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Post by tricia on Nov 27, 2014 17:10:42 GMT
She sat in the far corner of her room, behind the armor-clad mannequins, almost hidden from plain sight. A pink fuzzy blanket lay strewn nearby. She sat alone, shaking slightly, but she wasn't crying. No, she was sighing. The reason was evident - her left arm, at the elbow, was a bloody mess. Several parallel lines oozed crimson fluids from the slices she'd made. She drew the dagger in her opposite side along the pale skin of her flesh, making another cut, and releasing another sigh. She then cut a previous wound, making it a little deeper, getting a little more of the bad feelings out.
She didn't understand. She didin't understand what she did wrong. That was nothing new - often she'd have done things perfectly, and be a bad girl. And bad girls deserved to suffer. Because they're animals. And animals don't cry - they whimper, and hurt. They're used for other's pleasure. Their pain brings laughter to others, so it was good for them to hurt. Because hurting animals is fun. And so hurting her was fun.
And so the cutting, the hurting made it better. She didn't feel the shame of hurting her sister when she was hurt, because she deserved it. All she felt was the blade. She knew she had to be punished. She didn't want to be punished. She didn't want the pain. but she deserved the pain, because she makes people mad. And people punished her when they were mad, because she was nothing. She was meat. She only lived to hurt. That's what they said. And so they hurt her. Because they were mad. Because she made them mad. And when they're mad, she gets punished, because she deserves to be hurt.
Over and over these thoughts went. She couldn't escape them. She was lucid for only moments to find sustenance - though it was rare. She could leave the room, but she couldn't leave the prison of her own mind. She couldn't leave the shame of hurting her sister. And so the cutting, the pain, continued. Because she deserved it. Because she was bad. Because she was only an animal. She was only meat. And she deserved to be punished...
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Post by tricia on Nov 28, 2014 7:12:27 GMT
Days pass.
She hid in the corner of the room, behind the armor-clad mannequins. Beside the case holding the wolverine engraved warhammer. The straw-filled mattress from the bed across the room had been set up as a barrier between her and the mannequins, and the pink fuzzy blanket was soiled with excrement and blood, acting as a roof, covering her from sight.
She was black, covered in her own filth and waste; her hair was encrusted with sweat and scabs. She looked as if she lived her life in the sewers, as opposed to a gentle cottage near the beach. She hated it, but she knew they won't violate her like this. They'd clean her first, if only to remove the smell.
Dozens of oozing wounds, straight lines all, covered her arms and legs; often they dripped a sickly red, though more than a few exuded a putrid white pus of infection. The blade that she used to prevent the tears left carelessly in the middle of the floor, crusted with dried blood and filth.
She was hungry. She'd been hungry before, and this was no different. She could live without food. Nobody had fed her, so they might have forgotten about her. If they forgot, then they'd not punish her, they'd not violate her. They'd not laugh as they hurt her.
But water. She needed water. After two days, she couldn't take it. She listened at the door - she heard voices. Melodious voices - females both. But they made sounds that couldn't reach where she was though her elfish ears heard them quite clearly.
She waited until the voices stopped. She listened to one set of footsteps come and go. The other made a 'step-thump-drag' noise. She'd listen to the 'step-thump-drag' until it went away, a door closing behind it, before quietly opening the door. The light was bright, she had to cover her eyes to shield them from the pain. On her three other limbs, she side-crawled over to a large pool set above the ground. There was round objects in the pool, covered in bubbles. She listened to the other person grunting - relieving herself. She had to hurry. She cupped her hands in the bubbly water, bringing it to her mouth - AWFUL! POISON! She almost spit it out, but there was no other water - there was no time to find more. So she drank as much as she could before sprinting back to her door, her bare feet leaving the occassional track on the clean floor. And she quietly closed the door just as she heard another door open, and the 'step-thump-drag' begin.
