tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27786732907016917242024-03-12T20:56:12.878-07:0023 SecondsWe're not detectives. We're not researchers. We're second year university students dropping off the map one by one . . . and we have no idea what the hell is going on. This is our blog.Elliotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10164597005081229265noreply@blogger.comBlogger84125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2778673290701691724.post-19263772587643546092011-11-14T13:11:00.000-08:002011-11-14T13:11:37.119-08:00Looking for yourself out thereAlmost 23:23. Awesome. Uh. Honestly, I'm not too sure why I'm posting. It's... a gorgeous night out; snuck out of my tent again to sleep under the stars. Man. It's amazing out here.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div>
You... have to wonder. Because of the way light travels, any other those stars could be dead at this very second, but they're alive to us, alive and shining and more... <i>there</i> than we can ever know. Stars! Constantly dying and being reborn and we don't even know it. We don't know... much of anything, do we?</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div>
In this context... it's scary. As people, we <i>want to leave our impact.</i> Somewhere, someone could be looking at something glowing and it's <i>Earth</i>, and it's shining despite being long, long gone. And nobody knows it's gone; it's just....</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div>
But isn't that testament enough? All the tragedy and awesomeness and heartbreak and joy and sadness. Everything. Because the world wouldn't be the way it is without it, right? I say don't worry about leaving your mark. Do something that matters today, because somehow, somewhere, someone will remember you.</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div>
Look at me, I sound like Walter or something XD. Aw well. I think I'll head back to camp before I encounter some kind of toothed carnivore, ahaha. Goodnight, everyone. I'll post again in the morning.</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div>
Happy Trails (And sleep well!),</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div>
Zachariah Lewis</div>
<br />
<br />Zachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03193232667013243198noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2778673290701691724.post-21184314212177892842011-11-11T23:23:00.000-08:002011-11-11T23:24:54.600-08:00I'm fine.<br />
<div>
And you all left off on such a desperate note, I'm fine.</div>
<div>
just</div>
<div>
not really feeling like myself anymore.</div>
<div>
but I'm still typing, right?</div>
<div>
that show's I'm fine</div>
<div>
pleaseohgodi'mshowingthemi'mfine</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
they're all dead</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
zach is with me though</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
still in the trees, not sure why we tried to leave</div>
<div>
its nice here</div>
<div>
reallynicehere</div>
<div>
with all the blood and stuff</div>
<div>
sometimes i can pretend, youknow</div>
<div>
that this never happened</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
not sure what it means</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
probably more pain</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
hope not</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
hope doesnt count for anything </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
nothing ever meant anything</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
we all didnt die for anything</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
imsorry</div>
<div>
imsorryimsorryimsorry</div>
<div>
we didnt want this</div>
<div>
i didnt want this</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
idontwanttodie</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
i still have somuch to do</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
i</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
i</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
nononojsutalittlelonger<br />
<br />
please<br />
<br />
PLEASE<br />
<br />
ican<br />
Suzedidnt have to<br />
<br />
richard.<br />
<br />
elliott.<br />
<br />
alex.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
run.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
just<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
run.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>Lylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18305733211620856216noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2778673290701691724.post-9996363930133042802011-11-11T14:40:00.001-08:002011-11-11T16:05:21.411-08:00The forest's gearing up for something.The air around us seems different. Charged. Almost. . . waiting?<br />
<br />
I've heard whispers of rescue plans.<br />
<br />
Suze has already voiced the general opinion on this matter. Good luck.<i> </i>If something could've been done it would have been done already. Couriers have tried. That's what Harper tells me, anyways.<br />
<br />
Can you believe I actually listen to the bastard? No wonder Suze thinks I'm a deserter.<br />
<br />
She's not dead, by the way. So that's always a good thing. One less body to add to the smoulder pit at center camp. She's here and Richard's back, too. Got screwed up pretty badly by Collector by the looks of it. That's what he tells me, anyways.<br />
<br />
A flash of red, he says. We see them around a lot. /I/ see them around a lot. A blur of crimson. A spark of what looks like fire, so intense that it sends a painful shot straight to your head and leaves you with an perfect shade of its former self, now teal and gray, exactly where you saw it.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, it has eyes. If you're lucky, teeth. A grin a mile wide.<br />
<br />
I call him Cheshire.<br />
<br />
Camp calls me crazy.<br />
<br />
Actually, traitor's the word that's on their lips most of the time. Traitor. Deserter. Back-stabber. They cycle through them. All because I want to play a tune or two every now and then. Or maybe it's because I've been wandering the forest every so often. This place really isn't too bad once you get used to it.<br />
<br />
Not like it's safe to go out there. I mean, it was never safe. Just stable. Wander too long and you'd never see camp again. Sometimes I wonder if there's anybody left. The ones who wandered off, I mean. Sometimes I look for them when I'm out there. Listening for something, /anything/, that would tell me that somebody other than the seven of us and our resident 'caretakers' (and I use that word very, /very/ lightly) out there.<br />
<br />
I've been unsuccessful. I'm even pretty sure that Cheshire's just a figment of our collective imagination.<br />
<br />
But it's nice to pretend.Elliotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10164597005081229265noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2778673290701691724.post-54275336127046618362011-11-09T17:01:00.000-08:002011-11-09T17:01:23.956-08:00It's About Time.Is there no better way to end a two month silence than with a cluster f-bomb? <i>I think not. </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
