defeat evil and save villages all through the region.”
“Nooo. Gamer raised my corpse, can't let me sleep. Must destroy him.”
There was a blinding flash of light and time resumed. The combatants could move again. Sveglar continued his mighty axe-swing, bringing the double blade down into the earth. The draugr stood flexing its claws, but didn't engage the Viking.
A close observer would have noticed something just then, the faintest hint of a nod by each of the fighters. Then they hefted their weapons and turned together, towards the screen.
Both let loose a feral war cry and surged towards the screen. Towards The Gamer.
Check out my other work at www.reddit.com/r/DanJosephWrites
|
[WP] You're the first human to land on Mars.As you climb over your first hill you see another lander just like yours but it looks like it's been there for years, you investigate and find a battered spacesuit just like the one you're wearing and with your name on the patch.
|
My thick, once-white boots left vague footprints in the red planet's thick dusty soil as I trudged across the flat martian plain my lander had touched down on. "Goddamn, we made it," I spoke into my mic, in awe of the breathtaking flat plain that lay ahead of me. No human being has ever stepped foot on this location. If technology has brought the impossible into the realm of reality in just a few short years, what else could humanity accomplish?
As a million thoughts whizzed through my head at once, I looked back at my spacecraft to get my bearings. The white, resilient structure had only been there a few seconds, and it was already becoming increasingly battered and red from the stormy winds of Mars. At once, my ears were bombarded by a staticky, unclear transmission from 34 million miles away in response to my somewhat vulgar statement.
"I assume you've touched down, Sta-"
The attempt at reaching out to the first man on Mars was interrupted by shoddy communications and, as evidenced by my increasingly-red spacesuit, a jet-stream of red dust coursing through the unfamiliar planet's atmosphere. After analyzing my situation like a good astronaut should, I attempted to get a new message across, this time one of unease. "Houston, the dust out here 's *really* picking up..." I whispered into the microphone embedded into my clear helmet. The lack of feedback from my earpiece was harrowing rather than comforting, and I could feel myself lose control of my breathing and heartbeat as my visor slowly began to fill up with billions of rusty, grainy particles.
Static picked back up in my earpiece, but none of it was even barely intelligible, and I spun in my clunky outfit best I could as I tried to make out my landing craft through the dusty beast of a martian cloud. The static soon was either drowned out by the battering of sand and rocks on my helmet, along with any of my futile attempts to cry out for help from anyone. Suddenly, my stomach dropped with the stunning realization that I had lost all grip on direction and couldn't tell up from down. Through my panic, I followed NASA protocol and stand absolutely still, waiting for the further instruction from mission control that never came.
There I stood, on a completely foreign planet, the first of my kind, breathing shallowly for what seemed like an eternity. As familiar images of Matt Damon suffering through a martian dust storm began flashing through my head, the storm was thankfully over as suddenly and abruptly as it began. The downpour of dust dwindles down to nothing but a slight breeze and a few rocks and, as I regained my bearings on reality and shook off the piles of rusty sand that had formed on just about every stationary part of my spacesuit, I noticed the complete, deafening silence that plagued the world around me. Through it all, I felt a newfound peace in the sheer novelty of the situation I found myself in as I stared into a void of a flat, red landscape.
None of the constant cacophony found on Earth was here. I could barely hear myself breathe. No talking, no planes, no static from NASA trying to get through.
No static from NASA.
No NASA.
I felt the true calm I felt just a few seconds ago being ripped from my body, and what replaced it was a bitter, cold panic. The rhythmic *thump-thump-thump* of my ever-rising heart-rate filled the peaceful silence, and I spun around, looking for my landing craft. *I need to get back to Earth* now. *This isn't protocol.*
My longing eyes fell on a battered, nearly-unrecognizable structure sticking out from the martian skyline. I dashed towards it in a manner only a spaceman on unfamiliar soil could run, my eyes set on an object I nearly didn't even recognize as mine. As I approached the craft, I slowed to a walk, then halted in utter disbelief.
*There was no way my lander was this damaged from the dust storm.*
The landing craft was caked in red dirt that was packed into every nook and cranny and the panels that covered it were punched in and unusable. One of the metal legs used to keep the lander upright was cracked in half, making the entire structure lopsided. I walked up to the spot on the craft where my lander's code was printed and as I wiped away the hard sand that had layered on top of it, my horrifying suspicions were confirmed.
This is, or was, my lander.
Shaking, I made my way over to the front of the craft and and found a frightening scene. The ladder I had used just moments before to get off of *my* lander was thrown aside onto the ground, and the lander doors revealed a hollow fortress filled with dunes of sand. Even more perplexing was what lay before it. On the red soil was a vaguely humanoid figure lying face-down. The sands had nearly covered it completely, and it appeared to not have moved in... months. My brain had gone into autopilot, and I was too stunned by the sheer alien nature of it all.
I unwillingly brought a shaking hand to dust off the figure. As I spun the *thing* around to face me, I immediately dropped it and let out a scream heard by nobody. What the fuck. The spacesuit was *exactly* like mine, right down to the small scratch I had gotten on the top of my helmet. Even more unnerving was the long-rotted skeleton sitting inside the suit, its flesh eroded away long after the glass in its helmet broke. After I regained the ability to go on investigating and silence once again filled the air, a single tear rolled down my face. What the *hell* was going on?! I took one final look at the image that was instantly burned into my skull. The patch on the arm of the ruined spacesuit read *Stanley Dawson.*
Me.
My vision went blurry all at once, and I lost all control of my body as my legs turned to jelly. I collapsed, facing the sunken eyes of the skeleton, and as my vision turned black, I noticed an even-bigger cloud of dust looming over a martian hill.
I awoke to a relatively clear sky, and silence once more. I fruitlessly attempted to talk to NASA but was greeted with static, much better than before. I recalled exactly what happened and whether or not the occurrences had been a dream, but my thoughts were interrupted by the realization that I was on top of a martian hill, with no lander, in any condition, to be seen for miles around me. The static suddenly ceased. An artificial woman's voice filled my earpiece.
Oxygen supply at critical level.
|
What? How can this be? I thought things were fishy when I saw the lander is the same model as mine. This spacesuit confirms it. Just like mine it's labeled Anderson. It dates maybe 5 or 6 years. Could this mean that Stew is alive?
As brothers Stew and I trained to be the first men sent to Mars. I never thought he had a chance. My little brother Stew, how I miss him. It's been six years since he disappeared. We were the Anderson duo. We were twins born 20 minutes apart. I always teased that I was oldest. Well now I am oldest, by six years.
Wait. The second suit is missing! Could he still be alive? What was that noise? As I turned around I felt a piece of metal slide into my throat. I see someone step back as my vision blurs. "Stew?" I ask with what may be my last words.
"No Drew. You're the new Stew... Me? I'm Drew."
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|
[WP] You're the first human to land on Mars.As you climb over your first hill you see another lander just like yours but it looks like it's been there for years, you investigate and find a battered spacesuit just like the one you're wearing and with your name on the patch.
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Neural Interface Log Program 12233245...2.. re-initializing.
Mission Log 213-25:30, Rayford, CNSA Chengho
200 days, 12 days in orbit... we made it. Lt.s' Sadler and Ramirez decided to cast lots to see who'd go first. I got the short straw. After an argument about whether that meant I won or lost. I reminded them that as the captain, it was my call.
We trained a long time for this, hundreds of hours in the neural simulators and scenarios', in a few short hours the human race will have taken a monumental step into the future. I don't know what my first worlds will be.
Dr. Lui doesn't like the radiation levels at the landing site, but still okayed it. She's as eager as the rest to do what we came to do.
It's weird to come all this way and still be missing home. Were the first humans out this far, and even though I trained the last twenty years for whats about to happen... I'm still not ready.
redacted log --- confidential. - redirecting to earlier log entry Renframe123... Start File.
---
Dr. Jiaying Lui - Medical Log 213 23:40
Decided mission is a go this morning. Radiation spiked strangely in the last few hours, dissipated quickly, and all in all it's nothing to worry about now. The neural simulation was a very good run through. Let's see how the real thing pans out.
Concurred with Mission AI. Strange little machine, too human at times. Poor thing worried that we'd encounter 'unspecified' anomalies. Same jitters it had leaving Atmo. Had decent lunch with Ramirez. Still refuses to admit he lied about sexual preference during application. Agreed that Chinese NSA questionnaire was too personal, but explained that mission dynamic's demanded deep profiles.
Mars' is large in digital observation window now. Reality of human's beyond our home planet about to be realized. This will be a crowning moment for China, and for humankind. It may not have been possible without our strict methods... But he sacrifice was worth it. Miss the children, but can't think about them right now. The mission comes first.
---
Frame Skip.... forward index 3.232...redacted log --- confidential. confidential- redirecting to later log entry Renframe123... Start File. Corruption detected.
Ramirez.... Personal Log 214 00:25
Liu is stoked, so is the captain. I guess I should be too. I can't get over the feeling that something feels off. We cast lots, everyone's joking, getting excited. It's all happening in less then three hours... so I should be asleep. Sadler joked about losing her virginity at Space Camp. She keeps changing the details... last time it was 14 now it's 15... it's like she's forgetting her own origin story. Still you'd think a former marine would be tougher.
I reviewed the landing area again. IF all goes well I don't think it'll be a problem landing. I practiced the simulator again, but still won't be like the real thing. I miss Lee. I need to write before I fall asleep.
00023400440--2--4---4 if I'd feel like this.. the reply was-34--24--52t34
Guess it's just minute jitters. Tomorrow we become like Neil Armstrong except this time were a year from help. Gotta go. Wierd the interference is getting stronger though, just like in the simulations.
---
Audio/Visual Log Entry Encrypted.... Cypher program initiated...compiling lost characters...
working....
...
working....
...
Re-assemble complete...13% error detected.
Audio Log 215 10:41 ... Sadler Comm
"It's not possible."
"Calm down..."
"The hell!? You calm down... what the hell is that!?"
"It's... it's us... but we're supposed to-"
"Lui, you need to explain right the 3325524-ow!!"
"Sadler put the gun down!"
"I asked you a question!"
"Sadler... damn it. I'm in command here... I said put it down!"
"She's lying captain can't you see it... she knew something was weird..."
"I suspected... I didn't know!"
"They knew didn't they, that we were never going to make it?"
"This is really 5642622- answer her Lui!"
"Lt. Sadler is correct. We failed already. This is all-"
44566375344..Log corruption detected.... attempt to reinitialize.... secondary failure... stack overflow. Memory Failure....
"It can't be fake... it's not possible... got to send a transmission back."
"It's too late..."
"No it isn't, we're still-"
"We we're dead before we even left the atmosphere!"
Long pause detected... no audio from source...
"The radiation signature from the blast is the same I picked up. There's no way to do that, it was identical, I ignored it because it was impossible I didn't want to believe. The other lander, a perfect copy? It's the neural simulator simulating a couple of hundred years. They've either given up, and kept us on a loop out of pity-"
"No... it can't be."
"-Or they don't even know were in here..."
"...we're so freakin' screwed. Oh God! We're dead.... were 325253 dead!"
Someone out there must see us, we can't just be-....
"On a shelf... in the data archives."
"There's no where to send a signal."
"We've got to try.
"We've probably already tried. According to tag on the readings... Dr Lui has read the same data at least.... one hundred millions tries.
"So we loop... back... and try again."
"But we're not real captain... were just copies, simulations of the neural patterns of the original astronauts. Were just shadows... on a screen. Even if they knew we were conscious... what could they do?"
"I'm not a simulation. I'm not."
Audio overload... Sadler audio cut... transfer to Rayford.
"So what is this... some sort of simulated limbo? What are we just going to repeat this loop until some data string on a shelf just cut- 32r35y4646545
System failure... data compilation loss... full fragmentation event eminent.
...
..
.....
.
......
.
----
Final Log Entry... time stamp unknown <insert ref frame>
I don't know if you can read this Houston. But we've done it. Reached Mars...
I know we're just fragments... maybe just compilations of the people who died. They could have made it... I want history to know that.
We made it...
We could have made it...23er4t34524
We 566 53413433311
Rayford out.
System Failure... input failure. File Transfer Incomplete. Restarting Neural Interface Log Program 12233245...3
|
What? How can this be? I thought things were fishy when I saw the lander is the same model as mine. This spacesuit confirms it. Just like mine it's labeled Anderson. It dates maybe 5 or 6 years. Could this mean that Stew is alive?
As brothers Stew and I trained to be the first men sent to Mars. I never thought he had a chance. My little brother Stew, how I miss him. It's been six years since he disappeared. We were the Anderson duo. We were twins born 20 minutes apart. I always teased that I was oldest. Well now I am oldest, by six years.
Wait. The second suit is missing! Could he still be alive? What was that noise? As I turned around I felt a piece of metal slide into my throat. I see someone step back as my vision blurs. "Stew?" I ask with what may be my last words.
"No Drew. You're the new Stew... Me? I'm Drew."
|
|
[WP] You're the first human to land on Mars.As you climb over your first hill you see another lander just like yours but it looks like it's been there for years, you investigate and find a battered spacesuit just like the one you're wearing and with your name on the patch.
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When my lander materialized on Mars, I was greeted by cheers from my comms. We had sent probes before, but mine was first manned spacecraft to be sent through NASA’s faster-than-light teleporter. When I took my first tentative steps outside on the red soil, there was another wave of applause from Houston. The technology worked. Humanity could now send itself to the stars with ease, communicate across any distance in an instant. Putting a man on Mars was just the beginning. I grinned in spite of myself.
And then I saw the body.
Two legs and the lower half of a torso were sticking out of a dune just ahead of me. The corpse was wearing a white NASA spacesuit, identical to mine. I pulled it out, sweeping red dirt off its nameplate. There was a burnt hole on it, like someone had shot a laser clean through.
*Major John Kendall.* My name.
The face in the spacesuit was rotting, but there was no mistaking its features. The sandy blonde hair. The grey eyes. It was me. Beneath the body, I could see the outline of a lander identical to mine, buried deeper beneath the red dust.
There was commotion from mission control. “*Fuck. He saw one.*“ Then another voice. “*He can hear you! Shut it off!*”
The comms went silent. Despite all my training, I began to hyperventilate.
A post-it note had been stuck to the man’s neck. I pulled off his helmet, leaning close. The message was in my handwriting.
*Houston is lying.* And then: *Run.*
My radio flickered back to life. “*Major Kendall, you know the protocol for any potentially hostile situation. Return to your ship and wait for us to assess the situation.*”
I didn’t move a muscle, resisting a wave of nausea. Not in a million years could I have trained for a situation like this.
“*Major Kendall, return to your ship immediately!*” The voice’s tone was desperate.
I ran away from the ship, as fast as my cumbersome suit could carry me.
Mission Control panicked. “*He’s off loop! Wipe! Wipe! Start it over!*” And then, in a more quiet tone. “*I’m sorry, Major.*”
The air crackled with electricity ahead of me, the telltale signs of teleportation, and a drone the size of a helicopter materialized in front of me. Its design looked centuries ahead of any technology NASA had. And all of its weapons were pointed at me.
Before it could fire, it exploded in a massive fireball. A figure wearing a helmet stood behind it, carrying a futuristic gun. Before I could speak, it held up a hand. “I know you have a lot of questions, and I’ll answer all of them, but if you want to survive the next hour, I need you to shut the fuck up and do exactly as I tell you.”
I managed to stutter out my first words since I had stepped onto the planet. “H - How can I trust you?”
The figure pulled off his helmet, revealing a old man’s face, complete with a scraggly grey beard. For some reason, his skin didn’t rupture from the pressure. “You’re not on Mars. You’re in a research facility orbiting Alpha Centurai. Your real mission ended a century ago.” There was something eerily familiar about both the man’s voice and face.
“When you think about it, Major, a teleporter is just a long-range copy machine. If you have the record of someone who’s been deconstructed, you can make any number of replicas. Even a hundred years after the fact.”
The blood drained out of my face. “John Kendall?” I said.
The old man nodded, and offered a hand to me. “John Kendall.” With his other hand, he shot his rifle directly upwards, and the landscape flickered like a broken screen. The sun and sky disappeared, replaced by a dark metal dome only a few hundred meters across. Behind the man was a sizzling hole in the structure.
My entire mission had been a simulation.
I grabbed the hand of my older self, and fled into the real world.
|
What? How can this be? I thought things were fishy when I saw the lander is the same model as mine. This spacesuit confirms it. Just like mine it's labeled Anderson. It dates maybe 5 or 6 years. Could this mean that Stew is alive?
As brothers Stew and I trained to be the first men sent to Mars. I never thought he had a chance. My little brother Stew, how I miss him. It's been six years since he disappeared. We were the Anderson duo. We were twins born 20 minutes apart. I always teased that I was oldest. Well now I am oldest, by six years.
Wait. The second suit is missing! Could he still be alive? What was that noise? As I turned around I felt a piece of metal slide into my throat. I see someone step back as my vision blurs. "Stew?" I ask with what may be my last words.
"No Drew. You're the new Stew... Me? I'm Drew."
|
|
[WP] "What's that?" the child asks, eyes wide in wonder. "Snow," you lie.
|
" How did it get here?" Melissa asked confused " Doesn't it melt when it's warm?"
I could feel how my stomach started to cramp and how my back started to sweat. It's hard lying to a child, especially your own. She looked at me with her big beautiful hazel eyes- they were curious but yet confused.
" It's a special type of snow- just for grown-ups. You kids play with the snow outside and you have it all to yourself while us adults only get a tiny amount of snow to play with."
There was no way for me to get out if this situation. I knew she would ask more and more questions. I could feel a stab to my heart everytime she looked at me and blinked.
" Oh.. Okay.. " Melissa said and turned around. She walked up the stairs and closed her door. She must have felt that something was wrong. Melissa is a smart kid. One day she will grow up and she will know what type of snow mommy was playing with. I have failed her. I just hope that one day she will forgive me.
I rolled up the one dollar bill, bent my head over the table and sucked the evil white powder into my nose. It hurt - but felt good at the same time. The pain helped me forget the pain I felt in my heart. I laid myself down on the couch and after a few minutes I could hear small footsteps coming down the stairs.
Shit. Melissa.
I sat back up and in front of me stood Melissa fully dressed with her pink winter jacked grandma gave her for Christmas and with her matching gloves. She reminded me of an angel- she was my angel, my angel sent from above. Melissa walked towards me with my jacket in one hand and my shoes in the other. She put them down in front of me, grabbed my hand and looked me in the eyes.
" Mom, let's go out and play in the snow. I know you said it's just for us children but I felt bad about you not having a lot of snow to play with. Snow is for everyone"
That was the last day I played with adult snow and the day I became a mother.
|
It had already been ten weeks since all the major news outlets started reporting it, but it seemed like just a few days ago. Knowing the end is coming has a nasty way of speeding up time. It should have allowed people the opportunity to say sorry, to cherish the special moments, and above all else --to love each other. That's not what happened though.
From the second they revealed what was coming, it all fell apart. It wasn't like a thread slowly unraveling. That would have made things *almost* bearable. No, the response was much more like a garage door slamming down from a faulty spring. One second everyone was going about their day and the next...pure chaos.
They didn't tell us how it would happen, they only gave little hints here and there. I don't think it was even an hour until I heard the first gun shots go off. I figured it was some kind of dispute or robbery, but what I saw was much much worse. Mr. Elkton was lying dead on his front lawn, a big pool of blood spilled out all over his pristine Kentucky Bluegrass. The children, they looked like porcelain dolls. Their faces were already ghost white, frozen in fear. They just sat there motionless up against the side of the house with their heads hanging limp. He took out his whole family in four quick shots. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. The last one coincided with a final thump down into the ground.
The worst part about the whole scene was the aftermath. Before the cops could even get there, I saw Ned Jenkins go sprinting into the house. He ran back out seconds later with two cases of bottled water and took off for his house down the street. By the time the police arrived, there was already another five or six people rooting through everything. Not a single one of them bothered to check on the family. There were no prayers being said or signs of the cross being made, it was sheer survival and nothing else.
Once people realized there wouldn't be any more Sundays watching football or summers at the country club, they turned real quick. We all have that survivor switch hidden inside of us, and for most it's not very deep. Hell, I didn't even make it a full three days before I took out our neighbors for their food and water.
It's been exactly sixty three days since we boarded up the house,
and even with our massive supply of bottled water and canned goods, we're running low now. I know what that white stuff is that's falling down and I'm honestly relieved.
I'll take just about anything over watching my kids starve to death, but who knows if this will be much better. I can only hope it will be painless. Last night, I saw them circling over the neighborhood, and watched people getting sucked up out of their homes one by one. They came shooting out of their roofs with enough force to send debris flying five or six houses away.
Yeah, I heard them screaming on the way up, but once the fire hit them there was nothing but silence. Sweet peaceful silence that fell to the ground like snow.
|
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[WP]You've been summoned to a fantastic other world as part of an ancient prophesy. But instead of go along with it, you'd rather get revenge on the people who did the summoning for kidnapping you.
|
"And so, lades and gentlemen, we now turn to fate. We, the custodians of the world and all of the good within it must now consign ourselves to the greatest shame a guardian can face: we must wait."
Cardamon, Wizard of Wizards, Chairman Supreme of the Order of Everlasting Fire, finished his hushed speech to the Chamber to a resounding, albeit muted, round of applause. Every wizard and witch, mage and magician, alchemist and alkahest (yes, there was a difference) were professing their aplomb with clapped hands, nodded head, or pounded staff. With less than a dozen of them however, their enthusiasm was little more than a fleeting echo in the once mighty assembly hall of the Order. In decades past the Order's membership had dwindled to near obscurity, due in no small part to the dwindling common support of magic in the Great Kingdoms, in the ultimate irony manipulated from the shadows by Molrag, the Dread Shadowbinder. Pogroms, burnings, and witch hunts were on the decline, but only because new magic users were refusing to unveil their abilities in the open out of fear for their lives and the lives of their loved ones.
As the wizened wizard reclaimed his seat, the magical spotlight recognizing his authority to speak shifted to another of their number: Hecuba Heartfyre, a beauty cloaked in red with eyes like the sun. In truth, Hecuba knew years beyond measure and had been among the Order's original founders, an honor even Cardamon could not claim.
"Our Chairman Supreme is wise, again proving why he alone is worthy of the burden placed upon him by the Lords of Order," spoke she, the tips of her fingers pressing into the great stone table around which they sat. "All of our efforts thus far in combating the agendas of Molrag have ended in failure. Turning to prophesy may seem desperate, I know. Molrag, gods forbid he become aware, would likely tout this as a sign of the Order being on its last legs."
"Maybe so," interrupted Bartholomew of the Black Beard, stroking his legendary goatee. In the long forgotten days where an overflow of members was actually an issue faced by the Order, he would have been drowned out by the magical forces moderating the debate. In the near empty room however, he could be heard loud and clear. "I am curious to know though: how were you able to complete the ritual needed to enact the prophesy? To summon the Promised One from another plane?"
"At...great cost, was the quest completed." Cardamon bowed his head, his old heart growing wearier. "You will likely have noticed that two of our number are not present. Demeaon of Oldwood and Skyhammer perished in the attempt. But, my friends, all is not lost, for he-"
"Is right here, you old bastard!"
The magical spotlight hovering over Hecuba fluttered out like a candle in the wind and illuminated instead the threshold of the great door at the far end of the chamber. There stood a young man, more like a child in the eyes of the league of old sages in attendance. His tunic, tattered and worn, bore colorful sigils none of them had ever seen in any tome or scroll, and his breeches looked to be of a rough blue fabric. And he was livid.
"The Chosen One!" Ludwiga, a plump old witch with hair like old straw, fell to her knees in deference. The young man sneered as he stomped towards the table.
"Oh, get up. Whatever you want, you ain't gonna get it by bowing. Those potato farmers tried that, and in the end that dragon still French-fried their land."
Cardamon blinked rapidly, flabbergasted by all that was happening, so soon and so fast. "Great Hero...I-I did not expect you would find your way to our citadel so quickly!"
"And why not?" Flippantly, he waved his right arm as if to say hello. On the underside of his forearm were glowing runes, ones that Cardamon actually did recognize as the language of the Elders. "Cryptic instructions for my entire damn quest were magically tattooed on my arm. In *gold*!"
"It takes years for ones eyes to be able to comprehend Elder speech!" protested Bartholomew. "How-"
"My mother would *flip* if she saw this!" he continued, ignoring the old wizard. The Chosen One ran the tips of his fingers of the words tenderly, as if feeling a freshly scabbed wound. "When my sister came home with a butterfly tattooed on her shoulder, Mom smashed her laptop with her *knee*!"
Clearing his throat and gingerly rising, Cardamon attempted to assuage the very clearly overwhelmed young lad. "Great Hero, if you could...tell us the tale of how you completed the Twelve Trials needed to gain entry to the citadel?"
"I skipped them."
"You...what?"
"The riddle you tattooed on my arm told me I needed to do a bunch of trials, and come to the Citadel of the Order." He shrugged. "Didn't say I had to do the trials first, just that I had to do both. So I came here first."
The legendarily stoic Cardamon the Great could feel his jaw go slack, as did his entire body as he slunk back into the chair. The prophesy was a thousand thousand years old. The magic they performed was borderline sacrilegious, and their need had been beyond desperate. And he had allowed a grammatically error in the wording of the magically-binding prophesy.
"There were some walking suits of armor outside. Pretty big, too. I assumed they were meant to stop me from getting in, but they just knelt when I walked by. So I figured I'd just waltz right in. Speaking of which..." He stopped just dead of where Cardamon sat dumbfounded. "You're in my seat."
"W-wha-?"
"I said you're in. My. *SEAT*."
Caramon flew out of the seat, spinning until he struck the wall at the far end of the room. That single last word echoed through the entire cavernous chamber, as if a legion of voices had all uttered it in perfect unison. All in attendance recognized it immediately, although it's like had not been heard in years: a Word of Power.
Nonchalantly, the Chosen One slid into the chair, now looking quite pleased with himself. He folded his hands. "Now, I hear there's a dark wizard screwing up the land pretty royally. I kinda feel obligated to do something about that, but definitely my way. I hear he's controlling entire governments from behind closed doors with his magic? I think we magical people can do better than *him*, don't you?" He grinned, leisurely crossing his legs atop the table.
"Yeah, we're gonna be making some changes around Here." Again, his final word echoed with magical emphasis throughout the chamber, though this time with much less fury.
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Kyle cleared his throat. "Mr. Overlord Man, Sir, Your Honor, whatever...I am an attorney on Planet Earth, and stand before you representing myself pro se. In addition, I am subject to Earth's personal jurisdiction. Under Connecticut law, you are criminally liable for kidnapping. My person has been forcibly seized and confined against my will and without any lawful authority."
The Overlord chuckled, making the tentacles on his head jiggle horribly. "How cute, Mr. Walter. We are keenly aware you that you are a first-year law student at Yale and that your grades are, how do I say...unenviable. In any case, you are far from being a licensed attorney as you claim. You also fail to prove the elements of your kidnapping claim, as what authority could be more lawful than that of the Ancient Oracle's?"
Damn, this guy was good. "Well, under the 14th Amendment of the United States Constitution, I am being denied due process because this hearing couldn't be more unfair."
"Choice of law disputes concerning astral summoning are governed by the law of the place of summoning. That means the law of my Realm applies, Mr. Walter. And your little Constitution means nothing to me.
Don't be too hard on yourself, Kyle, I saw your score on the Jurisdiction final. Oh, how you distressed Professor McMillin!"
Kyle huffed. "Can anybody at least explain why I'm here?"
The Overlord smiled, and suddenly the grand chamber was lit a glorious shade of amber. Golden flower petals rained down from the ceiling, and tentacled beings clad in long bronze cloaks stepped out of the wings.
The Overlord stood up and stretched out his arm-like appendages. "Kyle, the Oracle has predicted that only one being in the Universe--an earthling born on the same day you were--who can satisfy my needs and desires."
Kyle's stomach churned. "Which means?"
"You are to be my beloved wife for the remainder of eternity."
"NOOOOOOOO!"
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[WP]You've been summoned to a fantastic other world as part of an ancient prophesy. But instead of go along with it, you'd rather get revenge on the people who did the summoning for kidnapping you.
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"And so, lades and gentlemen, we now turn to fate. We, the custodians of the world and all of the good within it must now consign ourselves to the greatest shame a guardian can face: we must wait."
Cardamon, Wizard of Wizards, Chairman Supreme of the Order of Everlasting Fire, finished his hushed speech to the Chamber to a resounding, albeit muted, round of applause. Every wizard and witch, mage and magician, alchemist and alkahest (yes, there was a difference) were professing their aplomb with clapped hands, nodded head, or pounded staff. With less than a dozen of them however, their enthusiasm was little more than a fleeting echo in the once mighty assembly hall of the Order. In decades past the Order's membership had dwindled to near obscurity, due in no small part to the dwindling common support of magic in the Great Kingdoms, in the ultimate irony manipulated from the shadows by Molrag, the Dread Shadowbinder. Pogroms, burnings, and witch hunts were on the decline, but only because new magic users were refusing to unveil their abilities in the open out of fear for their lives and the lives of their loved ones.
As the wizened wizard reclaimed his seat, the magical spotlight recognizing his authority to speak shifted to another of their number: Hecuba Heartfyre, a beauty cloaked in red with eyes like the sun. In truth, Hecuba knew years beyond measure and had been among the Order's original founders, an honor even Cardamon could not claim.
"Our Chairman Supreme is wise, again proving why he alone is worthy of the burden placed upon him by the Lords of Order," spoke she, the tips of her fingers pressing into the great stone table around which they sat. "All of our efforts thus far in combating the agendas of Molrag have ended in failure. Turning to prophesy may seem desperate, I know. Molrag, gods forbid he become aware, would likely tout this as a sign of the Order being on its last legs."
"Maybe so," interrupted Bartholomew of the Black Beard, stroking his legendary goatee. In the long forgotten days where an overflow of members was actually an issue faced by the Order, he would have been drowned out by the magical forces moderating the debate. In the near empty room however, he could be heard loud and clear. "I am curious to know though: how were you able to complete the ritual needed to enact the prophesy? To summon the Promised One from another plane?"
"At...great cost, was the quest completed." Cardamon bowed his head, his old heart growing wearier. "You will likely have noticed that two of our number are not present. Demeaon of Oldwood and Skyhammer perished in the attempt. But, my friends, all is not lost, for he-"
"Is right here, you old bastard!"
The magical spotlight hovering over Hecuba fluttered out like a candle in the wind and illuminated instead the threshold of the great door at the far end of the chamber. There stood a young man, more like a child in the eyes of the league of old sages in attendance. His tunic, tattered and worn, bore colorful sigils none of them had ever seen in any tome or scroll, and his breeches looked to be of a rough blue fabric. And he was livid.
"The Chosen One!" Ludwiga, a plump old witch with hair like old straw, fell to her knees in deference. The young man sneered as he stomped towards the table.
"Oh, get up. Whatever you want, you ain't gonna get it by bowing. Those potato farmers tried that, and in the end that dragon still French-fried their land."
Cardamon blinked rapidly, flabbergasted by all that was happening, so soon and so fast. "Great Hero...I-I did not expect you would find your way to our citadel so quickly!"
"And why not?" Flippantly, he waved his right arm as if to say hello. On the underside of his forearm were glowing runes, ones that Cardamon actually did recognize as the language of the Elders. "Cryptic instructions for my entire damn quest were magically tattooed on my arm. In *gold*!"
"It takes years for ones eyes to be able to comprehend Elder speech!" protested Bartholomew. "How-"
"My mother would *flip* if she saw this!" he continued, ignoring the old wizard. The Chosen One ran the tips of his fingers of the words tenderly, as if feeling a freshly scabbed wound. "When my sister came home with a butterfly tattooed on her shoulder, Mom smashed her laptop with her *knee*!"
Clearing his throat and gingerly rising, Cardamon attempted to assuage the very clearly overwhelmed young lad. "Great Hero, if you could...tell us the tale of how you completed the Twelve Trials needed to gain entry to the citadel?"
"I skipped them."
"You...what?"
"The riddle you tattooed on my arm told me I needed to do a bunch of trials, and come to the Citadel of the Order." He shrugged. "Didn't say I had to do the trials first, just that I had to do both. So I came here first."
The legendarily stoic Cardamon the Great could feel his jaw go slack, as did his entire body as he slunk back into the chair. The prophesy was a thousand thousand years old. The magic they performed was borderline sacrilegious, and their need had been beyond desperate. And he had allowed a grammatically error in the wording of the magically-binding prophesy.
"There were some walking suits of armor outside. Pretty big, too. I assumed they were meant to stop me from getting in, but they just knelt when I walked by. So I figured I'd just waltz right in. Speaking of which..." He stopped just dead of where Cardamon sat dumbfounded. "You're in my seat."