She sits down on the floor, her heart pumping in her ears. Was she discovered? Did they find her? They'd hurt her if they found her. She deserved to be hurt because she made them mad, and needed to be punished. They'd violate her because she was meat to be used, and nothing more. She didn't want to be found. She lets out a small whimper, as she hears the 'step-thump-drag' outside her door, and a small knocking. She'd been found! She whimpered again, and ran to her makeshift cave, pulling the disgusting blanket over her, looking out with terrified brown eyes at the door. She knew they'd come in. They'd find her. They'd hurt her, because she deserved to be punished for hiding from them, for making them search for her. She didn't want to be hurt. But the door doesn't open. The 'step-thump-drag' goes away.
Hours pass.
The 'step-thump-drag' comes back to the door. There is no knocking. A flat thing slides under the door. The 'step-thump-drag' goes away again. Was this food? After another hour, she builds the courage to see. Low to the ground, she creeps over to it. There were small pictures of black on the flat thing. She cannot understand them. They seem so familiar, though. Were they words? Yes, the pictures are words.
PAIN!
Her head explodes in a frenzy of agony, and she drops the flat thing. She knew what the pictures were, but she ran from the thought. She had no thoughts; thinking meant pain. She only felt. Feelings did not stay, only new ones arrived, and old ones forgotten. She didn't want to hurt. She didn't want the pain. She did not think. She crawled back to her cave, behind the straw mattress, and covered herself with the repulsively soiled pink fuzzy blanket. There was fear. There was always fear. But there was no pain. Even the white oozing sores that caused mild agony when pressure was put on them were barely felt now. She didn't want pain. So she hid.
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SeanS
Member
Co-HDM
"A single dream is more powerful than a thousand realities." — J.R.R. Tolkien
Posts: 423 
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Post by SeanS on Nov 28, 2014 7:36:00 GMT
(Rumour XP added. Depressing stuff! Normally, I lock them after I add XP but I won't in case you want to add more.)
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Post by Tel Vinrae on Nov 28, 2014 18:29:02 GMT
Step-thump... drag. Step-thump... drag. Step-thump... .... ... The softest of knocking could be heard upon the door. The voice that called to her was hoarse and faint. It used to be a powerful voice. It used to be hard and strong voice. But now it was just hoarse and faint. "Wyndelle....." the voice murmured. And there was only silence outside of the soft whimper on the other side of the door - in the darkness beyond. Step-thump.... drag. Step-thump... drag. Step-thump... drag....
She had knocked once before, and the last time there was no answer. So she left a note. It was the first thing she had ever written. "Im sory. Cum tahk to me." She had fixed her a bath, and but she drank the water from it and then fled to her room again. She proceeded to leave dinner at her door every night.
How many days had it been? She slept on the couch every night, waiting for the door to open, seeming to know now that it would not so long as she was there. She hadn't meant to...
She didn't want to get left. She just didn't want to get left, that was all. She just wanted to make that clear for them to understand after they had left her before.
But now there was silence. Now she sat on the couch, alone, with the book of pictures and more pictures that meant something more than that because they were words, and they told a story. And the animal that had shut itself away to whimper and harm and drink bath water had helped to teach her those words what each word meant.
Now she read a story about a fisherman on a lake of ice, waiting for a fish to bite his line, and how just before he froze to death, the line tugged - only to find a boot on the end. She read it word for painstaking word - struggling through each syllable as if her life depended on it. In some ways, it did.
Step. Thump. Drag. Knock-Knock-Knock. Wyndelle. It was a ritual practised every day at the same time. She could not bring herself to leave the cottage. Just in case. Just in case. Step. Thump. Drag. Knock-Knock-Knock. Wyndelle. It was the only word she spoke now outside of a story she read every night before going to her bedroom, screaming in coherent cries into a pillow that she smothered around her face. Step. Thump. Drag. Knock-Knock-Knock. Wyndelle. A newfound religion built around the philosophy of helping, of trying, when you don't know how. It had one prayer: Please; yet it was never spoken.
A hot meal. A warm bath. Step. Thump. Drag. Knock-Knock-Knock. Wyndelle. She stopped expecting an answer, but still prayed for one. She carefully adjusted her pack and left the note on the ground.
