NationStates Jolt Archive

IC: Silence be ever the peace maker or the war you play. You can let it control you or you can control it. Silence can be the abyss that will swallow or grab its energy and mold it into your own field.

She blinked only once. Her soft purple eyes welled with tears and as the seconds ticked away her life, she remembered things of the past, maybe even a different life...

A cryptic song blared in the background, not that she was particularly listening to the words, if there were any, she had her eyes on something else. The metal spoon in her hand, grasped tightly, but shaking with her every wasted breath. The spoon was held over a flame, from a 99cent candle, she found after one of her dumpster dive. The material in the spoon soon melted into a clear liquid. Her eyes wide, wouldn’t blink, even though they were dry and bloodshot. This was not her prettiest moment. She grabbed a nearby needle, insulin needle, she got off from her friend. Her friend’s grandmother had diabetes and her granddaughter stole it from her. Medicare would supply her and them more. She grabbed it with her free hand and sucked up the liquid with the needle. Once the spoon was empty, she dropped it on the ground.

“Baby, you want me to tie you up?”

She merely nodded. He tied her arm, just above the bend of it with his sweater. She couldn’t even feel his touch, all she wanted was it and she waited. He then grabbed the needle and inserted it into a vein in her lower underarm and pushed some of the liquid in. He pulled out and she watched him do the same to himself. She fell back onto the ground. Soon, she would feel better, soon she would feel great, and then soon she wouldn’t feel at all. The makeshift tourniquet was released and now she felt his hands on her breasts, massaging them. His fingers found their way under her jeans. It wouldn’t be long until he was on top of her, having his way. It would be pointless and wasteful to even describe, for it was over just as soon as it started. He lit up a cigarette, and between his lips he said, “Baby I love you and how you feel.”

She merely nodded. She got more love from her dildo than him. He was her source and this was how she paid him. She got dressed and walked outside.


It was already gone and she was sad. She often wondered was it worth it, but she always came back. He knew she always would. She reached into her back pocket and pulled out some pills. She popped them dry.

She waited. She sat on the curb, staring at the sky, it looked like a thousand shattered crystals.

Time ticked by and she began dizzy. She rubbed at her temples and not expecting it she fainted and hit left side of her head on the cement curb with a sick thud. She awoke moments later, her eyes welled with tears, but she couldn’t blink. Purple eyes wet. Then she closed her eyes.

She finally blinked. This couldn’t be the end. She was still young, young and stupid. They would say she had so much to live for. No. They wouldn’t. But she thought differently now, was it too late. Could any person be her savior, or want to be. Maybe in her next life.

OOC: This is open to a few nations, first come, first serve, I guess. I don't want to many because then it gets confusing. I also want to put a warning on it because it might offend people and will have adult content in it.

Lighting flashed and the following clap rattled the cracked windows of the galvanized steel and wood shack. The small shack reeked of cheap liquor and the smell smoke from the smoldering fire pit in the middle of the room. A pair of workers’ gloves and brown oil stained overalls hung from a bent nail driven into the wooden wall. Along the ceiling hung a set of water soaked clothes that belonged to a girl. The lighting flashed again as the rainstorm grew stronger. The papers claimed that this storm would last for the next three days. A man dressed in a gray cloak jammed his fingers into the hole in the plywood door, twisted a makeshift lock, and pulled it open. Quickly closing it and bolting the door from the inside, the cloaked man took six steps inside and found himself standing over a shivering young girl lying on top of a bed of newspapers and rags. She muttered a few words as her body instinctively curled itself up into a fetal position, thus revealing a series of needle marks along her arms.

He kneeled down and from his cloak extracted a piece of bread wrapped in a blanket, which he snatched out of the charity house down the street. He placed the bread by the girl’s head. The blanket, torn and no thicker than a few sheets of paper, he draped over the girl. She had a fever and needed medical attention, the shelters were packed, and no respectable hospital in this messed up town would even look twice at her. They knew she could not pay and would not even bother to let her stay the night, saving the warm beds for the unlikely quintuple digit salary worker who had a paper cut.

Capitalism at its finest, thought the man in the cloak, he laughed but restrained himself as to not wake the girl.