Previously in Class 123, people died. Shocking, huh? That's a plot twist to end all <i>fucking </i>plot twists. Next thing you know we'll wander in circles and somebody will run off screaming into the bushes.<br />
<br />
Actually, wait. That already happened, didn't it? <i>It was Chase. What a damn shame. </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
Yeah, definitely bitter. If I wasn't before I sure as hell am now.<br />
<br />
Rest in peace, buddy. Half of us wouldn't be here without you. Not that half counts for much where I can list off the remaining kids around camp on both of my hands. <i>Me. Richard. Lyle. Alex, </i>and a handful of others - though Alex isn't really Alex anymore. Poor bastard stopped responding to his own name a little while ago. Started talking about seeing Zach around camp and keeps notes on his arms about what the hell is going on here - which, all things considered, isn't much. At least <i>bitch </i>and Slenderfucker have graciously left us to die in what little dignity we have left, even if that <i>traitor </i>Broodmoor is still sneaking out every few night to play a song or two with the bastard.<br />
<br />
<i>Fuck </i>I don't think I've ever needed a drink so bad in my <i>fucking </i>life.<br />
<br />
Calm, Suze, caaaalm...<br />
<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Alright. I think I'm going to be okay now. A few trees are now <i>sans branches </i>but what the hell, we've got thousands. Knowing this place they'll be bigger and fuller by the time we wake up tomorrow. Or what we think is tomorrow. Fucked if I know because the sun stopped setting a long, long time ago and our phones stopped giving us the right time long before that. I stopped caring. It feels like it's only been a couple weeks and suddenly all I hear around camp is <i>two months, two months </i>like we're in The Grudge or some shit.<br />
<br />
Though that would be a pleasant <i>fucking </i>surprise at this point. Death by creepy Japanese kid crawling out of my phone. I think I'd be okay with that. As long as I don't have to look at Tall, Dark and Faceless' ugly mug every time I shut my eyes.<br />
<br />
Richard's gone.<br />
<br />
... Yeah, I've got no transition for that.<br />
<br />
Richard left a while ago. <i>Broodmoor </i>was smoking somewhere in center camp (where the hell did he get cigarettes?) and said he saw him wander off. When I asked him why the <i>fuck </i>he didn't stop him he just kind of shrugged and took a drag.<br />
<br />
"<i>So it goes."</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
Asshole. People are dropping off left and right but he can at least <i>pretend </i>to be upset, can't he?<br />
<br />
<i>Can't you?</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
Another one bites the dust, I guess. Richard Battles, you crazy, brave, idiotic, masterful <i>jerkoff </i>I hope to whatever gods that might still watch over this place you went down in the blaze of glory you wanted to.<br />
<br />
I'm not a religious person. I'm just <i>terrified. </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
And as for the ones plotting that little rescue mission? <i>Yeah, I've been around the blogs. Followed the comments. Can't post, but there are some workarounds. Turns out there <b>is </b>a type of proxy I don't feel guilty about associating with. </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
Call me close-minded.<br />
<br />
Your rescue mission? Not going to work. We've been here for four months and we can't get out. You expect to come in, guns blazing, rip us out of camp and drag us back home?<br />
<br />
<i>Good fucking luck. </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
Really. If those couriers or whoever the fuck is responsible for giving us provisions for the last little while can barely get in, (and apparently get kicked <i>right back out</i>) what hope do you have? It didn't matter too when things went south in July, did it? Why the interest now? Just leave us to die. You'll only add to the pile of bodies and frankly, we don't have enough fuel left to burn the current ones with. We don't need any more blood on camp's ground and we definitely don't need <i>You Know Who </i>or his little hooded <i>bitch </i>on our case again. We're just a bunch of college kids who got in way, way over our heads. There isn't enough of us left to be worth saving.<br />
<br />
<i>Did you know that when an animal thinks it's going to die, it panics? But when it <b>knows </b>it's going to die...</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
Well. I'll leave you to puzzle that one for yourselves. I'm not as determined as Richard or as crazy as Lyle or as lost as Alex or as smart as Walter or as...<i>broody </i>as Broodmoor. I've had four months and plenty of examples of what happens when somebody stops fearing death and welcomes it with open arms. And after watching it happen 42 times?<br />
<br />
<i>It's my turn. </i>Suzehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16183113651152681422noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2778673290701691724.post-52141438550847372862011-11-03T19:03:00.000-07:002011-11-03T19:03:13.453-07:00Please<div>Oh god, someone help us, please.</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
<br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
<br />
But there's no god in this place anymore....</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><br />
<br />
It's been almost two months but it's hard to tell what exactly is going on<br />
<div><i>when</i> what happened</div><div><i>when</i> we are right now.</div><div><br />
Because you know what? Walter was right. Zach was right. Even fucking Collectorshit was right.<br />
<br />
I suddenly have this feeling that everything was connected. It's like I could see the whole thing, one long chain of events that stretched all the way back before this all started, and I'm not going to live long enough to find out the truth. I feel like I can see everything that happened, and everything that is going to happen. It's like a perfect pattern, laid out in front of me.<br />
<br />
<br />
And I realised we're all part of it, and all trapped by it. </div><div><br />
<br />
<i>Time doesn't mean anything when you know you're going to die.</i></div><div><br />
<br />
Nobody answers our posts anymore. We don't have admin so we can't even see if people are checking the blog in their apparent bout of apathy. But I see you all. I see you all fawning over M and joking about Robert and cheering on Maduin. But M isn't going to help us, and Robert and the Jester...</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
None of you care.</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
I'm starting to wonder if you ever did; If anyone ever did in the first place, because what does it matter? As long as you're alive then why in hell's name should any of this bother you; you all have your friends, your <i>"families"</i>, and outside of that, the rest of the world can burn.</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
I don't blame you.<br />
<br />
I <i>can't</i> blame you.</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
All those times chasing chicks and laughing with Zach, working my ass off in high school and being annoyed with my parents; the trip to Italy and learning to fight from that weird pale guy, crying when I fucked up that one time in the school play and seeing my mum cry as I moved out of the house...</div><div><br />