"Wyndelle," it said. "I leffed so you culd stay. I luv you. Take care of Adira. Pleeze." The name at the end was hesitant. "Dahrzsah." It's how it sounded, but if never looked right. But it sounded like that, so maybe it was right. She couldn't spell her name, it was Govan. She didn't know how to read and write Govan. Just Milerian and Velithri. Step-thump... drag. Step-thump .... drag. She swallowed tightly, to try and fend the tears. She wouldn't cry. Maybe she'll come back out of her room. Maybe she'll get better. It was all she had left to do. This has to work, please let it work. Thump-step... drag.... the sound of a door closing softly behind her. Of key being put into the lock and turning. She moved away from the tiny cottage on the beach and headed out of the city.
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Post by tricia on Nov 29, 2014 6:08:47 GMT
She listened to the door. The one who knocked left. She didn't know why the one who never left had left. She didn't know why they knew were she was but never came in. She did not care.
Days after the one who never left had left, she left her room, hunting for water. She was thirsty. The water was poison, but it was water, and so she drank. But now... now there was no water.
Her blackened skin, laced with dozens of wounds, bore sores that wept openly, yellowish pus from the infections running up and down her body drizzled to the ground, marring the raised pond as she pawed slowly at the last remnants of liquid. There was no more water.
She went back to her room. She was alone. Finally alone. She who never left never returned. She was safe. She'd not be hurt. She'd not be violated. She'd be safe. But she was alone. The one who never left would hurt her, but the one who never left was always there - the presence itself comforting in its own way. And now it was gone.
She took her slick blanket, covered in dried sickness and waste, only a few tufts still pink and fluffy, and took it to the open area. She did not know why she treasured the filthy thing, yet she did. She took it with her while she crawled about, exploring her new room. The unholy smell of death and waste emanated from her, and her old room, yet she didn't realize it. She was used to the smell.
She moved slowly, her thinking dimming. She had no thoughts; even the emotions were starting to wither. She was tired. The pain from her skin was lessening to the point where she didn't feel anything she touched. The lumps on her chest were near nothing, wrinkled pouches of skin, and she showed more ribs and bones than the scars she carried underneath the erupting sores.
She no longer felt thirsty. She no longer felt hungry. She was alone. The thought made her sad. But she hadn't left. She didn't remember why that was important. But she was there. She hadn't left.
Now she was alone. Now she was safe.
Now... she was tired.
She went to the long cushioned thing, and sat down in it. The blanket she treasured so pulled halfway up, covering herself, keeping what remained of her diseased, withered husk warm.
Warm.
Sleep.
Tired.
Sleep.
Alone.
Sleep.
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Post by Tel Vinrae on Nov 29, 2014 6:40:43 GMT
The owner of the step-thump-drag did not return. Not ever. There was no sign of her.
Without someone to tend the fire, the coals burned low until darkness was the cottage. The food, without someone to cook it, was not prepared. There was no voice that read within the space outside of her room. There was only silence, apart from the wind that blew the sounds of the waves through ththe cracked window. Dust gathered, sewing left to undone, clothes left unwashed. Wyndelle felt safe and that was all that mattered.
But without its creator, did the blanket lose meaning? Without the poisoned water or food rest before her door with a thump, step, drag, knock-knock-knock, Wyndelle - would the creature of once-was survive? It didn't matter where the person beyond the door that had never come inside had gone, just that she did and that she did not come back. And that Wyndelle was safe, warm, and alone.
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Post by tricia on Nov 30, 2014 23:08:30 GMT
She dreamed.
She did not know that she was dreaming.
She dreamed she was in an untouched forest, never having known the touch of man. She saw a butterfly - a butterfly! It was orange, and black, and flapping, and pretty!
She stood up, and brushed the dirt off her light blue dress. She remembered this dress. Her mother had made this dress for her. It was very poorly made, and she was starting to outgrow it, but there were intricate weavings and pretty red beads. Her long brown hair curled into ringlets down her back, well below her shoulders, pinned up by a little pink clip.