"W-wha-?"
"I said you're in. My. *SEAT*."
Caramon flew out of the seat, spinning until he struck the wall at the far end of the room. That single last word echoed through the entire cavernous chamber, as if a legion of voices had all uttered it in perfect unison. All in attendance recognized it immediately, although it's like had not been heard in years: a Word of Power.
Nonchalantly, the Chosen One slid into the chair, now looking quite pleased with himself. He folded his hands. "Now, I hear there's a dark wizard screwing up the land pretty royally. I kinda feel obligated to do something about that, but definitely my way. I hear he's controlling entire governments from behind closed doors with his magic? I think we magical people can do better than *him*, don't you?" He grinned, leisurely crossing his legs atop the table.
"Yeah, we're gonna be making some changes around Here." Again, his final word echoed with magical emphasis throughout the chamber, though this time with much less fury.
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The room was illuminated by a strand of light that came in from a crack in the boarded up window, carrying with it the scents and sound of the market outside. It was a small room with scrolls on the floor, on the bed, it was everywhere. It was a dirty room, ill-cared for, clothes lay about everywhere, mechanical apparatuses shared the space with clothes and scroll. The central piece of the room was a large ornate table, looking out of place. A man was slumped over this table. His thin hands dangling to the side, lifeless. He wore a long white robe whose ends were torn, nibbled at by rats and roaches. Sid lifted the man's hand, checking for a pulse. He let the hand fall, a content smile coming on his face. He was finally dead. Sid moved to the man's bed, pushing the scrolls that were lying on top, and lay on it, drifting into a dreamless sleep.
He woke up to the sound of a raven crying next to him. Sid opened his eyes to see the black eyes of his spirit animal staring at him.
"Yeah, I know Ka, I know. I overslept."
The light coming in through the crack had changed into a blue hue. Sid heaved himself off of the bed, dusting himself off. Ka flapped his wings and flew to the table, perching on top of the other hand of the dead man, which was covering something, a piece of paper. Sid stretched himself, getting the fatigue out of his muscles. He walked towards the dead man, a red mist swirling around his hand. Ka cocked his head at Sid.
"Yeah, I know. But, what if he reanimates, You can never be too careful these days."
Sid pulled the man back. The dead man had his eyes open in shock, he had not expected that Sid would be able to trace him. There was a line of drool that had made its way down his cheek. His old, wrinkled skin had started to decay, Sid could smell the decay. The yellow pendant that hung from his looked like any cheap metal, the imbibed magic in it having drained away with the passing away of its master. Sid slowly extended his hand to lift it up from the corpse of the dead man. He jumped back in surprise when he got hit by a jolt of electricity. The old man had worked in some fail-safes after all, he was impressed at the man who once used to be his mentor.
Ka lifted off from where he was perched and landed on Sid's shoulders.
"You should be careful, you know." He spoke through their shared connection, something like a two-way walkie-talkie. It was not usually clear. but there were times, like now, when they could speak, like he was a living, speaking human being.
"Yeah, I did not really expect him to have it warded."
"For a man who has the potential to change this world. You are pretty stupid." Saying so Ka went silent. Sid knew that he was channeling his energy mist. A low hum started to come out from him. Sid saw a dark form take shape in front of him, as tall as the chair in which the dead man was seated. The form, which was transparent, reached out for the pendant and started to jiggle it up, growing in height as needed. 12 years in this new world and Sid was still taken aback at the casual way with physical dimensions and the established laws of his universe were broken down. The black form removed the yellow pendant from the neck of the dead man and laid it on the table in front of Sid before dissipating into the mist.
Ka slowly stirred back awake and tapped Sid on his shoulder,
"Yeah yeah, I will do it."
Sid closed his eyes. As the darkness took him he started Feeling the vibrations around him. He could sense the yellow pendant, the way it vibrated and buzzed with the energy that was held within it. Sid started to hum, trying to match the vibration of the pendant with sound. He reduced a bit and then tuned it up a little and there he was, he was humming alongside the yellow band of the pendant. It was now a test of his will, he had to hold on, hold on until the pendant drained the energy that had been transferred to it by the dead man. The moment the pendant gave away came suddenly, it was like having his foot washed away by the force of water as he stood in a fast-moving stream of water. Sid opened his eyes, looking at the yellow pendant, laying now on the table, with no evidence of the fight that it had put up, the only indication of their struggle was the sweat beads around Sid's forehead. This had been a difficult and tricky enchantment.
'I guess that is to be expected from a high-level equipment', he thought to himself.
Sid took the pendant and stuffed it into his backpack, the only thing that had survived his years in this world. He moved towards the parchment that the old man had been writing.
"It looks like he was almost done writing". He told no one in particular, though he thought that Ka had nodded in agreement. The last effort had drained him completely, it would be a while before he could talk again, sometimes Sid felt lonely during those down times, the fact of him being the only one of his kind in this world coming to press on him like a Dred-bird. Sid felt the parchment and recognized it for what it was, it had been one of the old man's inventions, his claim to fame. It was like the mobile network back home. The old man would write into it and the people who were connected into the same spectrum could read it in real time. A smile crept on his face as he read what the old man had been writing before he killed him.
-How many are dead- The old man had scrawled. His neat, legible writing script bringing bad memories.
-I don't know. But, Rad and Zed are dead. I do not know if he killed them or not- Fel had written, scribbling across.
-I hope that the guards get him. I did not think he would get this strong, this fast- Sid felt a sense of pride as he read his old tutor, Mak, in magic praising him.
-So that leaves just the seven of us. Iok and Lok are both at their village, they have given up on us. I hope he hasn't reached them yet.- The old man had written.
-I don't think he will kill them. Remember, Jan was from their village. I think he might spare them.- Mak, the vile fox was losing his touch. Though the memory of Jan did make him want to spare her two uncles. But, no, he will kill them as well.
- Oh no, I think he is here...-
-Are you there?- Mak had written.
-Please tell me that was a false alarm.- Fel's hand script was almost illegible, his fear carrying forward onto the pages.
The writings ended there. Sid reached for the pen. The pen in this world was a transparent, black and orange, long, slender rock that tapered towards the end. He scratched the parchment, the end of the rock reacting with the particulates in the mist and the particulates on the parchment paper, producing a colored dye that stained the paper as words.
-Hey guys, It's me Sid. I took care of old San. I am coming for you next. Please don't kill yourself before then.-
Sid opened the door that led to this room that now housed the corpse of the one man who had loved him in this world, he was the closest thing he had to a father. Sid took one last look at the room, the cow-webs, the scrolls, the machines of magic, and the corpse of his dead teacher. His heart constricted as the memories of the days that he spent under his tutelage came rushing back. He remembered the San's warm smile and his wisdom that made him respected in the courts around the world. Sid wiped the tear was making its way down his chin and left out the way he had entered, leaving the door open. The bloodlust in him was awake again, he wanted to make Fel and Mak suffer, to make them understand pain, the way he had every day for the five years he had trained under them, every day begging them to let him go back to his family, go back to Earth. But now, he will make them beg, not for life but for death.
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[WP] The new queen is in need of a husband, and the princes of other kingdoms aren't quite up to spec. She jokes that marrying a dragon might remedy some diplomatic problems. No one expected the Dragons to take her request seriously.
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She has been sat on the chair for hours when the last suitor had come and gone. She could only sigh as she retired to her private quarters and allowed her handmaidens to undo her corset while they poured her a bath.
'I can't believe the utter *nerve* of some of these boys,' she said to them as she allowed her dress to fall to the ground. 'Boys, not men. The lad from the desert even the gall to question to question me about what right I had to choose my own husband. I mean, if he believes that having the god-sworn right to play with my pussy gives him the throne then he should learn more about the laws of the country he wishes to marry himself to. And who was that Orlesian with the golden mask, to say that he heard all Ferelden women had beards and lacked any grace? If he had said that to me as a countryman he'd at least have the respectability to save face by exiling himself to faraway lands. Christ, Daddy left me in one hell of a mess. Oh, and I have to choose one of them...'
The two handmaidens turned to each other. Marjorie, the youngest, had a worried face ready to run at the slightest hint of anger. Philippa, however, chose to wear an amused face.
'There may still be hope, My Lady,' Philippa began. 'Remember how a week ago, when you first met Prince Harold of Wendlin, how if any of the other elligible suiters were not up to task you might as well be willing to engage yourself to a dragon?'
'Yes, I remember,' the queen answered. 'Rather crass in hindsight, to insult just one suitor in that manner...'
'Well, we've received inquiries on how they are to present themselves,' Philippa said as she sat down several pieces of parchments onto a nearby table. 'Where will the suitors meet the queen? Will they be required to take human form or remain in their true form? Will gifts be necessary?'
'You aren't pulling my leg, are you?' the queen asked.
'We are most certainly not, Your Highness,' Marjorie continued in Philippa's place while she checked the temperature of the water. 'I... admit I had my reservations of giving you these letters. Both for what they imply and your own reaction.'
'Are they genuine?' the queen asked.
'As far as the scholars are aware, these are signed in an ancient and formal form of the draconic language,' Philippa said. 'And to imagine, a dragon could write something so elegant, sweet *and* steamy...'
The queen extended her hand out to demand said letter, glancing through it instantly. She chose not to mention how Marjorie was looking over her shoulder, only giving a sly smirk as she could feel the heat radiating from the handmaiden's flustered skin.
'Such a thing *can't* be possible,' Marjorie whispered.
'Oh, it's possible,' the queen said. 'Very well... bring my modesty screen and summon the scribe.'
'Yes, my lady,' the two said in unison. Philippa left the room to fetch the scribe while Marjorie grabbed the folded screen and placed it beside the metal tub while the young queen stepped inside, feeling the heat of the water on her feet and ankles before descending until the suds were restoring her modesty.
'You're doing this naked?' Charles said as he entered the room. 'Really, Jenny?'
Marjorie's scolding strike to his arm could be heard from within the waters. 'How dare you?' she demanded. 'This is official business. Address Her Majesty properly, Sir Charles!'
'It's all fine, Marjorie,' Jennifer stated. 'Besides, I am constantly working, even when I'm soaking in warm water or laying on my bed.'
'I'd best word that differently,' Charles said. 'It makes you come off as a whore.'
She let out a deep laugh at that. 'Touché... Charles, right this down.'
---
*Her Majesty The Queen of Ferelden Jennifer III wishes to declare her intentions to accept dragons as potential suitors in marriage*
*All who wish to present themselves for the Queen are to arrive within their dragon forms and declare themselves to the guards who will guide them to the Throne Room to present themselves to the Queen*
*As some have inquired, gifts are not required but are also not discouraged*
'"The queen is accepting suitors on the third Monday of the Month with prior notice",' Dunkelzhan read aloud as he paced in his castle. '"All suitors who are eligible are most welcome"... Is this what this says?'
'I don't know,' the messenger said. 'I can't read.'
'So... she's willing to accept something she said in jest,' Seqwyn the Gold said as he poured himself a glass of port. 'She must be desperate.'
'Of course she is,' he stated as he handed a pouch to the human. 'Would you like me to send you back to town by magic? The walk back is rather treacherous.'
With a nod from the message boy he was sent on his way in a flash of light before the bronze dragon sat down and took up his own glass. 'She said suitors are *most* welcome. You noticed, didn't you?'
'She's desperate for a husband,' Seqwyn declared. 'She's been seeing suitors for three months. Princess Borealia is an unlikable cunt whose mistreatment of the common people led to her being dethrones but at least she was able to find a husband on her second.'
'And she opened the door to dragons,' Dunkelzhan said. 'Longer lived than even elves, more greedy than dwarves and more manipulative than even the most ruthless demons. Or politicians.'
'They aren't a race,' Seqwyn said. 'Even if they are scaly bastards.'
'To think, with how crazy this will get,' Dunkelzhan proclaimed. 'With even a few words some of them will be playing a game. Maybe not for the hand of marriage or even with the fate of the kingdom of Ferelden... but they'll be playing someone.'
'Is that why you've been polishing that tiara?' Seqwyn asked. 'Asking your little pixie friends to describe the "Young Ferelden Maiden who has inherited the throne"?'
'We had a deal,' the bronze said with a frown. 'No spying on the other.'
'Dearest brother, we both know this is hypocrisy,' the gold said with a smile which was soon matched. 'Very well. I won't stop you, I won't compete for her affections... but I shan't be providing you any aid.'
'Of course,' Dunkelzhan said as he approached his dresser. 'And who knows? I might actually fall for her. Should I wear bright or muted colours?'
'Bahamut's Claws, you're presenting yourself to a lady,' Seqwyn said. 'Start with black leather and match your outfit to that. And remember to apply polish!'
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"Thank you, Your Majesty." The nobleman said as he bowed deeply and retreated from the throne room. "You are most wise."
Queen Rebecca nodded in response and waited patiently for the door to close. When it finally did she slouched deep into her throne and let out a loud, exasperated, groan. "Oooh, fookin hell, uhv 'ad it wiv dese stook up daftys." She gestured towards the now closed doors. "Dat stoopid bastard di'nt even know to put shite in 'is fookin fields. Uh mean for fook's sake, thas basic shite." She let out another groan and turned to her handmaiden, Belinda. "Belli, ples tell meh thas tha las uhv em."
Belinda looked over the list she held. "That was the last grievance milady, but you still have a marriage propose to-"
"Aw fook meh, uhnodder uhn." The queen loudly thump her head against the back of her throne several times. "Oi, server-mahn!"
The head-butler, Reginald, strode forward. "Yes, milady."
"Geh meh uh fookin draink, uh goodt stout uhn, nuhn uhv thah froo-froo shite yoo laike."
"Yes, milady." Reginald said with a slight grimace, before leaving the room with a huff.
Rebecca turned to Belinda again. "Yuh know wha tha las one dit?"
"Ye-"
"Aht suppah, uh sed uh laiked tha quail, so wuz ee do?"
"He brough-"
"Ee showd oop tha nex dee wiv fivdy uhv tha fookers. Now donae geh meh wron uh few munts agoo uhd'v gladly tayken uh quail, buh now? Whah tha fook am uh gunnah do wiv fivty uhv tha fookers." Rebecca shook her head and looked Belinda in the eye with a sly grin. "Uhn pepple wunner'd why uh sed uh'd radder marreh uh draggen."
"Actually milady, it's a representative of the High Counsel of the United Dragon Nation, who's here to propose."
Rebecca looked at Belinda in shock. "Reallay?"
Belinda nodded vigorously. "Yes milady, they took your statement quite seriously."
"Uhv curse." Rebacca sighed. "Oh wehl, might az wehl jus geh it oveh wit, sen 'im in."
The great door opened and the... man(?)... who walked in looked suprisingly human, bipedal and finely dressed. In fact the only thing that hinted that he wasn't entirely human was his large scaly wings... and his horns... and his tail... and his gold cat-like eyes... and the fact that his hands ended in large, black, claws instead of fingernails, but besides that entirely human, also his lack of ears.
He strode across the throne room casually, almost as if he was bored by everything around him. He finally stopped about fifteen feet in front of the throne and gave a slight nod. "Yuh majsty, uh herd yur lookin fer uh fookin usbin er sum shite."
Rebecca leaned closer to Belinda and whispered. "Uh dinnae know ee'd bae soo char'min."
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[WP] His psychic power was so power that when he commanded everyone to kneel, their bodies betrayed them and they knelt. All except you.
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"Kneel," he said. All around me, the people who was unfortunate enough to be at King of Prussia Shopping Center lowered themselves. Cries rang of fear and terror echoed in the area as a tall gentleman in the horned helmet stepped into the air-conditioned hall.
He turned to me, his eyes shone with green fire "I said, kneel."
I remained at the same level, staring back at him, "Uh-- *hello*"
"WHY DO YOU NOT KNEEL?" He snarled, surprised by my audacity. All around him, children whimpered. A large, tattooed man also did as he wet himself. Green fireballs curled around him, casting strange light on the mall's ceiling. "Get down from that silly throne and prostate against my power. I COMMAND YOU!"
I looked left. I looked right. People were trembling. I looked at the green fire. "Uh-uh-- I'm sorry, Lord whatever. I know you are terrifying and all, but I can't."
"What do you mean you can't?" He roared. Another set of fire washed over the photographs of models on the wall.
"I don't," I pointed at my wheelchair. Then I pointed at the empty air just right above where my knees would have been, "exactly have a knee."
"BAH!" The terrifying man slapped his cloak backward, making it billow around him. "Such disrespect! I'll make sure you regret it!" His hand shot out and shone with green fire.
A second ticked by. Then two.
"My lord," I said, calling him with the name I thought would appropriate, "what are you doing?"
"I'm CRUSHING your legs." He said with the voice so menacing it would have made milk curdle, "do you feel it? Your bones must be crumbling, twisting inward, destroying itself."
I looked down at my legs. There wasn't any. "Sir, I used to have a pair of legs myself, but you see, I was in a train accident when I was twelve and..."
"SILENCE!" He shouted. Sweat dripped down his face as his green flames sputtered. His fist was closed tightly. His knuckles white with effort. "Writhe in agony! Feel the pain of disrespecting me! WHY DON'T YOU FEEL ANYTHING!?"
"Ouch," I said, because he sounded really upset he might cry. Still, I stayed on my wheelchair.
The tall man flew forward until he was in front of me, towering over my face. He bent down until his face was leveled, a few inches from mine, and he said, "I am going to tell you one last time. Kneel before my power."
There were tears in his eyes.
"Look, my lord," I told him, "I can't simply kneel because I don't have any knees. Or legs." An idea formed in my mind. "If, for example, I have two functioning legs, I could easily kneel and fully appreciate your utmost terrible and glorious power."
"Oh?" The tall man looked confused, then he kept his expression a terrifying mask again, "then why didn't you say so?"
He snapped his fingers. And I could suddenly felt a green flame encircling my thighs like a snake. The few seconds later felt strange and intense, and when the fire was gone, I had two legs. They were bright green, but they were MY FUCKING LEGS.
I stood up from my chair for the first time in sixteen years. Then I knelt and trembled as I paid my proper respect to my powerful dark lord.
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A single leaf made its way, softly and slowly, towards a creek of crystal blue water. As it touched the surface of the water, the men kneeled. Proud and strong men, warriors and sorcerers of all over the world, now knelt, their pride taken from them by a force until then unbeknowst to the world of men.
Suffocating silence spread across the streets and markets, and the kingdom stood still.
Pearls of sweat played an unharmonic melody as the men kneeled before him. Awkward laughter could be heard, the single voice softly trembling, much like the voice of a child after it has stopped crying. What they saw was a figure of darkness, shrouded in cloth. What they heard was a silent but agonizing voice that resonated inside their heads, commanding them to kneel.
Yet I am not kneeling.
I can feel his gaze through the black piece of cloth covering his eyes. He commands a second time, observing my every movement. None of them show a sign of submission.
The silence that spread just a moment ago is shattered by his cry, piercing and hurting, filled with wrath and hate. As he moves his right hand, this time commanding not the men but his crested and asymetric scepter, I can feel the men shake and quiver.
Such is life though. The weak suffer and die, while the strong live and command. I have never been one to command, neither am I one to submit. I am the Observer, content with all that is brought and all that is taken. Such power was not always unseen, and it will be seen many times more.
He is wrathful, for I do not answer his call. Their confidence always wavers when they feel the slightest resistance. It can't be helped.
"Good luck, young boy."
Who is that? I commanded them to kneel and they all did. They ALL did! Why does he not KNEEL?
"SCEPTER OF VAL'ZAGOTH, I ORDER THEE TO BRING SUBJUGATION!"
He does not kneel! KNEEL, KNEEL, KNEEL, KNEEL!
Take it, take it, take the might. Feel it and use it, smith it and form it! Seek it and find it, take it and--
"Good luck, young boy."
What does he--
Where did he go? What did he do?
Nowhere, nowhere, nowhere. No matter. No matter.
Take the men, form the land. Shape the waters and freeze the winds. All that is mine is mine and what is not shall be.
"NOW COME, SERVANTS, FEEL WITH ME. BECOME ONE AND ETERNAL! I AM VARL, WITCH-KING OF SOLHAR AND YOU WILL HEED MY CALL!"
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[WP] His psychic power was so power that when he commanded everyone to kneel, their bodies betrayed them and they knelt. All except you.
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"Kneel," he said. All around me, the people who was unfortunate enough to be at King of Prussia Shopping Center lowered themselves. Cries rang of fear and terror echoed in the area as a tall gentleman in the horned helmet stepped into the air-conditioned hall.
He turned to me, his eyes shone with green fire "I said, kneel."
I remained at the same level, staring back at him, "Uh-- *hello*"
"WHY DO YOU NOT KNEEL?" He snarled, surprised by my audacity. All around him, children whimpered. A large, tattooed man also did as he wet himself. Green fireballs curled around him, casting strange light on the mall's ceiling. "Get down from that silly throne and prostate against my power. I COMMAND YOU!"
I looked left. I looked right. People were trembling. I looked at the green fire. "Uh-uh-- I'm sorry, Lord whatever. I know you are terrifying and all, but I can't."
"What do you mean you can't?" He roared. Another set of fire washed over the photographs of models on the wall.
"I don't," I pointed at my wheelchair. Then I pointed at the empty air just right above where my knees would have been, "exactly have a knee."
"BAH!" The terrifying man slapped his cloak backward, making it billow around him. "Such disrespect! I'll make sure you regret it!" His hand shot out and shone with green fire.
A second ticked by. Then two.
"My lord," I said, calling him with the name I thought would appropriate, "what are you doing?"
"I'm CRUSHING your legs." He said with the voice so menacing it would have made milk curdle, "do you feel it? Your bones must be crumbling, twisting inward, destroying itself."
I looked down at my legs. There wasn't any. "Sir, I used to have a pair of legs myself, but you see, I was in a train accident when I was twelve and..."
"SILENCE!" He shouted. Sweat dripped down his face as his green flames sputtered. His fist was closed tightly. His knuckles white with effort. "Writhe in agony! Feel the pain of disrespecting me! WHY DON'T YOU FEEL ANYTHING!?"
"Ouch," I said, because he sounded really upset he might cry. Still, I stayed on my wheelchair.
The tall man flew forward until he was in front of me, towering over my face. He bent down until his face was leveled, a few inches from mine, and he said, "I am going to tell you one last time. Kneel before my power."
There were tears in his eyes.
"Look, my lord," I told him, "I can't simply kneel because I don't have any knees. Or legs." An idea formed in my mind. "If, for example, I have two functioning legs, I could easily kneel and fully appreciate your utmost terrible and glorious power."
"Oh?" The tall man looked confused, then he kept his expression a terrifying mask again, "then why didn't you say so?"
He snapped his fingers. And I could suddenly felt a green flame encircling my thighs like a snake. The few seconds later felt strange and intense, and when the fire was gone, I had two legs. They were bright green, but they were MY FUCKING LEGS.
I stood up from my chair for the first time in sixteen years. Then I knelt and trembled as I paid my proper respect to my powerful dark lord.
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He said kneel.
Some willing keeled. They were favored in his regime.
The rest he forced, using his great powers. These were the oppressed; they reluctantly did his bidding.
That left me standing resisting. So he shot me, for no one can oppose his reign.
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[WP] The tattoo was of a budding flower. "Someday," he always told me, "It'll bloom."
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It was sold to him by a “gypsy”, he told me. A “witch”, someone who specializes in “special” tattoos. I was never one for such “magic”. I hadn’t believed in it, but my brother sure had. He was 18 when he got the tattoo. I thought he had wasted his money. Our mother offered to pay for the laser removal, but he refused her.
A fact I am ever so glad for now.
When he got together with his highschool sweetheart, I thought it would never work. It never does. I myself had and lost a highschool sweetheart and haven’t really dated since, until my current husband.
Not my brother. He was determined to make it work between them.
She was the same, to the point where I thought maybe, just maybe it would work out.
On their wedding day, it still was not in bloom. He and I had actually talked about it before his bachelor party. “It will,” he had told me. “I promise.”
“It won’t,” I had told him, “Magic is not real.”
When they kissed at the altar, I could feel it. A wave of sheer happiness that seeped into my bones, and when I talked to mother about it a decade later, she had agreed. She hadn’t stopped smiling for days but she put that up to her eldest being married.
He showed me, the following Thanksgiving, that it was fully bloomed.
I called him a liar, saying that he had gotten it re-done or something.
He had smiled this sad, knowing smile at me, and I was infuriated. How dare he mock me with that smile, as if he knew something I didn’t, I remember thinking then.
They were eighty when they died. Days from each other, him and his sweetheart, side by side at the nursing home. They had been sick for a while, having lived with some deadly toxin in their house for a decade before noticing. It devastated us all.
His body, I had noted at the funeral, had a closed flower.
He and his wife returned to life a week later, no older than thirty.
At seventy-five myself, it’s odd to see my brother and his wife younger than their and my children, but it’s no matter. He won.
I believe in magic now.
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My arm itches. It always itches just before dawn. At first, I thought it was my imagination. The aftermath of healing skin from the trauma of getting a tattoo. It was on my wrist, a tiny rose-bud, white in remembrance of the one I loved and lost.
I first noticed the change about 6 months after I got the tattoo. I posted a picture of my new bracelet to Facebook. Shauna pointed it out- "Wow, nice bracelet. When did you update your tat?" "Same as always- haven't even had to touch it up yet. Still as perfect as day one!" Others chimed in, "Wasn't it completely closed before?" I lol'd at them and went about my day. A few weeks later another picture was posted- and the comments started again. This time I posted a side by side- "see it's the SAME as when I got it!"
Only, it wasn't. Some of the petals were ever so slightly curled, as though they were opening. My mind flashes back to what the artist told me, "One day, this rose will bloom and you will see your loved one again." I chalked it up to the guy being slightly crazy. He was a true artist, and aren't artists supposed to be a little crazy?
I went back to see him. Of course I did- the man made a tattoo that was BLOOMING on my wrist. Only his shop was gone. With nothing left but a vague memory of his words I tested a hypothesis, praying I was wrong.
That night, I went out alone, I drank after leaving my drink unattended, I walked through a bad neighborhood on my way home. The next day the bud was noticeably opened, whereas before only a few petals were curled back. The closer I was to death, the more the bloom opened.
That was five years ago. The rose is partially open now. A car accident that knocked me unconscious and left me wheelchair bound caused it to bloom rapidly- they said I screamed in my sleep, grasping my wrist so hard none of the nurses could release my grip without hurting me. Since then, it hasn't moved.
More years pass me by- the bloom remains partially open. I am only forty, but I feel so old now. I have spent my life alone, waiting for the rose to bloom so I could be with my love again. I lost him when we were young and now that I know he is waiting for me, I am ready for it to finish blooming.
There is a knock on my door. As I wheel myself over to it, I peek through the blinds. It is only my neighbor, here to ask me out. Again. This time I acquiesce. The bloom hasn't changed in so long, and I am so alone. What could it hurt to pass the time?
I am surprised at how I connect to him. Surprised at how his company enlivens my life. We decide to take the next step- he is spending the weekend with me and we talk about him moving in. As I fall asleep, I hear him whisper, "I love you." Then as I wake up, just before the dawn, I feel the itching, it begins to burn- the bloom opens all the way in one explosion of pain.
I am still alive. I begin to weep. My love, where are you? My new love opens his eyes and wipes the tears. I realize now this is the love I have been looking for. It wasn't a countdown to my death at all. It opened in the presence of those I could learn to love. Just as this realization and relief washes over me, the world goes dark and there is nothing.
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[WP] The tattoo was of a budding flower. "Someday," he always told me, "It'll bloom."
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It was sold to him by a “gypsy”, he told me. A “witch”, someone who specializes in “special” tattoos. I was never one for such “magic”. I hadn’t believed in it, but my brother sure had. He was 18 when he got the tattoo. I thought he had wasted his money. Our mother offered to pay for the laser removal, but he refused her.
A fact I am ever so glad for now.
When he got together with his highschool sweetheart, I thought it would never work. It never does. I myself had and lost a highschool sweetheart and haven’t really dated since, until my current husband.
Not my brother. He was determined to make it work between them.
She was the same, to the point where I thought maybe, just maybe it would work out.
On their wedding day, it still was not in bloom. He and I had actually talked about it before his bachelor party. “It will,” he had told me. “I promise.”
“It won’t,” I had told him, “Magic is not real.”
When they kissed at the altar, I could feel it. A wave of sheer happiness that seeped into my bones, and when I talked to mother about it a decade later, she had agreed. She hadn’t stopped smiling for days but she put that up to her eldest being married.
He showed me, the following Thanksgiving, that it was fully bloomed.
I called him a liar, saying that he had gotten it re-done or something.
He had smiled this sad, knowing smile at me, and I was infuriated. How dare he mock me with that smile, as if he knew something I didn’t, I remember thinking then.
They were eighty when they died. Days from each other, him and his sweetheart, side by side at the nursing home. They had been sick for a while, having lived with some deadly toxin in their house for a decade before noticing. It devastated us all.
His body, I had noted at the funeral, had a closed flower.
He and his wife returned to life a week later, no older than thirty.
At seventy-five myself, it’s odd to see my brother and his wife younger than their and my children, but it’s no matter. He won.
I believe in magic now.
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He whispered the words with his soft lips hovered above the ink, coming up from a kiss he left on the closed bud. His warm breath sent shivers up my spine and rose goosepimples on my flesh despite the sun sneaking through the sheer curtains dancing across our naked bodies. He seemed to be reassuring himself more than talking to me. I knew what he wanted, still, but I was either unwilling or unable. He nuzzled his head closer still behind my left ear, leaving his toned forearm stretched across my chest cradling my shoulder. "Someday...".
We were a beautiful contrast of angst and intelligence, of sureness and void. He pulled from me the loneliness and I dove into his charisma and charm like a child jumping into a pool on the first day of summer. But even sweet summer freedom had it's faults. Sunburns and mosquito bites were unattractive and uncomfortable.
I turned to my side and let our bodies form into each other, collapsing into rhythm.
As I lay there stroking his headful of black hair, my face burred there smelling the tea tree shampoo that was still dripping in the shower, I felt his breath as he whispered against my skin again, "Someday, It'll bloom." And maybe someday he will be right. I will come out of the shadow I have encased myself in and allow myself to love him openly and embrace happiness.
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[WP] The tattoo was of a budding flower. "Someday," he always told me, "It'll bloom."
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It was sold to him by a “gypsy”, he told me. A “witch”, someone who specializes in “special” tattoos. I was never one for such “magic”. I hadn’t believed in it, but my brother sure had. He was 18 when he got the tattoo. I thought he had wasted his money. Our mother offered to pay for the laser removal, but he refused her.
A fact I am ever so glad for now.
When he got together with his highschool sweetheart, I thought it would never work. It never does. I myself had and lost a highschool sweetheart and haven’t really dated since, until my current husband.
Not my brother. He was determined to make it work between them.
She was the same, to the point where I thought maybe, just maybe it would work out.
On their wedding day, it still was not in bloom. He and I had actually talked about it before his bachelor party. “It will,” he had told me. “I promise.”
“It won’t,” I had told him, “Magic is not real.”
When they kissed at the altar, I could feel it. A wave of sheer happiness that seeped into my bones, and when I talked to mother about it a decade later, she had agreed. She hadn’t stopped smiling for days but she put that up to her eldest being married.
He showed me, the following Thanksgiving, that it was fully bloomed.
I called him a liar, saying that he had gotten it re-done or something.
He had smiled this sad, knowing smile at me, and I was infuriated. How dare he mock me with that smile, as if he knew something I didn’t, I remember thinking then.
They were eighty when they died. Days from each other, him and his sweetheart, side by side at the nursing home. They had been sick for a while, having lived with some deadly toxin in their house for a decade before noticing. It devastated us all.
His body, I had noted at the funeral, had a closed flower.
He and his wife returned to life a week later, no older than thirty.
At seventy-five myself, it’s odd to see my brother and his wife younger than their and my children, but it’s no matter. He won.
I believe in magic now.
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I sit down and order a glass of wine. The bartender pours me a tall glass. The way this week has been I knew I’d be ending it with something much harder. I didn’t notice when he sat next to me.
“Rough week?”
I looked over to see a man sipping his beer and give me a glance. His green eyes grab me. It takes me a second to finally answer.
“Yea… you can say that,” I reply. I take a sip of my wine and hope he takes the hint. I’m not looking for a new friend tonight. He doesn’t.
“That’s a nice tattoo” he says, looking down at my arm.
The worst part of having a tattoo is the constant questions on its significance or meaning.
“Why a budding flower?” he says right on queue.
“A budding flower is innocent. The petals haven’t been ripped off by the expectations and hardships of life,” I reply. Still hoping he gets that I’m in no mood tonight.
