Post by ғυcĸнυмanιтy on Oct 23, 2013 19:28:34 GMT
Dreams of an Absolution I
Mark Danver's Journal
Page:Who Gives A Fuck|Chapter:A New Realm
(Before I begin this intro rp, just know that I am not a very good storyteller and that I am mainly a promo guy. But I'll do my best to improve!)
This is my journal. I don't know how I got it, but I have it. Given my circumstances, I don't think I have a lot of room to complain about it. It serves its purpose as my only friend and the only person I can rely on. It's hard to describe it, but I'll put it in the best words that I can. I think I'm being followed. I love and hate this journal. The nights where I throw it into a dumpster or rip it apart doesn't seem to matter because when I awake, it's right there, next to me. I physically rip it apart and I watch as each shred of paper flies off into the distance. Yet it comes back, perfect every time. A carbon copy and everything is the same, nothing different, nothing new. How does something like that happen? To a sane person, it doesn't make sense, but to someone like me, I have to make up some theory. I can't be going crazy just yet, right? Maybe. At least that would explain it. It's just a mystery like everything else in my life. Everything that I didn't directly cause anyways. I still think about it all when everything falls silent.
Love was all I wanted in this world, but money and power took control of me. The greed in my life was overbearing at times. I thought doing all of this was going to get me to the top of the corporate ladder and that would allow me to live a better life with her. All I wanted was to make her happy, but in retrospect, I was a fucking idiot. Still am. Everything was going great and then I decided to risk it all. The reward? Losing my job and going nearly flat broke. I never told her why I was let go, just that I was fired. At the end of the day, I still wanted to provide for her, and I had too. My intentions were good, I think, but the execution wasn't. I had fallen into the wrong crowd in an effort to gain some money. I felt too respected and had too much dignity to work some low level job, I couldn't see myself doing something like that. Looking back, I wish I would have taken any job I was offered. Maybe luck was still with me, I thought, I'd try gambling what I had left over. It went pretty successful for the time being and it was almost as if everything was normal. I never told her how I was making money, but just that I was. She probably thought I was pushing drugs or something, but then again, I don't think she ever thought of me in a negative light. She should have.
My luck ran out and I was soon scrambling for any amount of money I could get my hands on. In a desperate attempt, I looked for money from someone. I got the money and as soon as I had it, it was gone. The things about debts are that people never forget them. Twenty years can pass and they'll still remember that you owe them a dollar or two. That's just what happened, except it wasn't twenty years, it was days, and it wasn't two dollars. Hundreds. I had no way of paying them off. Greed fueled them and they didn't need any excuses to execute what they had to do in order to hustle money out of me. It's funny how people will live off a worthless piece of green paper and thrive for it as if it was some hard drug. It disgusts me, but who am I to judge? I was just as guilty of it as they were. They took it to a personal level. I don't think they knew at the time, but I've never been able to forgive myself for all of it. It was my fault, no matter what anybody says, it was my fault. It will always be my fault that she's dead. I loved her.
I still remember the smell. A mixture of smoke and ash entering my nose and causing a burning sensation. Red, white, and blue lights lit up the apartment complex as I pulled up to see a sight that would come to haunt me to this day. The place I called home was had burnt down into nothing, but a pile of ashes. Everything I had ever owned was in that apartment and now it was gone. I was nobody. The material things that I lost meant nothing to me. My worst nightmare had become a reality. Speaking to the nearest police officer, I learned that my fear had come true. They said that she must have been asleep during it all and most likely choked on the smoke rather than perish in the fire. Neither sounded pleasant and I couldn't live with what I had done. The official report was that it was just an electrical fire, but I knew what it was. Some goons had come around looking to scare me and did way more than just that. I'm so sorry. Ever since that night, I've been unable to sleep. Restless night after restless night, all I want to do is sleep. This is the curse I bear with me. My punishment for all of the hell I've caused. Nobody knows what I did, but I have to live with it everyday. I know what I did and I can never forgive myself for any of it.
Now I'm here. Roaming the country until I hopefully die. I serve no purpose, but I am still alive. I try to sleep wherever I can find shelter for the night and when I awake, I move on. Nowhere will ever feel like home again and I've come to accept a fact like that. It's all karma working around this universe. The times where I do sleep, it doesn't feel like it is long, and when I awake, I actually feel worse than usual. Fatigued and damaged. The night terrors that come with it don't help much either. I'll probably come off even crazier, but I swear, for just a brief moment when I close my eyes, I see a figure. It's not long enough to know who it is, but gives me a chance to remember details. I always see it. A mask. Shades of black and green, stitched up the side. Writing about it now gives me chills. I try to think that it is just some kind of character from a nightmare I made up, but it feels all too real. Maybe I am just losing it. Either way, it doesn't feel like I'm alone anymore. Not since I found this journal. When the sun falls and the moon rises, in the shadows, I just feel like something is lurking, watching me. Are monsters real?