Her mother. She remembered her mother. Elwyn Sianodel. That was her last name - Sianodel. She'd forgotten.
Her mother had been starving. She'd been a thief, doing whatever she could to feed the both of them, but she was too good at heart, and could barely afford to feed herself, let alone a seven year old half-breed bastard daughter. She'd been given to an orphanage, temporarily - her mama was going to come back as soon she she landed on her feet. She knew that with an absolute certainty. She didn't like the orphanage, but there were other kids there. She wasn't alone, and she had lots of friends. She wanted a family to adopt her and her friends, but then they'd have to fight over her with her mama when she came to get her. There was a logic there that she carefully ignored.
There was that butterfly again. It flew off, and then back... it was teasing her. It was a meanie! A pretty meanie though. And so she ran after it. Almost as if knowing she was after it, the little butterfly flew through the trees, up and down, over branches and under boughs, and she ran off after it, bare feet pitter-pattering on the dirt.
At least, she was running after it, until she found that the butterfly was smarter than her, and she ran smack dab into an outstretched branch, causing her to fall back onto her rump. She held her head where it hurt, and threw a piece of bark at her fleeing quarry. "You meaniehead, mister butterfwy!" she yelled.
She heard singing. Standing up, she peered into the darkness of the forest. She took not three steps and she heard a 'whump!' from up the way. She ran towards it, carelessly, as only a child would be heedless of such danger.
It was a couple of dwarves. She never knew why they were called dwarves. The shorter of the two was skinny, and small, and wretched, and was almost a foot taller than she was. She knew the other. She didn't know why she knew the other, but he looked weird. He was dressed up in clothing he naught aught to have been.
"Are you alright, Mister Dwarf?" she asked the one that had fallen. He had gotten up by himself, and brushed himself off. He looked so scared... she picked a few little blue flowers by her foot, and handed them to the scared dwarf. "Don't be scared, Mister Dwarf," she told him, "these will bring you luck!"
The dwarf, clad in yellow robes, shied away, saying something mean. Sneezey, the other dwarf said. His name was Sneezey. Sneezey was a meanie head. She didn't care though. She offered them to the other dwarf, the one she knew. She liked this one. She trusted him. “Here you go, Mister Rockfang,” she said. “He doesn't want luck. They'll bring you luck instead!”
The dwarf, Rockfang, looked confused. He didn't understand how this little girl he'd never seen before knew his name. He took the flowers though, he'd not be mean like his fellow.
“You look weird, Mister Rockfang” she said, cocking her head. She looked him over. He wore pants, and boots, and chainmail, and had a battleaxe – he looked like a dwarf! But he never -ever- looked like a dwarf! “Why are you wearing those clothes? People won't think you can Druid wearing clothes like that!”
That got the dwarf -very- confused. She knew that he was a druid as well. What confused him even more was when she took his hand, and the hand of his other dwarfish compatriot, and led them into the woods after the singing that they'd heard as well.
And so the three went. Holding hands with her friends, the little girl asked Rockfang why he was actually called 'Rockfang'. That wasn't a dwarven name. “Hammersmith. Goldspire, Axehandler, Orcbane” those were dwarvish names. “Ulrich” he said. “Rockfang was a name I gave myself, lass.”
“My name's not 'lass', Ulrich. It's 'Wyndelle Sianodel'!” Ulrich laughed, the child's exuberance making him think fond thoughts of his own childhood, and other children he'd known.
Within minutes, the little girl and her two dwarf friends came to a clearing. The voice belonged to the most beautiful lady she'd ever seen. There were animals, and birds, and it was like a fairy tale! A large wolf (the size of a horse!) came over and snuffled as she held her hand out to it. The dwarves were talking to the eladrin lady. Vera. She said her name was Vera. She was sad.
Wyndelle didn't know why she was sad. But she didn't like people being sad. She picked some puffy yellow dandelions at her feet, and handed them to the woman. “Don't be sad, Miss Vera. Here, these will bring you luck!”