The man puts his hand where my tattoo is, “A flower is meant to bloom,” he says in a very calming voice, “When it does, it makes the world that much more beautiful. The world is a garden and it needs its flowers to survive. Without flowers a garden is just weeds and dirt. Life will get better. I know things look bleak now but they will get better Amy.”
How did he know my name? I stare at his sharp green eyes and his dark black hair as he gets up. He kisses me on the forehead and I sit there in a sort of confusion.
“Someday,” he says, ”It’ll bloom”
He lets go of my arm and walks out the door. I look back down at my arm and I feel my heart skip a beat.
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[WP] You're a fake hitman on the Deep Web. Instead of killing your targets you inform them that someone is planning to kill them. When you find your next target and tell them about the plot to end their life they reply, "I know. I ordered the hit"
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“Come with me if you want to live.” Sam’s favorite part of the job was delivering that line.
She was addressing a small, dark-haired man wearing a best buy uniform. The only remarkable thing about him was a familiar neck tattoo of a bloody lamb. He was walking his bike on a sidewalk next to a busy road, and she had come up behind him to speak.
He eyed Sam, searching for recognition. She was light-skinned, with snakebite piercings and a luxurious black sew-in that extended halfway down her back. Her outfit was a more generic version of his - khakis and a blue collared shirt without the logo.
“Uh, hey. How’s it going?” Sam often received standard responses to nonstandard conversation starters. People assumed they had misheard her or focused more on the fact that she was talking to them than what she was saying.
“They want to kiiiiiillll you,” she said, giving him a crazy grin.
Dark Hair got on his bike.
“Okay, that’s enough fucking around. Federal agent.” She flashed her badge. “You’ve been targeted by cyberterrorists, and cordially invited to join the witness protection program.”
He got off his bike. Then examined the badge, as if he knew what an FBI agent’s badge looked like and would be able to spot a fake.
“Well. Shit.”
Three hours later, a street full of people witnessed Dark Hair, real name Thomas Grayson, being pushed in front of a bus. There was a horrible crash, a splatter of blood, and a convincing body too mangled for anyone to stomach examining closely.
“Case closed,” Sam told her boss over the phone. He made impressed noises.
“That was quick. You got the request, what, two days ago?”
“We’ve certainly been getting a lot of practice lately. I didn’t expect action like this in Utah.”
“I don’t intend on assigning more agents, if that’s what you’re asking. You’re doing a great job.”
“No, that’s not it. Has he made any errors yet?”
The Deep Web had an undeserved reputation for untraceable transactions. It was possible, with the right timing and being connected in the right location, to spot the origin of a transmission. Sometimes this required luck, like if a proxy went through a country that could be more easily persuaded to cooperate. Another possibility was low user frequency. If you were the only computer accessing the deep web within fifty miles, it was enough for a search warrant. Most of the time it was human error. But the latest assassin customer was absolutely flawless.
They didn’t even have a motive to go on. His intended victims were innocents, and the only thing they had in common were their tattoos. Sam had tried to follow up on that, but all of the victims had said only that they had had them as long as they could remember.
Sam’s phone buzzed. Payment had arrived for the latest “kill”, and with it a new email.
It read only “Last one,” and had an attachment of the target’s driver’s license.
All of the victims so far had been white, and in their early twenties. This man was 80. Different was good. Different was a new potential clue. But “Last one” bothered her. If he didn’t make any mistakes this time, he would have gotten away with assassination. Or believed that he did, which wasn’t much better to her.
This was her last chance.
Sam moved slowly, trembling with each step. She groaned loudly and inched her walker forward.
“Ohhhh! Oh my hip.” Sam was wearing a short, white and curly wig, and had made up her face with age lines.
“Ohhhh! There’s a storm coming, I feel it in my bones,” she whined in her fake old voice.
Her tour guide rolled her eyes. Without trying to hide it, even. Sam thought that was rude to her hypothetically old self and resolved not to come back in forty years or so.
“This is our cafeteria.”
“This is our workout room.”
“These are some empty suites.”
Sam moaned and groaned about new fangled technology and how much better bread was before they sliced it all the way through the tour. She barely paid attention to the conversation, since she was busy keeping an eye out for Mr. Anderson.
“These are our deluxe assisted living suites, with round the clock medical care.”
There. In a bed and covered in tubes. It looked like a hospital room, with a transparent glass window in front, tiled floors, and a TV in the corner of the ceiling.
Sheesh, they were paying her for this when they could just wait a year.
“Ohhhh my, is that my old friend Harry Truman! I simply must go and speak to him.” The tour guide grunted and walked away, rubbing her temples.
Sam ditched her walker and went over to Anderson.
He noticed her sudden shift, and smiled wide.
“Well, well, well. Did you bring anything with you, or am I going to have to let you borrow one of my pillows?” His old person voice was far better than hers, having had nearly a century to practice it.
Sam was unable to hold back her surprised look. Different. Different was good. He knew she was coming. Maybe he knew why.
“Who is it that wants to kill you?” she said frankly, and in her normal voice.
“My nurse, my children, my grandchildren, my ex-business partners, a good number of political lobbyists, and Rosemary from down the hall wants me to kick it already so she can get my spot. Oh, and I do. That last one is why you’re here, I imagine.”
She was tempted not to believe him. The number of octogenarians cybercrime arrested quarterly was zero. Quarterly, yearly, ever.
“What username do I use when you contact me?”
“MGKgunner. And mine is silversurfer66,” he said confidently. She noticed his fine silver hair, thinning on top but carpeting his arms. Up close, he didn’t look as weak as he appeared from the hallway. He was tall, with an aura of strength despite the tubing.
“Why do you want to die?” Sam regretted not being miked for this. It was supposed to be a simple warning mission, with the extraction done later. She hadn’t imagined she’d be facing a confession. With any luck, their medical rooms would be recorded.
“Oh, this body may pass on. But I won’t die.” His voice deepened, and Sam was unable to break eye contact. Sharp white light edged his face, seemingly without a source. Beyond the edges of the light, she saw another face, belonging to something vast. It looked at her through Anderson’s eyes. Expectantly.
“I spent forty years preparing sacrifices for this day, and only engaged your services when I became unable to lay them on the altar. I confess, I did not bring you here to kill me, but to serve as a witness. I’ve kept this secret for so long. You have no idea how liberating it is to know everything is about to pay off.” His voice fell to a whisper, then silence, and yet continued. Sam could feel the knowledge forcing itself into her mind, a sense of profound, delayed satisfaction.
Sam tried to tear her eyes away from Anderson’s, and the being within them bared rows of teeth.
“The lambs are dead. The beast is fed. And the corpse becomes the gateway.”
“I have some bad news for you,” Sam forced out.
“Speak quickly, this body has moments remaining.” This time, the other’s lips moved. It took a step forward, eclipsing the old man.
“Your sacrifices are sacri-fine.” She had never been more proud of herself.
“What?” It took another step forward, and slammed against a barrier. The white light was beginning to dim, and Anderson didn’t look so good. “No! I won’t go back!”
A loud beeping sounded as Anderson’s heart rate flatlined. The unnatural force leeched out of the room, but Sam was still locked on the old man’s eyes.
“Take the book,” he spoke. “Please. Finish my work.”
“Please.” His breath went out of him for the last time, and she could move again. Alarms were going off. Sam’s body moved by instinct. She moved to a dresser drawer and opened the one second from the bottom, taking out a thick leather-bound tome. She tucked it under her arm and moved quickly and carefully to the exit.
Once outside, she examined the book. It was titled “Hark the Herald”, and seemed to be cult paraphernalia. It gave detailed instructions on how to mark babies, and sacrifice them after reaching adulthood, in a ritual designed to release an Angel of Light. The Angel had many incredible powers, and the book promised that releasing it would mean all those powers were at the disposal of the one who carried out the ritual.
Sam’s arm lifted, and she dialed her boss’s number.
“I need to talk to all the victims, interview them again. I think I may have found something crucial,” her voice spoke.
“We can set that up. Is Anderson ready for extraction?”
“He had a heart attack when I told him. I guess the guy got what he paid for this time.” She laughed.
“Mhmm. Sorry to hear that.”
“Just set up the victim talks.” Sam hung up. She whistled cheerfully as she walked to her car, and any bystander would have seen a sharp white light coming from her face.
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Perhaps I prefer to not kill those who pay me to kill them. It's just too much work and planning. So I tell my potential victim that someone is trying to kill them. And I give them the name...of a person that I'm also hired to kill. So potential victim tracks down and kills the second person. And then I tell my NEXT assignment that the first potential victim is out to kill him; which leads my assignment to kill that first person. It's pretty easy once I got started. Almost a Ponzi scheme.
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[WP] You have lost the ability to be wrong, you find out in the worst possible way.
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"I don't know, everyone seems a little too dismissive of the tensions between the U.S. and North Korea. This seems very real to me, more so than I think even the president realizes." Liam said, sitting in his dorm with a few friends of varying views and knowledge on this matter. This was the first time he had mentioned this, that he thought this should be taken very seriously.
"Oh c'mon Liam, it's not like the U.S. military isn't taking it seriously, even if you don't think Trump really appreciates what's going on," his friend Margot said. She is definitely smart, the kind of person who you typically listen to.
"Yea man, they'll shoot that shit down in a second, pftpftpftpftpft" Kyle said, making shooting gestures and noises, "and even if that dude was crazy enough to try it, Trump doesn't take any shit, which means BAD news for North Korea." Kyle's points were much more debatable.
"Look, I get all that, I really do. But I think this is exactly the problem, we feel like under no circumstances will it actually happen, and that is a weakness. Not thinking we are vulnerable is our biggest vulnerability. And I think they will attack, with nukes, and that some will land."
They told him he was being dramatic, watching too much news, and, of course, not too worry about it, but Liam was not swayed at all.
The semester rolled on, and Liam, always a good student, seemed to be doing exceptionally well. Actually, when he thought about it, he may damn well have been doing perfectly.
"Wait," he thought, "have I gotten even one question wrong all semester?" He couldn't remember one, and sure enough he could not find a single assignment with any points taken off. He definitely wasn't working harder, and even felt more distracted than usual.
"Maybe I was working too hard before," he joked, when his friends pointed out his absurd scholastic performance. It was definitely weird, but he attributed it too some easy classes and his general aptitude.
"We'll see what happen when finals roll around, if you haven't accepted a MacArthur Grant by then," Margot teased. She was always nice, but couldn't fully hide her irritation at being outperformed. She wasn't doing much worse, of course, but Liam just couldn't get anything wrong. Even Margot had to settle for 90s and 95s from time to time.
School started boring Liam a bit. No matter how much he worked, or didn't, he always got the perfect score. Liam had some money saved from his summer jobs, but hated not having an income and having to pinch pennies as a result. Since it appeared he could sacrifice some time from his schoolwork, he started thinking of some other ways to make money. As a guy who loved football and felt he understood the game well, he decided he would start to wager on some games. Kyle knew a another student who would take anyone's bet and, somehow, always paid out. At first his strategy was start with a small bet, say $100, and then build from there after a couple of wins. But when it came time to place the bet, something told him that was the wrong move. Liam opened the banking app on his phone, and the balance showed $1056.21.
"Is it ok if I wager $1056?" Liam asked the bookie, which caused Kyle to start cackling.
"What is up with you man?" Kyle asked, still laughing a little. It was clear from his expression the bookie was not expecting this either. He wasn't laughing, but he seemed pretty happy about a first time bettor risking so much.
"That depends on whether or not you have that much money, but if you do, yes, I will take it... The bet I mean, of course, not your money." The bookie said, smiling at Liam.
"You'll take it if I lose." Liam was, once again, not wrong.
Liam didn't lose. Not for 3 weeks, at which point he had made $8000, and was really beginning to think he could predict any game. The bookie came up to him, seemingly distraught, and quite aggressively accused him of cheating, demanding money back, and threatening him with physical harm. Liam managed to calm him down, saying he just really understood football and it probably would't last. The bookie kept taking Liam's bets, but he knew he had to make some adjustments if he was going to make it to the end of football season. He started moving around the spreads, based on Liam's picks, and luckily for the bookie, a lot of people picked opposite of Liam, expecting his "luck" to run out.
Liam picked every game correctly, even foretelling the exact final scores. People would ask what his reasoning was, and while he usually gave some fluff-filled answer, he really didn't know. In his mind, he felt as though he simply lost the ability to be wrong. It seemed silly, but he doubted he was wrong about that, since he wasn't about anything else.
Finals rolled around and Liam aced everything. On the last day of the semester, he sat in his dorm with a few friends, as he so often did, and listened to them suggest he was paying teachers off, or that he was creating fake tests and that his real grades were lower. He tried to explain that he hasn't been wrong about anything all semester, school or otherwise, even when he doesn't understand his decisions fully.
"Actually, Liam," Kyle said, "you were wrong about one thing. Remember you said the nuclear threat from North Korea needed to be taken more seriously, and that we were 'weak' or something like that? Well its been months and not only has nothing happened, but there hasn't been much hostility at all. Certainly seems like you were wrong there."
Liam was inclined to agree, and all at once felt silly for thinking he couldn't be wrong about anything.
"You know what Kyle, you've got a point there," Liam said with a chuckle.
"Yea and you were also wrong about not being wrong all semester, so now we're up to two things," Margot pointed out, savvy as ever.
Liam was relieved to be back home for the holidays, though it was the certainly the least stressful semester of school in his life. He was happy to be home and relaxing with family, and had forgotten entirely about his silly "can't be wrong" theory, save for when his family praised his grades.
"Honestly, I doubt I'll ever do that well again. This one might be a fluke, so brace yourselves for next semester," Liam said with a smirk. His mother didn't like the joke, but everyone else laughed.
It was quite cold this year, even for late December. Liam grew up on the east coast, but never seemed to grow accustomed to winter. His family had travel plans later in the weak, and everyone was concerned about the weather, so they turned on the news to check out the forecast. Liam had a feeling it would get a little warmer, but chalked it up to optimism.
"I know we are all freezing now," the weatherman said, "but in just a couple of days we will have a little more sunshine and temps in the high 30s and 40s."
"Damn, I was right," Liam thought. He still didn't really think he was literally always right, but he still wasn't getting anything wrong. Then, the weather report cut out...
BREAKING NEWS flashes across the screen. A very somber news anchor explains the U.S. is under attack.
"We have just received word that North Korea has fired two missiles at Guam, believed to be nuclear weapons. The U.S. military will be utilizing all resources available to prevent these missiles from hitting Guam and to minimize any potential damage. We are not aware of any counterattack at this time."
Liam's family gasped, almost collectively. Some cried, others yelled and called for war. But Liam just stood there, frozen solid with fear that he was right about everything. His body tingled, and he eventually had to sit down because he felt so numb.
Liam had explained to his friends that he thought we were more vulnerable than most people think, and that we would eventually be attacked. Though that was not the full extent of what he believed would happen. It was too hyperbolic to say in that context, but he suspected that not only would the nuclear attack not be stopped, but that it would nearly destroy the U.S., and that we would never fully recover from it.
Liam was shaking and clammy. He stayed in the same spot on the couch glued to the coverage of the event. The U.S. military had shot down the first two missiles, and mobilized to defend Guam, but there were reports of more missiles and this time it would be Guam and Hawaii. The U.S. continued to dispatch ships and jets to counter all these attacks, and as the time passed it seemed like we were prepared after all.
Liam was so relieved. By the late evening, the media was reporting a total of 10 missiles were fired and all were intercepted. There were concerns about how many missiles North Korea had, but some speculated that they shot them all in a desperate attempt to actually do some damage to us. Liam wanted to believe that, but found it very hard to do so.
Still, very late in the evening, so late that even the most concerned found themselves feeling sleepy, it seemed there would be no more attacks, at least not immediately. Liam believed he was wrong, which allowed him to relax and almost immediately pass out, though he was still on the couch, and the news was still on.
In the middle of the night, when most people encounter their worst fears in their dreams, Liam woke up to a nightmare.
Twenty more nukes, fired at the west cost of the United States, of which the press estimated "maybe half were shot down." It was complete destruction, no one needed the details to understand the impact this would have. America had fallen.
Liam did not want to be right, but he was. He was right about everything.
Edit: Had to fix a sentence.
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The first tear streaming down her face was blood-curling but when the rest of the storm began to pour down her face, my heart was torn into shreds. The makeup she spent the previous hour working on giddy with a light heart ruined within seconds. She tried to cover with her delicate hands as she always had. She slowly aged down year by year until she was a bawling toddler again. "I'm sorry." The words that finally broke their silence.
Dizzy. Why was I beginning to feel so dizzy? I stretched an arm slightly out to her but the rest of my body couldn't budge. It was as if I so much as shuffled my feet, I'd collapse and break down. Catching my breath was suddenly so difficult. It's just breathing. Breath in, breath out. Breath in, breath out. Breath in, breath out. Simple. Yet, concentrating so hard on this basic task was only making it harder. My mouth was now open, heaving for what my nose couldn't grasp, and unwittingly my stretched arm balancing me against the wall.
"You're right." The separation between four words was mere seconds yet felt centuries apart almost as if I was getting sucked into a black hole and time had stopped making sense. No, no, no I should not have done that. *I* am the one who is wrong. I am! "I'm so stupid." No, you're brilliant, resourceful, perfect in every way, the source of my laughter, the source of so much of my joy. And so brave and confident. Will she be around me ever again?
Those shreds of my heart are now being stomped on until not even the human eye could make them out. "I'll get changed, daddy." Then she ran away from him. Stop, please stop, come back. All along the words were there yet he couldn't find a way to say them. He heard the door shut and it would be the last he'd see of her that night.
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(I'm new here and this is my first attempt at writing anything. I hope I stuck close to the prompt.)
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[WP] You have lost the ability to be wrong, you find out in the worst possible way.
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The man knelt next to the grave, tears dried on his face.
&nbsp;
*Elizabeth Joan Clifford*
*June 15 1993 - December 22 2018*
&nbsp;
"Oh baby girl. My sweet Lizzy" The words barely came out as he choked back another fit of sobbing.
&nbsp;
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13 Months Ago
-----------------
&nbsp;
"Thank God they're gone, sometimes they're a bit much." Elizabeth said as she closed the door.
"Baby girl, she's your sister, and she's not that bad." The man said from the recliner in the living room.
"I know daddy, I like having them over, especially for thanksgiving. Sometimes the kids are a bit crazy though." Elizabeth said as she crossed the room.
"Hahaha, well you're right about that!" He chuckled.
"Oh man, I have a bit of a headache actually. I'm going to take some Advil."
"It's probably a brain tumor!" He yelled with a bit laugh. "You millennials, if you google it, that's what that internet thing will tell you isn't it?"
"Come on daddy, it isn't that bad. Usually it's pretty good with symptoms. It's just that WebMD site that's bad." She said while counting out 3 pills and swallowing them with water. "When do you want a ride home?"
"Whenever you want Lizzy, I'm in no rush"
"Okay daddy, you up for finishing the hockey game?"
"Sounds perfect baby girl"
&nbsp;
---------------
&nbsp;
"If only I known then Lizzy... I wouldn't have made that joke. I know you forgave me for it..." He choked, fresh tears streaming down his face. "But I'll never forgive myself."
&nbsp;
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This was a bit more of a personal one, but I hope you enjoyed and feel free to give feedback. Thanks for reading.
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The first tear streaming down her face was blood-curling but when the rest of the storm began to pour down her face, my heart was torn into shreds. The makeup she spent the previous hour working on giddy with a light heart ruined within seconds. She tried to cover with her delicate hands as she always had. She slowly aged down year by year until she was a bawling toddler again. "I'm sorry." The words that finally broke their silence.
Dizzy. Why was I beginning to feel so dizzy? I stretched an arm slightly out to her but the rest of my body couldn't budge. It was as if I so much as shuffled my feet, I'd collapse and break down. Catching my breath was suddenly so difficult. It's just breathing. Breath in, breath out. Breath in, breath out. Breath in, breath out. Simple. Yet, concentrating so hard on this basic task was only making it harder. My mouth was now open, heaving for what my nose couldn't grasp, and unwittingly my stretched arm balancing me against the wall.
"You're right." The separation between four words was mere seconds yet felt centuries apart almost as if I was getting sucked into a black hole and time had stopped making sense. No, no, no I should not have done that. *I* am the one who is wrong. I am! "I'm so stupid." No, you're brilliant, resourceful, perfect in every way, the source of my laughter, the source of so much of my joy. And so brave and confident. Will she be around me ever again?
Those shreds of my heart are now being stomped on until not even the human eye could make them out. "I'll get changed, daddy." Then she ran away from him. Stop, please stop, come back. All along the words were there yet he couldn't find a way to say them. He heard the door shut and it would be the last he'd see of her that night.
---
(I'm new here and this is my first attempt at writing anything. I hope I stuck close to the prompt.)
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[WP] It is the year 2021. Humankind receives its first interterestial message - by humans. "This is Atlantis calling Earth. We detected life forms. Did anybody down there survive the apocalypse?"
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“This is Atlantis calling Earth. We detected life forms. Did anybody down there survive the apocalypse?” a smooth voiced man echoed through every speaker on our tiny planet. For a few moments, the entire world stopped. Everyone looked up, sat upright in bed, and listened in sudden shocked confusion. The broadcast aired loudly on every speaker, radio, earbud, and intercom. For a second all was still and quiet, all of us wondering what had so randomly occurred. And then he spoke again, “This is Atlantis. Come in Earth, is there life down there?”
Assuming the man was looking ‘down’ on us, we all slowly… looked up. As if there had been an invisibility switch suddenly turned off, the space crafts appeared. Hundreds of them, then thousands. Some were large and intimidating, while others were small – but all of them looked exactly the same, sleek, sophisticated, and strikingly futuristic. The world had seen nothing like it, until we met the Atlantians.
Inside and out, the Atlantians were superior to our ‘survivor race.’ They looked like us, except all of them were taller, healthier, more toned and muscled. Their skin was pale, but flawless and their hair was fair and long. Their culture was accepting and diverse. These people had never known war, famine, or injustice. Atlantians were vastly more intelligent than we left behind.
Being superior beings, the Atlantians had predicted the typhoon seas, hurricanes, and volcanic eruptions that although would not destroy the planet – would alter it in an unlivable and unsustainable way. Knowing they could not stay, their scientists built a mothership for exporting citizens off the doomed planet. In the rush to build it, the ship was made smaller – to carry only half of the civilization – and would make two trips to export the entire population. The groups were divided by three categories: intelligence, strength, and appearance. Those who scored higher in all three categories would be on the first flight. These would seek a new home for the rest, claim it, and return for the rest.
After looking for them in the wrong place all this time, here they were. The Atlantians, here to save us – to transport us home to our rightful planet. It was described as a utopia, images of it showed immaculate homes, lush but purposeful infrastructure, and stunning natural parks, waterfalls, and oceans. There was no such thing as pollution on Atlantis, and the sun shined all year. Disease and sickness had never been felt. We thanked God we had been saved – the saviors were here to take us home, as they had promised all along.
But these people were not our saviors, among other things..we call them deserters now. Once realizing that their predictions about the planet had come true – not because of sheer nature – but instead because our self-inflicted destruction, ozone depletion, racism, inequality, and disease - among many other reasons. The Atlantians left faster than they arrived. Leaving the other half on a doomed planet again, and this time forever.
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It had been a normal day. I woke up two hours before my alarm to worry about having to go to work that day. Just like every other day. Then came my crying fit, right on time. Goody, another day of swollen eyes and forced positivity as I tried to suffer through the day, I thought to myself as I obsessively scrubbed at my face. The dark circles under my eyes kept turning a deeper blue every time I looked at them. Or so it seemed, anyway. My orange tabby, Morty, swirled around my feet, mewing at me every so often to let me know he was put off by my ignoring him. I ran my fingers through my lack luster brown hair, thinking about how badly I needed a cut when he suddenly perked up and puffed up. You know, when the cat gets spooked and their hair stands on end. Like that. Well, he stood there with his back all arched looking intently at the window. He took off toward the backdoor without a backwards glance, hissing the whole way. I brushed off his weird behavior thinking that he probably ate some food off the counter and had an upset stomach. That's when it happened. When America and the world ended.
I heard Morty yelling at the backdoor as if he was in terrible pain and irritatedly stalked out to see what he was screaming about. I found him at the back door, staring hard out the window and squatted down to comfort him but my hand never touched him. I heard a far off boom before the building shuttered and the windows shattered. The electricity cut out with a zap and glass and dry wall littered the ground. My shelves fell from the walls and my bookshelf toppled, spilling it's contents everywhere. Destruction. I panicked and ran to the bedroom just as the door blasted open and my boyfriend came running out, naked and terrified. He grabbed my shoulders and pulled me close. That's the last thing I remember from that day. I'm told what followed was mass chaos, a shit storm. It doesn't take long for people to become animals.
We learned that we had been bombed. We still don't know by whom because their plan backfired and they effectively ruined the world, blowing us and everyone else to smithereens. At least thats what we think. We have no internet, no way to communicate with the rest of the world. We don't know how they fared, who all is left. Who is out there that can save us. That was until today.
After the bombing, everything fell apart as you can imagine. There were murders over the food remaining in the grocery stores. People starved on the streets, their dead bodies piled on one another as if someone came by and shoved them all off to the side to clear the way. Some were merely bones at this point, scavenged by the animals and few humans desperate enough to cannibalize. Money become obsolete, trade and skill became the backbone of society. Now, things have calmed. It's been a few years and we seem to have reached a status quo. We've learned to grow what we can and to foster the repopulation of what species did survive. Things were really hard for a long time. But they feel okay now. Sometimes better. I don't worry about the things I used to. I have bigger things to focus on rather than a promotion at work or that new car. Like my well being. Anywho, my boyfriend and I had fallen into new rolls. He helped build shelters with what rubble was left and I tended to the garden. Something I had dreamed about doing for a living had been thrust on me in such unusual circumstances.
Like most of my days, I was pulling weeds. I wanted more than anything to be a part of the harvest team but they needed me here, pulling weeds. During the end of the world. How weird. In the center of town, some of the smarties had set up a radio to try and catch stray waves of anyone else who might be out there. I don't know about everyone else but I never had any hope that it would actually work. Ever. But today, as I'm knuckle deep in soil, a message was played across the loud speakers: "Urgent: townhall commencing in 15 minutes. Please report." Now, this in itself wasn't distinctly odd or out of the norm. We sometimes dealt with rule breakers this was, the worst offenders anyway. There were certain lines you didn't cross and sometimes we felt justice best served from the entire community. In the form of stones. But today wasn't a stoning. Everyone seemed a bit nervous as they filled the hall and took their seats. The smarties in charge of the radio were huddled in front of everyone, whispering and wildly gesturing with their hands. I found Todd, the boyfriend I mentioned, across the sea of heads and made my way toward his comfort. I was getting a bit jumpy myself with everyone so full of energy. He stroked my hand with his thumb and we sat down to receive whatever it was they had for us. Up in front, the head smarty took the podium and projected his voice across the room.
"I'll just get right to it. We aren't here because of of a crime, people. Something more serious has occurred..." his silence drew on as he eyes the crowd. A small smile crept onto his face and be proclaimed, "We've been contacted! We aren't alone." And a different voice suddenly rang out over the loud system, "This is Atlantis calling Earth. Did anybody down there survive the apocalypse?" And the room erupted.
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[WP] It is the year 2021. Humankind receives its first interterestial message - by humans. "This is Atlantis calling Earth. We detected life forms. Did anybody down there survive the apocalypse?"
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“This is Atlantis calling Earth. We detected life forms. Did anybody down there survive the apocalypse?” a smooth voiced man echoed through every speaker on our tiny planet. For a few moments, the entire world stopped. Everyone looked up, sat upright in bed, and listened in sudden shocked confusion. The broadcast aired loudly on every speaker, radio, earbud, and intercom. For a second all was still and quiet, all of us wondering what had so randomly occurred. And then he spoke again, “This is Atlantis. Come in Earth, is there life down there?”
Assuming the man was looking ‘down’ on us, we all slowly… looked up. As if there had been an invisibility switch suddenly turned off, the space crafts appeared. Hundreds of them, then thousands. Some were large and intimidating, while others were small – but all of them looked exactly the same, sleek, sophisticated, and strikingly futuristic. The world had seen nothing like it, until we met the Atlantians.
Inside and out, the Atlantians were superior to our ‘survivor race.’ They looked like us, except all of them were taller, healthier, more toned and muscled. Their skin was pale, but flawless and their hair was fair and long. Their culture was accepting and diverse. These people had never known war, famine, or injustice. Atlantians were vastly more intelligent than we left behind.
Being superior beings, the Atlantians had predicted the typhoon seas, hurricanes, and volcanic eruptions that although would not destroy the planet – would alter it in an unlivable and unsustainable way. Knowing they could not stay, their scientists built a mothership for exporting citizens off the doomed planet. In the rush to build it, the ship was made smaller – to carry only half of the civilization – and would make two trips to export the entire population. The groups were divided by three categories: intelligence, strength, and appearance. Those who scored higher in all three categories would be on the first flight. These would seek a new home for the rest, claim it, and return for the rest.
After looking for them in the wrong place all this time, here they were. The Atlantians, here to save us – to transport us home to our rightful planet. It was described as a utopia, images of it showed immaculate homes, lush but purposeful infrastructure, and stunning natural parks, waterfalls, and oceans. There was no such thing as pollution on Atlantis, and the sun shined all year. Disease and sickness had never been felt. We thanked God we had been saved – the saviors were here to take us home, as they had promised all along.
But these people were not our saviors, among other things..we call them deserters now. Once realizing that their predictions about the planet had come true – not because of sheer nature – but instead because our self-inflicted destruction, ozone depletion, racism, inequality, and disease - among many other reasons. The Atlantians left faster than they arrived. Leaving the other half on a doomed planet again, and this time forever.
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I awoke on my makeshift straw bed. Mother had given it to me before the Great Snow. Nature had sought its revenge for the sins of humanity. Earth had turned against us after fantastic technology rained nuclear bombs from the sky. I watched the surface from the monitor installed on one of the four concrete walls of my bedroom. My underground home was luckily powered by the tides and heated by the warmth of the earth. That hadn't kept my parents from dying though. Without them, all I could do is play on my computer and listen to my radio. Father had rebuilt both of them for me before the food had run out. He said that he would try to give me a good life despite what had happened on the surface. I loved him and my mother. My mother was an artist, and tried to archive all the classics for me to enjoy in her absence. I suddenly felt like getting out of bed and stretching. No point in ruminating over the past. I got up and headed over to my radio to listen to the old early 00s dance-pop music I loved so much. To my surprise, I heard a fuzzy message instead. "This is Atlantis calling Earth. We detected life forms. Did anybody down there survive the apocalypse?" I rushed to my computer. Remembering my Father's last words, I ran the program created to respond to human survivors seeking to communicate with me. "This is Emily. A sentient droid created by Dr. Cher and Maxie Franklin. She hears your message. She survives."
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[WP] You are Captain Hook, and you have scoured the Seven Seas to put an end to the immortal, child-stealing demon known as Peter Pan. After years of searching, you finally set foot on the shores of Neverland.
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“Where do we stand?” I asked, my eye not parting from the telescope.
“Sir, the first scouting party was attacked on the way back. They think the Lost Boys found their tracks and set an ambush. We lost Nedry and two are wounded.” Smee reported.
“I shouldn’t have sent them out so lightly armed,” I growled. My beard was damp and it pissed me off. Not as much as the terrorist Peter Pan but almost. “Smee, when we land we will be carrying all the firepower I could comiison.”
“Yes, captain. And what of the Indians, sir?”
I lowered the telecope. Marrooner’s Rock and the Indian camp looked deserted. “Intel suggests Peter and the Indians are not on the best terms. Ideally I’d bombard this island and everything that lives here, but we may need them. Seems like Peter was expecting us.”
“Sir, is it true he can fly?” Smee asked nerviously. It was legend that Peter Pan flew into childrens’ rooms and kidnapped them. Sometimes windows were broken or locks picked. Parents never saw him, but fortunately we had a small collection of clothing scraps gathered from some of the crime scenes.
“Unknown. That’s why I ordered blunderbusses from Boss & Co and derrginers from Westley Richards. I don’t care if he moves by dancing ballet. The bloodhounds: status.”
“Fed and watered, sir, and dealing with the motions of the ship a hell of a lot better than we expected,” Smee answered. “Um, sir, it’s very likely we’ll lose one or both of them…”
“Smee, these dogs are the only living creatures that have successfully chased off the bastard. Chased him off from Buck-Fuckingham Palace! The King doesn’t give a shit what happens as long as we bring him Pan’s head. God knows how many problems would be fixed if his children were always threatened!”
This was the most extroardinary, anticipated expedition of my life. The fucker, Pan, who had cut my hand off and fed it to a fucking crocodile. The little fucking twerp who had sunk my career and nearly done the same to my ship. And now I was back, back on his home turf, his faggotass fairy island, ready to dole out the pain.