It makes you wonder. At least, it makes me wonder. Then again, the thoughts of a deranged man are bound to be different from anyone who is even remotely sane. There are days where I feel like I've lost my mind and I know my soul is long gone. Everyday is spent wishing that death would be kind enough to pay me a visit. To him, I must be a burden. I'm too much of a coward to actually do anything about it. The only relief I have is that I know no one will miss me. As far as I know, this godforsaken notebook will follow me to the afterlife, if there is one. I feel like I could write an entire book about religious artifacts and philosophical questions like that, but it'd be a waste of time. Who would read it? I have no idea what I'm even writing about nowadays. I'll focus on one thing then I'll transfer over to another without anything noting it. That's always been one of my traits that I despise. Though, if I wanted to change who I was, it's a little too late now. Who I am has always been an issue to me that I've yet to build up courage to address. I think of myself one way and I'm sure people in my life would disagree. My biggest problem is that I'm curious. Even the slightest sliver of something mysterious, I will need to find an answer to it. That's why I keep this journal around I think. That or my crippling loneliness is catching up on me. I'm sure one of these days, I'll find an answer if I'm lucky. Given my track record, I'm not that lucky.
At the end of the day, I wish I knew what to do. If I wasn't stubborn, I'd be able to easily find an answer, but that's something I'll never get over. It's easier just to sit back and let life work its course until the end. I don't want to continue down this path anymore and the journey known as life has proven to be worthless. All of my memories are tainted with horrors and guilt. I've caused pain to people who haven't even met me. Which poses the question: Why should I be allowed to live? That's a question I don't think I'll ever truly know. Though, I like to think that all of this is just a punishment for everything I've done. Truth be told, I deserve all of it. I should be forced to stay awake and just play flashbacks of everything I ever did to hurt her. She never did anything wrong and I loved her for that. I just kept everything bottled up and hidden from her. To her, I was flawless and couldn't do anything wrong. I loved her for that. Nobody could be an abuser when looking at her and I was happy I never let alcohol take over when I was around her. I don't think I would have been able of even looked at myself if I ever touched her. Everything was perfect, but of course, I'm the fuck up in all of it. The wrench thrown into the plan, if you will. If I could go back and change it all, I would, no questions asked. I would have just worked as a cook at some fast food joint just to make her happy. I never would have...I'll save that for later. Samantha was my angel and I hope she's not looking down upon me from wherever she's at. I'm a complete mess.
-----
Mark Danver's Journal
Page:Who Gives A Fuck|Chapter:A New Realm
(Before I begin this intro rp, just know that I am not a very good storyteller and that I am mainly a promo guy. But I'll do my best to improve!)
This is my journal. I don't know how I got it, but I have it. Given my circumstances, I don't think I have a lot of room to complain about it. It serves its purpose as my only friend and the only person I can rely on. It's hard to describe it, but I'll put it in the best words that I can. I think I'm being followed. I love and hate this journal. The nights where I throw it into a dumpster or rip it apart doesn't seem to matter because when I awake, it's right there, next to me. I physically rip it apart and I watch as each shred of paper flies off into the distance. Yet it comes back, perfect every time. A carbon copy and everything is the same, nothing different, nothing new. How does something like that happen? To a sane person, it doesn't make sense, but to someone like me, I have to make up some theory. I can't be going crazy just yet, right? Maybe. At least that would explain it. It's just a mystery like everything else in my life. Everything that I didn't directly cause anyways. I still think about it all when everything falls silent.
Love was all I wanted in this world, but money and power took control of me. The greed in my life was overbearing at times. I thought doing all of this was going to get me to the top of the corporate ladder and that would allow me to live a better life with her. All I wanted was to make her happy, but in retrospect, I was a fucking idiot. Still am. Everything was going great and then I decided to risk it all. The reward? Losing my job and going nearly flat broke. I never told her why I was let go, just that I was fired. At the end of the day, I still wanted to provide for her, and I had too. My intentions were good, I think, but the execution wasn't. I had fallen into the wrong crowd in an effort to gain some money. I felt too respected and had too much dignity to work some low level job, I couldn't see myself doing something like that. Looking back, I wish I would have taken any job I was offered. Maybe luck was still with me, I thought, I'd try gambling what I had left over. It went pretty successful for the time being and it was almost as if everything was normal. I never told her how I was making money, but just that I was. She probably thought I was pushing drugs or something, but then again, I don't think she ever thought of me in a negative light. She should have.