Vera smiled, and offered the three a favor, if they'd vanquish a monster for her. A monster on two legs. One that ripped and tore and hurt people. They declined. Specifically, Sneezey (the other dwarf) and Ulrich refused. Wyndelle hid behind Ulrich, not wanting to hurt a monster. Monsters were scary. And while she might pretend she wasn't afraid of monsters, she really was. She didn't want to hurt anything.
Vera's sister, Amata came. The adults talked some more. She remembered Miss Vera saying she had another sister, 'Nadia' too. But Miss Vera liked Nadia, and didn't like Amata. But Amata was going to take them out of the woods where they'd be safe. The little girl didn't understand, but they both seemed so nice (though Miss Vera was kinda scary!), she trusted them. She trusted that if anything happened, her friend Rockfang, and the other one, Sneezey, would protect her. Even if Sneezey called Miss Vera a very bad word, and she threw a rock at him and punched him and kicked him in the shins.
Miss Amata was nice. She was pretty, as all eladrin are. And her mama had told her to -always- be nice to eladrin. They were her long-long-long-long lost cousins. In fact, her great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother was an eladrin (she always had to count the greats on her fingers – one 'great' for every finger!). Some time after they'd left the clearing, Miss Amata had turned to Wyndelle and given her a wooden sword, to protect herself if necessary. This part of the forest wasn't safe.
It was less than a minute later when a large wolf, the size of Miss Vera's giant puppy, crashed through the woods. Wyndelle screamed as she watched helplessly as it bore down the nice eladrin lady, biting at her neck, and flopping her about like a doll. Two other wolves, as large as the dwarves, attacked her friends.
When she came to her senses, she made her decision. She was scared. But she wasn't going to let these doggies hurt her friends. She -knew- Ulrich could take care of himself. She remembered him fighting, Druiding, and always having her back. She didn't know Sneezey, but he looked like he could take care of himself. Miss Amata? She needed help!
Something about her gave the giant wolf pause as she brought her wooden sword down on its nose. It howled in pain, and then did a four-legged split as the ground underneath it became as slick as ice! “Grease”. She recognized the spell. She didn't know how, or why, but she'd known that spell and what it did.
When the giant wolf stood up, she bopped it on the nose again. And that's when she saw Ulrich, having changed into his badger fighting form, tear the throat out of one of the dwarf-sized wolves. As the giant wolf turned its attention to her, a mini-badger landed on its head and started ripping and clawing its way into the giant wolf's skull.
Wyndelle was horrified. The nice lady Miss Amata was hurt. Bad. Golden blood cascaded down her chest, and she was holding her neck closed with both hands. She looked calm, though she had tears pouring down her face. She was muttering magical spells though, so she was okay. All that was left was the one wolf. With a glance to Ulrich, then back to Sneezey, she felt Miss Amata rise behind her. Her arms felt... stronger. More sure. The woman had cast “Bulls Strength”. Again, she didn't know -why- she knew what the spell was, but she knew the spell. The last wolf was all hers.
Wyndelle didn't want to hurt it. She didn't want to hurt anyone. She wanted to live in peace with her kids in the orphanage. Or, even better, with a nice family that would adopt her. Or her mama, when her mama came back. So she raised the wooden blade above her head, and screamed. She put all her fear, and anger, and worry into the roar: “GO AWAY! BAD DOG!!”
The wolf, possibly understanding Wyndelle's words, lowered its tail, and ran away.
The battle over, Wyndelle gave the wooden sword back to Miss Amata. She didn't like how it felt in her hands. She didn't like hurting people, or wolves, or anything. The four gathered together, Wyndelle taking the hands of her two dwarf friends, and they followed Miss Amata to the edge of the forest. And she realized... she'd wake up.
She didn't want to go. She didn't want to wake up. She didn't hurt here. The forest was scary, but she had her friend Ulrich that would watch over her. She could be free here.
“Please don't make me go, Ulrich?”
She begged. She pleaded. She screamed, and lost control of her bladder. She held on tight to to Ulrich – her magically enhanced strength would make sure she would go nowhere without him, though he could drag her past the boundry if he chose.
