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File 131173004159.png - (495.17KB, 1525x898, this will do.png) [iqdb]
23919 No. 23919
So. New thread. I was gonna write a lot hating the new image, but what-the-fuck-ever, let's move on.

To more waiting around, I guess.

[x] Look for real food, no way that abomination the "good doctor" gave was actually food everyone within ate; never mind the stereotypes on "hospital food".

…That was some real bullshit, what she just pulled; I can’t believe any self-respecting doctor would have an ass like that. Be an ass like that. Sure, it was all in good fun except for that part where I was coerced into obligatory contractual labor, and the part where a man’s hunger is no joke, but I can understand that; I can be sympathetic. A private hospital like this, ritzy and generous all at once, it probably needs to take advantage of any fiscally-sound opportunities it can get. I get that!

There’s just one little thing I can’t quite wrap my mind around: why am I still sitting here in this sort of situation? Like hell I’ll just politely wait around and starve.

With the faint groaning of – couldn’t be springs could it, I mean the bed’s a bit too thin for springs – something and the soft clap of bare feet onto cold tile, I’m standing confidently on my own two legs again for the first time in… too long. Deep breaths now, in and out – breathe in, good; breathe out – no nausea, no vertigo, and no loss of balance. The world doesn’t feel as though it’s been tilted on its side.

One step… Two steps, three steps…

The only discomfort is the steady throb in my hand, dull pain echoing across the empty space where my finger used to be; but it’s fine, that doesn’t even throw me off-balance. There’s no jagged electric feeling crawling across my spine, a sweet and smoky scent in the air, and no crooked trees for monsters to hide behind – I could get used to this, I think.

Hold on, what was that second thing?

I take a good, long whiff – that hearty sort of sniff where you close your eyes and tilt your head back as if trying to absorb the essence of the scent. I immediately feel somewhat like a tool, but the self-loathing is pushed back by a sudden desire to find the source of the smell.

I need to do this.

Okay. The transition from tile to hardwood floors, that was a little odd. But that’s fine, I guess I can see why they’d pick tile over hardwood for the patient rooms – I mean, tile is definitely a lot easier to clean than the latter. Blood just stains the, where am I going with this? That’s not where I was going with this at all. Transition, floors, hallway… Right, doors.

Why in God’s name are there so many fucking doors? I can’t count them all- I literally can’t count them all, after spending what must have been ten or twenty minutes racking my brain. After I hit 30 or 40 (or was it 50? 60?) my eyes start sliding from door to door aimlessly until I arrive back where I started, more confused than before. Something about the sheer space feels off, somehow.

Whatever. That’s not what matters.

I start my search with gusto, stomach coiling in knots. How hard can it be to find some food…?

Behind door number one is a short stairway illuminated by a single hanging bulb- some distance below lies what I’m forced to assume is the Hospital’s main filing room. Cabinets line the walls and seemingly rise up into some shadowed ether, crowding ominously around a lone table littered with folders and dust.

There’s something ominous about this room, something terrible and nameless that I can’t pin down – it makes my hair stand on end. I exhale and it comes out as a heavy mist (nonsense, must have disturbed some dust or something in the odd light) and a jagged electric feeling works its way into my gut.

Oh hell no.

I slam the door shut and make tracks. Fuck that. I know a bad idea when I see one.

An empty lounge, the sort you’d see at a typical doctor’s office; the decor is just sophisticated enough to feel cultured and personal, but not so over-cluttered that it comes across as tacky or gauche. A few cushioned chairs scattered about, health magazines in two racks on either side of the room. Tasteful modern art sequestered away in small alcoves.

There’s an excessively streamlined clock (just a bunch of thin metal bars around ticking hands; how the hell does it function?) mounted on a wall, stating the time. 9:03.That can’t be right. It was almost noon half an hour ago.

Close the door and check another one off the list.

Some sort of operating room? All gleaming, polished metal and the cutting smell of antiseptic, sweeping lines and unobtrusive curves; the aesthetic is unabashedly futuristic and clean. The lights drench the room in that perfectly unsettling fluorescence you only find in hospitals and at the dentist’s.

There’s a low, steady hum. It sets my teeth on edge.

This definitely isn’t what I’m looking for.

“Sorry pal, try another one.”

Oh, my bad.


This is my room. Was?

That’s really kind of embarrassing.

A dimly lit room greets me after I throw open the door, with a solitary table surrounded by high-backed chairs situated beneath a low-hanging light fixture – it feels very atmospheric, almost tense. It also feels very odd; like I shouldn’t be here.

I gently ease the door shut, since it’s only polite. Wouldn’t want to disturb the occupants, would I? I mean, shit, that would just be obnoxious on my part. Poker is real serious business, and I can sympathize with that sort of situation.