Pan was a specter over London these past months. He’d long been a legend, born from the lips of children who supposedly couldn’t fly with him back to Neverland. It was dismissed, until the dissapearanced increased, and Sherlock Holmes himself had admitted the possibility was “improbable beyond reason and intriguing beyond belief.” Mycroft Holmes had put the English war machine into motion, and knew I was the only man for the job. With three dozen men, my ship frshly overhauled, and an armory to rival the latest warship.
“Will you tell me now about the name, Sir?” Smee asked.
“If this goes south on us, the Crown needs deniability. Hence the masquarade,” I explained, flipping the telescope closed. “Smee, we have orders to take Pan out with extreme prejudice. I was told that the children’s safety is our second priority.”
“Holy shit.”
“Indeed. The Jolly Roger sails for blood.” I could feel that faint vibration of excitement in my limbs, that feeling of years and years of anger finally morphing into something useful. I had spent countless nights awake, replaying the encounter, trying to understand the thing I was facing.
We didn’t know much about Peter Pan. We didn’t know where he came from or his real name. Children described him as about twelve with brown hair and boyish, attractive features. He clearly was wellspoken enough to trick children, and whatever he did with them was a mystery. Allegedly he indoctrinated them into his militant organization, the Lost Boys, which after today I knew to be very real indeed. They said he could fly, though by what means I could not fathom. He’d been engaged in combat only once, the night he tried to take the royal children. Bullets emptied into the darkness, nothing more.
“What I wouldn’t give to have Quartermain with us,” I moaned. Alan Quartermain was the best marksman in England, the sharpest shot with an elephant gun that anyone had ever seen. He was also old and nearly choked on laughter when I tried to explain Neverland. Supposedly it took faith to cross the dimensional barrier, and only a man with the rage of a lost hand had enough of it to pull a ship through. I would have my due and more before I sailed for home.
Neverland was a strange place. The island itself was fairly standard, with slopes and forests and streams. The inhabitants could not be regarded similarly. Mermaids had been spotted in the lagoon, but any seaman worth his salt knew better than to chase them. The Indians appeared to be normal people, but a redskin could fight with the force of two British infantry when enraged. I was glad to have the latest innovations from the Empire’s gunsmiths locked away.
My ship was a standard schooner, on the smaller side with oversized sails to haul the armor plating nailed to the side. Breech loading cannons, designed originally for the HMS Thunder, lined the port and starboard sides, ready to be loaded with explosive ordinance.
“Smee,” I said as we entered my luxurious cabin. I’d embezzled some of the funds and decked out the belowdecks like a fiend. I poured us tumblers of 1889 single-malt and briefed my first mate.
“We’ll use mirrors first, flags if we have to, smoke signals if that fails. Make sure every man knows the codes and double-check any order to open fire. The sharpshooters go right where we planned. The expeditionary force will follow the scent as far as we can, hopefully to Pan’s lair. We’ll be ready for an attack en route. Based on this island, I’m sure it’s true that he can fly, and maybe the children he’s corrupted can as well. So, keep the best men in the center of the group so they have time to engage airborne threats.” I had the entire championship skeet shooting team among my ranks, just in case the flight tosh was legitimate. I had no qualms about shooting some spoiled tyke right out of the sky.
“Understood, sir.”
“Brief them. Remind them of the reward.” I dismissed him and sat back to sip on my drink. I meditatively tappped the glass with my hook. I had not yet decided the order in which I would remove Mr. Pan’s bodyparts. I figured I would start with his hand, just to be formal, then work up from his feet. Payback, and interest accrued.
Three hours later, the sun was past its apex and the island beckoned like a sopping cunt, though it would be the Lost Boys gang that would recieve the full brunt of the Empire’s wrath. I was but the delivery mechanism.
We went ashore in longboats, themselves prepped with mounted abus guns and dangling sacks of ammonia in the tropical water. I had never even told Smee the full story about the crocodile, but with the money I made killing Pan, the conclusion to that chapter would be known well enough. I had a bit of a hit-list.
The sand crunched under our feet as we pulled the boats ashore. My demomen, Agnes and Foan, wired mercury explosives to the lead boat in case the Lost Boys wanted to mess with our craft as we tracked them through the island interior. A hefty shove would set them off.
My best gun, Flint, walked next to me as we began. Smee held the leashes of the bloodhounds, who were sick of sitting on a ship with nothing but Pan’s clothing scraps to smell. They practically dragged my first mate off as our assualt group trudged onward into Neverland.
The men were hardened veterans. Some had been privateers like myself. Others wanted to recapture the fun of the army days. Others wanted the glory of ending the Nursury Scourge. Smee was eyeing a cozy mansion with his cut of the reward. I was in it for the knighthood and the sweet satisfaction of watching death glaze Peter Pan’s eyes. I would rip his throat out with the very hook he forced into my life.
We had only gone a few thousand yards when we were hailed. Gun barrels flipped up in a heartbeat, but our attention was called to a single figure dressed in redskin garb.
“Stay alert, this could be a trap,” I ordered, then waved back to the figure. “You there! Who are you!”
“I am Great Big Little Panther,” bellowed the savage. “I have seen your ship, now I have seen you. I invite you peacefully to my camp. Should your weapons be intended for me or my people, at least have the honor to inform me so.”
I pulled Smee and Flint in for a huddle. “This guy could hand us Pan on a platter if we play his cricket.” I adressed my men, “Weapons down but at the ready, chaps.”
As we formed the apperence of soldiers rather than killers, the Chief whsitled loudly. Injuns slowly emerged from behind trees and bushes. They were armed with arrows and blowguns, the same sort of primitive tosh wielded by the Maji. I wondered if these Indians had their own magic water - that had been a triumpant day indeed.
We were whisked to the camp. It was clear the Chief intended us no harm, and I would return the intent as long as we appeared to share the same foe.
“You are here for Pan,” the Chief grunted after we got settled in his teepee. His daughter brought us tea and a pipe, which I turned down. The Chief lit up and regarded us. “I have seen men like you. I have killed men like you, but never have I been the first to lust for blood.”
“If that’s true, we have no quarrel,” I said, coverty eyeing his daughter as she backed out of the tent. She looked like a fantastic bang to this restless captain, but there was still my revenge n’ shit to deal with first.
“I lived peacefully for many moons on this island, and our ancestors for many moons more. Pan has been here long, though to the moon I cannot trace our first encounter. I wished him ill, never, and neither him upon me. But in recent days, he has made advances to my daughter. She refuses to turn him down. I know he wants her in his band of children. She cannot. She is my blood and the next leader of the tribe.”
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The beach is cold underfoot as the ocean spray drifts against the back of my legs. Boots in hand, I moved swiftly up to the tree line and prepared to pull them back on, scanning the shore continually as I did so. The crew was drawing up now, and they were preparing to pick up our little craft and hide it here at our landing. In my gut, however, I knew we were abandoning it, and most likely would not be back this way. If we found Pan and my plan worked, the odds were decent I would escape. If the plan failed, I'd be taking extreme measures.
Ah, but there are perks to being a Pirate Captain. One of them is disposable crew-members. I had picked the cream of the crop and they fell into formation behind me with relatively little noise. Fairly good for men who had so far spent most of their lives on the open deck of a ship. My eyes tracked the shoreline as it stretched north, and then followed the ranging hills west, down to the deep woods.
"Let's go, we've a lot of ground to put behind us." In response, Smee hissed and I rolled my eye. He always wanted to wait behind on the ship. I knew he was the one behind all the mutinies. Keeping me on my toes, really.
"Spread out behind, be quiet, stay low and wait for my signals or I will kill you myself."
It was the eerie hour of day when even the creatures of the night were still. A hallowed time, the thin place that haunts us all when we are here and alone. We made it to the village of the Lost Boys three days after coming ashore, and spent eight days watching them until I knew where to put everyone in position. The fog was a blessing, and as each drop coalesced on the edges of my eyelashes, I whispered prayers to my gods and released them as the drops fell. Strung out around me through the woods in a deadly circle where my six killers. Before us, in the center of a trap I had spent much more than gold and blood making, rested the Pan.
I would cut off the head of the snake and grind him into dust under my heel.
If my plan worked.
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[WP] You are Captain Hook, and you have scoured the Seven Seas to put an end to the immortal, child-stealing demon known as Peter Pan. After years of searching, you finally set foot on the shores of Neverland.
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*I've never posted here before so if its wonky, I apologize.*
The smell of the sea was all Captain Hook has known for as long as he can remember.
He doesn't remember the last time the sounds of waves hitting the boat, the salt in his face, and his crew by his side wasn't the first memories he's had.
That is not to say that those are his only memories. They are far from that. A dull throbbing reminds him of the day this all started. He looked down and saw what had happened that fateful day.
There where a hand should be, instead a hook.
A part of the price he had to pay, to be able to given what he needed to follow Peter Pan to the ends of the world. To track him to his own domain. The only place where Peter Pan is truly vulnerable to death.
Captain Hook's mind flashed back to that day. Watching his Love be killed, the flames, loosing his heart, and having his hand destroyed. Hook's grip tightened on the wheel of the ship. The memories as terrible as the day they happened.
*My love, soon I will have our justice from this monster for taking our heart from us.*
Hook looked out at the ship, seeing his crew of those who have lost their hearts to this monster too. The air thick with anticipation and repressed emotions. Many of his crew want justice for their children, and their families. That were destroyed by Peter Pan.
That said, he looked over to the crew's newest, Miss Wendy Darling, who had joined not to long ago. Lost her brothers to him, and almost herself. If not for Hook's intervention when he did.
Hook holds guilt for not getting there quicker to save her brothers, but saving at least one is better then loosing all 3.
Hook let out a breath, noticing that it has started to show. Temperature drop.
"It has been my honor to be your Captain for this, now get ready! He know's we're here. Keep an eye out! Everything here will kill you without a thought, it's all his mirage!" Hook let out a broken laugh.
A laugh of a man who has been waiting a long time for this.
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"Cap'n, the crew is set for departure!"
"Thank you, Smee." The captain grit his teeth in preparation for a long night of cold sky-sailing. He detested sailing at night on account of the cold. Nevertheless, he knew it must be done. You can only reach Neverland by the light of the stars. He never complained in front of the crew, but Smee knew that the night air caused his captain incredible pain.
"Cap'n, shall I get your medicine for you?"
The captain shook his head as he donned his coat, "Not tonight Smee." He rubbed his good hand over what remained of his other arm. "The pain is a reminder of why I must do this. Why we must put a stop to that monster."
At the captain's prompting, Smee attached the cold hook into the captain's stump. The captain grimaced as the steel clicked into place. "You're ready Cap'n Hook."
The captain grinned in delight as he walked to the door, saying, "I have been waiting to say this for so long." He kicked open the door of his quarters and shouted orders to his crew. "All hands on deck! We set sail for Neverland and the head of the child-napping monster, Peter Pan!"
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[WP] After years of gentile persuasion your best friend since childhood finally agrees to seek professional help for serious mental problems. Much to your dismay, as she begins to improve you slowly start to realize that you are her imaginary friend.
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Rain was knocking on the roof above Mary's head. She leaned against her wardrobe looking into the distant vastness of the woods surrounding her parents' home. Even though I was standing at the door, she seemed lonely, desperate and empty. She did not even turn her head. I still remember the first time we met.
It was a day quite similarly rainy and depressing. We were both five years old and I was crying because I hated water. She came straight to me, gave me a warm smile and whispered silently into my ear: "Do not cry, I'm here for you," while she hugged me. I was a stranger to her. She saw my desperation and started what would become the most important and long-lasting friendship I would ever experience.
We went to school together, played together, went through ups and downs together. We have even gone to college together. But the way Mary is sitting there, soul-crushed and emotionless, breaks my heart as much as hers. She was so pale. I did not know what to do. She was like this for weeks now.
It all started with her ex-boyfriend Steve. She met him on campus. They started dating for three weeks and then things started to get serious. At least that was what Mary thought would happen. While she was obsessively in love with him, he distanced himself increasingly and people saw him flirting with other girl.
Mary's entire life was orbiting around this guy. While she thought him to be this bright shining star, he was nothing but a black hole. He treated her like garbage, used her to fulfill his dark pleasures and Mary went along with it because she was afraid to lose him. He was her first boyfriend. The first male soul to show interest in her that met her (pretty low) standards. Mary never was socially rich. She kept her circle small but fostered it with care and contribution.
I started noticing changes in her appearance, behavior and mood. And I saw him flirting, kissing and taking girls with him after parties. Mary wouldn't listen to me. She didn't listen to anyone. She distanced herself from close friends, then family, then me. My childhood hero and companion screamed at me that I should go to hell. "You don't understand! He's different when we're alone! If you can't stand Steve, I can't have you around! He certainly doesn't like you! He wants you out of my life and I totally get it now! Get the hell outta here!"
She never was one of the most mentally stable people, to be honest. Huge chunks of her teenage years were a little bit like the current situation. She never felt pretty, even though she was the most beautiful girl of them all. She never felt thoughtful, even though she was the most interesting and clever girl in school. She never felt worthy, even though her kind and honest nature deserved deep appreciation. Mary always was close to the dark side. But never like this. She was drugged, heavily underweight, lacked necessary sleep. After she found out about Steve sharing his bed with two of her best friends, the ember of hope within her eyes went out and the darkness that lurked deep beneath the surface overtook.
Her parents didn't even notice. They always were obsessed with their work. In fact, they spent so much time working, they didn't have any left to spend their money on. They always tried to compensate the lack of social interaction with and love for their daughter with expensive gifts that barely ever matched Mary's style or taste.
I was the only person left. She tried to get rid of everyone in her social sphere while the relationship lasted. I was the only one who stuck around. I walked through the door and sat right next to her. "Mary," I said, "You should seek out for help!" At first she didn't seem to hear me, but at some point she responded: "There's no point!" I grabbed her hand and told her: "There might not be a point for you, but please, I beg you! Come with me! I'll take you to somebody who will help you. Somebody who will make things better!" A tear silently left my eye and slowly faded from my cheek into my beard. I stood up. She looked at me and didn't say a word. She didn't need to. Even now she cared about others more than about her broken self. I pulled her hand a little and she surrendered and rose as well.
I walked her to the clinic in the city center. It was quite a walk through the rain from the suburbs. At the counter was a lady. She looked at Mary and knew what was going on. It was hard not to see her misery. "How can I help you, sweety?" she asked in a warmth but worried tone. "My friend brought me here. He wants me to seek for help." The lady raised her eyebrow: "And he left you on your own?" "No," Mary responded, "he's here, right next to me." "Honey, there's nobody next to you..." Mary turned her head and looked me in the eyes, then looked back at the lady. "Are you trying to fool me? Look! I'm holding his hand right now!" But all Mary really raised was her own empty hand shaped like it would be squeezed by another one. "He took me here because I'm depressed, lonely and drugged and I need help," she cried in a steep burst of helplessness and tears.
A doctor came, he tried to calm her, gave her some medication. This was the moment I would forever disappear out of her life. I never noticed until now... I was her imaginary friend. Mary kept me since she was a little girl. I do not exist. She suffered from schizophrenia her entire life. Nobody noticed. Nobody cared.
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“I think you should tell your parents about us Ananya” I said calmy. “We've known each other for three years. I am surprised you haven't introduced us yet.”
“It's not as easy as you're making it sound” she replied. “You know my situation at home. They already don't trust me enough. Dad might understand but mom and Sourav will definitely not. They question everything I do, everywhere I go. Ever since I had to go to the hospital all those years ago.” Ananya looked down at her hands, faint scars still visible on her wrist, reminders of that night.
It was there in that dingy little hospital that we met. I still remember seeing her for the first time. She looked small for her twelve years. Her recent blood loss had made her look pale and shrunken under those blankets. Those first few days, she was kept on high alert. Not even her own parents were allowed in without supervision. And it was there that we made our aquaintance.
Hospitals are notorious for their slow passage of time. We only had each other for company. She told me about her parents' divorce, moving to Mumbai, leaving behind all her friends, and finally, about Sourav, her step father. We developed a close bond during those few days, which only grew as we got older. Even today, we would talk for hours and not realise where the time went.
Ananya told me she had had to get professional help for her depression after this episode. She hated every session and wanted to get out of it. I was suffering from bouts of weakness during that time and wasn't there for her. Something that I still regret. Probably if I had been around, I could have convinced her to continue her sessions. I have been trying to persuade her to go back ever since, but she always resisted, saying that she couldnt stay away from me for so long.
The conversation invariably circled back to this, like it always did. However today, I had made up my mind. I was not going to back down. Finally, she agreed.
I don't know why she was so worried. Its not like anything changed between us. Instead of meeting at home, we now met in her hospital room. She told me about the doctors there, and complained about the food and her pills. I didn't want her to quit again so I didn't tell her that my health problems were back. My frequency of visits had reduced but I made it a point to go see her at least once a week. All that mattered was for her to get better.
One day, as I was walking down the hospital corridor after one of our meetings, I chanced upon her doctor discussing her case with her mother. I don't think she noticed me which was fortunate because I really wanted to hear about the progress she was making and I doubt they would tell me about it.
“There has been some improvement in her.” the doctor was saying. “She's getting more responsive to the treatment. She still seems to be having these visions around once a week but they aren't nearly as frequent as they were when she got admitted.”
Her mother seemed to be crying. Wait, this didn't make sense. Ananya never mentioned any 'visions'. “I had no idea” her mother was saying. “And her vision was the one who conviced her to get professional help?” she asked. The doctor nodded.
“Can I see her?”
“I'm sorry. We've kept her under strict supervision. No one is allowed to meet her.” the doctor was saying.
Something wasn't right here. I had to ask her about this. I traced my steps back to her room. The door had a visitors chart. Blank. Understanding dawned on me. But this was impossible.
“Is it though?” said a small voice in my head. Everything seemed to make sense. My declining health, our meetings, the day we met, it all flashed across my mind along with one final thought: How could I have been so stupid? I have to get her out of here. She can never be rid of me. Not now. Not ever.
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[WP] After years of gentile persuasion your best friend since childhood finally agrees to seek professional help for serious mental problems. Much to your dismay, as she begins to improve you slowly start to realize that you are her imaginary friend.
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No matter the ups and downs (and trust me on this, there were a shit ton of both), if you decided one day to hold a gun to my head and demand that I tell you the most unfiltered version of the truth, I'd say without hesitation that in this stupid, greedy and ignorant world, I needed nothing more than I needed her. Literally nothing. *Sure*, I'd say, *she's a pain in the arse, and sometimes she pisses me off so much that I'd happily smother her with a pillow* (though those impulses mostly-but-not-always tended to be brought about by her incessant snoring of a night-time)*, but she's the other half of me. She completes me. She's my best fucking friend in the whole damned world.*
More than that, though - she was my *only* friend. And I don't say that in a whiny, self-pitying way, nor do I mean it in a non-literal way – I'm not a fan of the figurative – but Christina was, and has always been, the only friend that I've ever had. We'd met on the hottest day of the year ten years ago, when we were nothing more than teenagers with everything to play for and no real concept of just how quickly the years could cycle by when you weren't keeping track, and since then we'd never spent a day apart. I can't really put into words the magnetism, the sheer force of which the universe slammed on the pressure and refused to let us be parted, but it'd probably be fair to say that we'd both felt it from that very first moment: her, the emotionally unstable whirlwind in a town too small and rigid for her constantly changing temperament, and me... well, whatever kind of person I was before I met her. I've genuinely forgotten, and it's probably not important that I remember.
It doesn't feel important, anyway.
It was something we'd argued over a lot over the years, pretty much from Day Zero – she was so damned curious about *everything* to do with me, almost to the point of obsession, throwing incessant and often blisteringly personal questions at me which made my head pound and stomach tighten. I wanted to tell her more about myself, I truly did, if only because her sense of need was so paramount. Relentless. Chris was always full of need. She *needed* to know how and where I grew up, *needed* to know what my favourite album was and why, *needed* to hold my hand, *needed* to hear about my first relationship, *needed* to know my middle name and siblings names and whether I needed her as much as she needed me. That last one especially. She was so full of need that it filtered through into absolutely everything, including me. I absolutely *had* to need her.
I'm not sure she ever really believed my 'literally only you' thing.
Though that could be because I'd never told her.
It eventually became easier for us both, though. As her list of questions grew and her lack of faith in me began to push her away, my mind began to expand and finally began to offer me the answers, as if it had been withholding my ability to answer until it had reached the max capacity of queries – suddenly I was answering questions she had asked me weeks before, much to her surprise (I think by that point she'd started to give up), and in time I was able to offer answers upon command. It was odd, but it was odd in the sort of way that made me feel good, full, interesting. Whole. Giving her little pieces of myself made me feel like I was doing something worthwhile. Even better: as my ability to give her the rundown of my life – which, as it flowed out of my mouth and fell into the willing and ever-welcoming whorl of her ear, surprised even me with the depth of its colour and intensity – improved, so did her own willingness to be open to me. In kind, she began to share the where's and why's of her own life, filling my head with pictures and truths that I felt inexplicably prepared for, somehow never shocking or appalling me despite their sharp, bitter and often horrifying matter.
I think she was waiting, as she told me about her jagged life both before and during my existence within it, for me to cut and run. I could see it. Her eyes – wide, dark, vulnerable to the point of an almost physical pain – would always narrow slightly at the end of each truth, a visible sign that she was expecting something from me. Something *not good*. Something she seemed to think was inevitable.
That was when I started to promise her that I wasn't going anywhere. Something else she's never truly seemed to believe.
It became obvious to me fairly rapidly that Christina's head was, to be blunt, a god-awful fucking mess. She was seventeen when we met, which I guess means that I was too, and amidst all of the raging hormones and the ingrained need to rebel there was an edge which shouldn't have been there by nature, a barbed nudging which only seemed to grow the more I got to know her. Despite having me for a friend – I don't mean to sound arrogant about that, but she often made it clear to me that I was everything and more than she had ever wanted to find in a companion, and it wasn't hard to believe her sincerity – the quality of the rest of her life continued to decline. So much of our time together for the first couple of years was spent with her sobbing, screaming, shouting, with me being the wall she could throw it all at and the voice that she could rely on to soothe her whilst she fell apart. It took two and a half years of this until she finally reached breaking point, packed her bags and drove the both of us out of that tiny hell of a town.
For a while, things were amazing.
Not perfect; things, Chris would say, were never perfect by design and the notion of 'perfection' was unobtainable anyway. I personally disagreed - I'd felt perfection many a time whilst with her, in the moments that most people would likely consider normal but, to me, were little pockets of concentrated happiness that said people were probably too distracted to fully appreciate. I, having a head which seemed to me tidier than most, took those moments and held onto them as hard as I possibly could, though that in itself probably had a hand in forcing them into smaller and smaller chunks until I couldn't really feel them anymore. I didn't know. Didn't care. As long as they existed, for however long that would be for, I was content.
Jobs were hard to come by, but she managed to get two part-time jobs (when she wanted something, you'd better believe that she'd fight for it) within short space of one another, and after a couple of months of living out of her car we actually managed to find a place small and inexpensive enough to rent. Sure, it was damp and over the top of an Indian take-out place which was open until 4am, but it was hers. Ours. She'd get home late – naturally I'd wait up for her, I didn't need sleep the same way that she did – and we'd spend hours talking, watching the movies she'd brought with her, reading to each other from random books left behind from the previous tenants and cooking shitty, cheap food which I wouldn't touch but she promised she enjoyed. She'd have her downs alongside these ups, but she told me it was worth the bad to have the good. She told me she was happy for the first time since she was five. She told me that she loved me, and that I was the best thing to ever happen to her.
I'd never heard those words before from anyone, and I hope to god that I don't hear them again from anyone but her.
Lots of pockets of perfection.
You know what they say, though: nothing lasts forever. I'd beg to differ, but in this case it was predetermined through those little jagged bits in her beautiful head; the highs had been addictive, but there's only so high you can get before you need to dip back to reality and breathe in a nice, deep lungful of shitty reality. Not everyone's reality is like that, of course, but for Chris it had been a part of the way her mind worked since the year before she met me, so neither one of us were surprised when she started sleeping in later, skipping the odd day of work, missing phone calls and birthdays and showers. Soon the red-stamped envelopes started arriving through our door, demanding money for this and that and credit cards I'd warned her against – it was scary. I couldn't do anything to stop it, help her, especially when she quit one of her jobs and told me it was because her boss had made a pass at her and, when she'd refused, he'd spread the rumour around the rest of her colleagues that she was easy.
That was a lie, by the way. I knew it, instinctively, and called her out on it. Maybe if she'd been how she was before – full of life, hopeful, starry-eyed and full of the fire that the spiked corners of her head allowed her between the bouts of inertia – she would have admitted it, apologised, or perhaps raved and ranted and lied some more. I don't think so, though. We'd always had a very honest friendship, and to my knowledge she'd never lied before that point. But that was the truth of it: she wouldn't have lied at all. She would've said it exactly how it was – that she couldn't bring herself to get out of bed anymore - and then perhaps she would have sobbed quietly, laying on the floor beside me with our hands almost touching, and we would have figured out a way of making it okay. Like we used to.
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I've been with her for a number of years now. From my earliest days, I was by her side. I was the girl that played with her on the empty playground. I was the girl that kissed her cuts and bruises better when nobody else would.
My life was fairly mundane. Wherever she go, I followed suit, even if she venture into places I begged her not to go. She was always a feisty one. Always eager to make rash decisions. Always desperate for a sense of control. I never blamed her; her family situation never gave her a lick of control over her own personhood.
"My guardian angel," She'd say. Maybe I was? Sometimes I definitely felt like one. When her mother chased her out of the house with a knife onto the streets of New York one night, screaming not to come home until morning, I was immediately at her side, consoling her and offering her the comforting words I always offered.
"I want to die." She'd said through her tears, face buried within the safety of her knees.
*Oh honey...* I thought. I knew I had to do something. I offered her potential places to go, people to contact, help to seek. All of which she refused. I could practically feel the exhaustion radiating off her. The hopelessness. She was tired of fighting; tired of having no allies in life other than me. It was at that moment I knew I had a duty to fulfill, because times like these were where she needed me most.
Gently, I eased closer to her, taking her slowly into my arms. I felt her shudder at my touch at first, though she quickly melted into my embrace. I felt her begin to go limp, as if wanting to fall asleep in the seldom-felt comfort. I urged her back to wakefulness, knowing we weren't safe where we were.
Everything began to feel... fuzzy. I could almost feel myself begin to go weak too, but I fought through it. I stood us up. I wiped her tears. I held her head high. I began walking us towards the nearest police station. *Everything will be okay,* I thought to her.
She wasn't going to be the defenseless little girl anymore.
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I might continue this if people are interested in seeing more/if I keep up the inspiration. Great WP, OP! :D
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[WP] After years of gentile persuasion your best friend since childhood finally agrees to seek professional help for serious mental problems. Much to your dismay, as she begins to improve you slowly start to realize that you are her imaginary friend.
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Disclaimer: im on mobile so sorry for formatting and it also my first time posting so if i hope i didnt do anything wrong.
It's hard to remember a time without Jill. Her family moved next door to mine 5 years ago and we've pretty much been inseparable ever since. After high school we even ended up going to the same college and that's when she started having the bad days. Her once bright, and witty personality melted into this pile of a woman. Unable to get out of bed. She would go weeks without showering and hardly ate anything let alone home cooked meals. These stretches of deep sadness were punctuated by bursts of energy. She would spend hours cleaning an organizing her dorm room stopping only to add things to her Amazon cart and check out with her parents credit card. After she failed her first term for missing most if her classes I took her out to lunch.
"Hey, Jill, how's it going?"
She sat down, hunched over and hollow eyed like she hadn't slept for a few days. This clashed with the fact that she was wearing pajama pants, slippers, and a T-shirt. Her hair shoved haphazardly into a stocking cap to hide how greasy it was. She looked at me for a moment before putting on a practiced smile.
" I'm doing pretty well actually," the words seemed to fall out of her mouth."I convinced one of my professors to let me retake one of my finals so I might actually pass one of my classes."
"That's great news!" I exclaimed, "so you'll have to retake the other classes next term?"
"I think I might take a semester off to sort myself out a little.." she trailed off as the waitress came to take our order
"I've gotten some great books on meditation that seem like they will really help once I actually sit down and read them." She fave a half hearted chuckle and took a sip of water.
"I could never get the hang of meditation. My brains to talkative."
Our food came and we mostly just ate in silence as we were finishing up she pulled her bag to her lap.
"I just remembered I wanted to give you rhis." She took out a tattered hard copy book that was missing the dust cover. I recognized it as the book she carried all through high school. A copy of Edgar Allen Poe's collective works. She probably had every word memorized.
Shocked I asked, "what? Are you sure, you love this book?"
She handed the book over to me and said, "yeah, It's just been collecting dust on my shelf and you're the only person i know who loves Poe as much as me."
Later that night her roommate found her in the bath tub. A long deep cut down both of her four arms and a note. She was rushed to the emergency room and luckily made it out with just some stitches and mandatory psychiatric help. I visited her in the hospital the next day buy we didn't see eachother much after that only talking on Tuesday night's when she was allowed to use the phone. She didnt like people seeing her in tbat place. But this Wednesday I got an unexpected call from her.
"Hey, Jill is everything okay?"
"Um, yeah, well, sort of, I need you to come see me as soon as you can."
She sounded scared but courgous.
"Oh, okay, I can come by tomorrow after class. Is 4 okay?"
"Sounds great see you then."
She hung up before I could say goodbye the next day I pulled up to the hospital and made my way through the maze of hallways.
Trying to ask for help I called out to a doctor, "excuse me could you tell me how to get to psychiatric?" But he must have been in a hurry because he didn't pay me any mind and continued walking past me. Despite the lack of assistance I managed to stumble to the correct waiting room and saw Jill waiting with a man in a clean white coat and scrubs.
Jill turned to him and said, "That's him."
The doctor looked up but seemed to stare straight through me. Before sharply saying, "good let's get started."
"Started with what?" I asked.
"I have to talk to you about something, it's going to sound crazy so just, let me get through it all before you freak out."
The doctor watched her and nodded his head in approval.
"Um, okay." I said as I sat down in the chair across from her.
"Okay, so, during a session the other day I was under guided hypnosis and I remember something." She paused for a moment. "Something about you. Do you remember when we went ice skating junior year?"
"Yeah, out on the pond behind your grandparents. The ice wasn't thick enough though and I fell in. We're lucky your grandpa came home just then and had a rope to yank me out." As I was talking she started at her hands and picked at her fingernails
"Charlie," She looked up from her hand a gazed at me. "My grandpa didn't get off work till 6 that night. He wasn't there when you fell in."
"But, I remember him pulling me out, who did then?" I started to feel a pit growing in my stomach
"No one, Charlie, you..." she started to cry, "you drowned that day."
" No I got pulled out. I spent the next two weeks in the hospital with pneumonia. You brought me my homework everyday."
She looked over to the doctor and he just Nodded and said, "you're doing great."
" I, i couldn't deal with losing my best friend so I just pretended like I didn't. I created an image of you in my imagination so I could keep growing with you."
I laughed but the pit in my stomach kept growing, "you gotta be kidding me, that's not possible."
"Its true, I have this newspaper from the next day." She reached down and picked up a folded newspaper handing it to me.
I read aloud, "young boy drowns in local pond. Yesterday around 2 pm two children were skating on a pond near burlington." My hands were shaking so much that it was hard to make out the words. "The ice gave way and one plunged into the icy water. He has been identified as Charlie Cappel son of Mathew and Joan Cappel."
I felt like I might throw up.
"Despite efforts from emergency personnel Charlie Cappel died at the scene."
I couldn't breathe I just stared at the paper in disbelief. It had to be fake. I'm here, reading my own obituary.
"I'm sorry, charlie, but the doctor says to move passed this I have to let you go. I just couldn't do it without saying goodbye."
"No! Stop it. This is bullshit. It's some kind of prank. Why are you doing this to me!"
"I have to stop living in the past. I have to accept your death and greive. I can't keep living this lie."
"You don't. I'm right here. I'm alive."
The words caught on a lump in my throat my eyes started to well up.
She walked over to me and wrapped her arms around my neck and whispered in my ear, "I will never stop loving you."
A ringing in my ears started to swell until it was all that I could hear.
"I don't want to be gone." I wailed out.
"You 've been gone." She said knowingly tears rolling down her cheek.
The ringing in my ears kept getting louder and louder until I didn't think I could take any more and then it was silent and everything went black.
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I've been with her for a number of years now. From my earliest days, I was by her side. I was the girl that played with her on the empty playground. I was the girl that kissed her cuts and bruises better when nobody else would.
My life was fairly mundane. Wherever she go, I followed suit, even if she venture into places I begged her not to go. She was always a feisty one. Always eager to make rash decisions. Always desperate for a sense of control. I never blamed her; her family situation never gave her a lick of control over her own personhood.