He hung his clock next to his overalls and took a seat on the stool by the fire pit. The man was in his mid to late twenties. He had a coarse appearance, with his unshaven face, messy hair. The dark button down worker’s shirt was of a tough material, which would withstand wear and tear and even flame, but could not resist stains, was second hand and happened to be ripped at the sleeves. However, his personality was far from coarse. He was a refined gentleman at heart, and kind hearted, although he was not exactly a philanthropist either. However, the times and circumstances requires him to put up a stoic and strong façade. His physical appearance could not be helped due to his inherent poverty; he had tried to be as neat and organized with his belongings and his home. On the topic of his belongings, he was very thrifty, resourceful, and never lost a thing. He has only lost two kinds things in his life. The first being his mind after dozens of drinks in the bar, though the times he has been reduced to a drunken stupor have been increasing. The number of workers and fellow rabble-rousers sent to the hospital also increased. Finally, the most important thing he had lost was his name, Robert Joseph Wilhelm. Probably in his home country, he was a minor lord, like a baron, though his immediate family had fallen from power and prestige ages ago. The family was brought down by a series of large corporations that bought out his family’s businesses and then land. The man left his country and now travels around from city to city as an unemployed laborer looking for work. He frequented bars and back alley liquor stores to wash away the trappings of his past. Those who knew him, most for only a short, and had quickly forgotten him, knew him simply as Robert.

Tossing some kindling and a match into the pit, Robert reflected on how he had managed to get this boarder in with him. He had found her lying on the curb right before the rain had started to pour. The streets were mostly cleared, save for the cars speeding to get home. Robert took pity on the girl, who trembled at the slightest touch. She was a drug addict, was the first thing that came into his mind as he saw the needle marks and scars on her arms. He did not like associating with these kinds of people, but his conscious could not just leave her on the street before the storm began. The first of the lighting and thunder strikes sounded as he had picked her up. Robert swept the girl’s hair from her face. She was naturally beautiful and still young, too young to be taking drugs. The drizzle had already turned into a torrent by the time they reached his small home above the aqueduct. He undressed her, removing her wet clothes and replacing it with an extra dry set. Like any other guy, he could not help but spend a few moments just staring at the girl, though the needle marks made her seem less attractive. He was a guy who had lacked female companionship and basically sex for quite some time now. He had no other excuse. After changing clothes himself, and retrieving his heavy cloak, he left on his usual dinner run.

Robert laughed silently as he reached over to his cloak and extracted a half-empty bottle of vodka and downed a fourth of it.

“Damned capitalists.”


OOC: First come, first serve. I tried out a new writing style. And the other thread is moving slowly. I took the liberty of creating the setting into my own hands, if you don't mind.

His fellow employees envied him for his success. Bob had his own corner office, view of the great city beneath.
He was the king of the cash floor. Bob knew the tricks and hints, he knew how to lie, how to be charismatic when needed, and hire some guns when needed.
Bob in the eyes of many was a perfect capitalist. He'd made everything from nothing and soon he would be called into the board room and be told that he was the new President of the company he worked for.
A wife he had to, one of those merry family types of wife that fed the children and did the dishes. Great, life was going great.

He stood still in his new fancy clothes and looked down on the city, he had never been so depressed in his whole life. Bobs life lacked meaning, Bob had realized that he was one of the worst men alive.
That he alone had caused trauma and suffering for millions of working men and women when he bought companies and then quickly "reformed" then to make a temporarily high profit and then just close the thing down.
Yeah, he was dancing with the devil.
Bob slowly licked his lips and put his hand down his right pocket and put it around the gun. It was loaded with six shots, not any special kind. Bob didnt know anything about guns. The pawnbroker didnt ask when he bought it, and neither did Bob.
Today was the day he would pay for his deeds. In the eyes of God suicide was a sin, well Bob didnt exactly deserve to be forgiven and let into the gates of heaven. He would serve the lord below and suffer every day for the rest of eternity.

Bob grabbed his suitcase and put on his coat, opened the wooden door and slowly walked to the elevator on the other side of the floor. Greeting the ass licking "want to be something" workers who granulated him on his new position.
He gestured to his secretary that he didnt care about what she had to say or about any new messages.
For the first time since he entered this building, it must be 20 years now. He was alone in the elevator. Bob pressed a button and the elevator began to move. 55..54..53..52..3..2..1..ding! The doors slid open and Bob went outside.
He called for a taxi and once inside it he gave directions for " a crapy neighborhood ". In his suitcase he had a 40 pages long document on his life and what horrors he had done. 39 pages of bad stuff and one page of good stuff.
Along with the document there was 10.000 in cash and some jewelry.