My luck ran out and I was soon scrambling for any amount of money I could get my hands on. In a desperate attempt, I looked for money from someone. I got the money and as soon as I had it, it was gone. The things about debts are that people never forget them. Twenty years can pass and they'll still remember that you owe them a dollar or two. That's just what happened, except it wasn't twenty years, it was days, and it wasn't two dollars. Hundreds. I had no way of paying them off. Greed fueled them and they didn't need any excuses to execute what they had to do in order to hustle money out of me. It's funny how people will live off a worthless piece of green paper and thrive for it as if it was some hard drug. It disgusts me, but who am I to judge? I was just as guilty of it as they were. They took it to a personal level. I don't think they knew at the time, but I've never been able to forgive myself for all of it. It was my fault, no matter what anybody says, it was my fault. It will always be my fault that she's dead. I loved her.
I still remember the smell. A mixture of smoke and ash entering my nose and causing a burning sensation. Red, white, and blue lights lit up the apartment complex as I pulled up to see a sight that would come to haunt me to this day. The place I called home was had burnt down into nothing, but a pile of ashes. Everything I had ever owned was in that apartment and now it was gone. I was nobody. The material things that I lost meant nothing to me. My worst nightmare had become a reality. Speaking to the nearest police officer, I learned that my fear had come true. They said that she must have been asleep during it all and most likely choked on the smoke rather than perish in the fire. Neither sounded pleasant and I couldn't live with what I had done. The official report was that it was just an electrical fire, but I knew what it was. Some goons had come around looking to scare me and did way more than just that. I'm so sorry. Ever since that night, I've been unable to sleep. Restless night after restless night, all I want to do is sleep. This is the curse I bear with me. My punishment for all of the hell I've caused. Nobody knows what I did, but I have to live with it everyday. I know what I did and I can never forgive myself for any of it.
Now I'm here. Roaming the country until I hopefully die. I serve no purpose, but I am still alive. I try to sleep wherever I can find shelter for the night and when I awake, I move on. Nowhere will ever feel like home again and I've come to accept a fact like that. It's all karma working around this universe. The times where I do sleep, it doesn't feel like it is long, and when I awake, I actually feel worse than usual. Fatigued and damaged. The night terrors that come with it don't help much either. I'll probably come off even crazier, but I swear, for just a brief moment when I close my eyes, I see a figure. It's not long enough to know who it is, but gives me a chance to remember details. I always see it. A mask. Shades of black and green, stitched up the side. Writing about it now gives me chills. I try to think that it is just some kind of character from a nightmare I made up, but it feels all too real. Maybe I am just losing it. Either way, it doesn't feel like I'm alone anymore. Not since I found this journal. When the sun falls and the moon rises, in the shadows, I just feel like something is lurking, watching me. Are monsters real?
It makes you wonder. At least, it makes me wonder. Then again, the thoughts of a deranged man are bound to be different from anyone who is even remotely sane. There are days where I feel like I've lost my mind and I know my soul is long gone. Everyday is spent wishing that death would be kind enough to pay me a visit. To him, I must be a burden. I'm too much of a coward to actually do anything about it. The only relief I have is that I know no one will miss me. As far as I know, this godforsaken notebook will follow me to the afterlife, if there is one. I feel like I could write an entire book about religious artifacts and philosophical questions like that, but it'd be a waste of time. Who would read it? I have no idea what I'm even writing about nowadays. I'll focus on one thing then I'll transfer over to another without anything noting it. That's always been one of my traits that I despise. Though, if I wanted to change who I was, it's a little too late now. Who I am has always been an issue to me that I've yet to build up courage to address. I think of myself one way and I'm sure people in my life would disagree. My biggest problem is that I'm curious. Even the slightest sliver of something mysterious, I will need to find an answer to it. That's why I keep this journal around I think. That or my crippling loneliness is catching up on me. I'm sure one of these days, I'll find an answer if I'm lucky. Given my track record, I'm not that lucky.
At the end of the day, I wish I knew what to do. If I wasn't stubborn, I'd be able to easily find an answer, but that's something I'll never get over. It's easier just to sit back and let life work its course until the end. I don't want to continue down this path anymore and the journey known as life has proven to be worthless. All of my memories are tainted with horrors and guilt. I've caused pain to people who haven't even met me. Which poses the question: Why should I be allowed to live? That's a question I don't think I'll ever truly know. Though, I like to think that all of this is just a punishment for everything I've done. Truth be told, I deserve all of it. I should be forced to stay awake and just play flashbacks of everything I ever did to hurt her. She never did anything wrong and I loved her for that. I just kept everything bottled up and hidden from her. To her, I was flawless and couldn't do anything wrong. I loved her for that. Nobody could be an abuser when looking at her and I was happy I never let alcohol take over when I was around her. I don't think I would have been able of even looked at myself if I ever touched her. Everything was perfect, but of course, I'm the fuck up in all of it. The wrench thrown into the plan, if you will. If I could go back and change it all, I would, no questions asked. I would have just worked as a cook at some fast food joint just to make her happy. I never would have...I'll save that for later. Samantha was my angel and I hope she's not looking down upon me from wherever she's at. I'm a complete mess.
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Well howdy there pardner.