<Character Stuff>
???? = !!!! = ()()
Forgotten.
[X][X]
(0)
{3}
~Can you not hear me?~...
???? = !!!! = ()()
Forgotten.
[X][X]
(0)
{3}
~Can you not hear me?~...
I Am Not A Merciful God - a WoD/VtR inspired quest
- Created
- Status
- Ongoing
- Watchers
- 62
- Recent readers
- 0
- Threadmarks
- 4
-
Statistics (4 threadmarks, 3.5k words)
User Total shadenight123 4
The Prologue That Will Haunt You Forever
- Location
- https://discord.gg/z9tBvbh
<Character Stuff>
???? = !!!! = ()()
Forgotten.
[X][X]
(0)
{3}
~Can you not hear me?~
<End of Character Stuff>
It is a cold night.
Infant.
It is a frozen night, of ashes and fires.
Ancillae
It is a night in which death dances with soft humming from her defaced throat.
Elder
It is a night of passion, of a warm embrace, of held together arms stitched to corpses left to drain upon an asphalt of concrete and snow.
Kine.
There is little. There is none. Once, there were three. Now, there is one.
It is a tranquil night, a night of songs and beautiful, intricate stars. The tapestry of the heavens lights the silent city of concrete and glass, steel and cars. Yet, in that unearthly silence, a scream that reeks of murder, iron that smells of blood, they pour together in a masterwork mechanism of passion and grotesque, unfortunate, unchangeable reality.
In a land of twisted madness, of tendrils of dark carried on by a foreign will-
Something stirs.
Something moves.
...
The snow falls. Thickly. There is the scent of something delicious in the air. You've been there. You know among hazy thoughts that you've been there before. You can't understand, but you know the place is familiar. Cold, rugged, half-frozen by frostbite fingers touch the glass that reflects an image...
[X] A man. Weary. Old. Leathery skin and pain.
[X] A woman that could have had it all, and thus, lost it all.
[X] A naive youth, seeking fortune in a place unforgiving.
[X] An unfortunate butterfly, which bloomed once and was then crushed by cruel hands.
[X] A lost child, forever lost in his dreams.
[X] A lost girl, who sought a life of freedom, and thus in freedom found her despair.
The reflection does not last for long untouched, for a thump and a noise scare you away. Though forgotten, though aptly ignored by the masses, whenever one brings a hand, whenever one speaks-displeasure, ignorance -what are you, if not the ultimate failure of a society that refutes and destroys, that churns and murders hope, dreams, in the name of ideals born of wealth?
What are you, pathetic shell of a mortal, that dare still cling on to the last vestments of your life, you insufferable plague, you vermin of inferiority that yet dares trudge upon this vast confines of ignorance and displeasure?
Well? Who are you?
Do you even remember it, your name?
[X] Forgotten
[X] Unimportant
[X] Unneeded
[X] Unnecessary
What you were, what miserable reason and purpose animated your bones along their path to this day is honestly an endearing, and yet ultimately futile moment of passage. Your past achievements, lay them bare, will you not? You have nothing left as you trudge back into your corner of carton, of paper, of measly cents worthless for anything but for the clinking sound they make.
The cold seeps in your muscles, the bones are all that remains of your once flourishing skin. A cadaver that walks, a malnourished beast that seeks but a place to die, no longer caring for anything else.
But do not worry, pathetic mortal.
Do not fret, do not think that your life of misery is over yet.
For I am not a merciful God.
And you are a pawn. My pawn. My pawn upon a checker of delicate pieces that need to be placed, for that is my will, that is my desire-so come on then, make the move, play the game.
Your free will is an illusion I gave you. Your desire for fulfillment a fancy I can rip out of your soul in a second. I am your everything, your ground, your air, your muscles that twitch and rot and die as your stomach drains itself.
So, mortal, tell me.
Entertain me.
Tell me something that makes you afraid.
Tell me your deepest fear.
Tell me that one thing, that one tiny, little thing, that scares you into submission.