"My guardian angel," She'd say. Maybe I was? Sometimes I definitely felt like one. When her mother chased her out of the house with a knife onto the streets of New York one night, screaming not to come home until morning, I was immediately at her side, consoling her and offering her the comforting words I always offered.
"I want to die." She'd said through her tears, face buried within the safety of her knees.
*Oh honey...* I thought. I knew I had to do something. I offered her potential places to go, people to contact, help to seek. All of which she refused. I could practically feel the exhaustion radiating off her. The hopelessness. She was tired of fighting; tired of having no allies in life other than me. It was at that moment I knew I had a duty to fulfill, because times like these were where she needed me most.
Gently, I eased closer to her, taking her slowly into my arms. I felt her shudder at my touch at first, though she quickly melted into my embrace. I felt her begin to go limp, as if wanting to fall asleep in the seldom-felt comfort. I urged her back to wakefulness, knowing we weren't safe where we were.
Everything began to feel... fuzzy. I could almost feel myself begin to go weak too, but I fought through it. I stood us up. I wiped her tears. I held her head high. I began walking us towards the nearest police station. *Everything will be okay,* I thought to her.
She wasn't going to be the defenseless little girl anymore.
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I might continue this if people are interested in seeing more/if I keep up the inspiration. Great WP, OP! :D
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[WP] After years of gentile persuasion your best friend since childhood finally agrees to seek professional help for serious mental problems. Much to your dismay, as she begins to improve you slowly start to realize that you are her imaginary friend.
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*I apologize in advance. I am a horrible person.
The silly Gentile friend of mine needs help. I mean, it's a shame that she has ultimately loose morals and will possibly burn in all eternity for lack of true faith and ultimate knowledge, but her lack of relation with our Savior is eating away at her soul.
I recommended the Rabbi down at the Church for passive water treatment, but she refused. I asked her to attend a Ceremony of Worship, but she did not like the idea of this, either.
I just want her to know what it is like to know God as I do - as she very well should! But she sticks with her lack of faith.
Eventually she agrees to see a psychiatrist. Not my first choice, but at least she finally is seeking the treatment she deserves.
I observe her conversations with the shrink. He talks with her about her home life, her hobbies, her family, and any potentially stressful events. Not a single word is uttered about religion. Baffling.
She tells about her family - there is no baggage there. She talks about her hobbies, which she is lacking. Then she discusses her learning and schooling, which in my opinion are useless when faced with eternal suffering.
Then she opens up about what is "stressing" her. She talks about a strange urging to visit the local Temple, but her family never pushed for it so she could not figure out where she grasped such a notion.
The one talking to her pauses. She raises an eyebrow and asks more about these strange impulses.
She opens up about witnessing the Temple from afar, but never had obligations to visit. She mused about it, but ultimately pursued her education over the practicality that is being saved by our benevolent father.
"I really don't feel anything toward religion," My friend says, "It does not make much sense to me. But it's almost as if a voice is pulling me toward it. It only happens when I walk by something that reminds me of it."
The nerve of her! Here I am, trying to save her . . . yet she mocks my very belief. I immediately whisper something to her, reminding her of never-ending damnation.
"There it is again," She said, "I'm not sure what this is."
The female psychiatrist made a note in her clipboard, then asked with concern in her voice, "Do you ever hear voices? When no one else is there?"
"Voices?" She blinked, ". . . I'm not sure. Sometimes it feels like I'm not alone."
"Hmm . . ."
The shrink ended their first meeting, but encouraged her to come back. They spent a lot of time together. I stop paying attention because none of it pertains to me or the Lord, but eventually she is put on medicine - I don't know, anti-depressants maybe? She also sees a new doctor. Then another new doctor.
I whisper to go see the Temple, but she doesn't listen to me anymore. What a rude friend.
Eventually I just sort of get tired. I close my eyes and think.
I suppose it was a little weird to accompany her to her appointments. Friends are for something, but she hardly reciprocates.
I guess I will just worship on my own, then.
Hmm . . . Tired. . . I guess I will just sleep for a while.
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I've been with her for a number of years now. From my earliest days, I was by her side. I was the girl that played with her on the empty playground. I was the girl that kissed her cuts and bruises better when nobody else would.
My life was fairly mundane. Wherever she go, I followed suit, even if she venture into places I begged her not to go. She was always a feisty one. Always eager to make rash decisions. Always desperate for a sense of control. I never blamed her; her family situation never gave her a lick of control over her own personhood.
"My guardian angel," She'd say. Maybe I was? Sometimes I definitely felt like one. When her mother chased her out of the house with a knife onto the streets of New York one night, screaming not to come home until morning, I was immediately at her side, consoling her and offering her the comforting words I always offered.
"I want to die." She'd said through her tears, face buried within the safety of her knees.
*Oh honey...* I thought. I knew I had to do something. I offered her potential places to go, people to contact, help to seek. All of which she refused. I could practically feel the exhaustion radiating off her. The hopelessness. She was tired of fighting; tired of having no allies in life other than me. It was at that moment I knew I had a duty to fulfill, because times like these were where she needed me most.
Gently, I eased closer to her, taking her slowly into my arms. I felt her shudder at my touch at first, though she quickly melted into my embrace. I felt her begin to go limp, as if wanting to fall asleep in the seldom-felt comfort. I urged her back to wakefulness, knowing we weren't safe where we were.
Everything began to feel... fuzzy. I could almost feel myself begin to go weak too, but I fought through it. I stood us up. I wiped her tears. I held her head high. I began walking us towards the nearest police station. *Everything will be okay,* I thought to her.
She wasn't going to be the defenseless little girl anymore.
---
I might continue this if people are interested in seeing more/if I keep up the inspiration. Great WP, OP! :D
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[WP] After years of gentile persuasion your best friend since childhood finally agrees to seek professional help for serious mental problems. Much to your dismay, as she begins to improve you slowly start to realize that you are her imaginary friend.
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Jane didn't want to hear my stories anymore, and I knew why.
It was because all of them were lies, I realize that now.
We used to spend hours just sitting around telling stories about my adventures travelling the world. Jane never seemed to mind that she didn't have any stories of her own, she just listened to mine. But lately she didn't want to hear them anymore, she had been seeing a therapist, which I approved of, I could already see that her life was changing for the better. But for every positive step she made, our relationship soured a little. Now I knew why, because I had figured out what I was. I wasn't real, none of my stories were real, nothing I could offer my best friend was in any way real.
So I left. It took a long time for me to build up the courage, but I knew that me sticking around wasn't healthy. So I walked out the door, leaving Jane behind, never expecting to see her again. But I did.
"Annie, It's good to see you again!"
I blinked as I took in the room around me. Jane was there, lying on a bed, her face was much, much older, but there was no mistaking my old best friend.
"How long have I been gone?" I asked.
"Oh, I don't know, it must have been forty years at least." Jane said. "Aren't you at least glad to see me?"
I knew I shouldn't be, my mere presence meant that Jane was slipping back into her old ways, but I can't deny that some part of me was thrilled to see her.
There was and the door of the room creaked open. A young woman peeked her head inside. She was the spitting image of Jane on the day I had left her.
"Who are you talking to, Grandma?"
"Oh, nobody, Mary, don't worry about me."
"My name's Melissa, grandma."
"Oh! Sorry, my dear, anyway please just give me a little bit of time to rest right now."
Melissa gave a look of concern, but then left, closing the door behind her.
"My granddaughter, I have six of them now, with a seventh on the way. Can you believe it?"
"Wow, that's great!"
"Yes, Isn't it? Please sit down, I have so many stories to tell you!" Jane laughed lightly. "It's funny, when we were young I was always jealous of your adventures, but now I have my own!"
We passed the next few weeks chatting amicably in Jane's room. Her family initially was concerned about her talking to no one in particular, alone in her room, but eventually they seemed to decide it couldn't me helped and left us alone. Jane told me about her husband, she had met him a few years after she started seeing the therapist. An airline pilot, he had taken her on trips around the world. Tragically, he had died a few years prior to my return. Jane had kept up with her therapy, seeing a couple of different doctors throughout her life, and while she had some bad days, things had been going well. Jane had had three children, the eldest of which she was now staying with.
It was in December, with snow just starting to fall outside the window, when Jane, sipping tea that her daughter had brought up a few minutes earlier, said to me "I'm forgetting things, Annie, I think my mind is going."
"Is that why I'm back?" I asked.
"No, of course not, you're my friend, Annie."
"I was only your friend because you were sick, when you got better I left, but now you're sick again, so I'm back."
Jane was silent and stared into her cup.
"I wasn't a good friend, Jane, I hurt you."
"I know that. I wasted a lot of years cooped up in that old house, listening to your made-up adventures, being miserable evry day and not knowing why."
"I'm sorry."
"But, you know something? Those bad years are just as much a part of my life story as all the good years were."
We sat in silence for a long while, from somewhere downstairs, loud laughter echoed through the house. There was a knock at the door, and Melissa poked he head in.
"Grandma, would you like to come join us for dinner?"
"I think so, dear, that sounds lovely."
Jane grasped her granddaughter's arm and lifted herself out of bed.
"Uncle Mike was just retelling your story of that time in Brazil, when you had too much to drink at Carnival."
"So that's what all that laughing was about!" Jane said with a chuckle. "I shouldn't have told you that story, I'll never hear the end of it!"
The two walked out, leaving me to watch the snow fall outside of the window, warm and happy, in the home of my best friend.
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I've been with her for a number of years now. From my earliest days, I was by her side. I was the girl that played with her on the empty playground. I was the girl that kissed her cuts and bruises better when nobody else would.
My life was fairly mundane. Wherever she go, I followed suit, even if she venture into places I begged her not to go. She was always a feisty one. Always eager to make rash decisions. Always desperate for a sense of control. I never blamed her; her family situation never gave her a lick of control over her own personhood.
"My guardian angel," She'd say. Maybe I was? Sometimes I definitely felt like one. When her mother chased her out of the house with a knife onto the streets of New York one night, screaming not to come home until morning, I was immediately at her side, consoling her and offering her the comforting words I always offered.
"I want to die." She'd said through her tears, face buried within the safety of her knees.
*Oh honey...* I thought. I knew I had to do something. I offered her potential places to go, people to contact, help to seek. All of which she refused. I could practically feel the exhaustion radiating off her. The hopelessness. She was tired of fighting; tired of having no allies in life other than me. It was at that moment I knew I had a duty to fulfill, because times like these were where she needed me most.
Gently, I eased closer to her, taking her slowly into my arms. I felt her shudder at my touch at first, though she quickly melted into my embrace. I felt her begin to go limp, as if wanting to fall asleep in the seldom-felt comfort. I urged her back to wakefulness, knowing we weren't safe where we were.
Everything began to feel... fuzzy. I could almost feel myself begin to go weak too, but I fought through it. I stood us up. I wiped her tears. I held her head high. I began walking us towards the nearest police station. *Everything will be okay,* I thought to her.
She wasn't going to be the defenseless little girl anymore.
---
I might continue this if people are interested in seeing more/if I keep up the inspiration. Great WP, OP! :D
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[WP] After years of gentile persuasion your best friend since childhood finally agrees to seek professional help for serious mental problems. Much to your dismay, as she begins to improve you slowly start to realize that you are her imaginary friend.
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No matter the ups and downs (and trust me on this, there were a shit ton of both), if you decided one day to hold a gun to my head and demand that I tell you the most unfiltered version of the truth, I'd say without hesitation that in this stupid, greedy and ignorant world, I needed nothing more than I needed her. Literally nothing. *Sure*, I'd say, *she's a pain in the arse, and sometimes she pisses me off so much that I'd happily smother her with a pillow* (though those impulses mostly-but-not-always tended to be brought about by her incessant snoring of a night-time)*, but she's the other half of me. She completes me. She's my best fucking friend in the whole damned world.*
More than that, though - she was my *only* friend. And I don't say that in a whiny, self-pitying way, nor do I mean it in a non-literal way – I'm not a fan of the figurative – but Christina was, and has always been, the only friend that I've ever had. We'd met on the hottest day of the year ten years ago, when we were nothing more than teenagers with everything to play for and no real concept of just how quickly the years could cycle by when you weren't keeping track, and since then we'd never spent a day apart. I can't really put into words the magnetism, the sheer force of which the universe slammed on the pressure and refused to let us be parted, but it'd probably be fair to say that we'd both felt it from that very first moment: her, the emotionally unstable whirlwind in a town too small and rigid for her constantly changing temperament, and me... well, whatever kind of person I was before I met her. I've genuinely forgotten, and it's probably not important that I remember.
It doesn't feel important, anyway.
It was something we'd argued over a lot over the years, pretty much from Day Zero – she was so damned curious about *everything* to do with me, almost to the point of obsession, throwing incessant and often blisteringly personal questions at me which made my head pound and stomach tighten. I wanted to tell her more about myself, I truly did, if only because her sense of need was so paramount. Relentless. Chris was always full of need. She *needed* to know how and where I grew up, *needed* to know what my favourite album was and why, *needed* to hold my hand, *needed* to hear about my first relationship, *needed* to know my middle name and siblings names and whether I needed her as much as she needed me. That last one especially. She was so full of need that it filtered through into absolutely everything, including me. I absolutely *had* to need her.
I'm not sure she ever really believed my 'literally only you' thing.
Though that could be because I'd never told her.
It eventually became easier for us both, though. As her list of questions grew and her lack of faith in me began to push her away, my mind began to expand and finally began to offer me the answers, as if it had been withholding my ability to answer until it had reached the max capacity of queries – suddenly I was answering questions she had asked me weeks before, much to her surprise (I think by that point she'd started to give up), and in time I was able to offer answers upon command. It was odd, but it was odd in the sort of way that made me feel good, full, interesting. Whole. Giving her little pieces of myself made me feel like I was doing something worthwhile. Even better: as my ability to give her the rundown of my life – which, as it flowed out of my mouth and fell into the willing and ever-welcoming whorl of her ear, surprised even me with the depth of its colour and intensity – improved, so did her own willingness to be open to me. In kind, she began to share the where's and why's of her own life, filling my head with pictures and truths that I felt inexplicably prepared for, somehow never shocking or appalling me despite their sharp, bitter and often horrifying matter.
I think she was waiting, as she told me about her jagged life both before and during my existence within it, for me to cut and run. I could see it. Her eyes – wide, dark, vulnerable to the point of an almost physical pain – would always narrow slightly at the end of each truth, a visible sign that she was expecting something from me. Something *not good*. Something she seemed to think was inevitable.
That was when I started to promise her that I wasn't going anywhere. Something else she's never truly seemed to believe.
It became obvious to me fairly rapidly that Christina's head was, to be blunt, a god-awful fucking mess. She was seventeen when we met, which I guess means that I was too, and amidst all of the raging hormones and the ingrained need to rebel there was an edge which shouldn't have been there by nature, a barbed nudging which only seemed to grow the more I got to know her. Despite having me for a friend – I don't mean to sound arrogant about that, but she often made it clear to me that I was everything and more than she had ever wanted to find in a companion, and it wasn't hard to believe her sincerity – the quality of the rest of her life continued to decline. So much of our time together for the first couple of years was spent with her sobbing, screaming, shouting, with me being the wall she could throw it all at and the voice that she could rely on to soothe her whilst she fell apart. It took two and a half years of this until she finally reached breaking point, packed her bags and drove the both of us out of that tiny hell of a town.
For a while, things were amazing.
Not perfect; things, Chris would say, were never perfect by design and the notion of 'perfection' was unobtainable anyway. I personally disagreed - I'd felt perfection many a time whilst with her, in the moments that most people would likely consider normal but, to me, were little pockets of concentrated happiness that said people were probably too distracted to fully appreciate. I, having a head which seemed to me tidier than most, took those moments and held onto them as hard as I possibly could, though that in itself probably had a hand in forcing them into smaller and smaller chunks until I couldn't really feel them anymore. I didn't know. Didn't care. As long as they existed, for however long that would be for, I was content.
Jobs were hard to come by, but she managed to get two part-time jobs (when she wanted something, you'd better believe that she'd fight for it) within short space of one another, and after a couple of months of living out of her car we actually managed to find a place small and inexpensive enough to rent. Sure, it was damp and over the top of an Indian take-out place which was open until 4am, but it was hers. Ours. She'd get home late – naturally I'd wait up for her, I didn't need sleep the same way that she did – and we'd spend hours talking, watching the movies she'd brought with her, reading to each other from random books left behind from the previous tenants and cooking shitty, cheap food which I wouldn't touch but she promised she enjoyed. She'd have her downs alongside these ups, but she told me it was worth the bad to have the good. She told me she was happy for the first time since she was five. She told me that she loved me, and that I was the best thing to ever happen to her.
I'd never heard those words before from anyone, and I hope to god that I don't hear them again from anyone but her.
Lots of pockets of perfection.
You know what they say, though: nothing lasts forever. I'd beg to differ, but in this case it was predetermined through those little jagged bits in her beautiful head; the highs had been addictive, but there's only so high you can get before you need to dip back to reality and breathe in a nice, deep lungful of shitty reality. Not everyone's reality is like that, of course, but for Chris it had been a part of the way her mind worked since the year before she met me, so neither one of us were surprised when she started sleeping in later, skipping the odd day of work, missing phone calls and birthdays and showers. Soon the red-stamped envelopes started arriving through our door, demanding money for this and that and credit cards I'd warned her against – it was scary. I couldn't do anything to stop it, help her, especially when she quit one of her jobs and told me it was because her boss had made a pass at her and, when she'd refused, he'd spread the rumour around the rest of her colleagues that she was easy.
That was a lie, by the way. I knew it, instinctively, and called her out on it. Maybe if she'd been how she was before – full of life, hopeful, starry-eyed and full of the fire that the spiked corners of her head allowed her between the bouts of inertia – she would have admitted it, apologised, or perhaps raved and ranted and lied some more. I don't think so, though. We'd always had a very honest friendship, and to my knowledge she'd never lied before that point. But that was the truth of it: she wouldn't have lied at all. She would've said it exactly how it was – that she couldn't bring herself to get out of bed anymore - and then perhaps she would have sobbed quietly, laying on the floor beside me with our hands almost touching, and we would have figured out a way of making it okay. Like we used to.
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"Hey Ben, I'm back. You were so right about sticking with Dr. Wentworth; I made a breakthrough today! I feel so much lighter, freer! Ben? Where are you?"
Jean walked into the kitchen and found me lying on the floor next to the island, eyes open, motionless, pale.
"Oh my God! Ben, what's wrong?!" She rushed in, dropped down beside me and extended a hand under my head to prop it up. I turned to her and tried to speak but my lungs disobeyed and instead drew heavy, weezing breaths, punctuated by coughing fits. She bolted to the counter to fetch water. "Take it easy..." she said, holding the cup in one hand and hoisting my head with the other to help me drink. After a few gulps, my voice returned.
"I don't know... what happened... an hour ago I was fine. I was just standing here, making a sandwhich, when I felt my chest... tear... I don't know how else to describe it... it's was if the core of my being was tearing apart. Then it all went black, and the next thing I know, I was on the floor."
"It might be a heart attack," concluded Jean, wasting no time throwing my arm over her shoulder, giving a hard thrust to help me to my feet, and stomping, stumbling, dragging me to her car. She threw me in the backseat, slammed the door and peeled out. "Hang in there Ben, we'll be there soon!" she said as we sped toward the hospital. Along the way she continually checked on me, and each time I assured her that I was doing alright. But I could feel that something was wrong. I could feel the tear in my chest grow; and I could feel my strength fade, my senses dull, my consciousness collapse. By the time we reached the hospital, I felt my very identity folding, for I found that I could neither stir a sense of self, nor hold a single thought.
Jean rushed us through the double doors, and finding the reception desk, lunged at it. All eyes turned and stared. "Please...my friend...he needs help!" she blurted between breaths. "I think he's having a heart attack. Please!"
"Oh my, yes, of course," said the nurse, looking around her frantically. "Where is he?"
At this question, a bewildered Jean began to answer, but—as if trying to flip on a light switch that had been there all her life but had now vanished—she found her mind unable to conjure a coherent answer, and could only reply: "I don't know."
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[WP] After years of gentile persuasion your best friend since childhood finally agrees to seek professional help for serious mental problems. Much to your dismay, as she begins to improve you slowly start to realize that you are her imaginary friend.
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*I apologize in advance. I am a horrible person.
The silly Gentile friend of mine needs help. I mean, it's a shame that she has ultimately loose morals and will possibly burn in all eternity for lack of true faith and ultimate knowledge, but her lack of relation with our Savior is eating away at her soul.
I recommended the Rabbi down at the Church for passive water treatment, but she refused. I asked her to attend a Ceremony of Worship, but she did not like the idea of this, either.
I just want her to know what it is like to know God as I do - as she very well should! But she sticks with her lack of faith.
Eventually she agrees to see a psychiatrist. Not my first choice, but at least she finally is seeking the treatment she deserves.
I observe her conversations with the shrink. He talks with her about her home life, her hobbies, her family, and any potentially stressful events. Not a single word is uttered about religion. Baffling.
She tells about her family - there is no baggage there. She talks about her hobbies, which she is lacking. Then she discusses her learning and schooling, which in my opinion are useless when faced with eternal suffering.
Then she opens up about what is "stressing" her. She talks about a strange urging to visit the local Temple, but her family never pushed for it so she could not figure out where she grasped such a notion.
The one talking to her pauses. She raises an eyebrow and asks more about these strange impulses.
She opens up about witnessing the Temple from afar, but never had obligations to visit. She mused about it, but ultimately pursued her education over the practicality that is being saved by our benevolent father.
"I really don't feel anything toward religion," My friend says, "It does not make much sense to me. But it's almost as if a voice is pulling me toward it. It only happens when I walk by something that reminds me of it."
The nerve of her! Here I am, trying to save her . . . yet she mocks my very belief. I immediately whisper something to her, reminding her of never-ending damnation.
"There it is again," She said, "I'm not sure what this is."
The female psychiatrist made a note in her clipboard, then asked with concern in her voice, "Do you ever hear voices? When no one else is there?"
"Voices?" She blinked, ". . . I'm not sure. Sometimes it feels like I'm not alone."
"Hmm . . ."
The shrink ended their first meeting, but encouraged her to come back. They spent a lot of time together. I stop paying attention because none of it pertains to me or the Lord, but eventually she is put on medicine - I don't know, anti-depressants maybe? She also sees a new doctor. Then another new doctor.
I whisper to go see the Temple, but she doesn't listen to me anymore. What a rude friend.
Eventually I just sort of get tired. I close my eyes and think.
I suppose it was a little weird to accompany her to her appointments. Friends are for something, but she hardly reciprocates.
I guess I will just worship on my own, then.
Hmm . . . Tired. . . I guess I will just sleep for a while.
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There was once a time when Cirus the White was only Cirus Russo, the freckled ginger boy who tutored neighboring kids for a fee. With a natural aptitude for what they teach children in school and a demeanour courteous enough to inspire politeness onto others, he soon gained a reputation for being the best teacher in town. Literally. Legend once spoke of Douglas J., a run-of-the-mill thug who, under Cirus' guidance, almost got into the Ivy League, had it not been for his criminal records. Now, you might ask why Douglas would want, or agree, to associate with young Russo in any way imaginable. The answers would vary, but such is the beauty of legends, we never care much about why the dragon kidnapped the princess, we are more interested in how the knight comes and saves the day.
Cirus Russo, and now Cirus the White, never had many friends to begin with. And he was a little creepy, always muttering things under his breath. It was almost as if he was of an entirely different species, an outcast. But not that Cirus would mind any of that, and since he did no harm, parents of the neighborhood would gladly entrust him with the future, near future, of their children. For a fee, of course.
Little did they know those bills would eventually become the founding stones of the Cirus drug empire, specialized in heroin, hence the name Cirus the White. Ruthless and unpredictable, Cirus proved that he was not only book-smart. The Mexicans did provoke Cirus a few months after he made a name for himself, and now Cirus could always see the look on their faces, encased in glass in his office. Nonetheless, like how the brightest sun would burn out, the reign of Cirus the White came to an end.
As he wrapped the bloodied shirt around what used to be his stomach, Cirus wondered how much time did he have before they could trace the blood track. Luckily, it was a rainy night. Unluckily, they outnumbered him by the hundred. Rational and logical, he knew his day had come. He just needed a little bit of time.
Cirus hid behind the trash can, thinking how unhygiene it was, especially with his wounds, not that it mattered.
He pulled out a small package of white powder, the purest of his merchandise. Scrambled around for a piece of paper from the trash, washed it in the muddy water, quick enough so that the paper didn't dissolve, and he snorted like he never snorted before, taking in the whole package in one go.
The pain began to past.
His eyes clouded. Was he losing vision? Was it the rainy fog?
"I told you this would get you killed."
She appeared out of a mirage, the freckled blond in a trenchcoat. Cirus had always been a fool for blondes, and he believed the trenchcoat was a nice touch. You never know what's underneath, if there was anything underneath.
"To be fair, I always meet you in an unstable state of mind."
Cirus chuckled, choking on the heavy rainfall. She sat down next to him, leaning on his tattered body.
"That's what they said."
Cirus nodded.
"I just want to see you again."
"You always want to see me again. I did told you to get rid of that obssession."
"One of my few mistakes."
"No. Your mistake was that you get involved in all that drug business."
"The medication was too effective. Without stimulation, I could not..."
"What about being a simple buyer?"
"You know I hate being passive."
She linked her fingers into his, his hand was getting cold.
"Even if you can't see me, I'm still with you. Then, now, forever."
"I know. But it's lonelier like that."
"That's so cringe."
"Do you have a problem with that?"
"No."
She was getting cold, too. Thus, she snuggled up to him.
"You need somebody else. Someone real."
"You're real to me."
"Not to the world, I'm not."
"But you're real to me. Isn't that enough?"
"..."
They found Cirus the White an hour later, dead from overdose, with a slight smile on his lips.
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[WP] After years of gentile persuasion your best friend since childhood finally agrees to seek professional help for serious mental problems. Much to your dismay, as she begins to improve you slowly start to realize that you are her imaginary friend.
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Jane didn't want to hear my stories anymore, and I knew why.
It was because all of them were lies, I realize that now.
We used to spend hours just sitting around telling stories about my adventures travelling the world. Jane never seemed to mind that she didn't have any stories of her own, she just listened to mine. But lately she didn't want to hear them anymore, she had been seeing a therapist, which I approved of, I could already see that her life was changing for the better. But for every positive step she made, our relationship soured a little. Now I knew why, because I had figured out what I was. I wasn't real, none of my stories were real, nothing I could offer my best friend was in any way real.
So I left. It took a long time for me to build up the courage, but I knew that me sticking around wasn't healthy. So I walked out the door, leaving Jane behind, never expecting to see her again. But I did.
"Annie, It's good to see you again!"
I blinked as I took in the room around me. Jane was there, lying on a bed, her face was much, much older, but there was no mistaking my old best friend.
"How long have I been gone?" I asked.
"Oh, I don't know, it must have been forty years at least." Jane said. "Aren't you at least glad to see me?"
I knew I shouldn't be, my mere presence meant that Jane was slipping back into her old ways, but I can't deny that some part of me was thrilled to see her.
There was and the door of the room creaked open. A young woman peeked her head inside. She was the spitting image of Jane on the day I had left her.
"Who are you talking to, Grandma?"
"Oh, nobody, Mary, don't worry about me."
"My name's Melissa, grandma."
"Oh! Sorry, my dear, anyway please just give me a little bit of time to rest right now."
Melissa gave a look of concern, but then left, closing the door behind her.
"My granddaughter, I have six of them now, with a seventh on the way. Can you believe it?"
"Wow, that's great!"
"Yes, Isn't it? Please sit down, I have so many stories to tell you!" Jane laughed lightly. "It's funny, when we were young I was always jealous of your adventures, but now I have my own!"
We passed the next few weeks chatting amicably in Jane's room. Her family initially was concerned about her talking to no one in particular, alone in her room, but eventually they seemed to decide it couldn't me helped and left us alone. Jane told me about her husband, she had met him a few years after she started seeing the therapist. An airline pilot, he had taken her on trips around the world. Tragically, he had died a few years prior to my return. Jane had kept up with her therapy, seeing a couple of different doctors throughout her life, and while she had some bad days, things had been going well. Jane had had three children, the eldest of which she was now staying with.
It was in December, with snow just starting to fall outside the window, when Jane, sipping tea that her daughter had brought up a few minutes earlier, said to me "I'm forgetting things, Annie, I think my mind is going."
"Is that why I'm back?" I asked.
"No, of course not, you're my friend, Annie."
"I was only your friend because you were sick, when you got better I left, but now you're sick again, so I'm back."
Jane was silent and stared into her cup.
"I wasn't a good friend, Jane, I hurt you."
"I know that. I wasted a lot of years cooped up in that old house, listening to your made-up adventures, being miserable evry day and not knowing why."
"I'm sorry."
"But, you know something? Those bad years are just as much a part of my life story as all the good years were."
We sat in silence for a long while, from somewhere downstairs, loud laughter echoed through the house. There was a knock at the door, and Melissa poked he head in.
"Grandma, would you like to come join us for dinner?"
"I think so, dear, that sounds lovely."
Jane grasped her granddaughter's arm and lifted herself out of bed.
"Uncle Mike was just retelling your story of that time in Brazil, when you had too much to drink at Carnival."
"So that's what all that laughing was about!" Jane said with a chuckle. "I shouldn't have told you that story, I'll never hear the end of it!"
The two walked out, leaving me to watch the snow fall outside of the window, warm and happy, in the home of my best friend.
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There was once a time when Cirus the White was only Cirus Russo, the freckled ginger boy who tutored neighboring kids for a fee. With a natural aptitude for what they teach children in school and a demeanour courteous enough to inspire politeness onto others, he soon gained a reputation for being the best teacher in town. Literally. Legend once spoke of Douglas J., a run-of-the-mill thug who, under Cirus' guidance, almost got into the Ivy League, had it not been for his criminal records. Now, you might ask why Douglas would want, or agree, to associate with young Russo in any way imaginable. The answers would vary, but such is the beauty of legends, we never care much about why the dragon kidnapped the princess, we are more interested in how the knight comes and saves the day.
Cirus Russo, and now Cirus the White, never had many friends to begin with. And he was a little creepy, always muttering things under his breath. It was almost as if he was of an entirely different species, an outcast. But not that Cirus would mind any of that, and since he did no harm, parents of the neighborhood would gladly entrust him with the future, near future, of their children. For a fee, of course.
Little did they know those bills would eventually become the founding stones of the Cirus drug empire, specialized in heroin, hence the name Cirus the White. Ruthless and unpredictable, Cirus proved that he was not only book-smart. The Mexicans did provoke Cirus a few months after he made a name for himself, and now Cirus could always see the look on their faces, encased in glass in his office. Nonetheless, like how the brightest sun would burn out, the reign of Cirus the White came to an end.
As he wrapped the bloodied shirt around what used to be his stomach, Cirus wondered how much time did he have before they could trace the blood track. Luckily, it was a rainy night. Unluckily, they outnumbered him by the hundred. Rational and logical, he knew his day had come. He just needed a little bit of time.
Cirus hid behind the trash can, thinking how unhygiene it was, especially with his wounds, not that it mattered.
He pulled out a small package of white powder, the purest of his merchandise. Scrambled around for a piece of paper from the trash, washed it in the muddy water, quick enough so that the paper didn't dissolve, and he snorted like he never snorted before, taking in the whole package in one go.
The pain began to past.
His eyes clouded. Was he losing vision? Was it the rainy fog?
"I told you this would get you killed."
She appeared out of a mirage, the freckled blond in a trenchcoat. Cirus had always been a fool for blondes, and he believed the trenchcoat was a nice touch. You never know what's underneath, if there was anything underneath.
"To be fair, I always meet you in an unstable state of mind."
Cirus chuckled, choking on the heavy rainfall. She sat down next to him, leaning on his tattered body.
"That's what they said."
Cirus nodded.
"I just want to see you again."
"You always want to see me again. I did told you to get rid of that obssession."
"One of my few mistakes."
"No. Your mistake was that you get involved in all that drug business."
"The medication was too effective. Without stimulation, I could not..."
"What about being a simple buyer?"
"You know I hate being passive."
She linked her fingers into his, his hand was getting cold.
"Even if you can't see me, I'm still with you. Then, now, forever."
"I know. But it's lonelier like that."
"That's so cringe."
"Do you have a problem with that?"
"No."
She was getting cold, too. Thus, she snuggled up to him.
"You need somebody else. Someone real."
"You're real to me."
"Not to the world, I'm not."
"But you're real to me. Isn't that enough?"
"..."
They found Cirus the White an hour later, dead from overdose, with a slight smile on his lips.