The taxi arrived at a random place, the surrounding wasnt exactly as he had imagined to be, a little bit more tidy but then again, the only part of crapy neighborhoods he had seen was on television.
And he really stood out of the crowd as he got out of the taxi, so this was how the working class looked like?
Bob was in his 50s, tomorrow would be his 50th birthday actually. His hair was gray, his face was of that way a man should look like.
He stood still for a moment observing everything, and everyone. People actually live here? A tear slowly made its way down his cheek.
Bob saw a girl laying, sitting.. he couldn't make out her position. Seemed like she was sleeping. And no one cared, people passing by like it was every day business.
He shook his head, sad.. but she would probably wake up as she heard the gun shots and find him. She would look through the suitcase and she would find everything. That was probably for the best.
Bob passed the sleeping girl and walked into the alley and pulled up his gun and aimed it to his head.
what if someone else takes the suitcase?
He quietly walked to the girl and put the suitcase beside her, it wasnt locked. It was hers now.
Bob walked back into the alley and aimed the gun at his heart with both his hands. He had no idea how to do this even. He slowly squeezed the trigger and BAM! BAM! BAM!
He fired three shots before the gun repelled out of his hands and he fell down on the ground landing on his back.
Bob reached with his hand to his stumich.. nothing, not a hole.. not a drop of blood. Tears began to stream down his face. Did he miss? no.. he couldn't have..
Then he realized the irony of fate, that this might be his punishment. Blanks, the gun only had blanks.
He cried, he cried like a baby in the gutter between garbage and rusty steel. And then the rain started to poor down on him.

OOC: Hope you dont mind some interaction already..

OOC: I like the setting Noir, it works. I didn’t really tell where she was, so I guess I will deal with it that she is now in some little house. The stuff in bold was a past experience she was remembered; these will occur throughout, all will be in bold. Danneland, the girl you are referring to is someone else, mine is in the house. Unless you want to change your post. Oh, I don’t know if you remember Danneland, but I am actually AmandaTheGreat. I have done some stories with you in the past.

IC: She felt the warmth around her as she lay on the floor, curled as she once did in the womb. There was once a time she felt that, but it was vague and conscrewed with feelings of hatred.

She lay in a twin size bed, covered with a thick comforter, her mother had made one Christmas. She felt her mother’s soft skin on her cheek. Then came the sweet voice of her mother, “Hush little one, sleep will bring wonderful dreams.” She felt her mothers moist lips on her forehead and her mother’s brown silky hair tickling her face. The dreams were never good, but it always helped when her mother said it; at least she could use that against the evil. She could use that until her father came home.

She was sleeping, void of a dream, when she was awaken by stumbling in the kitchen. “Fuck, Susie where’d ya have those thingies,” hiccup, “oh mever mind.” He walked, well more so stumbled into her room. She could already smell the distinct odor of liquor. It engulfed the room and strangled her.

[Less of that - Mod]The part edited by the Mod, was description of her being sexually abused by her father, guess it was too vivid-sorry.

She didn’t cry; she just stared at the glow-in-the-dark stars on her ceiling. Her hand reached to the side where she found her crystalline figurine of a fairy. Her small fingers grasped it and clutched it so hard her knuckles turned white. She raised it, as to hit her father’s head, which rested on her chest, but he saw and squeezed her hand. So hard the clear crystal turned ruby with her red blood and she dropped the fairy onto the wood floor and it shattered into a thousand crystal pieces.

Seeing the mess her father swore and slapped her face, “You little bitch. Clean it up.” He grabbed her and shoved her into the glass pieces making her clean it up with her bare hands, while he made his way to the bedroom.

She waited till she could hear his snores and she made her way to the room. The anger building so much, she could barely contain herself. She noticed the light from the candle in a different way now. Not warmth and shelter, but giving sight to see the horrors in the dark. She jumped on top of him and smothered him with the nearby pillow. She looked over and saw her mother sleeping soundly with a soft smile on her face. He struggled a bit, but soon his arms went limp and the smell of death and alcohol filled the room.
Now, she cried. She didn’t know if it was for him or her, but the tears came and didn’t stop. She placed her hand softly on her mother’s bosom, where her heart was and smiled through the wet tears. But her hand didn’t meet any flesh. Her mother had been dead for five years, but that was her comfort. And now that she didn’t need that anymore, her mother’s image faded into the dark depths of her mind.

She now grabbed the candle stick and made it look like it dropped to the ground. She watched from the doorway as the flames licked up the sides of the sheets and then engulf her father.

Would this be retribution for all the things he did, she would never know. This was her first kill and at the age of twelve. No one would know it was her and no one cared. They all knew what he had done to her and they were happy he was gone.

She ran outside, with tears still streaming down her eyes. She watched the house she grew up in burn like hell. She saw the ambers fly up into the air, wishing that her memories would just fly and disappear as did the ambers. But she knew it wasn’t that easy. This would be the last time she cried, she made sure of that.

She didn’t know how she got changed, she didn’t care how either. All she knew is that she was once alone.

She sighed as she reached for the impossible. Those crystals in that blue black blanket she would be never a part of. Was that her fault or the things in the past that caused this. She remembered a poem and mouthed it through her lips.

Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there, I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow I am the diamond's glint on snow. I am the sunlight on ripening grain, I am the gentle autumn's rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush I am the swift uplifting rush of quiet birds in circled flight, I am the soft star that shines at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there, I did not die.