Confide in me, pray to me, believe in me-and perhaps, just perhaps, that garbage bin you are eyeing, which you checked half a dozen times and found empty of edible food might contain something you haven't found yet.
[X] Write-In
But know this, miserable worm.
Know this, pathetic bag of flesh and bones.
Though you may think there is a way out of here, a way out of this cold, dark place where you stand forgotten and alone, in the end you belong to me.
Dust to Dust.
Ashes to Ashes.
And rotten meat in the garbage bin.
AN: Hello! Welcome to Shade-Chan's magical quest of friendship and magic! This quest is...a bit different from the usual quests. First off, majority vote is meaningless in Write-IN options. You got that right! Majority vote is truly meaningless! Here is what we're going to do:
The pathos of the World of Darkness isn't pretty. It's never been, never will be. So, the more an answer feels appropriate to it, the more it feels correct, the more the chances are it's going to be taken as valid. Course, if everyone gives the option "Hug the Vampire Elder clearly in need of hugs." Then I'm going to write a Dramatic Failure response instead. Because here's the peculiarity of this game.
I am not a merciful god.
You will probably die.
But here's the thing.
It won't matter one bit.
Or perhaps it might? Who knows?
...
You know what? Play the game, seek to uncover the mystery, and know this:
This is the only AN or explanation that will ever be given throughout the entire game. Nothing else, no matter how much you ask, will be delivered.
Good luck, players.
For my mind is a dark place...
???? = !!!! = ()()
Forgotten.
[X][X]
(0)
{3}
~Can you not hear me?~
<End of Character Stuff>
It is a cold night.
Infant.
It is a frozen night, of ashes and fires.
Ancillae
It is a night in which death dances with soft humming from her defaced throat.
Elder
It is a night of passion, of a warm embrace, of held together arms stitched to corpses left to drain upon an asphalt of concrete and snow.
Kine.
There is little. There is none. Once, there were three. Now, there is one.
It is a tranquil night, a night of songs and beautiful, intricate stars. The tapestry of the heavens lights the silent city of concrete and glass, steel and cars. Yet, in that unearthly silence, a scream that reeks of murder, iron that smells of blood, they pour together in a masterwork mechanism of passion and grotesque, unfortunate, unchangeable reality.
In a land of twisted madness, of tendrils of dark carried on by a foreign will-
Something stirs.
Something moves.
...
The snow falls. Thickly. There is the scent of something delicious in the air. You've been there. You know among hazy thoughts that you've been there before. You can't understand, but you know the place is familiar. Cold, rugged, half-frozen by frostbite fingers touch the glass that reflects an image...
[X] A man. Weary. Old. Leathery skin and pain.
[X] A woman that could have had it all, and thus, lost it all.
[X] A naive youth, seeking fortune in a place unforgiving.
[X] An unfortunate butterfly, which bloomed once and was then crushed by cruel hands.
[X] A lost child, forever lost in his dreams.
[X] A lost girl, who sought a life of freedom, and thus in freedom found her despair.
The reflection does not last for long untouched, for a thump and a noise scare you away. Though forgotten, though aptly ignored by the masses, whenever one brings a hand, whenever one speaks-displeasure, ignorance -what are you, if not the ultimate failure of a society that refutes and destroys, that churns and murders hope, dreams, in the name of ideals born of wealth?
What are you, pathetic shell of a mortal, that dare still cling on to the last vestments of your life, you insufferable plague, you vermin of inferiority that yet dares trudge upon this vast confines of ignorance and displeasure?
Well? Who are you?
Do you even remember it, your name?
[X] Forgotten
[X] Unimportant
[X] Unneeded
[X] Unnecessary
What you were, what miserable reason and purpose animated your bones along their path to this day is honestly an endearing, and yet ultimately futile moment of passage. Your past achievements, lay them bare, will you not? You have nothing left as you trudge back into your corner of carton, of paper, of measly cents worthless for anything but for the clinking sound they make.
The cold seeps in your muscles, the bones are all that remains of your once flourishing skin. A cadaver that walks, a malnourished beast that seeks but a place to die, no longer caring for anything else.
But do not worry, pathetic mortal.