... I'm tired of surviving. I just want to live; I want to go home and take a shower and hit something and go to the mall. I want to eat fast food and see a movie and get in a fender-bender. I want to do graffiti and bomb a test and say goodnight to my little brother.<br />
<br />
<br />
But I can't go back to that anymore.</div><div><br />
</div><div><div><br />
If this even gets out, if you're reading this, I'm not going to have much time left. That's good, I've got that, but once you realize this, you don't last long in here. It makes you comfortable. Or maybe that's what I tell myself, what I want to believe in this nest of <i>fucking</i> lies and liars.</div><div><br />
Because I'm more afraid than I ever had been in my life. I barely sleep anymore; I can feel Him watching me, appraising me like I'm a hunk of meat. I look around camp and I shake. And shake. And shake. I can't stop, <i>We</i> won't stop.</div><div><br />
And every so often, someone stops shaking and walks into the trees. The first few, I'd plead with. I'd beg. Scream myself hoarse that they still had too much to do, had people waiting for them, but why would they listen?<br />
<br />
It's obvious that nobody's come looking for us. We're the class the world forgot.<br />
<br />
Then I turned to violence. Broke some limbs. But Chase isn't... around. And they only ended up dragging themselves out of camp while calmly stating that I'd have to kill them to keep them from going. Even when they screamed for mercy until it all went silent, we didn't follow them. We couldn't.<br />
<br />
<br />
</div><div>I don't try to save them anymore.</div></div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
But maybe I stopped being afraid when Adel gave up. When Wallace, his partner to the end, went into the trees after him. He was shaking too, but it wasn't with terror; and when Lily started screaming and Ian stared into her eyes and told her he loved her since fifth grade and <i>then slit her throat from ear to ear</i>,</div><div>She was trying to run to Him. So it goes. And so he wasn't afraid, not anymore. </div><div><br />
Heh, look at me. I sound like Lyle. I sound like Zach. Can you blame me?</div><div><br />
Because in our lives, this hell, you find something else; you find something that matters more to you than life. They threaten to kill you unless you give them what they want, but you all tell them you'd rather die. You face the fact that this is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time. You become calm. You become still. Maybe that's because you knew what was going on, maybe you knew what you were getting into.<br />
<br />
But I didn't. Twenty years old and <i>I'm going to die</i> because I wanted some extra credit.<br />
<br />
It seems strange, seems foreign to type it out, see it so plainly written in this tiny word processor. To, as Walter would have put it,<i> "Confront mortality; see it stretched out before you like a line in the sand, watching the tide of the end grow closer and closer".</i><br />
<br />
He never said anything like that. I'm a fake. I've always been a fake. Trying to be brave for everyone, trying to give them all something to hate. At first I thought it was hate, too, how I would survive through this. Hate was all I knew, it built my world, it imprisoned me,<i> taught me how to eat, how to drink, how to breathe</i>. I thought I'd<b><i> die</i></b> with all my hate in my veins. But then something happened. It happened to me... just as it will happen to all of you. </div><div><br />
... For four months, I've known that it was coming. I've apologized to no one and gotten no apologies in return; parts of me slowly dying, eaten by all my hate and then shutting up when I had nothing left; centimetre by centimetre.</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
<br />
<br />
12 by 9. </div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
<br />
<br />
It's small, and it's grainy; it's a crappy screen on a crappy cellphone that spent way too much time hidden under a desk or in my pocket</div><div><br />
And it's the only thing in this fucking place worth having. He's never going to take that from me.<br />
<br />
Even if the Collector looks me in the eye as he stabs me in the heart, <i>he'll never be able to take this away</i>.</div><div><br />
That's the only thing I can promise.<br />
<br />
The only thing I have left.<br />
<br />
And here's my last love letter; the last I'll ever write.<br />
<br />
...I hope that whoever you are, you escape this mess. I hope that the worlds turns, and that things get better. But what I hope most of all is that you understand what I mean when I tell you that, even though I do not know you, and even though I may never meet you, laugh with you, cry with you, or hug you,</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
<i>I want you to live. </i></div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
<b><i>I want to live</i></b>. I want to know that all of this wasn't for nothing, <i>that my life wasn't nothing</i>, that somewhere somehow, I made a difference. That this isn't all I'm left with. I want to die decently. I want to never stop fighting until the end.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>But I've stopped wishing for things I know I'm not going to get.</i></div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
<br />
I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"But before you go, I'd like to ask you something."<br />
"Yes?"<br />
"The <i>Tsimtsum </i>sank on July 2nd, 1977."<br />
"Yes."<br />
"And I arrived on the coast of Mexico, the sole human survivor of the <i>Tsimtsum,</i> on February 14th, 1978."<br />
"That's right."<br />
<br />
<i>There's a dark jungle next to the village. People who go into it never return. The villagers fear the jungle. Then one day a man with a torch goes in, the villagers scream at him to not, but he does anyway.</i><br />
<br />
"I told you two stories that accounted for the 227 days in between."<br />
"Yes, you did."<br />
"Neither explained the sinking of the <i>Tsimtsum."</i><br />
"That's right."<br />
"Neither makes a factual difference to you."<br />
"That's true."<br />
"You can't prove which story is true and which story is false. You'll have to take my word for it."<br />
"I guess so."<br />
<br />
<i>He returns the next night, crawling back, bleeding to death, claw marks on his back. With his last breath he says 'Within the Jungle lives a Tiger, who is twelve feet long, obsidian claws, and has fire in its eyes...'</i><br />
<br />
"And in both stories, the ship sinks, my whole family dies, and I suffer."<br />
"Yes, that's true."<br />
"So tell me; if it makes no factual difference to you and you can't prove the question either way, which story do you prefer? The one with the animals, the one with the tiger, or the story without?"<br />
<br />
<i>'...but it is just a Tiger and it bleeds.'</i><br />
<br />
"The story with the animals is the better story."<br />
"... Thank you. And so it goes with god."<br />
<br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>After that, he dies. </i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
--Richard Battle<br />
<br />