“I don't want to go! Please don't make me go!”
Ulrich hushed her. He shared words with Miss Amata, but Wyndelle didn't hear them. She wanted to be free from the hatred, from the pain, from the unceasing fear she lived with day after day, moment after moment.
It took a while. A good long while. Eventually, Ulrich managed to calm her, though he could not stem the tide of her tears. “I'll find you,” he promised her. “I don't care what it takes. I'll find you, and I'll take care of you.”
Wyndelle nodded. She liked her friend Ulrich, but she knew the truth. She'd never go back to the orphanage with her friends. She'd never be adopted by a family. And her mama would never -ever- come for her.
She took his hand, and walked with him to the edge of the forest. She saw the shock in his eyes, the momentary fear that lay behind them. She knew he saw her for as she truly was. And she woke up.
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SeanS
Member
Co-HDM
"A single dream is more powerful than a thousand realities." — J.R.R. Tolkien
Posts: 423
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Post by SeanS on Nov 30, 2014 23:11:50 GMT
(More Exp both the players involved in this thread as as before... I'm not locking it.)
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Post by tricia on Dec 1, 2014 0:13:04 GMT
The Jinx opened her eyes. They hurt.
She saw darkness. there were stars - little clusters of them. Windows. She saw them through the windows.
She hadn't felt this weak in years. She could barely blink - and that was excruciating. Her lips were so dry. She hurt all over. She was warm. She was cold. She was both. Fever.
She could feel herself slipping. She'd cough, unable to breathe with the infections in her lungs. She'd just enough strength to force the phlegm from her lips, to dribble down her chin. Her breaths were quick. Painful. She couldn't catch her breath.
This was death. She'd longed for this. Cherished it. Finally, she'd be free. She'd be free from the pain. She'd be free from the fear. She'd be free from the animal, the beast that she was if she lost her precarious control.
She hadn't left. She was there. She was there for Darja. She was there for her sister. She hadn't left.
Darja wasn't there. She wasn't there for her. For all her bluster, she had left.
Adira? Pip was nowhere. She was always skulking about. Perhaps she was with Momoka. Or maybe with her friend Sihndora. Jinx did not begrudge Pip her friendships. The women in Adira's life brought her strength, and were an inspiration for the girl. Jinx was proud of her.
Jinx hopes she's disposed of quickly. She hopes something comes and cleans the cottage. She didn't want to be found by Adira. She didn't want to give the girl nightmares of seeing her 'aunt' like this.
She couldn't close her eyes. They didn't work. She was so tired. She just wanted to sleep, and forget, and never begin again.
And she saw a shadow pass the window. The window shattering, and a large form standing, blocking her view of the stars.
Ulrich.
He'd come.
Darja had abandoned her when she needed her. That was no surprise. Everyone left her when she needed them.
Adira had abandoned her when she needed her. That was no surprise. Everyone left her when she needed them.
Her mama had abandoned her when she needed her. That was no surprise. Everyone left her when she needed them.
Ulrich... Her dwarf friend from her dream. She didn't believe he'd come. She was so far from even hoping he'd follow through with his promise that she'd forgotten about it the moment after it left his lips.
Ulrich, her friend, was there. He'd come. He'd come to save her.
For the first time in her life, for the first time since she and her friends at the orphanage had been sold to the men who would introduce her to a life so horrible that eternity in the Abyss seemed passe, someone had come to save her.
He gave her water. He wiped her eyes. She clung to life so that he could save her. Her dwarf friend, who'd promised that he'd look after her, and take care of her, was keeping his promise. The only person in the whole of her life who'd kept that promise.
When he'd picked her up, and put her in Darja's bed, tucking her in so she could rest, she couldn't get the words out. She tried, but her throat hurt so bad. Somehow, as he was leaving the room, he heard her quiet pleading. "Ulrich... don't go?"
He didn't.
He stayed with her throughout the night, keeping watch over her, and taking care of her.
Just like he promised.
(The End)
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