Do not fret, do not think that your life of misery is over yet.
For I am not a merciful God.
And you are a pawn. My pawn. My pawn upon a checker of delicate pieces that need to be placed, for that is my will, that is my desire-so come on then, make the move, play the game.
Your free will is an illusion I gave you. Your desire for fulfillment a fancy I can rip out of your soul in a second. I am your everything, your ground, your air, your muscles that twitch and rot and die as your stomach drains itself.
So, mortal, tell me.
Entertain me.
Tell me something that makes you afraid.
Tell me your deepest fear.
Tell me that one thing, that one tiny, little thing, that scares you into submission.
Confide in me, pray to me, believe in me-and perhaps, just perhaps, that garbage bin you are eyeing, which you checked half a dozen times and found empty of edible food might contain something you haven't found yet.
[X] Write-In
But know this, miserable worm.
Know this, pathetic bag of flesh and bones.
Though you may think there is a way out of here, a way out of this cold, dark place where you stand forgotten and alone, in the end you belong to me.
Dust to Dust.
Ashes to Ashes.
And rotten meat in the garbage bin.
AN: Hello! Welcome to Shade-Chan's magical quest of friendship and magic! This quest is...a bit different from the usual quests. First off, majority vote is meaningless in Write-IN options. You got that right! Majority vote is truly meaningless! Here is what we're going to do:
The pathos of the World of Darkness isn't pretty. It's never been, never will be. So, the more an answer feels appropriate to it, the more it feels correct, the more the chances are it's going to be taken as valid. Course, if everyone gives the option "Hug the Vampire Elder clearly in need of hugs." Then I'm going to write a Dramatic Failure response instead. Because here's the peculiarity of this game.
I am not a merciful god.
You will probably die.
But here's the thing.
It won't matter one bit.
Or perhaps it might? Who knows?
...
You know what? Play the game, seek to uncover the mystery, and know this:
This is the only AN or explanation that will ever be given throughout the entire game. Nothing else, no matter how much you ask, will be delivered.
Good luck, players.
For my mind is a dark place...
Last edited:
Sic transit tyrannus, vox populi, vox dei.
- Location
- https://discord.gg/z9tBvbh
Sic transit tyrannus, vox populi, vox dei.
Youth intermingles with pain, a young man, barely out of his home. Barely an adult, who dreamed to see the world. Did you enjoy it, I wonder? Did you enjoy the world that took your dreams and crushed them, ground them under its soles until they were nothing but ashes, and fed them to the wolves of spite and coy smiles?
Tell me, young man, tell me, young, pathetic, sniveling worthless mortal barely a snot on the nose of a mocking child-do you feel like you made it?
As your cold, grasping senses die one after the other, as your breathing hitches and your heart trembles in fear and sheer sadness, as grief and depression cling your soul like a mantle of darkness...
Do you feel like you made it? A blazing sun, a thundering inferno, an orchestra that sings your hymn-
Here he comes! Here he comes! Your name, forgotten. The ice, the cold, the hunger-everything, even the sickness if you have one...even that took it away from you!
You have nothing, because you are nothing.
You are nothing more than a burning mass of cells devoid of greater purpose, of greater understanding.
And thus you will die alone, a gnat in the corner of a street to found on and pitied by the folly of creatures that care nothing for the invisible suffering of the living...but will write hymns and compose poetry for a dead young boy in the prime of his youth, forgotten by all until the moment he croaks.
You live in a world that venerates death, Forgotten.
You live in a world where the dead receive higher praise than the living. You live in a world of pain and misery that is happily ignored by those pathetic living beings that bleed and snivel and go about their daily lives thinking they have reason, they have purpose-but you know better.
You know better.
And you see it, in your agonizing throbs of death, you see the clicking of mechanisms and the whirring of cogs. You see the God that I am snap eyes and thundering fingers, you see the purpose behind the project, or perhaps you glimpse at a blueprint of something forgotten, unknown-of something that has long since been part of plans greater than you will ever be.
And as you die, as you exhale your last, pitiful throbs in a world that does not care, something awakens.