</div>The Classhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11905175438559116268noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2778673290701691724.post-1366036011937578742011-10-11T06:40:00.002-07:002011-10-11T06:41:56.817-07:00Well I suppose that I should inform youThat this little twisted game is far from over.<div>Figured you lot should know.</div>Walter Reeveshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06807224267282266895noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2778673290701691724.post-28576490977733944872011-08-29T23:15:00.000-07:002011-08-30T02:06:41.275-07:00Well, at least he kept his promiseIf by promise you mean "LET'S TWIST EVERY FUCKING HOPE AND DREAM YOU HAVE, SMASH IT INTO THE GROUND, AND THEN SET IT ON FIRE."<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>Calm, Lyle, focus.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Nick came back.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Now he's dead.</div><div><br />
</div><div>And a whole lot of shit happened in the middle. fuck, my hands are shaking, I'm covered in blood, and I have to wonder if you're insane if you know you're going insane.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Sometimes I log onto the blog and can't see posts. We all used to tell each other when we'd put something up; for praise? Peer editing? I don't know. But lately everyone has been trying to keep things secret.</div><div><br />
</div><div>...I think they're trying to keep it from me.</div><div><br />
</div><div>... He didn't lie. Nick stumbled into camp in the dead of night, not that any of us heard him. We heard this from Richard, who happened upon him first, or did he, no, i'm the one that found him first, it's hard to remember...</div><div>But he didn't lie, didn't lie, didn't lie.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Do I blame them....? Can... I blame them? Somewhere in my head I know it's <i>possible.</i> I'm not so sure what they're afraid of, or at least I tell myself that, but I used to share my tent with Zach and now everything so <i>quiet</i> at night and you can hear <i>everything</i></div><div><i><br />
</i></div><div>and I mean <i>everything</i></div><div><i><br />
</i></div><div>And they're talking about <i>me </i>these days in harsh whispers and sideways glances. And this is <b>SO </b>out of character for me but I'm just going to spit it out;</div><div><br />
</div><div>I'm scared.</div><div><br />
</div><div>He had never been quiet or stealthy, but somehow, he made no sound as he moved. It was a voice that woke me up, not a scream or even a grunt, but I heard him, I heard HIM but that should be impossible</div><div><br />
</div><div>Sometimes... something just <i>comes over</i> me and I throw all one hundred and thirty pounds of my lanky body into doing things I... <i>I don't want to talk about. </i>Richard keeps <i>looking</i> at me, oh god, he's not looking at me, he's <i>guarding</i> me and my head is<i> pounding</i></div><div><i><br />
</i></div><div>Just because you let it slip that you heard <i>ONE </i>whisper from Slender in your head, and it wasn't even cool enough to be directed at you, oh jeeze, just <i>KNEW</i> that William was in trouble and now they're guarding me like a <i>fucking prisoner.</i></div><div><br />
</div><div>Got up, noticed a dark, moving shadow near the fire. Noticed the body. And another. And another. More people dead. It didn't matter, not at that second. Did it ever matter? Not your body on the ground. The dark figure moved over to Suze's tent.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I followed.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I am not Number Four.</div><div><br />
</div><div>It'll pass. It'll pass and either they'll forget or all go nuts or <i>IT WON'T BE SO FUN WHEN IT HAPPENS TO THEM, WILL IT?</i> I'm the only one that can remember <i>everything</i>.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Nick. Nick was back with that <i>knife</i> and that sick grin on his face and he was standing over Suze and I could see her chest move slowly up and down as she struggled to breath and his hand moved over his belt buckle and suddenly I <i>understood</i></div><div><i><br />
</i></div><div>And split his neck open from ear to ear.</div><div><br />
</div><div>He didn't make a sound.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Then they'll know I'm not crazy.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Maybe it's just a matter of me convincing myself of that first.</div>Lylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18305733211620856216noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2778673290701691724.post-47120678734276150582011-08-27T23:48:00.001-07:002011-08-28T22:49:00.738-07:00... Thanks, Elliott.<br />
And so the bearer of bad news is me once again.<br />
<br />
As my musically-inclined classmate stated earlier, something happened in the forest today.<br />
<br />
A few days ago you'll recall Suze and I found Jennifer and Joshua hanged hand in hand in a clearing not far from camp. Suicide, we ruled. Joined suicide. By the time we had gotten Lyle awake and functioning and returned their bodies had vanished, which lead to many a suspicious glance and paranoid assumption. We could only guess at what had happened to the corpses, though none of us really wanted to.<br />
<br />
But I digress.<br />
<br />
There were five of us out today - me, Lyle, Suze, Elliott and Richard - compass and map in hand, trying to find our way back to the campsite and trailer park a few kilometers south of where we had set up our own camp. None of us were particularly optimistic as all our previous attempts had landed us back on square one after several hours of wandering in circles, but hey it was worth a shot.<br />
<br />
It wasn't like we had anything better to do with our time.<br />
<br />
So imagine our surprise when we stumble upon a path that leads us to an area of the forest nobody had seen before. Hope began to spark somewhere inside all of us and we pushed further along, suddenly much faster and with new vigor.<br />
<br />
We turned a corner through a thick bit of undergrowth and maybe fifty feet away we saw two figures, backs turned.<br />
<br />
A few things happened next.<br />
<br />
First, it takes us a few seconds to let this sink in. There are maybe thirty of us still around and everybody else was back at camp and we've been around each other enough to figure out who is who in a dark room based on the sounds of their footsteps.<br />
<br />
These two people looked nothing like students from Class 123.<br />
<br />
Second, Lyle and Richard kick into high alert. They shift their weight and are ready to deal with whoever or <u>what</u>ever these two people are.<br />
<br />
Third, Suze shouts.<br />
<br />
'Hey!'<br />
<br />
It's at this point that I have no idea what she was thinking (<u>or if she was thinking at all</u>) but she makes a break for the two people standing in the distance.<br />
<br />
She didn't see the black tendrils that held them flies in a spider's nest.<br />
<br />
Fourth, the figures move in a way that isn't natural <u>at all</u>. Their bodies go limp and the black web withdraws, but the bodies stay standing and their heads just ... <u>fall</u> to one side like the necks has been snapped in half. They pitch backwards and then forwards and their legs kick out from under them and they <u>walk</u> in jerky strides, heads bobbing back and fourth ninety degrees one way then ninety degrees the other. From behind them suddenly appear Tall, Dark and Slender himself and the path goes dark because those tentacles of his are above us, below us, around us, circling us like a cage and this <u>buzzing</u>, this horrible <u>buzzing</u> overtakes my mind and I can scarcely see through the stars that are clouding my vision.<br />