Hold on, what?

There’s- there’s nothing. Storage, I guess?

“Don’t you have something better to do? Are you just gonna open doors all day?”

Geez, sorry to be a nuisance buddy.

“FUCK FUCK FUCK-” fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!

I dive to the side of the door – no, that’s not a strong enough word; I hurl myself bodily away from the portal, tumbling end over end in a hopeless attempt at maintaining some form of momentum AWAY FROM THE FUCKING TRAIN that was APPARENTLY hiding behind a closed fucking door! Who the hell just leaves a god damn train sitting around behind a door like that?!

Fuck, fuck, fuck… nothing. No roaring din as a fucking train tears through a building, no shrieking mayhem as debris rip through the walls and shred my sorry ass, no anything. If I wasn’t so busy sagging against the floor in relief, I might feel a bit cheated.

Actually? No. No I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t feel cheated at all.

I blow on my arm as the pain from the friction burn kicks in, skin flushed an angry red and missing a few thin patches of skin; fuck but these floors have a good grip to them. Luckily, I only got the one! And it’s all thanks to these neat little bandages courtesy miss Eirin.

I sidle back up to the door and close it with a panicked jerk.

That’s, that’s some bullshit.

This – this is my room again. I KNOW I never turned around (probably never turned around) so how in the hell did I wind up…? Even the door is slightly different, slightly off, obviously of the same make but not the original article. None of this, none of this makes any sense at all.

Two doors can’t go to the same space, can they? Occupy the same space? It’s just not possible, physics shouldn’t support enormous mathematical logic puzzles outside of theory. Hypotheticals. Hypothetically, something in this madhouse should make some god damn sense-

I scan the room again, just to be sure. A flicker of color in the corner of my eye and I whirl around, face to face with – nothing. There’s nothing there. Ha, ha ha. This really isn’t funny, you know? I never asked to deal with crap like this.

What was that? I could’ve sworn I just saw-

No, it was, it was probably nothing.

Stacks of crates? What the hell purpose does that serve? What’s in them?

Actually, I don’t need to know. Don’t want to, either.

“Can I help you, buddy? Because you obviously don’t have a damn clue.”

Okay, that’s it. There’s only so much a guy can take, and me, I can’t take anymore of this horseshit. Shady rooms that stink of danger, fucked up clocks, a roomful of train and now some asshole spitting lines at me while I’m looking for food in whatever-the-hell screwed up hospital this is? However the fuck far from home I am now, contracted by some doctor into giving up months of my life doing manual labor?

Fuck. That. Maybe it’s just all this pent up frustration, but… No. No way. I’m not going to just stand around and take that crap.

“Problem? Maybe you should loosen up.”

I am calm. I am the perfect picture of stoic acceptance. Like ice. I am like a statue carved from ice, and, and, this isn’t working.

One step, two steps, three. Four. I calmly, quietly, make my way through the doorway into the small, oriental-style sitting room; it’s got the whole shebang, short table, cushions, tatami mats – and that smell. That sharp, sweet smell. I know the source now.

I stroll up to what appears to be a young girl (shoulder-length black hair, cute little pink dress) with rabbit ears growing out the top of her skull, lounging about on the floor. I don’t care about that. Or the fact that she’s got a voice like film noir actress, smoking a clove cigarette with a grin that ought to split her face clean in half. What I care about are those laughing eyes, big and glittery and… thin, somehow.

I see her eyes, and, I can’t– b r e a t h e, anymore.


are you? Am I – doing?

Every sensation, every perception, is revved up a thousand time higher than I’ve ever felt. I could hear a shadow move. There are spectrums of light I don’t have names for, nuances I can’t fathom, a euphoria of colors slamming against my mind with a physical force – an ice pick digging around in my brain. It tastes like I’ve just been struck by lightning, ozone and restless energy. I still can’t, I still can’t breathe-!

And then.

That jagged electric feeling, that roiling ball of panic and doubt in the center of my gut… vanishes. Just up and vanishes Into thin fucking air. Vertigo, weightlessness, and confusion settle in to take their place as if they’d been there all along.

My entire body feels… cold. Distant? Numb, that’s, I suppose that’s the most accurate word. When did I fall on the ground…? Does it matter? I can breathe again, which is… I guess that’s good. That’s great, even.


So why is it that it feels like the most depressing turn of events possible?

That girl is… she’s gone now (when did she leave?) and the scent of smoke and cloves lingers on the air. I – I don’t feel all that hungry any more.


[ ] I need some fresh air. There’s got to be a way out of here.
[ ] Where did she go?
[ ] I should head back.
[ ]…
Expand all images
>> No. 23921

Exploring got us fucking nowhere. Let's just stay here.
>> No. 23923
>> No. 23924

Just lay there and chill.
>> No. 23925
[x] I should head back.
>> No. 23926
[x]Where did she go?
it's fate
>> No. 23931
[X] Where did she go?