"Oh you poor little thing," a sweet saccharine voice. You thought your life would be over, but it won't be.
No indeed, for you have not forgotten so soon, I hope, the truth of this world of darkness that you live in.
I am not a merciful god.
Chapter One. In a world without chapters, he who holds the ink is god.
The warmth of a bed is a foreign, alien sensation. For someone as pitiful as yourself, only the cold dirt of the asphalt might suffice. You deserve to choke on the gas exhaust of cars, you deserve to suffer untold misery and pain for everything you are, you do not deserve the warmth of a bed, the softness of a pillow, the beauty of a ceiling that holds back the water and the strength of walls that keep you safe and the howling winds outside in check.
For outside a hurricane is brewing, but the water can do nothing against the tempered glass of this apartment.
A figure, silent and unquestioning, stands at the end of the bed you are inhabiting. A butler, like one of those old movies, lingers there in wait. He says not a word as his eyes fix you, and you say none, pathetically trying to make your brain work, for in countless minutes of awkward silence, nothing comes to your mind of worth.
Or is there?
Is there perhaps something your cracked voice would like to ask? Is there something your unworthy self would like to obtain? Are you so selfish, you pitiful spawn of Adam and Eve, that you seek something from a stranger when you should instead prostrate yourself at his feet, and kiss the ground he walks on for if you live, if you are alive now, you owe it to this man?
Well, sniveling excuse of a man, what is your answer?
[X] Write-In
Youth intermingles with pain, a young man, barely out of his home. Barely an adult, who dreamed to see the world. Did you enjoy it, I wonder? Did you enjoy the world that took your dreams and crushed them, ground them under its soles until they were nothing but ashes, and fed them to the wolves of spite and coy smiles?
Tell me, young man, tell me, young, pathetic, sniveling worthless mortal barely a snot on the nose of a mocking child-do you feel like you made it?
As your cold, grasping senses die one after the other, as your breathing hitches and your heart trembles in fear and sheer sadness, as grief and depression cling your soul like a mantle of darkness...
Do you feel like you made it? A blazing sun, a thundering inferno, an orchestra that sings your hymn-
Here he comes! Here he comes! Your name, forgotten. The ice, the cold, the hunger-everything, even the sickness if you have one...even that took it away from you!
You have nothing, because you are nothing.
You are nothing more than a burning mass of cells devoid of greater purpose, of greater understanding.
And thus you will die alone, a gnat in the corner of a street to found on and pitied by the folly of creatures that care nothing for the invisible suffering of the living...but will write hymns and compose poetry for a dead young boy in the prime of his youth, forgotten by all until the moment he croaks.
You live in a world that venerates death, Forgotten.
You live in a world where the dead receive higher praise than the living. You live in a world of pain and misery that is happily ignored by those pathetic living beings that bleed and snivel and go about their daily lives thinking they have reason, they have purpose-but you know better.
You know better.
And you see it, in your agonizing throbs of death, you see the clicking of mechanisms and the whirring of cogs. You see the God that I am snap eyes and thundering fingers, you see the purpose behind the project, or perhaps you glimpse at a blueprint of something forgotten, unknown-of something that has long since been part of plans greater than you will ever be.
And as you die, as you exhale your last, pitiful throbs in a world that does not care, something awakens.
"Oh you poor little thing," a sweet saccharine voice. You thought your life would be over, but it won't be.
No indeed, for you have not forgotten so soon, I hope, the truth of this world of darkness that you live in.
I am not a merciful god.
The warmth of a bed is a foreign, alien sensation. For someone as pitiful as yourself, only the cold dirt of the asphalt might suffice. You deserve to choke on the gas exhaust of cars, you deserve to suffer untold misery and pain for everything you are, you do not deserve the warmth of a bed, the softness of a pillow, the beauty of a ceiling that holds back the water and the strength of walls that keep you safe and the howling winds outside in check.
For outside a hurricane is brewing, but the water can do nothing against the tempered glass of this apartment.