She stopped, her eyes becoming more gray. She knew that poem was not of her. She knew she would not have anyone at her grave, even if she had a grave. And she knew above all else she would never been seen in those things. So, why did she like the poem, why even bother. It is always good to dream and to dream is to live and that was what she held onto.

But she was beginning to wonder if that was even worth it either.

OOC: To tierd to change the post, I thought curb mean the edge of the sidewalk, tried to look it up in a dictionary but couldnt find it.
Lets pretend like Bob entered a alley just beside the burning house, with his suitcase. Bam bam nothing happends and then he starts to cry. Let your character react from that, if its okay with you.
Yah I remember your.. sorta.. its a long time ago but nice to see people are still alive :P

ooc: Anyone else want to join in

Robert looked wearily at the girl. It has already been at least six hours since he had brought her into his makeshift home. He removed the wet cloth from her forehead and replaced it with a fresh warm one.

“Who are you?” he said softly. “It’s a miracle some lecher didn’t pick you up off the streets before I found you. Not that I’m a lecher or anything.”

He felt an imaginary arrow shoot through his heart. Instantly his hand went for it, but grasped nothing but air. An uneasy laugh escaped his mouth, while a few beads of sweat made their way down his brow. The thought of sexually raping a girl was not the question, but just merely having a beautiful female defenseless figure lying on his bed sent his hormones wild.

“Control yourself, control yourself, control yourself.” The chant echoed throughout his mind. “Shoot...I’m not a freakin’ rapist. I’m a good, upstanding gentleman...”

Right when the last syllable rolled off his tongue, that weird heart piercing feeling struck him again. Robert tossed the bottle of vodka on the floor. It shattered as it landed on a concrete protrusion on the floor.

“That thing is getting to me again...I better stop.” However, he knew that he would just end up drinking again, like always. Although in his mind, Robert swore to himself that that was his last drink, for the sake of this little one. But she was not little at all. Frustrated, he ran his hands through his hair.

“What am I going to do with this girl? If she doesn’t wake up soon, I’m just going to have to drop her off at the police station or something.” But, he knew all too well what the police here will do to drug addicts. It is not a pretty sight. “So annoying...”

He dragged his chair over besides the bed. The best he could do was to make sure she was comfortable. He ran his hand over her hair on her head.

Alezaa had seen the girl on the curb from a distance, but even at that distance she sensed death. Life was bleeding out of the young one as water bled out of a strainer. This one will be mine, she thought, I'm sure she will be quite pleased at my visit. Alezaa watched as the man carried the girl into a beat-down-looking house when the storm began, delighting in guessing what horrible things he might do to a pretty, young, defensless, unconsious girl. Alezaa watched as the well-dressed visitor tried to shoot himself with blanks.

She considered changing her target the the buisnessman, but then decided better of it; she did not want anything to do with anyone so stupid.

Alezaa unfolded her umbrella, small and black as her heart, as she trudged through ankle-deep water in the street. She approached the man's door and knocked three times. KnockKnockKnock

The trouble was getting up, not that she was comfortable where she was, but sometimes her bones just didn’t want to move one bit. She heard the knocks and blinked several times contemplating if she should answer.

It didn’t appear as if anyone really lived here, so why would someone be knocking. She had counted the knocks. Three..

She watched as her young babysitter chatted on the phone. Her eyes wide as she watched the girl twirl the phone cord around her finger and laugh. Apparently she was talking to her boyfriend. There was three soft knocks on their front door and she looked at the babysitter and asked, “You going to get the door?”

Maybe the girl didn’t hear her or just didn’t want to listen to the precocious five year old. She turned and stared at the white door and then ran up to it. Her small hand found the doorknob and turned it. She opened the door slowly, she was small and the door was heavy. She opened it all the way and before she could see anyone a small brown bag was placed over her head. The rest was blurry, but the end results was she was given back to her parents for ransom. Her father was the mayor and the kidnappers were his enemy. It was about money, it always was about money.

Those three knocks made her flinch at the memory, at the greed they had and later she would have. She shook her head, hair mimicking the motion. She wasn’t five anymore and she no longer had a family.

She got up and went for the doorknob, hesitation only slightly. She opened the door just a crack.
Her voice meek, “Can I help you with something?”

"Oh, you certainly can," replied Alezaa gaily, "May I come in?" She pushed open the door, walked inside past the girl and took a nearby seat, "Thank you for letting me in. So wet out there, in my country we only get snow, and not often that. Is this your house? It is a nice house. You must be proud to be in such a nice house. I'm Alezaa. Who are you?" Alezaa's mouth was dry now from hurried talking.

OOC: Any takers?

[OOC: Probably not a good idea to put "Rated R" in your title. While I admit that I regularly write in that style, semi-official site policy says that all material posted is to remain PG-13. Posting "Rated R" in your thread title gives the 5 or so self-important dickheads who browse the forums looking for such things a big, shining target.]