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[WP] After years of gentile persuasion your best friend since childhood finally agrees to seek professional help for serious mental problems. Much to your dismay, as she begins to improve you slowly start to realize that you are her imaginary friend.
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*I apologize in advance. I am a horrible person.
The silly Gentile friend of mine needs help. I mean, it's a shame that she has ultimately loose morals and will possibly burn in all eternity for lack of true faith and ultimate knowledge, but her lack of relation with our Savior is eating away at her soul.
I recommended the Rabbi down at the Church for passive water treatment, but she refused. I asked her to attend a Ceremony of Worship, but she did not like the idea of this, either.
I just want her to know what it is like to know God as I do - as she very well should! But she sticks with her lack of faith.
Eventually she agrees to see a psychiatrist. Not my first choice, but at least she finally is seeking the treatment she deserves.
I observe her conversations with the shrink. He talks with her about her home life, her hobbies, her family, and any potentially stressful events. Not a single word is uttered about religion. Baffling.
She tells about her family - there is no baggage there. She talks about her hobbies, which she is lacking. Then she discusses her learning and schooling, which in my opinion are useless when faced with eternal suffering.
Then she opens up about what is "stressing" her. She talks about a strange urging to visit the local Temple, but her family never pushed for it so she could not figure out where she grasped such a notion.
The one talking to her pauses. She raises an eyebrow and asks more about these strange impulses.
She opens up about witnessing the Temple from afar, but never had obligations to visit. She mused about it, but ultimately pursued her education over the practicality that is being saved by our benevolent father.
"I really don't feel anything toward religion," My friend says, "It does not make much sense to me. But it's almost as if a voice is pulling me toward it. It only happens when I walk by something that reminds me of it."
The nerve of her! Here I am, trying to save her . . . yet she mocks my very belief. I immediately whisper something to her, reminding her of never-ending damnation.
"There it is again," She said, "I'm not sure what this is."
The female psychiatrist made a note in her clipboard, then asked with concern in her voice, "Do you ever hear voices? When no one else is there?"
"Voices?" She blinked, ". . . I'm not sure. Sometimes it feels like I'm not alone."
"Hmm . . ."
The shrink ended their first meeting, but encouraged her to come back. They spent a lot of time together. I stop paying attention because none of it pertains to me or the Lord, but eventually she is put on medicine - I don't know, anti-depressants maybe? She also sees a new doctor. Then another new doctor.
I whisper to go see the Temple, but she doesn't listen to me anymore. What a rude friend.
Eventually I just sort of get tired. I close my eyes and think.
I suppose it was a little weird to accompany her to her appointments. Friends are for something, but she hardly reciprocates.
I guess I will just worship on my own, then.
Hmm . . . Tired. . . I guess I will just sleep for a while.
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Kelly stared down at her unanswered text message. Internet friends could be so unreliable. Her friend had been nagging her for years through an app to get help, but when she finally did, they ghosted her. It was a real dilemma.
She read the text again and sighed. “WHERE YOU AT? HOLLA WHEN YOU GET HERE.”
Kelly’s friend looked over her shoulder.
“Why are you trying to text in Excel?”
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[WP] After years of gentile persuasion your best friend since childhood finally agrees to seek professional help for serious mental problems. Much to your dismay, as she begins to improve you slowly start to realize that you are her imaginary friend.
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Jane didn't want to hear my stories anymore, and I knew why.
It was because all of them were lies, I realize that now.
We used to spend hours just sitting around telling stories about my adventures travelling the world. Jane never seemed to mind that she didn't have any stories of her own, she just listened to mine. But lately she didn't want to hear them anymore, she had been seeing a therapist, which I approved of, I could already see that her life was changing for the better. But for every positive step she made, our relationship soured a little. Now I knew why, because I had figured out what I was. I wasn't real, none of my stories were real, nothing I could offer my best friend was in any way real.
So I left. It took a long time for me to build up the courage, but I knew that me sticking around wasn't healthy. So I walked out the door, leaving Jane behind, never expecting to see her again. But I did.
"Annie, It's good to see you again!"
I blinked as I took in the room around me. Jane was there, lying on a bed, her face was much, much older, but there was no mistaking my old best friend.
"How long have I been gone?" I asked.
"Oh, I don't know, it must have been forty years at least." Jane said. "Aren't you at least glad to see me?"
I knew I shouldn't be, my mere presence meant that Jane was slipping back into her old ways, but I can't deny that some part of me was thrilled to see her.
There was and the door of the room creaked open. A young woman peeked her head inside. She was the spitting image of Jane on the day I had left her.
"Who are you talking to, Grandma?"
"Oh, nobody, Mary, don't worry about me."
"My name's Melissa, grandma."
"Oh! Sorry, my dear, anyway please just give me a little bit of time to rest right now."
Melissa gave a look of concern, but then left, closing the door behind her.
"My granddaughter, I have six of them now, with a seventh on the way. Can you believe it?"
"Wow, that's great!"
"Yes, Isn't it? Please sit down, I have so many stories to tell you!" Jane laughed lightly. "It's funny, when we were young I was always jealous of your adventures, but now I have my own!"
We passed the next few weeks chatting amicably in Jane's room. Her family initially was concerned about her talking to no one in particular, alone in her room, but eventually they seemed to decide it couldn't me helped and left us alone. Jane told me about her husband, she had met him a few years after she started seeing the therapist. An airline pilot, he had taken her on trips around the world. Tragically, he had died a few years prior to my return. Jane had kept up with her therapy, seeing a couple of different doctors throughout her life, and while she had some bad days, things had been going well. Jane had had three children, the eldest of which she was now staying with.
It was in December, with snow just starting to fall outside the window, when Jane, sipping tea that her daughter had brought up a few minutes earlier, said to me "I'm forgetting things, Annie, I think my mind is going."
"Is that why I'm back?" I asked.
"No, of course not, you're my friend, Annie."
"I was only your friend because you were sick, when you got better I left, but now you're sick again, so I'm back."
Jane was silent and stared into her cup.
"I wasn't a good friend, Jane, I hurt you."
"I know that. I wasted a lot of years cooped up in that old house, listening to your made-up adventures, being miserable evry day and not knowing why."
"I'm sorry."
"But, you know something? Those bad years are just as much a part of my life story as all the good years were."
We sat in silence for a long while, from somewhere downstairs, loud laughter echoed through the house. There was a knock at the door, and Melissa poked he head in.
"Grandma, would you like to come join us for dinner?"
"I think so, dear, that sounds lovely."
Jane grasped her granddaughter's arm and lifted herself out of bed.
"Uncle Mike was just retelling your story of that time in Brazil, when you had too much to drink at Carnival."
"So that's what all that laughing was about!" Jane said with a chuckle. "I shouldn't have told you that story, I'll never hear the end of it!"
The two walked out, leaving me to watch the snow fall outside of the window, warm and happy, in the home of my best friend.
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Kelly stared down at her unanswered text message. Internet friends could be so unreliable. Her friend had been nagging her for years through an app to get help, but when she finally did, they ghosted her. It was a real dilemma.
She read the text again and sighed. “WHERE YOU AT? HOLLA WHEN YOU GET HERE.”
Kelly’s friend looked over her shoulder.
“Why are you trying to text in Excel?”
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[WP] After years of gentile persuasion your best friend since childhood finally agrees to seek professional help for serious mental problems. Much to your dismay, as she begins to improve you slowly start to realize that you are her imaginary friend.
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Jane didn't want to hear my stories anymore, and I knew why.
It was because all of them were lies, I realize that now.
We used to spend hours just sitting around telling stories about my adventures travelling the world. Jane never seemed to mind that she didn't have any stories of her own, she just listened to mine. But lately she didn't want to hear them anymore, she had been seeing a therapist, which I approved of, I could already see that her life was changing for the better. But for every positive step she made, our relationship soured a little. Now I knew why, because I had figured out what I was. I wasn't real, none of my stories were real, nothing I could offer my best friend was in any way real.
So I left. It took a long time for me to build up the courage, but I knew that me sticking around wasn't healthy. So I walked out the door, leaving Jane behind, never expecting to see her again. But I did.
"Annie, It's good to see you again!"
I blinked as I took in the room around me. Jane was there, lying on a bed, her face was much, much older, but there was no mistaking my old best friend.
"How long have I been gone?" I asked.
"Oh, I don't know, it must have been forty years at least." Jane said. "Aren't you at least glad to see me?"
I knew I shouldn't be, my mere presence meant that Jane was slipping back into her old ways, but I can't deny that some part of me was thrilled to see her.
There was and the door of the room creaked open. A young woman peeked her head inside. She was the spitting image of Jane on the day I had left her.
"Who are you talking to, Grandma?"
"Oh, nobody, Mary, don't worry about me."
"My name's Melissa, grandma."
"Oh! Sorry, my dear, anyway please just give me a little bit of time to rest right now."
Melissa gave a look of concern, but then left, closing the door behind her.
"My granddaughter, I have six of them now, with a seventh on the way. Can you believe it?"
"Wow, that's great!"
"Yes, Isn't it? Please sit down, I have so many stories to tell you!" Jane laughed lightly. "It's funny, when we were young I was always jealous of your adventures, but now I have my own!"
We passed the next few weeks chatting amicably in Jane's room. Her family initially was concerned about her talking to no one in particular, alone in her room, but eventually they seemed to decide it couldn't me helped and left us alone. Jane told me about her husband, she had met him a few years after she started seeing the therapist. An airline pilot, he had taken her on trips around the world. Tragically, he had died a few years prior to my return. Jane had kept up with her therapy, seeing a couple of different doctors throughout her life, and while she had some bad days, things had been going well. Jane had had three children, the eldest of which she was now staying with.
It was in December, with snow just starting to fall outside the window, when Jane, sipping tea that her daughter had brought up a few minutes earlier, said to me "I'm forgetting things, Annie, I think my mind is going."
"Is that why I'm back?" I asked.
"No, of course not, you're my friend, Annie."
"I was only your friend because you were sick, when you got better I left, but now you're sick again, so I'm back."
Jane was silent and stared into her cup.
"I wasn't a good friend, Jane, I hurt you."
"I know that. I wasted a lot of years cooped up in that old house, listening to your made-up adventures, being miserable evry day and not knowing why."
"I'm sorry."
"But, you know something? Those bad years are just as much a part of my life story as all the good years were."
We sat in silence for a long while, from somewhere downstairs, loud laughter echoed through the house. There was a knock at the door, and Melissa poked he head in.
"Grandma, would you like to come join us for dinner?"
"I think so, dear, that sounds lovely."
Jane grasped her granddaughter's arm and lifted herself out of bed.
"Uncle Mike was just retelling your story of that time in Brazil, when you had too much to drink at Carnival."
"So that's what all that laughing was about!" Jane said with a chuckle. "I shouldn't have told you that story, I'll never hear the end of it!"
The two walked out, leaving me to watch the snow fall outside of the window, warm and happy, in the home of my best friend.
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I'd been on her case for a while to get help. She had been through a very traumatic childhood. She had been neglected by her biological parents who would regularly pass out on various substances, usually heroin or meth. They regularly ended up in prison due to their habits and activities.
Then she got moved to a foster home when both of her parents were arrested for possession at the same time and the state got involved. It wasn't any better. She was abused and mistreated by her first foster home, with a crib turned over her bed because she'd wander and sleepwalk at night. Then she was beat for wetting the bed because she couldn't get up to relieve herself. It didn't stop, and she was treated like she was less than dogshit.
Finally the state found family that would take her in, an aunt and uncle in Arkansas. They treated her well, but liked to drink and tended to have a temper. Due to her troubled past she often acted out and would get her newly adoptive parent's temper turned on her.
We met at school during recess. She was playing alone and I asked her if I could play with her. She just shrugged and continued mixing her "potion" in the whole of the tree root that had rainwater in it. None of the other kids would play with her, and they gave us odd looks. That didn't matter to me, she was a good person and I liked hanging out with her.
As we grew older she'd tell me of the many things that happened in her past and the things her parents were doing to her at home. They'd beat her over the head, withhold meals, take all her belongings and lock her in her room for days on end. I never told anyone because she swore me to secrecy. She didn't want the state to come and split up her and and her siblings. She didn't want to never see them again, so I kept her secret.
I haven't heard from her much recently. She just hasn't had much time for me since she's started getting her life together. The mistreatment she suffered her entire childhood left her with several severe mental disorders--Dissociative Identity Disorder, Disordered Eating, PTSD, Reactive Attachment Disorder, ADHD from her biological mother's natal meth use. When I learned how severely damaged she was, I began to urge her to seek treatment.
After one of her alters took over and went off the wall, destroying her relationships with her wife and family, she finally followed my advice and started seeing professional psychiatric help. She's told me the few times she's come around since that she's been working on EMDR with her psychiatrist to process the traumatic events and memories each of her alters hold, slowly integrating, letting the host, who was still that 5 year old girl slowly age and become her own person. But that person barely has time anymore for me, unless she's upset about something.
Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to only see your best friend when they need to vent? It sucks. I've finally decided to confront her about it.
=======================================
I woke up in a chair facing her doctor, whom I'd only seen once or twice before when I would take her to her appointments and she asked me to meet him.
"What's going on? Why am I here, and more importantly, how did I get here?" I asked frantically, this couldn't be good.
"Well, as you know, Lilly and I have been working on her mental state and her trauma for some time now and she has made remarkable progress integrating her alters, and healing from her childhood trauma."
"Yeah, I know, I've given that ungrateful bitch several rides here before, before she decided she didn't need me around or whatever. What's your point?"
"Oh, you've given her well more than "several" rides. You've driven her every time."
I looked at the doctor like he was an idiot. I hadn't given her more than a handful of rides. "Bullshit" I told him.
"I assure you it's not bullshit. You have brought her here for every single appointment over the past two years."
"Bullshit!" I said once again. "I would have remembered if I'd taken her to every appointment. Besides, I haven't seen her in months. She won't talk to me anymore."
"Well, that's exactly what you're here for today. She mentioned in her last session that you had been increasingly frustrated with her and wanted to confront her and I figured this would be a safe space for the meeting to occur."
"Ok, right. Yeah. I want to confront her, because I feel used, but take a look around, doc. She's not here. Fucking coward."
*Hey, I heard that!*
"What the fuck? Where did that come from?" I whipped around, searching for the source of her voice.
"You won't find her." he stated flatly, an almost bored, yet slightly amused look plastered on his face.
"What do you mean, I heard her plain as day!" I was still searching for her, having gotten up to check behind the curtains, his desk and the chair I was sitting in. She was nowhere to be found. I looked at the doctor exasperated.
"Will you please sit down now so I can tell you what is going on?"
"Not until she has the guts to face me! Who just hangs up on their best friend for months at a time?"
"Autumn, sit down please so we can continue." he *was* bored now, as if he'd been though this a dozen times before. I sat down tentatively and looked at him in expectation. "Ok, thank you. Now, Lilly, are you still with us?"
"Yes, doctor." What the ***FUCK***? That came out of *my* mouth!
"Good,--" I cut him off.
"Wait, what's going on here?" a knot of fear beginning to form in the pit of my stomach.
"If you'd let me continue, I was just about to get to the point." He leaned forward, forearms on the desk, hands clasped loosely, palms upward. "Lilly, do I have your permission to continue?"
"Yes, doctor, I feel it's well past time." From my mouth again. As I heard myself speak, I felt myself pale as the realization dawned on me.
"Autumn, you are one of Lilly's alters. In fact, likely her very first. She speaks through your body as you speak through hers because you are one and the same." I began to shake, filled with a nervous energy.
*I'm sorry I never told you earlier, Autumn*
"***SORRY***???" I screamed, "You mean to tell me I'm not even fucking real? I've been your best friend this entire time, and at no point in your treatment did you deign to tell me I don't even fucking exist??!"
"You can respond to her mentally, if it makes the conversation easier for you. She will hear you speak internally just as you can hear her."
*What do you mean sorry? How could you not have told me?*
*Well, the doctor told me that since you were one of the first to split off, that if I told you right away, the results could be disastrous for the system and destabilize us all.*
"I'm sorry, destabilize us? What is she talking about?" I spoke aloud to the doctor.
"Well, in some cases, if an alter discovers they are an alter, the results can be catastrophic. Some attempt to harm the body or even commit suicide, some attempt to destroy their head-mates with the result that they whole system goes insane." he paused to take a deep breath. "In your case, since there was so much trauma at such a young age, and the age at which you split from her, taking into account that you were not aware you were an alter, nor of any of the other alters, I thought it best that you be kept in the dark until she was much more mentally stable, in case of your negative reaction."
"Negative reaction? I'm her best friend! She kept this from me for years?" my--our--eyes began welling up with tears.
"You think you're her best friend, because that's what she needed at the time." He spoke gently, each word carefully placed.
*Is this true?* I asked her internally.
*Yes, but I never knew it as we grew up. You were simply my best friend and I yours*
*So what happens now?*
*Well, there are two options. The first is that we remain as we are, and rather than simply speaking to you when I need you, we would co-habitate.*
*Co-habitate?*
*Yes as in share the body. I live as I'd like, you live as you'd like, with us working together as a team.*
*So like a time share, basically? No way!*
*Well, not like a time share necessarily, we could and would have extended periods of co-consciousness, such as we are right now.*
*And live half a life, sharing my mind with someone else, not gonna happen! What's the other option?*
*Integration.*
I look up at the doctor. "Integration, that's what you did to the other alters, isn't it?"
"That has been what we have been working towards, yes."
"So what happened to them? Do they just disappear? Stop existing?"
=============================
Eh, I'm done. An alter wrote this anyway and I'm not sure where she was taking it, lol. I think the end result was gonna be integration, but I'm not sure how to portray that or how she would have, so I'll leave it as is. I tried to continue as much as possible, but I just don't have her flow with writing.
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[WP] After years of gentile persuasion your best friend since childhood finally agrees to seek professional help for serious mental problems. Much to your dismay, as she begins to improve you slowly start to realize that you are her imaginary friend.
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With an effort, the big mahogany door swung open. She walked out alone, head down and determined, directly toward me, and with all the composure we could collectively muster, we sat on that bench together. Time passed in moments measured only by tears fallen, awkward glances chanced and heart beats skipped. Time passed like that for as long as it did and no longer, until finally the silence shattered.
"It's funny, isn't it?" Layla offered up a gentle giggle through her tears, hoping it'd spread. When it didn't, she peeked over at me, sitting next to her, and nudged at me with her shoulder, like she used to when we were kids, like we were sharing an ice cream cone on a bench outside Twisty's on a sunny summer day, like we weren't 10 feet and 5 minutes away from the doctor's office and the end.
"No." I paused for both effect and because the words battled in my chest the whole way out. "No, I'm not so sure that it is." With my throat collapsing under the tears I could just barely dam up, I tried to edge along the bench, readying for that perfect moment to walk away forever. It'd be easier this way, cleaner, but Layla wouldn't have it. She placed her hand on my shoulder, or she pretended to, before I could inch away and pulled me back with the strength of 10,001 memories I did not wish to forget.
"This isn't goodbye, you know."
"I don't know anything." I suppose that I never did. "What did he tell you while you were in there?"
"James, this isn't about him. It's about me. You have to understand that, right?" She squirms in her seat. “You”re, you’re not real.”
"He told you to leave me, didn't he? He told you to say that?" Pools of fresh tears flooded her eyes, but she dared not let any fall. "He told you it wasn't healthy for me to be around." I realized I was yelling now but couldn't bring myself to care. If this was to be the end, I would make it such an end that I might never be forgotten. I suppose living on as a memory isn't much different than living in any event. "Well you know what I think? Fuck Dr. Anderson."
Teeth clenched in either anger or mere determination not to cry any longer, Layla stared into my eyes and heart. "You were right. It is easier this way."
*And with that, Layla Moncari, my best and only friend since infancy, stood up and walked away from me forever. To whoever is reading this letter, maybe you're a bigger man than me. Maybe you would've stuck it out. I'm sorry I couldn't be stronger. I'm so sorry.*
*But I want to make one thing perfectly clear, I can't and won't blame her. Her mind was twisted, poisoned, by that monster. The end was coming ever since she started seeing him. I know there'll be plenty of folks looking to point fingers once they find me. Know that were I there with you today, I'd point mine squarely at Dr. Johnathan Anderson.*
*Goodbye,*
*James*
"That will do, officer." The judge was even a bit shaken up by the evidence being read into the record. "Dr. Anderson, how do you plead?"
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I'd been on her case for a while to get help. She had been through a very traumatic childhood. She had been neglected by her biological parents who would regularly pass out on various substances, usually heroin or meth. They regularly ended up in prison due to their habits and activities.
Then she got moved to a foster home when both of her parents were arrested for possession at the same time and the state got involved. It wasn't any better. She was abused and mistreated by her first foster home, with a crib turned over her bed because she'd wander and sleepwalk at night. Then she was beat for wetting the bed because she couldn't get up to relieve herself. It didn't stop, and she was treated like she was less than dogshit.
Finally the state found family that would take her in, an aunt and uncle in Arkansas. They treated her well, but liked to drink and tended to have a temper. Due to her troubled past she often acted out and would get her newly adoptive parent's temper turned on her.
We met at school during recess. She was playing alone and I asked her if I could play with her. She just shrugged and continued mixing her "potion" in the whole of the tree root that had rainwater in it. None of the other kids would play with her, and they gave us odd looks. That didn't matter to me, she was a good person and I liked hanging out with her.
As we grew older she'd tell me of the many things that happened in her past and the things her parents were doing to her at home. They'd beat her over the head, withhold meals, take all her belongings and lock her in her room for days on end. I never told anyone because she swore me to secrecy. She didn't want the state to come and split up her and and her siblings. She didn't want to never see them again, so I kept her secret.
I haven't heard from her much recently. She just hasn't had much time for me since she's started getting her life together. The mistreatment she suffered her entire childhood left her with several severe mental disorders--Dissociative Identity Disorder, Disordered Eating, PTSD, Reactive Attachment Disorder, ADHD from her biological mother's natal meth use. When I learned how severely damaged she was, I began to urge her to seek treatment.
After one of her alters took over and went off the wall, destroying her relationships with her wife and family, she finally followed my advice and started seeing professional psychiatric help. She's told me the few times she's come around since that she's been working on EMDR with her psychiatrist to process the traumatic events and memories each of her alters hold, slowly integrating, letting the host, who was still that 5 year old girl slowly age and become her own person. But that person barely has time anymore for me, unless she's upset about something.
Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to only see your best friend when they need to vent? It sucks. I've finally decided to confront her about it.
=======================================
I woke up in a chair facing her doctor, whom I'd only seen once or twice before when I would take her to her appointments and she asked me to meet him.
"What's going on? Why am I here, and more importantly, how did I get here?" I asked frantically, this couldn't be good.
"Well, as you know, Lilly and I have been working on her mental state and her trauma for some time now and she has made remarkable progress integrating her alters, and healing from her childhood trauma."
"Yeah, I know, I've given that ungrateful bitch several rides here before, before she decided she didn't need me around or whatever. What's your point?"
"Oh, you've given her well more than "several" rides. You've driven her every time."
I looked at the doctor like he was an idiot. I hadn't given her more than a handful of rides. "Bullshit" I told him.
"I assure you it's not bullshit. You have brought her here for every single appointment over the past two years."
"Bullshit!" I said once again. "I would have remembered if I'd taken her to every appointment. Besides, I haven't seen her in months. She won't talk to me anymore."
"Well, that's exactly what you're here for today. She mentioned in her last session that you had been increasingly frustrated with her and wanted to confront her and I figured this would be a safe space for the meeting to occur."
"Ok, right. Yeah. I want to confront her, because I feel used, but take a look around, doc. She's not here. Fucking coward."
*Hey, I heard that!*
"What the fuck? Where did that come from?" I whipped around, searching for the source of her voice.
"You won't find her." he stated flatly, an almost bored, yet slightly amused look plastered on his face.
"What do you mean, I heard her plain as day!" I was still searching for her, having gotten up to check behind the curtains, his desk and the chair I was sitting in. She was nowhere to be found. I looked at the doctor exasperated.
"Will you please sit down now so I can tell you what is going on?"
"Not until she has the guts to face me! Who just hangs up on their best friend for months at a time?"
"Autumn, sit down please so we can continue." he *was* bored now, as if he'd been though this a dozen times before. I sat down tentatively and looked at him in expectation. "Ok, thank you. Now, Lilly, are you still with us?"
"Yes, doctor." What the ***FUCK***? That came out of *my* mouth!
"Good,--" I cut him off.
"Wait, what's going on here?" a knot of fear beginning to form in the pit of my stomach.
"If you'd let me continue, I was just about to get to the point." He leaned forward, forearms on the desk, hands clasped loosely, palms upward. "Lilly, do I have your permission to continue?"
"Yes, doctor, I feel it's well past time." From my mouth again. As I heard myself speak, I felt myself pale as the realization dawned on me.
"Autumn, you are one of Lilly's alters. In fact, likely her very first. She speaks through your body as you speak through hers because you are one and the same." I began to shake, filled with a nervous energy.
*I'm sorry I never told you earlier, Autumn*
"***SORRY***???" I screamed, "You mean to tell me I'm not even fucking real? I've been your best friend this entire time, and at no point in your treatment did you deign to tell me I don't even fucking exist??!"
"You can respond to her mentally, if it makes the conversation easier for you. She will hear you speak internally just as you can hear her."
*What do you mean sorry? How could you not have told me?*
*Well, the doctor told me that since you were one of the first to split off, that if I told you right away, the results could be disastrous for the system and destabilize us all.*
"I'm sorry, destabilize us? What is she talking about?" I spoke aloud to the doctor.
"Well, in some cases, if an alter discovers they are an alter, the results can be catastrophic. Some attempt to harm the body or even commit suicide, some attempt to destroy their head-mates with the result that they whole system goes insane." he paused to take a deep breath. "In your case, since there was so much trauma at such a young age, and the age at which you split from her, taking into account that you were not aware you were an alter, nor of any of the other alters, I thought it best that you be kept in the dark until she was much more mentally stable, in case of your negative reaction."
"Negative reaction? I'm her best friend! She kept this from me for years?" my--our--eyes began welling up with tears.
"You think you're her best friend, because that's what she needed at the time." He spoke gently, each word carefully placed.
*Is this true?* I asked her internally.
*Yes, but I never knew it as we grew up. You were simply my best friend and I yours*
*So what happens now?*
*Well, there are two options. The first is that we remain as we are, and rather than simply speaking to you when I need you, we would co-habitate.*
*Co-habitate?*
*Yes as in share the body. I live as I'd like, you live as you'd like, with us working together as a team.*
*So like a time share, basically? No way!*
*Well, not like a time share necessarily, we could and would have extended periods of co-consciousness, such as we are right now.*
*And live half a life, sharing my mind with someone else, not gonna happen! What's the other option?*
*Integration.*
I look up at the doctor. "Integration, that's what you did to the other alters, isn't it?"
"That has been what we have been working towards, yes."
"So what happened to them? Do they just disappear? Stop existing?"
=============================
Eh, I'm done. An alter wrote this anyway and I'm not sure where she was taking it, lol. I think the end result was gonna be integration, but I'm not sure how to portray that or how she would have, so I'll leave it as is. I tried to continue as much as possible, but I just don't have her flow with writing.
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[WP] After years of gentile persuasion your best friend since childhood finally agrees to seek professional help for serious mental problems. Much to your dismay, as she begins to improve you slowly start to realize that you are her imaginary friend.
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"Explain to me again how it works?"
We're in bed. It's warm. Heavy down. The ceiling fan *clap-clap-claps*.
Angie rubs my chest. Stares up at the fan.
"They...well, I guess they sort of *shoot* electricity into your brain," she says. "Not a lot. A little. Then you have like a seizure. Then it's over."
"Sounds awful," I say. "How's it help?"
"Kinda resets your brain, I think." She's making that face. Pursed lips. Half-closed eyes. The *Worry Has Turned to Anger* face. "It's probably a scam. Just torture. Just taking my money."
"But Dr. Tenneson..."
"Yeah. She thinks it'll help."
The hand is still on my chest. "Are you mad at me for making you go?"
She doesn't answer. She probably is, but doesn't want to say. "You can't make me do anything. I went because I went."
"I thought it'd just be talking," I say. "I thought that's what therapy is. Just talking. Maybe some drugs."
"It's that," she says, nodding. "And sometimes, when *that* doesn't work, it's things like ECT. Nobody knows." She sighs. "Nobody knows. It's all guessing."
"Did talking make you feel better at all?"
She gets up off the bed. "Not any better than talking to you."
"I'm not a therapist."
"You're a good listener."
"Well....yeah."
"Talking helps. It helps me understand things. But I need a little more than understanding." She finds one of the many framed pictures in the room, picking it up, looking at the image, then setting it back down - face down - on her dresser. All the pictures are like that. Face down. She doesn't like seeing the faces of her friends and family until she wants to see the faces. She doesn't like them watching her.
"How many times?"
She looks at me. "How many times do I have to shoot electricity into my brain? Dunno. Maybe 10 maybe 50. It causes memory problems. Looking forward to that..."
"Oh. But that's not..."
"It's like changing the wiring in my brain," she says. "It'll help...it'll just help. Or it won't."
"Then it's worth trying."
She nods, then moves to the door. "Okay. I gotta go. Mom's taking me. You be good. You're in charge while I'm gone."
"I'm always good," I say. "Good luck."
She smirks, opens the doors, then leaves. I'm alone. The ceiling fan *clap-clap-claps*. I can't move. I can only wait. I can only watch the ceiling fan. I can only wonder who she'll be when she comes back. If anything will change.
I couldn't do anything that day in her first room, the pink and white one, with unicorns and a towering dollhouse in the corner. I could only sit on her pillow, there in the dark, on the day after Christmas, as her uncle crept into the room and whispered things into her ear, things I couldn't hear. Eventually I fell on the floor. Eventually I was knocked under the bed. I think that's why she still talks to me. Why she doesn't mind me looking at her. Because I wasn't looking at her then. Like the framed pictures were. And the posters were. And the dolls were.
This is our fourth bedroom. Things change. Things stay the same. I've sat on so many pillows and watched her lose herself. Watched her hurt herself. Watched her wrap braided blankets around her throat and look desperately for some place to hang the other end.
All I've ever been able to do is talk to her. Or, I suppose, mostly just listen.
Somewhere far, far away, I feel something like a tingle. Like I've come out of the dryer and I'm crackling all over. The feeling lasts less than a minute, but at the end I can no longer hear the ceiling fan. I can no longer see the bedroom door.
I'm still here. Still me. But all that is is just a dusty, gray bear. Flattened. Patchy.
There's nothing to hear and there's nothing to see. There's nothing to say.
I can't say anything at all.
Then I remember that really, I never could, could I?
Everything is dark.
At least I still remember Angie.
That's more than enough for an old bear like me.
|
I'd been on her case for a while to get help. She had been through a very traumatic childhood. She had been neglected by her biological parents who would regularly pass out on various substances, usually heroin or meth. They regularly ended up in prison due to their habits and activities.
Then she got moved to a foster home when both of her parents were arrested for possession at the same time and the state got involved. It wasn't any better. She was abused and mistreated by her first foster home, with a crib turned over her bed because she'd wander and sleepwalk at night. Then she was beat for wetting the bed because she couldn't get up to relieve herself. It didn't stop, and she was treated like she was less than dogshit.
Finally the state found family that would take her in, an aunt and uncle in Arkansas. They treated her well, but liked to drink and tended to have a temper. Due to her troubled past she often acted out and would get her newly adoptive parent's temper turned on her.
We met at school during recess. She was playing alone and I asked her if I could play with her. She just shrugged and continued mixing her "potion" in the whole of the tree root that had rainwater in it. None of the other kids would play with her, and they gave us odd looks. That didn't matter to me, she was a good person and I liked hanging out with her.
As we grew older she'd tell me of the many things that happened in her past and the things her parents were doing to her at home. They'd beat her over the head, withhold meals, take all her belongings and lock her in her room for days on end. I never told anyone because she swore me to secrecy. She didn't want the state to come and split up her and and her siblings. She didn't want to never see them again, so I kept her secret.
I haven't heard from her much recently. She just hasn't had much time for me since she's started getting her life together. The mistreatment she suffered her entire childhood left her with several severe mental disorders--Dissociative Identity Disorder, Disordered Eating, PTSD, Reactive Attachment Disorder, ADHD from her biological mother's natal meth use. When I learned how severely damaged she was, I began to urge her to seek treatment.
After one of her alters took over and went off the wall, destroying her relationships with her wife and family, she finally followed my advice and started seeing professional psychiatric help. She's told me the few times she's come around since that she's been working on EMDR with her psychiatrist to process the traumatic events and memories each of her alters hold, slowly integrating, letting the host, who was still that 5 year old girl slowly age and become her own person. But that person barely has time anymore for me, unless she's upset about something.
Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to only see your best friend when they need to vent? It sucks. I've finally decided to confront her about it.
=======================================
I woke up in a chair facing her doctor, whom I'd only seen once or twice before when I would take her to her appointments and she asked me to meet him.
"What's going on? Why am I here, and more importantly, how did I get here?" I asked frantically, this couldn't be good.
"Well, as you know, Lilly and I have been working on her mental state and her trauma for some time now and she has made remarkable progress integrating her alters, and healing from her childhood trauma."
"Yeah, I know, I've given that ungrateful bitch several rides here before, before she decided she didn't need me around or whatever. What's your point?"
"Oh, you've given her well more than "several" rides. You've driven her every time."
I looked at the doctor like he was an idiot. I hadn't given her more than a handful of rides. "Bullshit" I told him.
"I assure you it's not bullshit. You have brought her here for every single appointment over the past two years."
"Bullshit!" I said once again. "I would have remembered if I'd taken her to every appointment. Besides, I haven't seen her in months. She won't talk to me anymore."
"Well, that's exactly what you're here for today. She mentioned in her last session that you had been increasingly frustrated with her and wanted to confront her and I figured this would be a safe space for the meeting to occur."
"Ok, right. Yeah. I want to confront her, because I feel used, but take a look around, doc. She's not here. Fucking coward."
*Hey, I heard that!*
"What the fuck? Where did that come from?" I whipped around, searching for the source of her voice.
"You won't find her." he stated flatly, an almost bored, yet slightly amused look plastered on his face.
"What do you mean, I heard her plain as day!" I was still searching for her, having gotten up to check behind the curtains, his desk and the chair I was sitting in. She was nowhere to be found. I looked at the doctor exasperated.
"Will you please sit down now so I can tell you what is going on?"
"Not until she has the guts to face me! Who just hangs up on their best friend for months at a time?"
"Autumn, sit down please so we can continue." he *was* bored now, as if he'd been though this a dozen times before. I sat down tentatively and looked at him in expectation. "Ok, thank you. Now, Lilly, are you still with us?"
"Yes, doctor." What the ***FUCK***? That came out of *my* mouth!
"Good,--" I cut him off.
"Wait, what's going on here?" a knot of fear beginning to form in the pit of my stomach.
"If you'd let me continue, I was just about to get to the point." He leaned forward, forearms on the desk, hands clasped loosely, palms upward. "Lilly, do I have your permission to continue?"
"Yes, doctor, I feel it's well past time." From my mouth again. As I heard myself speak, I felt myself pale as the realization dawned on me.
"Autumn, you are one of Lilly's alters. In fact, likely her very first. She speaks through your body as you speak through hers because you are one and the same." I began to shake, filled with a nervous energy.
*I'm sorry I never told you earlier, Autumn*
"***SORRY***???" I screamed, "You mean to tell me I'm not even fucking real? I've been your best friend this entire time, and at no point in your treatment did you deign to tell me I don't even fucking exist??!"
"You can respond to her mentally, if it makes the conversation easier for you. She will hear you speak internally just as you can hear her."
*What do you mean sorry? How could you not have told me?*
*Well, the doctor told me that since you were one of the first to split off, that if I told you right away, the results could be disastrous for the system and destabilize us all.*
"I'm sorry, destabilize us? What is she talking about?" I spoke aloud to the doctor.
"Well, in some cases, if an alter discovers they are an alter, the results can be catastrophic. Some attempt to harm the body or even commit suicide, some attempt to destroy their head-mates with the result that they whole system goes insane." he paused to take a deep breath. "In your case, since there was so much trauma at such a young age, and the age at which you split from her, taking into account that you were not aware you were an alter, nor of any of the other alters, I thought it best that you be kept in the dark until she was much more mentally stable, in case of your negative reaction."
"Negative reaction? I'm her best friend! She kept this from me for years?" my--our--eyes began welling up with tears.
"You think you're her best friend, because that's what she needed at the time." He spoke gently, each word carefully placed.
*Is this true?* I asked her internally.
*Yes, but I never knew it as we grew up. You were simply my best friend and I yours*
*So what happens now?*
*Well, there are two options. The first is that we remain as we are, and rather than simply speaking to you when I need you, we would co-habitate.*
*Co-habitate?*
*Yes as in share the body. I live as I'd like, you live as you'd like, with us working together as a team.*
*So like a time share, basically? No way!*
*Well, not like a time share necessarily, we could and would have extended periods of co-consciousness, such as we are right now.*
*And live half a life, sharing my mind with someone else, not gonna happen! What's the other option?*
*Integration.*
I look up at the doctor. "Integration, that's what you did to the other alters, isn't it?"
"That has been what we have been working towards, yes."
"So what happened to them? Do they just disappear? Stop existing?"
=============================
Eh, I'm done. An alter wrote this anyway and I'm not sure where she was taking it, lol. I think the end result was gonna be integration, but I'm not sure how to portray that or how she would have, so I'll leave it as is. I tried to continue as much as possible, but I just don't have her flow with writing.
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[WP] After years of gentile persuasion your best friend since childhood finally agrees to seek professional help for serious mental problems. Much to your dismay, as she begins to improve you slowly start to realize that you are her imaginary friend.
|
"Explain to me again how it works?"
We're in bed. It's warm. Heavy down. The ceiling fan *clap-clap-claps*.
Angie rubs my chest. Stares up at the fan.
"They...well, I guess they sort of *shoot* electricity into your brain," she says. "Not a lot. A little. Then you have like a seizure. Then it's over."
"Sounds awful," I say. "How's it help?"
"Kinda resets your brain, I think." She's making that face. Pursed lips. Half-closed eyes. The *Worry Has Turned to Anger* face. "It's probably a scam. Just torture. Just taking my money."
"But Dr. Tenneson..."
"Yeah. She thinks it'll help."
The hand is still on my chest. "Are you mad at me for making you go?"
She doesn't answer. She probably is, but doesn't want to say. "You can't make me do anything. I went because I went."
"I thought it'd just be talking," I say. "I thought that's what therapy is. Just talking. Maybe some drugs."
"It's that," she says, nodding. "And sometimes, when *that* doesn't work, it's things like ECT. Nobody knows." She sighs. "Nobody knows. It's all guessing."
"Did talking make you feel better at all?"
She gets up off the bed. "Not any better than talking to you."
"I'm not a therapist."
"You're a good listener."
"Well....yeah."
"Talking helps. It helps me understand things. But I need a little more than understanding." She finds one of the many framed pictures in the room, picking it up, looking at the image, then setting it back down - face down - on her dresser. All the pictures are like that. Face down. She doesn't like seeing the faces of her friends and family until she wants to see the faces. She doesn't like them watching her.
"How many times?"
She looks at me. "How many times do I have to shoot electricity into my brain? Dunno. Maybe 10 maybe 50. It causes memory problems. Looking forward to that..."
"Oh. But that's not..."
"It's like changing the wiring in my brain," she says. "It'll help...it'll just help. Or it won't."
"Then it's worth trying."
She nods, then moves to the door. "Okay. I gotta go. Mom's taking me. You be good. You're in charge while I'm gone."
"I'm always good," I say. "Good luck."
She smirks, opens the doors, then leaves. I'm alone. The ceiling fan *clap-clap-claps*. I can't move. I can only wait. I can only watch the ceiling fan. I can only wonder who she'll be when she comes back. If anything will change.
I couldn't do anything that day in her first room, the pink and white one, with unicorns and a towering dollhouse in the corner. I could only sit on her pillow, there in the dark, on the day after Christmas, as her uncle crept into the room and whispered things into her ear, things I couldn't hear. Eventually I fell on the floor. Eventually I was knocked under the bed. I think that's why she still talks to me. Why she doesn't mind me looking at her. Because I wasn't looking at her then. Like the framed pictures were. And the posters were. And the dolls were.
This is our fourth bedroom. Things change. Things stay the same. I've sat on so many pillows and watched her lose herself. Watched her hurt herself. Watched her wrap braided blankets around her throat and look desperately for some place to hang the other end.
All I've ever been able to do is talk to her. Or, I suppose, mostly just listen.
Somewhere far, far away, I feel something like a tingle. Like I've come out of the dryer and I'm crackling all over. The feeling lasts less than a minute, but at the end I can no longer hear the ceiling fan. I can no longer see the bedroom door.
I'm still here. Still me. But all that is is just a dusty, gray bear. Flattened. Patchy.
There's nothing to hear and there's nothing to see. There's nothing to say.
I can't say anything at all.
Then I remember that really, I never could, could I?
Everything is dark.
At least I still remember Angie.
That's more than enough for an old bear like me.
|
With an effort, the big mahogany door swung open. She walked out alone, head down and determined, directly toward me, and with all the composure we could collectively muster, we sat on that bench together. Time passed in moments measured only by tears fallen, awkward glances chanced and heart beats skipped. Time passed like that for as long as it did and no longer, until finally the silence shattered.
"It's funny, isn't it?" Layla offered up a gentle giggle through her tears, hoping it'd spread. When it didn't, she peeked over at me, sitting next to her, and nudged at me with her shoulder, like she used to when we were kids, like we were sharing an ice cream cone on a bench outside Twisty's on a sunny summer day, like we weren't 10 feet and 5 minutes away from the doctor's office and the end.
"No." I paused for both effect and because the words battled in my chest the whole way out. "No, I'm not so sure that it is." With my throat collapsing under the tears I could just barely dam up, I tried to edge along the bench, readying for that perfect moment to walk away forever. It'd be easier this way, cleaner, but Layla wouldn't have it. She placed her hand on my shoulder, or she pretended to, before I could inch away and pulled me back with the strength of 10,001 memories I did not wish to forget.
"This isn't goodbye, you know."
"I don't know anything." I suppose that I never did. "What did he tell you while you were in there?"
"James, this isn't about him. It's about me. You have to understand that, right?" She squirms in her seat. “You”re, you’re not real.”
"He told you to leave me, didn't he? He told you to say that?" Pools of fresh tears flooded her eyes, but she dared not let any fall. "He told you it wasn't healthy for me to be around." I realized I was yelling now but couldn't bring myself to care. If this was to be the end, I would make it such an end that I might never be forgotten. I suppose living on as a memory isn't much different than living in any event. "Well you know what I think? Fuck Dr. Anderson."
Teeth clenched in either anger or mere determination not to cry any longer, Layla stared into my eyes and heart. "You were right. It is easier this way."
*And with that, Layla Moncari, my best and only friend since infancy, stood up and walked away from me forever. To whoever is reading this letter, maybe you're a bigger man than me. Maybe you would've stuck it out. I'm sorry I couldn't be stronger. I'm so sorry.*
*But I want to make one thing perfectly clear, I can't and won't blame her. Her mind was twisted, poisoned, by that monster. The end was coming ever since she started seeing him. I know there'll be plenty of folks looking to point fingers once they find me. Know that were I there with you today, I'd point mine squarely at Dr. Johnathan Anderson.*
*Goodbye,*
*James*
"That will do, officer." The judge was even a bit shaken up by the evidence being read into the record. "Dr. Anderson, how do you plead?"
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[WP] The worlds worst thief steals tries to steal from the worlds most unlucky man.
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Jason sat in the thieves’ guild, sipping on a pint of the cheapest ale they sold. He hadn’t been doing well lately, not like he was very successful in all his time of thieving. Not like the other thieves that were gathered around, they all looked happy and flashed the gold they had accumulated. They could pull of a successful job be it pick pocket people in the markets, break in a house and rob it blind or even pull of a heist at the bank. They always got something and sure sometimes they got caught and had to serve some time in prison but for the most part they were successful. They all made fun of him of course, they would often come over and laugh at his misfortune and told him he should just be a simple farmer or something, maybe he would be better at that, but he wanted to be a thief.
He however, didn’t have their luck or even their skill. He had tried everything he could, had even trained with the better thieves but no matter what he did he just couldn’t win. He was lucky that he managed to get away most of the time. He had only served about a month in prison for the time he had tried to pick pocket a wealthy merchant and instead of grabbing their purse he had grabbed something else which alerted them to his presence and had called for the guards. Prison wasn’t so bad and when he got out he tried his hand at other jobs but they all failed. Now he was down to the last of his coin and desperate for work but had no idea at what he could do. He saw that Amanda was coming over to him, she was the only thief in this place that didn’t laugh at him. She tried to help him out sometimes by giving him tips and tricks for him to use but they never paid off for him.
“Hey Jason, you’re looking a bit down there, what’s up?” She asked.
“Well I’m pretty much down to the last of my coin and I’m not likely to get anymore” he told her.
“Look I know things have been tough on you and you haven’t always had the most luck at this, but I might have something for you if you are interested” she said.
“I doubt I will be successful, but I will hear you out” he replied.
“Well have you ever heard of David, the world’s unluckiest man?” She asked.
“Can’t say I have” he replied.
“Well this guy has just moved to town, a perfect target for you to get some coin” she said.
“Well if I can’t steal something from him I will definitely quit trying to be a thief, where does he live?” He asked.
“His place is on River street, the third one down on the left as you come down from the river” she replied.
“Alright thanks for the tip, I better get to it” he said, and he drained his mug.
“Good luck” she said with a smile.
He left the guild and headed to the river which wasn’t that far away. Once there he headed down river street and found the house in question. As it was night already all the lights were off, he hoped this meant that this David was asleep. He crept up to the door and got out the last of his lock picks and put it into the key hole and wiggled it about a bit. He was never good at this and had only ever picked a lock once before and that was mostly out of luck rather than skill. He heard it click though and he pushed the door open. The room was dark beyond that, so he lit one of his matches to look around. The front room was mostly empty save for a couple bits of furniture that didn’t look like much and would be worthless to him. He proceeded to the next room which was the kitchen and was just as bare but did have a few bits of food scattered around. The guy must hide his treasures on the upper floor and so Jason blew out his match just as it was about to scorch his fingers and silently went up the stairs.
In the bedroom he saw that the owner was asleep on his bed and breathing heavily so he would have time to look around. On the bedside table he saw a small bag and a candlestick that looked like it had been made of silver. Sure, these weren’t the best of treasure, but he would take them. He crept over to them and picked both up, the bag clicked nicely as he picked it up and though wasn’t that heavy he guessed there might be a half a dozen coins in there. He turned around a left the way he came and closed the door on his way out, but he must have pushed it harder than he thought and it slammed. He quickly run off so as not to be caught.
David woke up when he heard his door slam and looked to the left he saw that his bag of nails and wooden candlestick that his mother had painted silver were missing. This meant someone had been in his house and had stolen them. His luck would never change he knew but at least they didn’t kill him.
|
Jane didn't know what she was doing, carrying a ten foot stepladder through the street at night. It made her seem very suspicious, she thought. Especially the ear-assaulting, scraping noise that was made as she couldn't lift the whole thing properly. The ladder was a heavy thing. She had to place it on the pavement, rest her arms a bit, and then pick it up again, many times throughout her journey. She wiped sweat off her forehead. The house she was about to burglarise was three miles away from her warehouse where she got the stepladder. *Three miles.* She actually carried a stepladder for *three miles.*
Jack didn't have a good day at work that morning. His boss had shouted at him for arriving at work late, and he was only late because of the alarm clock, and the traffic, and the weather, and his car breaking down, and his shoelaces being untied. All of that caused him to be late to work by one minute. He was tired of everything that day, and all Jack wanted to do was to sleep. But how could he sleep with that annoying, scraping metal noise outside?
Jane had set up the ladder underneath an open window on the target house. She didn't actually scope the house, like a proper professional would. But who is awake at 2 A.M? Nobody, she thought. After setting the ladder, she climbed up, acutely aware of her vertigo, and even more afraid when she realised that she couldn't fit through the open window - it was too narrow. She climbed back down and put her hands on her hips. She took down the ladder.
Jack became aware of something happening in his front garden. He peered out of his partially closed curtains, but he saw nothing.
Jane had hidden the ladder in a bush. Actually, the ladder fell into the bush. She didn't stabilise the thing properly. Stumped, she went for a hail mary and tried the front door.
Jack became aware that, for whatever reason, he had left the front door unlocked. Paranoid, he went downstairs and locked it. He felt a good deal more safe after that.
Jane was distracted by a plate of lasagna in the kitchen. It wasn't tasty or anything, just elusive. It was cooked so badly that it was interesting. She was startled by the sound of the front door locking behind her, but she didn't make any noise.
Jack remembered the lasagna that he left out. It was horribly burnt because of an oven malfunction. He made sure to go down to put the lasagna in its proper place - the bin. But when he went down, the lasagna was nowhere to be found.
Jane ran out of the house, holding a plate full of lasagna, her eyes filled with wonder. Mission accomplished.
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[WP] There are many things that you've gotta get used to in a post apocalyptic world: cloudy skies, dirty water, lack of food, and constantly fighting for your life. But adventuring with a zombie that has a crush on you? That's still a tough pill to swallow.
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**January 1st, 2023**
Happy new year to me! For 2021 I hope to survive (for at least another year), …, and, finally, to finally find someone who cares for me. Another survivor, a dog, hell, even a cat will do the trick! The wastes are cold and unforgiving… I may seem needy and even childish, but I really miss the feeling of being loved again. The last three years have been really rough and lonely… Anyways, I found a bottle of bourbon while scavenging a few days ago, so I’ll lock myself in my bunker this night and celebrate for once! Here’s to a great year!
**January 5th, 2021**
I haven’t been able to find any healthy animal in over a week now. According to my watch (I have no idea how this old thing still works!), I spent five hours following tracks that led nowhere. I then gave up and went to the nearby town to scavenge for any food I could find. In there, something strange happened. About a dozen dead ones noticed my presence, but one of them, that seemed livelier than the others, started barring them from getting near me. After that, I got home safely and here I am writing this now.
**January 6th, 2021**
The odd dead one from yesterday seemed to have followed me, and its behaviour is even weirder. While I scouted the forest, it tailed me, and rushed to hide behind the trees (as fast as its clumsy walk allowed) every time I looked back. It made me uncomfortable, but I couldn’t help but feel it wasn’t a threat, so I let it be. I spent the rest of the day reading at home, continuing my medical studies.
**January 7th, 2021**
I saw the same dead today when I went to scavenge for food and supplies again. Several times. Once again, it followed me all the way, from a safe distance, hiding when I looked around. From house to house, store to store, it was always nearby, looking in my direction. It’s eyes weren’t like the others’, cold and irrational; they held this sense of human curiosity, or fascination… I can only imagine I’m seeing things...
**January 8th, 2021**
When I got out today, I felt both really scared, excited and confused. Just outside of my bunker’s door, there was a big stash of canned drinks and food. With rifle in hand, I looked around the perimeter (after I stored the food, of course), ready to fire at the first sight of bandits. I had caught some raider radio signals nearby, so I got prepared for the worst. I lowered my weapon when I saw it again. Yes, my stalked, again, carrying two cans, one with each hand, and heading to my bunker! I approached it and made my presence known by calling it, but as soon as it looked in my direction, it was like every little bit of blood in its body rushed to its cheeks. It dropped all the cans and ran! It ran away from me faster than I’ve seen any dead run. I couldn’t help but laugh, and I yelled a cheerful “Thank you”, even though it wouldn’t understand me.
**January 9th, 2021**
Today it happened again. When I woke up, at sunrise, I opened the door and found a big heart-shaped pool of leaves, with a small red object at the center of the poorly drawn symbol. I didn’t have to look very carefully to notice the straight line of bothered leaves and footprints from the strange object to a large rock nearby. With very deliberate steps, I approached the mysterious thing on the ground and it’s a heart! A human heart! I mean, it was grey and cold, but it was a heart nonetheless! I carefully grabbed it with my bare hands and carried it with me. I knew it was my little stalker before I went and looked around the rock, but I was still surprised when I found it with an enormous hole in it’s chest, covering its face with its hands and shaking horribly, like I remember being when I asked my first girlfriend on a date, more than twenty five years ago. I smiled broadly and handed its heart back. “I accept it, but you don’t have to be so dramatic. Follow me, I’ll patch you up.”
It is now laying on the floor, covered in bandages, uttering some strangely love-sounding growls every once in a while. It all sounds so unreal, but I think I can get used to it.
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"Watch out," one of our lookouts said on her radio. "Here comes Romeo."
And sure enough, Romeo stumbled up the path to our latest hideout: an old saw-mill that was barely on any maps.
"Took him a while to find us this time," said the youngster. "Musta gotten held up by tha rain."
"Poor guy," I said. "Some women just have too much power over certain men. We'll let him in and smother him in blankets - same deal as always, walkie is not for small talkie. Over and out."
"Over and out."
Romeo, an abnormal zombie that for some reason would not leave me alone, or bite anyone, bumped against the barricaded door. Two of our strongest companions let him in, and Martha the sixty-year-old woman rolled him into a quilt and stuffed him into a closet. We didn't want to kill him, since he sort of became our mascot, but we also couldn't let him be free - he'd give us away too easily.
I walked downstairs to say hi. As soon as I entered the vestibule, it saw me and smiled. He was the only zombie that I have ever seen smile in my life. It took a few steps closer to me, and I started to hear an alarming sound. A ticking.
"Bomb!" I yelled, as I leaped back and shielded my face. Romeo, or the pipe-bomb that a marauder gang placed on him to blow us up, blew up. It took out only a handful of our people, but they were crucial to our defense strategy - our hideout got taken and we had to give up all our food and guns.
I survived. Wasn't the first time that love was used as a weapon against me.
***
Save your best compliments and worst criticisms, for when you come check out my subreddit, /r/conniecompanion.
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[WP] Parents choose their children's stats. A common practice among poorer families is luck-farming - that is, putting all of their child's points into luck to improve the family's luck as well.
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At the age of fifteen, Lionel began to despise his parents. Walking home from school pass the railroad tracks, into the small community of run down houses, each with a chain-link fence and worn out lawns, he understood why they did what they did, but that didn’t stop him from hating them.
“You’ll do great!” they said to him since as far back as he could remember, “anything you want will come easy for you!”
What a bunch of bullshit.
“We know things will work out for you, and when they do, you can help us out! Until then, we’ll help you in any way we can. We don’t have much, but Lyle, we love you and we know that you’ll help us when you make it big!”
They always sounded so hopeful that things will work out and that they did good boosting his Luck as much as they did. Fucking morons was all Lionel could think.
Lionel passed a house with a Rottweiler chained up to a post on the rickety porch. It began pulling on the chain and barking, causing the post to bend, and all Lionel could do was close his eyes and begin to pray.
“Please don’t let the dog break the chain or the post,” Lionel muttered under his breath. He could still hear the barking of the dog, the creaking of the post, the chain clunking on itself, and he knew this would be one of the bad moments. As he made his way further down the block, a sharp pain shot from his foot. He gave a yelp before falling to the ground. The dog became silent, only a few growls escaped it.
Checking his shoe, Lionel saw a nail had embedded itself into the sole. The pain brought tears to his eyes, but Lionel made no attempt to remove it. Instead, he stood up and continued wincing his way back home. He felt his sock dampen from the blood.
He didn’t understand why, but the pain caused him to remember a field trip to the farm when he was seven years old. He had a crush on a sweet girl name Adeline, one of the most Intelligent people in the class, and he was finally working up the courage to go and talk to her. He could feel the sweat forming on his forehead, his hands clamming up, and his knees shaking as he walked closer to her. His stomach rumbled as he stood behind Adeline and her friends. He tapped Adeline on the shoulders, and she and all her friends turned around. He opened his mouth to say hi, but instead bile came out and sprayed across poor Adeline’s face. Her screams caught the attention of the adults on the trip, and they all rushed over to help. Lionel was horrified and began to cry. Through the tears, he thought he heard someone yell out that he had pooped his pants as well.
That was one of the earliest memories where he began to hate his luck. It didn’t take him long to realize that he didn’t deserve any good thing or bad thing that happened to him. It didn’t matter how much he studied for a test, how much he practiced for a sport, or how much he did anything, because a flip of a coin seemed to have more control of his life than what he put into it. He could one day mow everyone’s lawn in the richer neighborhoods, and only get five dollars at the end, or he could just sit in his room mashing the buttons on his gaming controller, not knowing what to do in the game, and make it to the top of the gaming boards. It began to take a toll on him the older he got.
Lionel finally winced his way back home. Walking inside, he called out to his parents and when he didn’t get a response, he made his way to his room. Sitting in his room, Lionel reached into his backpack and took out the revolver he had gotten from his friend Gene.
A week ago, Lionel had asked his friend if he could get him a gun, as Gene’s Charisma was impressive and Lionel figured if anyone could get a gun for cheap, it would be Gene. He gave Gene the hundred dollar bill he had found that morning on his way to school, and Gene said he’ll see what he could. A week later from that day, Gene finally gave him the revolver.
“What did you want the gun for anyway?” asked Gene.
“Trying to get into shooting, and my family doesn’t have the money to get me a gun, so I thought I’d go through you, you know?” answered Lionel.
“Cool cool. Just be careful, ok? I don’t want the gun to go off and kill someone on accident.”
“Nah, don’t worry about it, with my Luck, the gun will probably jam before it hurts anyone.” Gene laughed and both him and Lionel went on their ways back home.
Now in his bed, staring at the gun, Lionel began to appreciate the weight of the gun and the shine of the metal and the grip on the handle. He aimed the revolver at his door and pretended to shoot a few holes into the door.
Frowning, he clocked back the hammer and placed the gun in his mouth. With his eyes closed, Lionel pulled the trigger.
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I've never been rich. Our family never had excess money. Hell, there were times my step dad had to sell drugs on the side just to keep on the lights or the gas. I don't want you to think I had a bad family life though. My mom and step dad loved me unconditionally. They just did whatever it took to make sure their kids had whatever they needed.
I was always the lucky one. Not sure why. I used to joke that I was like Master Chief, the Spartan II who's ability was luck. I was in a real bad car accident when I was 12, but came out without a scratch. Lost control of my bicycle going down a rocky hill, but managed to make it down, bike still completely in tact. Sure, some bad shit happened sometimes, the girl I liked turned me down. I got a bad grade on a test but I can count more good things than bad easily.
One day I was sitting at lunch with a few friends. My best friend Joe and his girlfriend Cynthia, along with Harley. She was more of the...sexual deviant of the crew. Despite all my luck, I was still lumped in with the losers at school. We were the "goth" and "rock" clique kids. So of course our conversations usually took intense, or as I say now looking back on my sixteen year old days, edgy turns.
Harley was talking about how she snuck into her mom's room to find something sexy to wear at this party she was headed to over the weekend. "...so I was searching through her underwear drawer and came across something crazy." She left a dramatic pause, a little long for Joe's liking.
"...and?" he said, leaning forward.
Harley leaned in, making sure we all did the same. "It was a paper. Kinda looked like one of those character sheets they use in dungeons and dragons."
We all leaned back, the anti-climactic nature of the reveal giving way to "ughs" and "c'mons".
"No fuckers. This wasn't just a character sheet. It had my name; birth date; current age, which by the way looked like it had been erased several times, and all kinds of personal info." We leaned forward again, it was crazy how in sync we were, like a hivemind.
"The thing that made me really stop and think though, is how many eraser marks were on the hair color line. Like every time I've changed it, it was changed there." She then took the tone if it was a spooky campfire story. "So here's what I think. I think when we're born, our parents make our character sheets."
There was a pause, exchanged glances, then Cynthia laughing, which bled to Joe then admittedly, me. Harley was pissed. She was actually serious and even though I was laughing at the absurdity of the idea, I couldn't help but think so. I mean, I believed in aliens and ghosts, so why the hell not?
"Alright fuckers. I guess not. Fuck you too then." Harley got up, storming off.
"Shit dude. She was actually serious." Joe said as we all watched her leave.
"I got this. I'll go talk to her." I got up, jogging over to her as she passed the threshold to the hallway. "Har. Hold up." I reached out to her, grabbing her arm.
She turned, her face radiating irritation. "What? You really think I'm making this shit up?"
"I mean, it does sound a little far fetched. BUT. Compared to the other existential things we believe in, it might not be so far off. Plus, that would be kind of cool, lets be honest."
"I mean, it was actually more spooky, but ok. Check around your parents room. Like I said, I found mine in my mom's underwear drawer. I expected a dildo or something. Not that."
"I'm gonna look tomorrow. Don't expect me at school. Pulling the ol' fake flu."
Harley smirked. "Little shit."
"You know me."
-------------
My trick worked. Mom believed I had the flu, but her and Dan, my stepdad, had important stuff at work. They knew I'd pull through. So they left me to my devices. Wouldn't be the first time I was home "sick" by myself. I laid in bed, gave it about 20 minutes after they left before I hopped of bed to begin my investigation.
I went for their room first. The typical parents room. Queen sized bed, dresser with the tv on it against the wall parallel to the foot of the bed. Y'know. The staple. I went right for the dresser. Starting from the bottom and working my way up. I really was loathing searching the underwear drawer. Last thing I wanted was to find what Harley had been expecting to find. As I reached that drawer, a knot in my stomach formed. I couldn't tell if it was that I might find the character sheet, or a goddamn sex toy.
My hands got clammy as my fingers wrapped aroud the wrung. I swallowed hard, then inhaled before pulling it open, with admittedly more force than I had intended, almost pulling it off the rails. I stared down into the drawer before starting my careful rummaging. Luckily, I hadn't found any sheet of paper or sex toys. I closed the drawer, a wave of relief flooding over me. I walked back to my room, shooting Harley a text.
[Nothing]
[Of course]
That was when it hit me. Harley's mom and mine were different. As I thought it, Harley must had too.
[What about Dan's study?]
My mom did have a file cabinet in there...
[I just thought about that. I'll get back to you.]
I tossed the phone back on the bed, and headed to Dan's study. I didn't waste any time, going right for my mom's cabinet she kept in the corner. It was a small, single drawer, sitting against the corner of the wall. I tired to open it but it was locked. I sighed, that was it. The search was over. Sulking back to my room, I heard my notification tone go off, it was Harley.
[Thought you might need this]
Attached was a link attached. It was a step by step of lock picking with a safety pin. Lucky me.
Luckier me. It was way easier than I expected. I started flipping through the papers. My report cards, random tests, macaroni pictures, drawings. A few different character sheets from when Dan had taught me to play Dungeons and Dragons.
I stopped, pulling my phone back out, texting Harley.
[Holy shit. I just remembered Dan taught me how to play dnd. I'm still looking for 'my sheet' but...you think this is why his kids are so successful?]
[I mean...it makes sense. He taught all of us how to play. He said he'd been playing since first edition.]
It did make sense. Dan was really smart at character building. I'd seen him make some impossibly overpowered characters for his games and even make some purposely useless ones. He had read every sourcebook front and back. I never understood why someone would do that.
I continued to flip through the papers. All the memories of childhood, adolescence, my medical documents and that was where I found it. I pulled it out, scanning the things that Harley had pointed out. The multiple eraser marks where the age was. The blackened background where my current hair color was. After that I just kind of stared. Blanking out on it, perplexed but amazed. This was me.
I took a picture and sent it to Harley.
[Holy fuck. You found it.]
[Yeah. This is insane.]
[Know what. Why don't you look for Dan's kids?]
I did just that, found them pretty quickly once I knew where the medical papers were. Took pictures of them too. Put everything back where it went and went right back to my room. Turning on my monitor I plugged my phone in, taking the .img files and putting them side by side one another. I started comparing Dan's kids to where they were in life now. His son, a computer tech had high Intelegence score, but a lower constitution. Which to my knowledge he did get sick more often than usual. His daughter, a budding celebrity had high charisma, but she was a bit...aloof, so a low wisdom score reflected.
I hardly wanted to even look at my scores. My actual human potential on a screen in front of me. Not even imagining Shia screaming Do it! made me want to look. That clammy feeling in my hands came back as I finally brought it up. Everything made sense. The car accident, the bike, hell, even the lockpicking. My mom put majority of my points into luck while being average at everything else. I stared, no, studied my scores. My future being pipelined into certain professions now. I couldn't be a genius, I couldn't be an athlete. What could I do with the excess amount of luck. Gambler? That was all I could think at the time. Maybe my mom teaching me Texas Hold 'em had a purpose.
I could barely think. I was so drained by everything, the next thing I knew was I was woken up by my mom. I had passed out at my desk. The character sheet up on my monitor. She knew what I had found.
That night, we had a long talk and Dan offered to teach me everything he had known about Dungeons and Dragons. He said it had helped him and in the end, it helped Harley and I when we had our first child.
We had decided to keep the sheets a secret from Joe and Cynthia, let them find out once they had their kid. That was a fun night of we told you's and laughter. A toast to our friendship and the future of our children. Harley and I had known Alexis would be fine. We set that kid up for a level of success she wouldn't believe.
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[WP] Parents choose their children's stats. A common practice among poorer families is luck-farming - that is, putting all of their child's points into luck to improve the family's luck as well.