A figure, silent and unquestioning, stands at the end of the bed you are inhabiting. A butler, like one of those old movies, lingers there in wait. He says not a word as his eyes fix you, and you say none, pathetically trying to make your brain work, for in countless minutes of awkward silence, nothing comes to your mind of worth.
Or is there?
Is there perhaps something your cracked voice would like to ask? Is there something your unworthy self would like to obtain? Are you so selfish, you pitiful spawn of Adam and Eve, that you seek something from a stranger when you should instead prostrate yourself at his feet, and kiss the ground he walks on for if you live, if you are alive now, you owe it to this man?
Well, sniveling excuse of a man, what is your answer?
[X] Write-In
Thee are pathetic, know thyself to know thee place.
- Location
- https://discord.gg/z9tBvbh
Thee are pathetic, know thyself to know thee place.
"In that sleep of death," your words slip out of your tongue like ash, and like ash they disperse into the air unworthy of anything but a swift swiping away, a pathetic annoyance, which must be removed by a firm action. Did you think yourself a poet? It is enough if you are spit on the side of the street, or yellow snow trudged on by dogs in need. You have no right to breathe, so why are you trying to talk like you mean it?
Do you not understand your place yet? Are you trying to achieve something here? My word is law, yours-at most it is merely a passing fancy. You don't even know yourself, so how dare you think you have rights, wishes, desires?
"Where am I?" the question you ask could have been just as well an insult, for the butler stares at you with a scowl and a visage that means that you are an unpleasant presence, a disgusting wretch, a shell of a man unworthy of even the basic decency of kindness.
"You are," his voice is rich, cultured. He is a hundred times the man you will never be, a thousand times the human being you are unworthy to as much as touch. How does it feel to be pathetic? How does it feel to be such a disgusting and unworthy creature? "in the house of Mistress Miranda LaFaix, in Shellington High," what is the name that reeks of high-class? What is the place that stinks of rich obnoxious gold and luxurious items? Why are you here? A passing fancy, a forgotten debt, an IOU from organizations best left unmentioned?
Yet you dare ask more than your worth, "A...glass of water," you speak with a croaked voice, a torn throat that belongs to the realm of suffering and pain, an agony of a hundred tiny pins into your flesh. Yet, for your pain, some sort of gift was left into the flesh that you possess. A warmth that makes your stomach less willing to die on you, a strength that reeks of the unholy will of a creature far more great than you will ever be.
You do not know this, pathetic mortal, but you have been blessed with a curse, or cursed with a blessing.
"Please," you add, as if your pitiful pleading skills needed to be used, or else they'd rust. How many times did you plead for spare change from people who trudged on the street ignoring you? How many times have you smiled at the sight of single, dirty coins that in your youth you squandered inside arcade shops? Did you think yourself happy by the sight of a mere penny? Now is a glass of water worthy of your eternal gratitude? Let us not kid ourselves. You'd sell your soul for a penny, would you not?
How does it feel to be such a sniveling mass of worthless flesh?
And if you think I will let you go, if you think I will let you enjoy your life-then know this.
I am not a merciful god.
And you are my toy and mine alone.
The glass of water arrives in a dark glass, the color of the night. As you sip it, the taste is bliss. This is not normal water, it cannot be. Perhaps liquid heroin was added, perhaps cocaine. Perhaps amphetamine-LSD, things that you have tried, things that you've been forced to try-and yet, with each passing second, you drain the contents with the sheer delight of a man that was about to die, and yet has stopped. A man that has stopped not because he sees the light, but because a cold, cadaver hand clasps his heart and squeezes firmly, holding it even as his veins struggle and rip from his flesh and nerves with unquestionable pain.
You thought your torments over, but think again.
We are merely beginning.
"The mistress will speak to you tomorrow night," the butler says. "You may visit the apartment as you please," he adds. "For breakfast, what do you prefer?"
A question. A question for you. A question meant for someone worthy of being asked questions.
You feel yourself famished, you feel as if another glass of that delicious water would make you the happiest man on earth, and yet, even as your tongue savors the passing aftertaste, you find yourself in desire of mere mortal needs.
