StellarMonarch
Myrmidon
- Location
- Québec
Jesus Christ, Shade.
[X] A toast and some water will do.
[X] A toast and some water will do.
I Am Not A Merciful God - a WoD/VtR inspired quest
EvilPorygon
Cookie Monster
- Location
- a phone
[X] The breakfast of a mother that never loved you.
CaesriusPolybius
Worldgate Mechanic
- Location
- United States. Ish.
[X] The breakfast of a loving mother who always made sure that you left for school with a belly full of a delicious home cooked meal.
Bad case of Depression there, it seems...
Bad case of Depression there, it seems...
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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.
[X] Query. Ask. The man, the butler. What can he say? What will he not say?
will408914
(slouching towards bethlehem)
- Location
- California
[X] Stay. Play. Asking things might break the dream. If death is to come, rather it arrives while in bliss.
EvilPorygon
Cookie Monster
- Location
- a phone
[X] Query. Ask. The man, the butler. What can he say? What will he not say?
- Location
- .
[X] Query. Ask. The man, the butler. What can he say? What will he not say?
Trusty_Chester
That One Guy
- Location
- Texas
[X] Leave. This will surely cost something. Something you can't pay.