<br />
Suze stops.<br />
<br />
Dead.<br />
<br />
And she <u>screams</u>.<br />
<br />
Suze never screams. Not when Zach died. Not when she watched Nick slice Bryan's throat from ear to ear. Not when she saw Slender for the first time less than a meter away. So close she could almost reach up and <u>touch</u> him.<br />
<br />
She screams now.<br />
<br />
The two figures are Jennifer and Joshua.<br />
<br />
She screams and Slender is on her, grabbing her with whatever those black <u>things</u> are composed of, grabbing her and pulling her in opposite directions - not enough to pull her apart, but enough to pop both arms out their sockets and pull a shriek so shrill and so full of pain that I can still hear it in the back of my mind.<br />
<br />
She falls to the ground and goes absolutely limp, still screaming and now <u>sobbing</u> and what's left of Jenn and Josh are on her, clawing, pulling, tearing and cutting. Her arms are useless and we can only stand there in horror and watch our classmate and friend be literally picked apart before our eyes.<br />
<br />
There's a flash and a cry and Richard yanks one of the two off of Suze, butterfly knife drawn and slices Slender's holds clean off of her. The body falls and blood oozes from her eyes, ears, nose and mouth until the forest ground is coated red and warm and sticky to the touch.<br />
<br />
Joshua is a little more difficult. Lyle flies into a <u>rage</u> and he's on him, but Josh is much stronger and doesn't seem to know anything of pain anymore. It takes me, Lyle and Elliott to get Josh (or what's left of him) off of Suze, who is long unconscious and pale from blood loss and pain. Her blood mingles with Jenn's until the entire scene is red, red, red.<br />
<br />
Josh goes the same route as his beloved and we find ourselves alone, out of breath, exhausted and one of us heavily injured if not already dead against Tall, Dark and Slender himself.<br />
<br />
And what does he do?<br />
<br />
He leaves.<br />
<br />
He just vanishes and the two bodies vanish and Suze is collapsed and bleeding and <u>pale</u>, my god she's so <u>pale</u> and her face is covered in blood and her nose is bent the wrong way and her eyes are shut and swelling, swelling and her arms are bent completely the wrong way and nothing about her looks right and the only thing in all our of minds is <u>god, please be alive, please be alive...</u><br />
<u><br />
</u><br />
We're back at camp in a blur.<br />
<br />
Everybody is crowded around us and wants to know what happened. Elliott has to explain because Lyle is still shaking, Richard is high off of the adrenaline surge and I'm tending to Suze.<br />
<br />
It's just after nightfall now and there's life in her, at least. Her face is swollen and her nose is broken but at least we've managed to pop both arms back into place. It'll be a long time before she wakes up and everyone is taking shifts making sure she doesn't die on us.<br />
<br />
Nobody wants to see another classmate slip away.<br />
<br />
Especially when we can maybe save that classmate.<br />
<br />
She's in for one hell of a time when she wakes up, that's for sure.<br />
<br />
Alex out.<br />
Alexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14302303810813922010noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2778673290701691724.post-64554163144071111102011-08-27T22:33:00.008-07:002011-08-28T22:47:54.098-07:00Something's happened.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: inherit;">Regularly it's Suze's job to provide everyone updates on the crazy bullshit happenings of Class 123, but as she's currently . . . out of commission, I guess it's my job.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: inherit;">Take it away, Alex.</span>Elliotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10164597005081229265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2778673290701691724.post-79033531810215367472011-08-21T22:00:00.000-07:002011-08-21T22:00:59.154-07:00. . . What, you want a real post?<br />
<strike>Guess I can't be cryptic forever.</strike><br />
<br />
He showed up on time, as expected. 10:30, and not a second later.<br />
<br />
<strike>How gentlemanly.</strike><br />
<br />
Christ on a bike, the entire camp (<strike>or what's left of us</strike>) was watching when he arrived. Some were glaring, Lyle was shaking with rage and Suze was just . . . cold. But when the branches split and a dark hoodie entered HQ, you can be damn well certain everybody <i>stared</i>.<br />
<br />
You couldn't see his face through his mat of hair. I'm not sure if it's actually brown or if weeks of being stuck in the forest with us just turned it that colour.<br />
<br />
<strike>It has for us.</strike><br />
<strike><br />
</strike><br />
<b>"Where's Nick?" </b>it's the same question on everybody's mind, Suze's just the one that says it. She's brave, you know. Brave but protective and that makes her reckless.<br />
<br />
<b>"The same place you are all in when the song of the leaves engulfs you whole~" </b>He <i>laughs. </i><b>"Subject Susan, did you really expect a straight answer?"</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
You can practically see steam pouring from her ears.<br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>"He will be returned. <i>Unharmed</i>."</b><br />
<div><br />
</div><div>She clenches and unclenches her fists. <b>"Tell me <i>when, </i>you blonde basta -"</b></div><div><b><br />
</b></div><div><b>"Suze, that's enough." </b>That's me. That's me telling Suze to back off. A fight here wouldn't do us any good, especially if<i> </i>they had Nick - <i>especially </i>if Suze was the one doing the fighting. </div><div><br />
</div><div>She <i>glares </i>at me and I know I'm not going to hear the end of it. But the Collector? He sighs. It's... melodious? </div><div><br />
<b>"Aha, good to see that even <i>I</i> have allies in this madhouse."</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>"Hardly." </b>Still looking at Suze, I reply in a heartbeat. <b>"But we're not here to fight. We discussed this. Or did you forget about our little <i>arrangement, </i>Mr. Collector?"</b></div><br />
<b>"It seems that you lot are all talk and no action~! A shame, a shame..."</b><br />
<br />
He grins. you can't see his eyes.<br />
<br />
<b>"Lead the way."</b><br />
<br />
Suze says something to me before I leave. I'm not sure, but it ended with '... you idiot,' and I was guessing I was going to get to hear it many times over when I got back.<br />
<br />
I set foot in the forest, the Collector behind me. Every last pair of eyes followed us until we were too far out of view.<br />
<br />
No, I couldn't stop my fingers from trembling but yes, we did manage to hold conversation for however long it took us to get to our destination. Little things. How long we'd been playing, other instruments (he plays classical guitar as well, much to my complete lack of surprise.) and, of course, the subject of today's . . . adventure: <i>Sonata Pathétique.</i><br />
<strike><br />