What is it then, that your traitorous organs desire on this morning marked by a tempest that makes you wish only to stay inside, to not venture out into the city? What is it that your body, dressed in simple, grey and dark red clothes of a pajama that reeks and oozes money, desires? Come on, tell it to me.
Tell me what you seek.
[X] The breakfast of a mother that never loved you.
[X] The dull chew of the army that spit you out without even giving you a chance.
[X] The sickening remains found in garbage bins, for that is your worth, and that is what you should eat.
[X] The taste of platters long forgotten, of a good night, of a holy night.
[X] Nothing. No, less than nothing. Purge yourself, suffer-and be purged in turn.
[X] [Write-In]
"In that sleep of death," your words slip out of your tongue like ash, and like ash they disperse into the air unworthy of anything but a swift swiping away, a pathetic annoyance, which must be removed by a firm action. Did you think yourself a poet? It is enough if you are spit on the side of the street, or yellow snow trudged on by dogs in need. You have no right to breathe, so why are you trying to talk like you mean it?
Do you not understand your place yet? Are you trying to achieve something here? My word is law, yours-at most it is merely a passing fancy. You don't even know yourself, so how dare you think you have rights, wishes, desires?
"Where am I?" the question you ask could have been just as well an insult, for the butler stares at you with a scowl and a visage that means that you are an unpleasant presence, a disgusting wretch, a shell of a man unworthy of even the basic decency of kindness.
"You are," his voice is rich, cultured. He is a hundred times the man you will never be, a thousand times the human being you are unworthy to as much as touch. How does it feel to be pathetic? How does it feel to be such a disgusting and unworthy creature? "in the house of Mistress Miranda LaFaix, in Shellington High," what is the name that reeks of high-class? What is the place that stinks of rich obnoxious gold and luxurious items? Why are you here? A passing fancy, a forgotten debt, an IOU from organizations best left unmentioned?
Yet you dare ask more than your worth, "A...glass of water," you speak with a croaked voice, a torn throat that belongs to the realm of suffering and pain, an agony of a hundred tiny pins into your flesh. Yet, for your pain, some sort of gift was left into the flesh that you possess. A warmth that makes your stomach less willing to die on you, a strength that reeks of the unholy will of a creature far more great than you will ever be.
You do not know this, pathetic mortal, but you have been blessed with a curse, or cursed with a blessing.
"Please," you add, as if your pitiful pleading skills needed to be used, or else they'd rust. How many times did you plead for spare change from people who trudged on the street ignoring you? How many times have you smiled at the sight of single, dirty coins that in your youth you squandered inside arcade shops? Did you think yourself happy by the sight of a mere penny? Now is a glass of water worthy of your eternal gratitude? Let us not kid ourselves. You'd sell your soul for a penny, would you not?
How does it feel to be such a sniveling mass of worthless flesh?
And if you think I will let you go, if you think I will let you enjoy your life-then know this.
I am not a merciful god.
And you are my toy and mine alone.
The glass of water arrives in a dark glass, the color of the night. As you sip it, the taste is bliss. This is not normal water, it cannot be. Perhaps liquid heroin was added, perhaps cocaine. Perhaps amphetamine-LSD, things that you have tried, things that you've been forced to try-and yet, with each passing second, you drain the contents with the sheer delight of a man that was about to die, and yet has stopped. A man that has stopped not because he sees the light, but because a cold, cadaver hand clasps his heart and squeezes firmly, holding it even as his veins struggle and rip from his flesh and nerves with unquestionable pain.
You thought your torments over, but think again.
We are merely beginning.
"The mistress will speak to you tomorrow night," the butler says. "You may visit the apartment as you please," he adds. "For breakfast, what do you prefer?"
A question. A question for you. A question meant for someone worthy of being asked questions.
You feel yourself famished, you feel as if another glass of that delicious water would make you the happiest man on earth, and yet, even as your tongue savors the passing aftertaste, you find yourself in desire of mere mortal needs.
