Its been two months now that Mary's disappeared, but somehow it feels even worse than her first death twenty-two years ago. At least then he had no way of predicting what would happen to her, that a demon was going to tear their family apart bit by bit for their son. He wasn't equipped to handle it. But this time? She's leaving for alive and beautiful and healthy, but arriving back home to face her death. Most nights he stays awake, letting the guilt eat away at him like a particularly greedy, slow moving cancer. He should've done something. Placed warnings into all of her pockets, imbedded the words "stay in bed" into her skin with ink, whispered prayers and spells into her hair every night to make then stick. Something.
He's not getting on so well, still.
The morning of the first, John wakes up slow, but immediately knows something is wrong. Different. The bed doesn't smell like her anymore. Nothing does. Overnight, the rooms he shared with Mary have shrunk, from something resembling their first home together back to his own stark, transient apartment. Her florals are gone, replaced by greens and masculine plaids, and the kitchen has shrunk back down to fit a single bachelor. Her things are gone too, clothes and makeup, the stuff he just couldn't bear to get rid of. Seems like the mansion thought it was better to erase her in whole than let John continue to exist in her ghost.
He hates this place, yeah, but after a few drinks later, John almost admits he's thankful. Living for a ghost isn't a way to exist at all, even when she was better than this whole damn place combined.
No. He won't burn it down. Not anymore.
First Person
[John opts for video this time around, but unlike last time he's looking far more together. More together than he's looked in a while, honestly. He's finally shaved, even cut his hair, so he's less Unabomber and more, well, himself. It's not a bad look.]
Yeah, I know, I know, someone wants to take a survey about every week or some crap like that. But stay with me, it'll be worth your time. Probably.
[Ahem.]
How many of you have been here, left, and come back with memories of this place? Don't seem like it happens often, but it's enough. How long were you gone? What happened when you left? [He chews at his lip for a moment, and jobs something down quickly in his journal.] I've only ever lost time, but I know sometimes that's not the case.
I'll be at the bar- the good bar- the rest of the night if you wanna come in and talk about your experiences. Drinks are on me.
[Haha, he loves not having to pay for booze. One point in favor of this shitshow.]
Reapp samples, 2/7/17
Its been two months now that Mary's disappeared, but somehow it feels even worse than her first death twenty-two years ago. At least then he had no way of predicting what would happen to her, that a demon was going to tear their family apart bit by bit for their son. He wasn't equipped to handle it. But this time? She's leaving for alive and beautiful and healthy, but arriving back home to face her death. Most nights he stays awake, letting the guilt eat away at him like a particularly greedy, slow moving cancer. He should've done something. Placed warnings into all of her pockets, imbedded the words "stay in bed" into her skin with ink, whispered prayers and spells into her hair every night to make then stick. Something.
He's not getting on so well, still.
The morning of the first, John wakes up slow, but immediately knows something is wrong. Different. The bed doesn't smell like her anymore. Nothing does. Overnight, the rooms he shared with Mary have shrunk, from something resembling their first home together back to his own stark, transient apartment. Her florals are gone, replaced by greens and masculine plaids, and the kitchen has shrunk back down to fit a single bachelor. Her things are gone too, clothes and makeup, the stuff he just couldn't bear to get rid of. Seems like the mansion thought it was better to erase her in whole than let John continue to exist in her ghost.
He hates this place, yeah, but after a few drinks later, John almost admits he's thankful. Living for a ghost isn't a way to exist at all, even when she was better than this whole damn place combined.
No. He won't burn it down. Not anymore.
First Person
[John opts for video this time around, but unlike last time he's looking far more together. More together than he's looked in a while, honestly. He's finally shaved, even cut his hair, so he's less Unabomber and more, well, himself. It's not a bad look.]
Yeah, I know, I know, someone wants to take a survey about every week or some crap like that. But stay with me, it'll be worth your time. Probably.
[Ahem.]
How many of you have been here, left, and come back with memories of this place? Don't seem like it happens often, but it's enough. How long were you gone? What happened when you left? [He chews at his lip for a moment, and jobs something down quickly in his journal.] I've only ever lost time, but I know sometimes that's not the case.
I'll be at the bar- the good bar- the rest of the night if you wanna come in and talk about your experiences. Drinks are on me.
[Haha, he loves not having to pay for booze. One point in favor of this shitshow.]