</strike><br />
It didn't take us long to reach the boudoir grand he had set up in the woods. What took me well over two hours on my own the other day was maybe a hundred feet away from camp today. I was convinced that if I looked back I would see camp poking through the trees, but all I saw was a thick net of branches and leaves. This forest is a maze.<br />
<br />
My shaking was hardly under control by the time we had sat down. I could only catch glimpses of his facial features under that hood and mask of hair. His eyes are, from what I can tell, a grayish blue and his hair looks to have one time been a light blonde.<br />
<br />
What followed was . . . difficult to describe. Have you ever sat down with a blank piece of paper or instrument and utterly lost yourself in the feeling of raw creativity? Become a slave to those notes or lines on the page, letting it move your body, no, your <b>soul</b>?<br />
<br />
That's what it was like.<br />
<br />
Beethoven's <i>Sonata Pathétique</i> is a heart-breakingly gorgeous and it was almost an honor to play with someone with talent as opposed to just skill as a result of years slaving over ivories.<br />
<br />
<strike>Almost.</strike><br />
<br />
Oh, and Mr. Collector?<br />
<br />
It's a shame you never got proper training. There are things only years of lessons and professional teachers can teach you that no amount of personal talent can account for.<br />
<br />
And don't think this means I'll do this again anytime soon.<br />
<br />
Just because we had one good run doesn't mean we trust you.<br />
<br />
Or will ever trust you.Elliotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10164597005081229265noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2778673290701691724.post-85363456888879341032011-08-21T19:45:00.000-07:002011-08-21T19:45:53.239-07:00Hey, look who's back.That went much better than expected.<br />
<br />
<strike>Sort of.</strike>Elliotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10164597005081229265noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2778673290701691724.post-42578566849964319892011-08-19T22:56:00.000-07:002011-08-19T22:56:00.479-07:00And another thing.Tune that damn piano, will you?<br />
<br />
I can't tell your D from your E flat.Elliotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10164597005081229265noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2778673290701691724.post-12818064900553788062011-08-19T22:51:00.003-07:002011-08-19T22:51:54.698-07:00Definitely self-taught.How <i>do </i>your fingers move that quickly, Mr. Collector?<br />
<br />
I can hardly keep up.Elliotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10164597005081229265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2778673290701691724.post-55976323080697211592011-08-14T03:13:00.001-07:002011-08-14T03:13:00.813-07:00Found the piano.And guess who was playing it?<br />
<br />
He's self-taught, by the way.Elliotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10164597005081229265noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2778673290701691724.post-44443192580163418752011-08-13T23:34:00.000-07:002011-08-13T23:34:07.582-07:00The Fucker Came Back.<i>Elliott Wimbledon Broodmoor, I am going to kick you in the ass so hard you're going to see the curvature of the Earth.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
He came back. He came back and he gave everybody in camp a <i>fucking </i>heart attack<i> </i>with that <i>fucking </i>shit-eating grin and <i>fucking </i>'hay gaiz, what's up?' and the first thing I did was <i>slap his stupid face because <u>goddamnit</u> Elliott what the <u>hell</u> is wrong with you?!</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
...<br />
<br />
I thought you were dead.<br />
<br />
Ithoughtyouweredeadithoughtyouweredeadithoughtyouweredead!<br />
<br />
I swear to whatever figment of whatever culture's imagination is currently pleasing to your eyes, <i>Elliott</i>, the next time you wander off without my permission I'm going to...<br />
<br />
Well.<br />
<br />
<i>Hahahaha.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
We've already discussed this, haven't we?Suzehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16183113651152681422noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2778673290701691724.post-62357180708934898512011-08-13T09:16:00.000-07:002011-08-13T09:16:34.234-07:00We Couldn't Find Him....<br />
<br />
Yeah.<br />
<br />
Don't really have much else to say on the matter.<br />
<br />
Rest in peace, you <i>fucking, fucking </i><u style="font-style: italic;">idiot</u>.<br />
<br />
Suze out.Suzehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16183113651152681422noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2778673290701691724.post-31387706884664022552011-08-12T18:35:00.001-07:002011-08-13T23:34:24.717-07:00I Always Knew He Was An Idiot.Suze here.<br />
<br />
Elliott's gone, to the surprise of absolutely nobody.<br />
<br />
Really, I knew we should have kept an eye on him the second he started going on about pianos and music and Moonlight Sonata. What the hell, guy? This isn't the Elliott that blares stupid indie music down the halls at school and sang shitty country songs as we roasted marshmallows and weenies.<br />
<br />
<i>Since when did Elliott like classical?</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
Whatever. I'm not here to judge. The point of this post is a bit of an update, I guess. I know this is Alex's job but he's been stuck in his tent and nobody wants to go in and ask what's up.<br />
<br />
Selfish bunch, aren't we?<br />
<br />
I guess impending doom does that to you.<br />
<br />
Anyways, so Elliott's gone. Things have been pretty quiet after Nick disappeared; (honestly nobody reported on it because nobody gave a fuck; the kid was annoying and arrogant and wouldn't stop <i>hitting on me</i>) the delivery seemed to really ease everybody's nerves because, <i>holy shit, there are people out there who are actually noticing us. </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
Fantastic.<br />
<br />
Richard and I are heading out to see if we can't find the crazy fool before the sun dips too low in the sky. Hopefully this will be brief.<br />
<br />
<i>Hopefully we're not too late.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
Elliott, you fucking idiot, I'm going to chew you out so hard that you're going to <i>wish </i>that blonde brat had gotten to you when we find you.<br />
<br />
So please come home safe?<br />
<br />
Thanks. <3<br />
<br />
Suze out.Suzehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16183113651152681422noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2778673290701691724.post-321162592192819102011-08-12T18:15:00.000-07:002011-08-12T18:15:33.007-07:00Being baited.But genre savviness is Lyle's job, not mine.<br />
<br />
I'm finding that damn piano <i>if it kills me.</i>Elliotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10164597005081229265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2778673290701691724.post-74080889040941210302011-08-10T18:05:00.000-07:002011-08-10T18:05:00.379-07:00Moonlight Sonata.<br />