What is it then, that your traitorous organs desire on this morning marked by a tempest that makes you wish only to stay inside, to not venture out into the city? What is it that your body, dressed in simple, grey and dark red clothes of a pajama that reeks and oozes money, desires? Come on, tell it to me.
Tell me what you seek.
[X] The breakfast of a mother that never loved you.
[X] The dull chew of the army that spit you out without even giving you a chance.
[X] The sickening remains found in garbage bins, for that is your worth, and that is what you should eat.
[X] The taste of platters long forgotten, of a good night, of a holy night.
[X] Nothing. No, less than nothing. Purge yourself, suffer-and be purged in turn.
[X] [Write-In]
Thee thinks itself clever, little cunning ape.
- Location
- https://discord.gg/z9tBvbh
Thee thinks itself clever, little cunning ape.
Your treacherous minds remind you of a breakfast that warmed your flesh once, of a delicious mixture of home and family and warmth that poured into your pores like bliss. You remember the tablecloth, the murmurs of the mornings, the smell of a coffee meant for your father. You remember the smiles of a family yet to be shattered by your failures. You remember a gaze of longing hope that would one day become a hard gaze of displeasure, a firm grotesque gaze of anger, a furious sight that would wield a knife.
You betrayed them first, or were they the first to betray you? Was it your fault or theirs? In sickness and in health, they were married and should have suffered together-but they didn't. Because they didn't, because they fought and screamed and hurried to leave each other, they did so while forgetting you behind, did they not?
But why not, you pathetic insect. Ask for it. Ask for a breakfast filled with grief, burden and pain. Ask for the memory of a happier time. Let me relish as your mind twists in pain as the good memories are dragged down into the mud of your grieving past. Let me wash myself in delight with the tears you are sporting now, even as you sit at a table too clean for someone like you. Perhaps the floor would better suit your status, perhaps the ground and the scraps would be best for your stomach.
Your food is warm, and though forks and knives rest by the side of the plate you do not even know how they are used. Too long have you lived like a beast, a mongrel, a dog-your fingers move to grab the food and you find them clean, washed, the nails themselves manicured. They are no longer broken either, no longer sporting the scars of your fights, of your digging at cans in the back of supermarkets, no longer shattered trying to pry open broken windows in abandoned buildings, seeking a place to squat away your squalid existence.
When outside the Christmas Carols sang themselves with hymns of hope and prayers, you hid in the darkest recesses of abandoned buildings, the shadows themselves welcoming you as one of their own, for only there you found peace, not from the judging stares, but from the sheer apathy. How many times did you have to say Happy Christmas to people who pushed their children along, to couples who ignored you, to men who cared not for your path?
Well? How many times, uh?
How many times do you think that went on?
And yet, here you stand.
Eating with your fingers like an animal food meant for humans, but you are hungry, and you do not care. The water you drink does not taste the same, it is duller, not unpleasant, but yet not fully delicious.
As the platter is empty, and your stomach's guttural growls are for once finished, you stare into the eyes of the butler, who gazes at you without care, simply doing his business of putting the dishes in the sink, washing them, and then putting them back within a cupboard.
"Would you like to watch television, or play a game?" the butler asks, and pointedly he points to a large pair of doors, which he opens to reveal to you a room that seems fit for kings. A room filled with a large television, easily dwarfing your own size in height. No, rather than a television, it must be a cinema screen. All types of consoles are tied to it. You never believed there could be so many, or they could all work like that.
Then again, when was the last time you saw one of such things? When was the last time you peeked into the homes of a happy child, seeing him play?
Never, was it? Or perhaps that one time, at a classmate's house where you were dropped for the day and came back from to find your mother in her drunken stupor, and your father nowhere to be seen?
Oh, at least she did not forget you there that day, did she?
She just wished you had never been born.
But now, riddle me this, you unwanted child that dares to linger on to some form of hope in a world where hope is worthless and easily crushed under the boot of those stronger than you.
Are you afraid? Are you terrified? Do you perchance wish to leave this heaven, this Valhalla of sorts that might in an instant turn into hell? Or do you stay? Do you enjoy this warmth, this pleasure, this niceties that are starting to make you feel uncomfortable? For in the end, one question you must ask yourself even in the middle of this luxury.