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She didn't walk, not the way that people like you or me walk -- instead, she seemed to glide wherever she went. She was the epitome of grace, gliding over the earth so that she never slipped, never tripped, never fell. When I saw her strolling through the woods behind our houses, a chance breeze would always lift up branches so they wouldn't knock into her head. Her long, long hair was never snarled in thorns or caught in a bush. She would roam around barefoot, yet no offending twig or rock ever scratched her dainty feet.
Our little town had never seen anyone quite like Dalia Epperson.
She was an oddity, to be sure, in a town that preferred to resist oddness and strange things, strange people. But while people may have muttered under their breaths about the choices of the Epperson parents -- a man with sun-lined wrinkles and a strong handshake, a tiny woman with sharp eyes and a voice that bellied her size -- that was only at first. Soon, everyone grew fond of our own little lady luck.
The muttering had always been muted, though, because everyone in town knew about the toils and troubles of the Eppersons. A gaggle of six children to feed, and crops that never seemed to grow big and tall. A roof that always seemed to leak, a cow that always seemed to escape.
So the town may have muttered when the Eppersons gifted their seventh child with luck, and only luck, sure ... But if any family needed luck, it was that one. And they were all curious, too. So they watched that tiny baby that never cried, that little girl that never got sick, that young woman that never slipped, never tripped, never fell -- and never talked.
Who knew how far Dalia's luck extended, though? It may have kept her skin smooth and shining, her hair long and flowing, but the Epperson household didn't get any sudden windfall. And if the chickens perhaps laid a few more eggs -- if the cow gave a bit more milk -- if the pigs grew a little fatter on less grain ... Well, there was still one more mouth to feed. It all amounted to nothing more than they had before.
Therefore, Dalia Epperson grew up under a roof as leaky as ever, as thin and scrawny as the rest of her siblings, with parents who, from time-to-time, glanced at her and remembered all their old, idle hopes and furtive dreams. And as she grew older, and her hair grew longer, and drifted through the woods like a lovely, lost thing ... I fell in love with her.
She had never been able to help out on the farm. She was born of luck, infused with it, carried it with her -- but nothing more. She had no strength to use on the farm. She had no intelligence to use in a classroom. She had not the beauty to ensnare a rich man's heart. Dalia was lovely, of course, but in a way that was unnatural, untouched by the world, a ghost, a fairy, a wild thing made of wind that brushed away branches and swept the ground before her feet.
And I loved her.
First, like a child loves another child. I would run up to her, shyly gripping some flowers in a sweaty hand, and offer them to her. She would take them with a serene, sweet curl of her lips. I would join her on her walks, walking with her for a time, before getting bored and running off. I was young then, hardly older or richer than her, and still I proudly told my father that she was the girl I was going to marry. He just chuckled, a strange look in his eyes, and didn't say anything to the contrary. I never did learn what he was thinking in that moment.
Then, we both grew older, and I grew strong and smart and handsome with that lady of luck still on my mind. When I had the time, I helped out at the Epperson household, wherever an extra hand was needed (and one was always needed). When I had the money, I bought Dalia gifts, everything from bracelets to sweets to books. My father grew old, and I tended our farm with ideas of life and love. I loved Dalia Epperson like an adult, ready to take on the responsibility of caring for a household of my own.
She loved me, too. She smiled when I joined her on her walks, and kissed my cheek when I brought her gifts. Her eyes lit up when I joined her on walks, and we walked hand-in-hand. I proposed to her in the woods -- in our woods -- and only after I had gotten her nod, her smile, did I ask her parents. Their blessing was easily given, both for their adoration of me and their joy at not having to provide for an aimless child anymore, and the entire town turned out for our wedding. Her kiss was as sweet as her smile.
Afterwards, I brought Dalia to my home for the first time. She was cradled in my arms, head resting on my shoulder, arms around my neck. And though I had not blessed with any luck, right then, I considered myself the luckiest man there was.
We prospered. Maybe it was luck, maybe it was love, maybe it was simply the way life was. My father lived longer than the doctor predicted, long enough to hold his first grandchild in his arms. I was able to expand my farm, able to grow our wealth. We had a child, then one more, then twins -- Dalia let me bless them all, and I gave each one at least a little luck.
I always made sure that the roof never leaked, that everyone's stomach was always full, that my wife was always free to wander where and when she wished.
The town may have called us strange, but we were happy, and I loved Dalia even as she became more like the wind than a woman, even as she spent more time in the woods than at home. Her kiss tasted like the forest and far-off places instead of sugar, and she felt cold in my arms, not a summer breeze but a winter wind. She no longer floated over the ground, but seemed to almost fly.
I loved her even as she slipped from my arms one night, leaving our bed to pass through the house, pass by our sleeping children's rooms. She left the door open behind her, and I looked out to see her become a wild, wonderful thing. Her long, long hair whipped about, and her thin nightgown billowed around her, rising and dancing in the wind. No, there *she* was, dancing in the wind, an ethereal, ephemeral creature, trusting in her feet to not touch the ground, trusting in her luck to keep her from falling, from faltering.
She saw me, standing in the doorway to watch her. The winds calmed slightly, then, holding her hair up like a halo, but I still couldn't hear what she said. I only saw her mouth move, some fleeting words shaped there, and then her lovely, lovely smile.
Dalia Epperson walked away into the wind, away from me, and I loved her even then. The town would call luck fickle, fickler than love, would say it never lasted. They would scoff at the man who tried to marry luck and thought he could keep her.
But I never thought I could keep her. I never wanted to.
***
I hope you liked this. :) It took way longer than I thought it would, haha, and I'm not sure if the ending came out as I wanted it ... but I'm just happy to have written something. Thank you for the great prompt! If you liked this, feel free to check out r/lycheewrites ~
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I was never beautiful. They always say the first daughter should be beautiful “like an angel on earth” they’d say “helps you marry her off early”. My sister Honey was beautiful. I wasn’t particularly smart either. Of course that went to my sister Isabell. As sisters came my parents ran out of attributes to give daughters. So Mother talked Father into giving me luck.
Didn’t feel lucky being the youngest of all my sisters. Father had wanted his last to be a boy. This was before the Child Restriction Act. When folks were decent and didn’t horde children for their stats. We’d never had a “luck” in the family. So everyone expected the world of me. Fame and fortune and better tests scores than Isabell, they told me to close my eyes and pick numbers so they could play the lotto. We never won.
In school I was always the Littlest Reeve. Like I didn’t have a name and was just another face in my family. Because my Mother picked my stat my Father picked my name. He decided to double down and try his luck naming me Lucky. Yes. A dogs name. I hated it. I hated my luck stat and was convinced I was broken. Nothing lucky happened to me. The Brown Eyed Boy always made fun of my name. He was a luck stat too. But made a joke of it. He “wished he could have been named lucky too, lessta rememba that way” he’d say in a silly accent while the teacher wasn’t looking.
As we got older our parents cared less for matching my sisters and I with good families than they did getting us out of the house and it was decided the Brown Eyed Boy was mine.
We were less than poor and while I cursed our fates bitterly, your father would joke. Just enough that it felt ok again. I would tease him that his stat was charisma instead of luck and oh how he would smile. We were young and chased what young people do. We worked many hours for things we didn’t need. Always getting laid off or booted out right as we started to make something substantial. We didn’t have money for fancy trips where I would get spa treatments and he would play golf with his friends. Once when we were both laid off we took the day and sat by the lake, spending all the money in our pockets on sweets and soda. We laughed. We cried. We worked.
And that was our life until now. Of course you came along and your brothers and sisters. Each when we had just started to build wealth. People would joke we were the most unlucky luck stats they’d ever seen. And eventually we would laugh too.
I see now what I didn’t before. No one met their soul mate. Everyone married off like cattle to the butchers block, not me. No one laughed, all their focus on being the most beautiful or smartest didn’t allow for enjoyment. I laughed. And now this. The end. How we can finally end our journey together. How grateful I was to be his! Oh stop sniffling! Sometimes you just know. I’ve set all the plans. Keep them modest. Oh no, I don’t need that pill. I know I’ll be fine. No I’m not depressed. We’re going to sleep now. Your father hates waiting in bed too long without me. He knows my toes get cold on the wooden floor.
..................
Lucky Reeves Plath died today next to her husband Jack Plath who unfortunately also passed. They are survived by 4 children and 10 grandchildren. In lieu of flowers please send a small donation to the children’s hospital.
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[WP] Parents choose their children's stats. A common practice among poorer families is luck-farming - that is, putting all of their child's points into luck to improve the family's luck as well.
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She didn't walk, not the way that people like you or me walk -- instead, she seemed to glide wherever she went. She was the epitome of grace, gliding over the earth so that she never slipped, never tripped, never fell. When I saw her strolling through the woods behind our houses, a chance breeze would always lift up branches so they wouldn't knock into her head. Her long, long hair was never snarled in thorns or caught in a bush. She would roam around barefoot, yet no offending twig or rock ever scratched her dainty feet.
Our little town had never seen anyone quite like Dalia Epperson.
She was an oddity, to be sure, in a town that preferred to resist oddness and strange things, strange people. But while people may have muttered under their breaths about the choices of the Epperson parents -- a man with sun-lined wrinkles and a strong handshake, a tiny woman with sharp eyes and a voice that bellied her size -- that was only at first. Soon, everyone grew fond of our own little lady luck.
The muttering had always been muted, though, because everyone in town knew about the toils and troubles of the Eppersons. A gaggle of six children to feed, and crops that never seemed to grow big and tall. A roof that always seemed to leak, a cow that always seemed to escape.
So the town may have muttered when the Eppersons gifted their seventh child with luck, and only luck, sure ... But if any family needed luck, it was that one. And they were all curious, too. So they watched that tiny baby that never cried, that little girl that never got sick, that young woman that never slipped, never tripped, never fell -- and never talked.
Who knew how far Dalia's luck extended, though? It may have kept her skin smooth and shining, her hair long and flowing, but the Epperson household didn't get any sudden windfall. And if the chickens perhaps laid a few more eggs -- if the cow gave a bit more milk -- if the pigs grew a little fatter on less grain ... Well, there was still one more mouth to feed. It all amounted to nothing more than they had before.
Therefore, Dalia Epperson grew up under a roof as leaky as ever, as thin and scrawny as the rest of her siblings, with parents who, from time-to-time, glanced at her and remembered all their old, idle hopes and furtive dreams. And as she grew older, and her hair grew longer, and drifted through the woods like a lovely, lost thing ... I fell in love with her.
She had never been able to help out on the farm. She was born of luck, infused with it, carried it with her -- but nothing more. She had no strength to use on the farm. She had no intelligence to use in a classroom. She had not the beauty to ensnare a rich man's heart. Dalia was lovely, of course, but in a way that was unnatural, untouched by the world, a ghost, a fairy, a wild thing made of wind that brushed away branches and swept the ground before her feet.
And I loved her.
First, like a child loves another child. I would run up to her, shyly gripping some flowers in a sweaty hand, and offer them to her. She would take them with a serene, sweet curl of her lips. I would join her on her walks, walking with her for a time, before getting bored and running off. I was young then, hardly older or richer than her, and still I proudly told my father that she was the girl I was going to marry. He just chuckled, a strange look in his eyes, and didn't say anything to the contrary. I never did learn what he was thinking in that moment.
Then, we both grew older, and I grew strong and smart and handsome with that lady of luck still on my mind. When I had the time, I helped out at the Epperson household, wherever an extra hand was needed (and one was always needed). When I had the money, I bought Dalia gifts, everything from bracelets to sweets to books. My father grew old, and I tended our farm with ideas of life and love. I loved Dalia Epperson like an adult, ready to take on the responsibility of caring for a household of my own.
She loved me, too. She smiled when I joined her on her walks, and kissed my cheek when I brought her gifts. Her eyes lit up when I joined her on walks, and we walked hand-in-hand. I proposed to her in the woods -- in our woods -- and only after I had gotten her nod, her smile, did I ask her parents. Their blessing was easily given, both for their adoration of me and their joy at not having to provide for an aimless child anymore, and the entire town turned out for our wedding. Her kiss was as sweet as her smile.
Afterwards, I brought Dalia to my home for the first time. She was cradled in my arms, head resting on my shoulder, arms around my neck. And though I had not blessed with any luck, right then, I considered myself the luckiest man there was.
We prospered. Maybe it was luck, maybe it was love, maybe it was simply the way life was. My father lived longer than the doctor predicted, long enough to hold his first grandchild in his arms. I was able to expand my farm, able to grow our wealth. We had a child, then one more, then twins -- Dalia let me bless them all, and I gave each one at least a little luck.
I always made sure that the roof never leaked, that everyone's stomach was always full, that my wife was always free to wander where and when she wished.
The town may have called us strange, but we were happy, and I loved Dalia even as she became more like the wind than a woman, even as she spent more time in the woods than at home. Her kiss tasted like the forest and far-off places instead of sugar, and she felt cold in my arms, not a summer breeze but a winter wind. She no longer floated over the ground, but seemed to almost fly.
I loved her even as she slipped from my arms one night, leaving our bed to pass through the house, pass by our sleeping children's rooms. She left the door open behind her, and I looked out to see her become a wild, wonderful thing. Her long, long hair whipped about, and her thin nightgown billowed around her, rising and dancing in the wind. No, there *she* was, dancing in the wind, an ethereal, ephemeral creature, trusting in her feet to not touch the ground, trusting in her luck to keep her from falling, from faltering.
She saw me, standing in the doorway to watch her. The winds calmed slightly, then, holding her hair up like a halo, but I still couldn't hear what she said. I only saw her mouth move, some fleeting words shaped there, and then her lovely, lovely smile.
Dalia Epperson walked away into the wind, away from me, and I loved her even then. The town would call luck fickle, fickler than love, would say it never lasted. They would scoff at the man who tried to marry luck and thought he could keep her.
But I never thought I could keep her. I never wanted to.
***
I hope you liked this. :) It took way longer than I thought it would, haha, and I'm not sure if the ending came out as I wanted it ... but I'm just happy to have written something. Thank you for the great prompt! If you liked this, feel free to check out r/lycheewrites ~
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"This is a gamble, Peter. I'm not sure-"
"Precisely!" Peter replied to his wife, Maria, with a rakish grin as he paced the floor of the birthing suite, the young father trying to convince his wife any way he knew how. "Gambling. She can make a lot of money for us- and her- gambling. And we'll probably want to play the stock market as well. Supposedly the Luck can occasionally affect family members as well, especially immediate family."
Maria frowned, still cradling their newborn girl who was in the middle of one of her first nursing sessions. "We'd always discussed a balance of Wisdom and Intelligence with Kindness thrown in for her main statistics, though. You want Chelsea to take over the business, don't you?"
Peter nodded, twitching a bit like a nervous rabbit. "Yes. But luck can *also* help us grow the business. Half of any moneymaking at most any time is Luck. Being in the right place at the right time to secure new contracts for my accounting is Luck. In fact, I wish my parents had dumped everything into my Luck when I was born."
Maria reached out and stroked her new daughter's silky hair, shaking her head firmly. "I could never, ever agree to doing *all* Luck, dear. Remember Mr. Barnaby? His parents stuck him with that, or so he's told me, and look where he's at- in the bottle half the day and running cons the other half."
"But he *wins* at his cons, doesn't he? That's how he makes his living!"
"Yes. But that's not a life I'll permit our daughter to lead. And that is the end of that." Maria's tone brooked no argument, and Peter knew that he'd lost. "I'll allow a *bit* of Luck. Maybe we could take a point or two out of her Wisdom or Intelligence for it. But we are not going to look like desperate luck farmers and give her the kind of coin-flip life most with high Luck have. Luck runs hot *and* cold, remember."
Peter just nodded, thoroughly cowed, and went to fetch the Statistics Registrar.
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[WP] Parents choose their children's stats. A common practice among poorer families is luck-farming - that is, putting all of their child's points into luck to improve the family's luck as well.
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She didn't walk, not the way that people like you or me walk -- instead, she seemed to glide wherever she went. She was the epitome of grace, gliding over the earth so that she never slipped, never tripped, never fell. When I saw her strolling through the woods behind our houses, a chance breeze would always lift up branches so they wouldn't knock into her head. Her long, long hair was never snarled in thorns or caught in a bush. She would roam around barefoot, yet no offending twig or rock ever scratched her dainty feet.
Our little town had never seen anyone quite like Dalia Epperson.
She was an oddity, to be sure, in a town that preferred to resist oddness and strange things, strange people. But while people may have muttered under their breaths about the choices of the Epperson parents -- a man with sun-lined wrinkles and a strong handshake, a tiny woman with sharp eyes and a voice that bellied her size -- that was only at first. Soon, everyone grew fond of our own little lady luck.
The muttering had always been muted, though, because everyone in town knew about the toils and troubles of the Eppersons. A gaggle of six children to feed, and crops that never seemed to grow big and tall. A roof that always seemed to leak, a cow that always seemed to escape.
So the town may have muttered when the Eppersons gifted their seventh child with luck, and only luck, sure ... But if any family needed luck, it was that one. And they were all curious, too. So they watched that tiny baby that never cried, that little girl that never got sick, that young woman that never slipped, never tripped, never fell -- and never talked.
Who knew how far Dalia's luck extended, though? It may have kept her skin smooth and shining, her hair long and flowing, but the Epperson household didn't get any sudden windfall. And if the chickens perhaps laid a few more eggs -- if the cow gave a bit more milk -- if the pigs grew a little fatter on less grain ... Well, there was still one more mouth to feed. It all amounted to nothing more than they had before.
Therefore, Dalia Epperson grew up under a roof as leaky as ever, as thin and scrawny as the rest of her siblings, with parents who, from time-to-time, glanced at her and remembered all their old, idle hopes and furtive dreams. And as she grew older, and her hair grew longer, and drifted through the woods like a lovely, lost thing ... I fell in love with her.
She had never been able to help out on the farm. She was born of luck, infused with it, carried it with her -- but nothing more. She had no strength to use on the farm. She had no intelligence to use in a classroom. She had not the beauty to ensnare a rich man's heart. Dalia was lovely, of course, but in a way that was unnatural, untouched by the world, a ghost, a fairy, a wild thing made of wind that brushed away branches and swept the ground before her feet.
And I loved her.
First, like a child loves another child. I would run up to her, shyly gripping some flowers in a sweaty hand, and offer them to her. She would take them with a serene, sweet curl of her lips. I would join her on her walks, walking with her for a time, before getting bored and running off. I was young then, hardly older or richer than her, and still I proudly told my father that she was the girl I was going to marry. He just chuckled, a strange look in his eyes, and didn't say anything to the contrary. I never did learn what he was thinking in that moment.
Then, we both grew older, and I grew strong and smart and handsome with that lady of luck still on my mind. When I had the time, I helped out at the Epperson household, wherever an extra hand was needed (and one was always needed). When I had the money, I bought Dalia gifts, everything from bracelets to sweets to books. My father grew old, and I tended our farm with ideas of life and love. I loved Dalia Epperson like an adult, ready to take on the responsibility of caring for a household of my own.
She loved me, too. She smiled when I joined her on her walks, and kissed my cheek when I brought her gifts. Her eyes lit up when I joined her on walks, and we walked hand-in-hand. I proposed to her in the woods -- in our woods -- and only after I had gotten her nod, her smile, did I ask her parents. Their blessing was easily given, both for their adoration of me and their joy at not having to provide for an aimless child anymore, and the entire town turned out for our wedding. Her kiss was as sweet as her smile.
Afterwards, I brought Dalia to my home for the first time. She was cradled in my arms, head resting on my shoulder, arms around my neck. And though I had not blessed with any luck, right then, I considered myself the luckiest man there was.
We prospered. Maybe it was luck, maybe it was love, maybe it was simply the way life was. My father lived longer than the doctor predicted, long enough to hold his first grandchild in his arms. I was able to expand my farm, able to grow our wealth. We had a child, then one more, then twins -- Dalia let me bless them all, and I gave each one at least a little luck.
I always made sure that the roof never leaked, that everyone's stomach was always full, that my wife was always free to wander where and when she wished.
The town may have called us strange, but we were happy, and I loved Dalia even as she became more like the wind than a woman, even as she spent more time in the woods than at home. Her kiss tasted like the forest and far-off places instead of sugar, and she felt cold in my arms, not a summer breeze but a winter wind. She no longer floated over the ground, but seemed to almost fly.
I loved her even as she slipped from my arms one night, leaving our bed to pass through the house, pass by our sleeping children's rooms. She left the door open behind her, and I looked out to see her become a wild, wonderful thing. Her long, long hair whipped about, and her thin nightgown billowed around her, rising and dancing in the wind. No, there *she* was, dancing in the wind, an ethereal, ephemeral creature, trusting in her feet to not touch the ground, trusting in her luck to keep her from falling, from faltering.
She saw me, standing in the doorway to watch her. The winds calmed slightly, then, holding her hair up like a halo, but I still couldn't hear what she said. I only saw her mouth move, some fleeting words shaped there, and then her lovely, lovely smile.
Dalia Epperson walked away into the wind, away from me, and I loved her even then. The town would call luck fickle, fickler than love, would say it never lasted. They would scoff at the man who tried to marry luck and thought he could keep her.
But I never thought I could keep her. I never wanted to.
***
I hope you liked this. :) It took way longer than I thought it would, haha, and I'm not sure if the ending came out as I wanted it ... but I'm just happy to have written something. Thank you for the great prompt! If you liked this, feel free to check out r/lycheewrites ~
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"You useless, ungrateful child!" Dad raised his hand into the air, an image that was burned into my mind and that I dreamed of endlessly in my nightmares.
"I am sorry, father!" I huddled into a ball, arms raised in a pathetic attempt of submission.
"What a useless sack of shit." Father spat the words, "no skills, no talents, hell, we thought you could at least get lucky if we put all those points into luck. Get us out of that shit-hole, but can't even do that right."
"I will try harder." My words turning into quiet sobs.
"Yeah, you better."
I walked up to my room, every step I took was heavy, weighed down by the sagging sorrow that dragged behind me. Upon entering my room and locking my door, I wailed, letting loose the loudest of sobs. The same chorus that played almost daily. If father was in a good mood, and sober, (which was once in a blue moon) I would be gratified with being able to enter my room without having to talk to him.
I approached the mirror and lifted my shirt, wincing, the bruise that marked me turning a ghastly purple. I lowered my shirt, knowing I could tell no one of my injury. Mother and father needed me, I needed to get lucky. Win something with the luck I had been given, but as far as I could tell, luck wasn't working as I thought it would.
It was a day like any other, a day where the bell of school allowed me to retreat from the harsh bullying of school, and trek the dreadful path home, towards a treatment far worse.
When returning home, I was not welcomed by the imposing visage of my rundown home, but rather its burning remnants. I watched as a raging fire claimed it, burning brightly and flames reaching for the sky.
I probably should have felt something, pain, panic, worry for my parents, I found myself surprised, however, when I felt nothing.
I was later taken to a foster home, adopted by new parents, loving individuals. I did not know how to fit in, their compassion alien to me, and their lack of expectation from me something that left me lost.
Over the years, I had found out that my original parents owed a lot of money to bad people, they presumably thought the points they had put into my luck would eventually save them from any debt that they may have owed, but their luck never came.
It took time, but I settled in nicely with the new family, still shy perhaps and keeping to myself. But I had good grades, was active, made good friends.
Some people tell me, about how lucky I was that I wasn't there on the night of the fire. I came to wonder, if perhaps it was luck that gave me my new parents?
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[WP] A man releases an evil genie, bent on corrupting his wishes. However, the man's wishes are so boring and mundane, the evil genie struggles to twist them.
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"You have two more wishes!" growled the genie impatiently. She drummed her blue fingers on the lid of the lamp as she leaned upon it.
"Well, I'm thinking about it still," the man said in a fairly monotone voice. In his hands, he held a 1200-count set of king-sized sheets, the fruits of his first wish. "I could ask for something to go with these sheets..."
"Oh yes, the sheets," the genie rolled her big purple eyes, "I'm sure a nice pillow or a sleigh-bed frame would do nicely. Really get wild with it."
"That does sound like a good idea," the man, although akin to a sloth in all ways, did seem to perk up at her suggestions.
"Gaaahhhh! Don't wish for THAT!" she groaned. "You've got three wishes, three wishes from an all-powerful genie, and you're going to get a new bed and sheets? You didn't even ask for a mattress..."
"Well, a mattress is pretty personal. How am I supposed to know about the firmness of it without seeing it? I'd never just buy a mattress without testing it first." He went back to staring blankly, deep in thought.
"What about world peace? Millions of dollars? A mansion? Fast car?" prompted the genie. Those were what everyone wished for. The fact that nearly everyone asked for the same things was just as aggravating as this man's clearly uninspired wishes. In fact, she'd even taken it upon herself to sort-of, accidentally-on-purpose, sabotage these popular and common wishes. World peas, word pizza, whirled peas... well, that was too easy. Money always depended on how it was asked for. A million bucks was the cliche million male deer or a million ducks. Too easy. A billion dollars sometimes turned into bullion cubes made into dollar bills. It was more of a challenge. But sheets? What was she going to turn 1200 count king-sized sheets into? Not only was it specific, it was boring. Nothing sounds like it. Half the things of that came to mind to grant instead probably would have been better wishes than the actual sheets, anyway.
"For my second wish, I would like ripe bananas. Mine are too green and I'd really like a banana. So, ripe bananas." He looked at her expectantly.
"Ripe bananas? You can buy those from the store!" the genie waved her hands in frustration.
"No I assure you I can't," began the man, walking slowly to his kitchen counter. "I bought these yesterday and they still aren't ripe. You have to wait a few days. "
"Fine, bananas," she sighed. What was she going to turn bananas into? It didn't even rhyme with anything. Bananas appeared atop his white cotton sheets, at the peak of perfection. "One more wish, dude. It's time to live a little. What about a vacation? Time travel? A wife? A husband? What about something exciting... sheets and bananas aren't going to last forever. Wish for something life changing."
"Okay, okay..." the man suddenly looked excited. "What about... a navy blue Dodge Stratus."
"A Dodge Stratus??" shrieked the genie. "Hey, hey, listen, typically I don't invest this much in any of my clients, but what's your name?"
"Phil," the man responded, blinking.
"Okay, Phil, listen. The Dodge Stratus is a mediocre automobile that was discontinued in 2006! Are you certifiable? What is this? Am I on some hidden camera genie show?"
"No..." Phil blinked again, hard. He almost looked like he was holding back tears. "I just always liked them. I can't get one now. I think they're nice."
She stared at him. Phil. Poor, male-pattern-balding, drab, Phil. "Fine, fine, Dodge Stratus..."
"Make sure it's navy blue!" Phil interjected.
"Yes, navy blue even," she sighed; she waved her hands and it appeared.
Phil gently sat down his sheets and bananas and ran to it then, well, quickly shuffled toward it. He touched the side of the car with a gentle hand.
"Alright, Phil, I believe we're square here, so I'm just going to hop back in the lamp now..."
"Thank you! Thank you!" he cried and grabbed her hand in a firm but somehow still sloppy handshake. "Thank you so much!"
"No problem, Phil, you enjoy," and she was gone, back into the lamp which shrunk back down to a tiny lamp and then spun around and disappeared into nothingness.
|
I looked up. I was 53 with three grandchildren, and a beat up Subaru. The genie's eyes were glowing brightly. Something was off. He hissed, "What will it be sir, millions of dollars? Fame? Women? I frowned and replied, "A twixt bar would be really great. I get really grumpy when I'm hungry..."
"Only *one*?"
"Yes only one."
*Well shit. I can't give this guy bad health with only one twixt...I'll give him twelve...because I'm generous, and then we'll see what happens. I'm evil....*
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[WP] A man releases an evil genie, bent on corrupting his wishes. However, the man's wishes are so boring and mundane, the evil genie struggles to twist them.
|
‘I just want to assembly my dinner table. ‘
‘ Ok, but you invoked me, I’m Fjarsalvon Skranes, a big devil, I can do a lot of thinks to you, I can give you power, money and girls, ‘ said the white goat mysteriously appeared in my flat, a weird speaking goat.
‘ I never invoked you, I just came from Ikea with my new dinning table to assembly, no idea what a speaking goat is doing here! ‘
‘ Do you really bought it in Ikea? ‘
‘ Yes, I bought all furniture in Ikea, what’s the problem? ‘
‘ Shit! ‘ said the goat, ‘ Another Ikea shopper victim, Swedish bastards, Fuck Fuck Fuck. What’s the name of the table? ‘
I just take the instructions paper and I read Fjarsalvon Akranes.
‘ Ok, it’s not the 1st time, you obviously misspelled the name before and you invoked accidentally, including some world leaders have done the same error. But you can consider yourself a lucky guy, I can give a lot more to you than Ikea. ‘
‘ What’s the price for it? ‘
‘ Going to hell after dead, but you have a lot of time, you are just 24 years old, ‘ said the goat.
‘ I don’t want to go to the hell, but if you are able to assembly this fucking dinner table for a couple of years in the limbo I can accept. ‘
‘ I can give more than this and my manager doesn’t like souls in the limbo, only hell.’
‘ Jesus Christ!’
‘ Please don’t say another time this word, it’s not good ’ said the goat with red eyes.
‘ I don’t want to go to the hell.’
‘ All men are the same, every one a wish worthless to exchange for his soul in the hell, what’s your wish? Please think carefully. ‘
I lightened a cigarette, the goat remained in silence until I finally replied.
‘ My wish is to have the most upvoted comment in this thread. ‘
‘ Fuck, this is impossible, you’re a very bad writer, neither a Swedish devil can improve your writing. Sorry Mike.’
Note: I’m not English native, just written it as an exercise.
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I looked up. I was 53 with three grandchildren, and a beat up Subaru. The genie's eyes were glowing brightly. Something was off. He hissed, "What will it be sir, millions of dollars? Fame? Women? I frowned and replied, "A twixt bar would be really great. I get really grumpy when I'm hungry..."
"Only *one*?"
"Yes only one."
*Well shit. I can't give this guy bad health with only one twixt...I'll give him twelve...because I'm generous, and then we'll see what happens. I'm evil....*
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|
[WP] A man releases an evil genie, bent on corrupting his wishes. However, the man's wishes are so boring and mundane, the evil genie struggles to twist them.
|
"I wish my legs aren't tired" I say, considering I had walked a while before finding this lamp. I then watched the genie look at me confused and stared at my face to face as if he looked at a person that either went mad or so stupid to wish for such a thing.
"Are you sure?" He said confused. It was a great joy seeing this being's confused expression and hopes of its own joy disappearing as he was unable to find a way to twist my words. I had read about genies and how they trick the foolish into their game, and I shall not be another fool.
"Yes" I say with a grin. He breathes a sigh of defeat, knowing that he cannot do anything but do as I wish. He snaps its fingers and, I felt something starting from my toes, and as if diving into a frozen river feet first I felt the rush as the magic rejuvenated my legs, feeling ready to run as far as the horizon."There your legs are now ready for anything" Not a bad first wish I thought to myself.
"What is your next wish?" He said with a voice that was like a grand-master asking a new player to a game of chess. I know that though I can fall into great ruin I may miss the opportunity of having a wish, a real wish something that is legendary. I think about the risks of doing something big but opt out for something more practical. Then it came to me, "I wish that I will never get confused, dizzy, or any ailment of the sort!"
The genie now smiles with a grin having thought of a way to annoy me. It snaps its fingers and my mind feels clear as if I had woken up bright and ready for what is ahead."You are now able to think clearly forever, but the effects of alcohol will never bother you" it said. Ha I thought to myself, "I don't drink" I say, and it loses it's grin.
"Alright then, what is your final wish?". I thought for a while contemplating my options that are safe yet useful in a way. I finally thought of one "I wish for you to never grant another wish" I said knowing that my deed will save other foolish people that will encounter this being. It is angered but snaps it's fingers and disappears leaving a blue smoke in it's wake.
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“I am the Grand Genie Beryl, most feared and envied of all my kind. I’ve brought ruin to civilizations and untold horrors the likes of which you can’t imagine. Tell me, master, how may I exact your vengeance? You have three wishes.”
“Actually, I wish for a vanilla milkshake,” Hector replied to the genie.
“Seriously?” the genie groaned, then wiggles her fingers. In an instant the milkshake appeared on the table before him. “You know, I could take over this pathetic excuse of a country for you, if you wanted. You have but to ask.”
“Nope, I’m good with this,” Hector said while reaching for the milkshake. Tilting the large glass up to his mouth, he missed the quick twinkle in the genie’s eye. He took a big swig then coughed, choking on the liquid.
Beryl let out a wicked laugh. Watching her master sputter to expel the foul liquid, she cackled away at his displeasure.
Regaining his composure, Hector slammed the glass back onto the table. “How could you ... this is made from sour milk!”
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