A favourite of mine, actually.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div><strike>You sly bastard, how did you know?</strike></div>Elliotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10164597005081229265noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2778673290701691724.post-49836684704493447632011-08-09T09:40:00.000-07:002011-08-09T09:40:00.338-07:00Been out in the forest.Hearing music on the wind.<br />
<br />
<strike>I wonder if I'm not just going crazy?</strike>Elliotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10164597005081229265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2778673290701691724.post-84524146661122304982011-08-06T18:07:00.002-07:002011-08-06T18:34:34.925-07:00As fun as it'd be...This isn't the time for everyone to sit down and fucking cry.<div>Here at camp slenderland, things are not going well, at all. and really, if you can't see that, <i>you're a fucking idiot.</i></div><div>So why are some of the others running around camp with fake optimism?</div><div><br /></div><div>... It's not something that I'm going to try and understand.</div><div><br /></div><div>Am I going to give up?</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>Fuck no.</i></b> It's going to take a lot more than one of my best friends going to the dark side to make me fucking give up.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>(Those cookies better be damn worth it, Walter.)</i></div><div><br /></div><div>But we had to do something. Leaving all this shit around from the people who died<i> (and the person that might as well be dead)</i> is really creeping everyone out. Not me, of course; I can handle a shirt or two.</div><div><br /></div><div>But Lyle...</div><div>Suze....</div><div><br /></div><div>Christ, everyone is taking it hard. Especially now that-</div><div><br /></div><div>(fucknoRicharddon'tthinkabouthim)</div><div><br /></div><div>So we staged a pretty big bonfire last night. It was... soothing, in a way? I don't know; a few kept crying and a few kept laughing and really, they haven't stopped since.</div><div><br /></div><div>... and I'm banking on nobody checking this, so I'll come out and say it.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I was going through Walter's tent, picking and choosing what we were going to burn because, <i>fuckdammit</i>, some of those textbooks he had were interesting and there was no point in putting them to waste because nobody wanted to be fucking sentimental....</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyways.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was rolling up his sleeping bag when I found a lump. Woulda just ignored it but it was unsightly and</div><div><br /></div><div><i>okay. Is anyone surprised that I thought it was porn?</i></div><div><br /></div><div>... It was better than that. This little soft thing, kinda worn. Still in pretty good shape; patched up with black stitches on white fur. Maybe whoever was mending it had run out of proper thread? Pinned to it was a little note;</div><div><br /></div><div><i>"Wallllllllllllllly</i></div><div><i>I'm going to miss you! D: But Mum and Dad say that you really want to go on this trip and it's going to be good for your career and blah blah blah. They're lying, aren't they? I know you don't like this stuff, so I packed your favourite textbooks without you noticing. Teach Zach some, will you? He doesn't seem the most happy all the time, but he's nice. He said he'd take good care of you while you were gone, so I'll just have to trust him, right?</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Try not to get too many mosquito bites! I can't wait to play with you once you get back, okay? No avoiding it for schoolwork!</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Uh-oh, I can hear you walking back up to your room. Have fun on the trip, and sleep tight!</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>(P.S. If you rip Mr. Nibbles, make sure to fix him, alright?)"</i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Sorry, guys. but when we get out of here, I'm going to be returning this. Plus, this rabbit has a damn bowtie. <b><i>A BOWTIE.</i></b></div><div><br /></div><div><i>Beat that, Slendershit.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>... and to close on some good news, though it's kind of paranoia inducing;</div><div>We got a special delivery yesterday. Food. Water. A bit of medicine. After weighing the risks, we've decided that it's all we've got right now. The paths are so bad that it takes hours to reach the river and minutes to get back. Almost like the forest is going nuts or something; ah well.</div><div><br /></div><div>Only question is...</div><div><br /></div><div>Who the hell left it, if nobody can get in?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><i>(Though if somebody doesn't end up keeling over dead, well....</i></div><div><i>We've obviously got someone watching over us.)</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Fight 'till the end;</div><div><br /></div><div>--Richard Battle</div>The Classhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11905175438559116268noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2778673290701691724.post-68679233859579581402011-08-05T09:04:00.003-07:002011-08-05T09:28:51.853-07:00//Collecting// new allies<i>And so another one joins the ranks. Absolutely wonderful, if I may add. A brilliant mind, clouded not only by a desire to seek the truth, but also, a desire to seek revenge~! Answers are never /easy/, but if you look hard enough within the shadows, well...</i><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>you might start to understand them if you become one of them.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>The man you knew as Walter is /gone/, my Subjects. An empty, hollow shell filled with unadulterated /rage/ is all that remains; what a faithful servant he's already proven himself to be...</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>If only all the failures were this useful.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><div><i><b>(Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow</b></i></div><div><i><b>of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath</b></i></div><div><i><b>borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how</b></i></div><div><i><b>abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rims at</b></i></div><div><i><b>it.)</b></i></div></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Spinning, weaving webs of lies and disappointments. Yet you live. You all live. </i></div><div><i>There's a reason, a difference between the worth and the unworthy; the ones gifted with /sight/ and the ones /gifted/ with blindness.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><b>(Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know</b></i></div><div><i><b>not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your</b></i></div><div><i><b>gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment,</b></i></div><div><i><b>that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one</b></i></div><div><i><b>now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen?)</b></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Of the ones who were left behind, left to be purged, destroyed, forgotten, which of those still /lived/; still breathed and laughed and thought and created? Which of those did you come back for?