Why you?
[X] Leave. Run. This place-it cannot be real.
[X] Stay. Play. Asking things might break the dream. If death is to come, rather it arrives while in bliss.
[X] Query. Ask. The man, the butler. What can he say? What will he not say?
[X] Write-In.
Your treacherous minds remind you of a breakfast that warmed your flesh once, of a delicious mixture of home and family and warmth that poured into your pores like bliss. You remember the tablecloth, the murmurs of the mornings, the smell of a coffee meant for your father. You remember the smiles of a family yet to be shattered by your failures. You remember a gaze of longing hope that would one day become a hard gaze of displeasure, a firm grotesque gaze of anger, a furious sight that would wield a knife.
You betrayed them first, or were they the first to betray you? Was it your fault or theirs? In sickness and in health, they were married and should have suffered together-but they didn't. Because they didn't, because they fought and screamed and hurried to leave each other, they did so while forgetting you behind, did they not?
But why not, you pathetic insect. Ask for it. Ask for a breakfast filled with grief, burden and pain. Ask for the memory of a happier time. Let me relish as your mind twists in pain as the good memories are dragged down into the mud of your grieving past. Let me wash myself in delight with the tears you are sporting now, even as you sit at a table too clean for someone like you. Perhaps the floor would better suit your status, perhaps the ground and the scraps would be best for your stomach.
Your food is warm, and though forks and knives rest by the side of the plate you do not even know how they are used. Too long have you lived like a beast, a mongrel, a dog-your fingers move to grab the food and you find them clean, washed, the nails themselves manicured. They are no longer broken either, no longer sporting the scars of your fights, of your digging at cans in the back of supermarkets, no longer shattered trying to pry open broken windows in abandoned buildings, seeking a place to squat away your squalid existence.
When outside the Christmas Carols sang themselves with hymns of hope and prayers, you hid in the darkest recesses of abandoned buildings, the shadows themselves welcoming you as one of their own, for only there you found peace, not from the judging stares, but from the sheer apathy. How many times did you have to say Happy Christmas to people who pushed their children along, to couples who ignored you, to men who cared not for your path?
Well? How many times, uh?
How many times do you think that went on?
And yet, here you stand.
Eating with your fingers like an animal food meant for humans, but you are hungry, and you do not care. The water you drink does not taste the same, it is duller, not unpleasant, but yet not fully delicious.
As the platter is empty, and your stomach's guttural growls are for once finished, you stare into the eyes of the butler, who gazes at you without care, simply doing his business of putting the dishes in the sink, washing them, and then putting them back within a cupboard.
"Would you like to watch television, or play a game?" the butler asks, and pointedly he points to a large pair of doors, which he opens to reveal to you a room that seems fit for kings. A room filled with a large television, easily dwarfing your own size in height. No, rather than a television, it must be a cinema screen. All types of consoles are tied to it. You never believed there could be so many, or they could all work like that.
Then again, when was the last time you saw one of such things? When was the last time you peeked into the homes of a happy child, seeing him play?
Never, was it? Or perhaps that one time, at a classmate's house where you were dropped for the day and came back from to find your mother in her drunken stupor, and your father nowhere to be seen?
Oh, at least she did not forget you there that day, did she?
She just wished you had never been born.
But now, riddle me this, you unwanted child that dares to linger on to some form of hope in a world where hope is worthless and easily crushed under the boot of those stronger than you.
Are you afraid? Are you terrified? Do you perchance wish to leave this heaven, this Valhalla of sorts that might in an instant turn into hell? Or do you stay? Do you enjoy this warmth, this pleasure, this niceties that are starting to make you feel uncomfortable? For in the end, one question you must ask yourself even in the middle of this luxury.
Why you?
[X] Leave. Run. This place-it cannot be real.
[X] Stay. Play. Asking things might break the dream. If death is to come, rather it arrives while in bliss.
[X] Query. Ask. The man, the butler. What can he say? What will he not say?
[X] Write-In.