</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><b>(Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let</b></i></div><div><i><b>her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must </b></i><i><b>come; )</b></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Forgotten.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Sleep well, Subjects. Your wilful ignorance will not save you.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><b><i>( M</i></b><i><b>ake her laugh at that. )</b></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Not anymore. </i></div>The Collectorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10724048265848559724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2778673290701691724.post-66156576541565393282011-07-31T15:07:00.006-07:002011-07-31T15:40:07.142-07:00I really have to get over myselfIf I want to live.<div>You all saw what happened. Walter... fuck. Walter left.</div><div>And we all know what he is now.</div><div>But me, I couldn't leave it at that, oh no. Suze is smart. She fought back in words.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>(Not that it did anything)</i></div><div><br /></div><div>But me, for some reason I thought, I don't know. Was I even thinking?</div><div>So I followed him.</div><div><br /></div><div>It doesn't get less genre-savvy than this, folks. But Walter had changed. In the moment that he had reached... some sort of realization, something turned into something else. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>(I know I'm not making a lot of sense, sorrysorrysorry)</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Either way. He knew. And not like my tripping and stumbling in the undergrowth made it any better.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>"I assume you're not here to come with me."</i></div><div><br /></div><div>He gave me a sad smile and his eyes positively shone in the moonlight and for some reason he didn't seem human anymore-</div><div><br /></div><div><i>"Walter. Walter, you don't have to do this. You're being stupid."</i></div><div><br /></div><div>I'm a genius, you know that? He took one step towards me, then two, and I instinctively stepped away.</div><div><br /></div><div>Well fuck.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>"I think the climax of the book will be the execution of poor old Edgar Derby. The irony is so great. A whole city gets burned down, and thousands of thousands of people are killed. And this one American solider is arrested in the ruins for taking a teapot. And he's given a regular trial, and then he's shot by a firing squad..."</i> He looks down at the ground, still smiling softly.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>"Um."</i></div><div><br /></div><div><i>"Don't you think, Lyle, that's really where the climax should come?"</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Slaughter-House Five. One of Zach's favorites. I'd read it the day after he...</div><div><br /></div><div><i>"You don't have to do this, Walter, this isn't your fault!"</i></div><div><br /></div><div>He tilts his head at me, and for a second I panic because I seem to have a two phrase vocabulary.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>"Just because it isn't my fault doesn't mean I can't do something. You're all afraid."</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Guilty.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>"And I'm not a madman because I accept my fear."</i></div><div><br /></div><div>And I try and look up at him, accept what he is saying.(IwillrunfrommyfearIwilloutdistancemyfearthenIwillhidefrommyfearIwillwaitformyfearIwillletmyfearrunpastmethenIwillfollowmyfearIwilltrackmyfearuntilIcanapproachmyfearincompletesilencethenIwillstrikeatmyfearIwillchargemyfearIwillgrabholdofmyfearIwillsinkmyfingersintomyfearthenIwillbitemyfearIwilltearthethroatofmyfearIwillbreaktheneckofmyfearIwilldrinkthebloodofmyfearIwillgulpthefleshofmyfearIwillcrushthebonesofmyfearandIwillsavormyfearIwillswallowmyfearandthenIwilldigestmyfearuntilIcandonothingelsebutshitoutmyfear<b>In this way I will be made stronger.)</b></div><div><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p></div><div><i>"You ARE a madman, Walter. What happened to saying that you weren't giving up? That you weren't going to let anyone else give up?"</i> And he turned away from me and muttered</div><div><div><br /></div><div><i>"I said I wasn't a madman. I never said I was a person."</i></div></div><div><br /></div><div>And he left me standing there. Standing there until I was so cold and numb that it didn't hurt anymore to look at the blank space that he had been standing in. I came back to camp empty handed. Richard was busy staring into space, and when he saw me, he put his head into his hands. </div><div><br /></div><div>Everyone else was asleep.</div><div>Everyone else was awake, waiting.</div><div>And I didn't say a thing.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Lylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18305733211620856216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2778673290701691724.post-26279408237902370252011-07-30T19:03:00.000-07:002011-07-30T19:03:00.316-07:00What.<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i>What.</i></div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i><br />
</i></div></div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i><u>What.</u></i></div></div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i><u><br />
</u></i></div></div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Fucking <b><i><u>what.</u></i></b></div></div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b><i><u><br />
</u></i></b></div></div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Walter Bishop Reeves, are you out of your <i>fucking</i> mind?!</div></div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Did all of that philosophical <i>bullshit</i> finally drive you insane? Are you some kind of idiot? Joining //them// solves <i>nothing. </i>They'll use you like a <i>tool</i> and then kill you when they're <i>bored</i> of you.</div></div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i>Just like the rest of us.</i></div></div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Zach was their toy. Lyle is their toy. I'm their toy. <i>You're</i> their toy and once they're finished with Walter Reeves we're going to find him in a garbage bag, cut up into snack-sized cubes served with a fragrant sauce of blood and other bodily fluids.</div></div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i><br />
</i></div></div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">And that's if they're feeling <i>merciful</i>.</div></div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">If you're not back in camp by midnight tonight I swear to God I will hunt you down myself and make //he// does seem like a <i>fucking </i>picnic<i>.</i></div></div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i><br />
</i></div></div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i>Am I understood, motherfucker?</i></div></div>Suzehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16183113651152681422noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2778673290701691724.post-68891687070394055002011-07-30T18:38:00.001-07:002011-07-30T18:38:12.728-07:00... <i>What.</i>Suzehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16183113651152681422noreply@blogger.com0