>> No. 23932
[x] I need some fresh air. There’s got to be a way out of here.

Nothing if not stubborn. We aren't going to be beat by a fucking house.
>> No. 23933
[x]Where did she go?

Scooby-Doo chase scene?

Scooby-Doo chase scene.
>> No. 23934
[x]Where did she go?
>> No. 23935
[x] Where did she go?
>> No. 23946
[x] Where did she go?

Follow the white rabbit.
>> No. 23948
Dam, we would make a sexy-ass, serial killer .

Also when will we be rolling the dice?
>> No. 23949
The next option that involves sleep and Eirin's shady drug.
>> No. 23957
[x] I need some fresh air. There’s got to be a way out of here.

>voice like a film-noir actress

Sleeping with Eirin in the shade after doing some drugs.

>> No. 23959
File 131275912888.jpg - (637.27KB, 1327x1481, Contemplate2.jpg) [iqdb]

Instead, I spent 5 hours drawing this, and then realized it has nothing to do with the update, and that's just lazy.
>> No. 23960
File 131277093072.jpg - (394.50KB, 1080x2025, welcome back.jpg) [iqdb]
Okay so, this update is pretty goddamn short, and it kinda starts going in a weird direction! Let's try and roll with it, though. Maybe.



[x] Where did she go?

…Damn it.

Some part of me wants to give chase, pin her down and beg for answers to questions I can’t formulate, drown myself in that vivid clarity of existence, an echo of lucid thunder in my chest. Electricity boiling my insides away in some awful fit of vanity, an endless affirmation of my own finite existence.


I can’t move.

I can barely find the willpower to breathe, to keep my eyes open, staring blankly at some empty space without any intent or purpose. It’s too much effort to even crawl into a corner and die. Every rasp of air through my teeth tastes of ash.

That weight in my pocket is still there, heavy and cold. That, that key, given to me by some strange woman, some blonde witch who waltzed into my life and tore it apart for the umpteenth fucking time. I hate her. I hate this.

But the sensation is still so far away, lingering outside my body. A lackadaisical, toneless hatred, foreign and without gravity.

I take the key, holding it up to the light. The chain dangles down, useless, pointless – this key has too many teeth. That symbol doesn’t (can’t, could never) mean anything at all, so why does it even exist, so blatantly?

That girl. Where is she? Where is she?

Where did –

– she go?

...It doesn't matter. I don't... I don't care right now.

About anything.

Everything is... dull.

Slowly, painfully, teeth grinding in my mouth as my aching bones do the same, I manage to stand. On my own two feet again.

What a shitty thing to be proud of.

…Too many teeth. This key looks vicious. Senseless aggression and an overwrought façade. There’s nothing on the planet that would accept this sort of key, I’m sure.

But there’s the door. It was there all along, wasn’t it? I slide the key into the lock and it turns so easily – no, that’s not quite accurate. Turning this key, opening this lock – it feels like breaking my own arm. Terrible and self-destructive and… easy; I’ve done it a thousand times before. The click of the deadbolt rings out, striking my ears like a gunshot.

Yeah. What does it matter where she went?

I’m not in any mood for games any more.

The door swings open on well-oiled hinges, quiet and achingly familiar, and I trudge wearily back into my apartment before slamming it shut behind me.

Welcome home. What a crock of shit; the only thing waiting for me is a pile of unpaid bills.

The silence is devastatingly real.


[ ] …
[ ] I…
[ ] This can’t…
[ ] Write-in
>> No. 23963
[x] …

Seems like we blacked out. That's my best guess, anyways.
>> No. 23964
I don't even know what happened.
>> No. 23966
Sorry about that!
>> No. 23967
[X] This can’t…

>> No. 23968
[X] This can’t…
>> No. 23971
[x] Maybe going through the mail will help you gather your thoughts?

Like, is the word 'Silent Hill' anywhere in the recipient block?
>> No. 23972
[X] This can’t…

works for me~!
>> No. 23973
[x] Maybe going for a walk will help you gather your thoughts?

Because walking around alone in complete silence would be mind shattering.
>> No. 23975
[x] I…

...think someone slipped me something. What the hell was all that?
>> No. 23976
[x] Write-in
-[x] Note to self: Drinking with the guys is a horrible idea.

But in all seriousness:

[x] …
>> No. 24053
Interesting story you've got going here, I can see why Demetrious recommends it.

Your style kind of reminds me of Tsukihime in some places, though the prose is, on the overall, a great deal more impressive.

This latest twist is reminiscent of Revolver... or, perhaps, Silent Hill, as someone else has pointed out. Always fun to look through the eyes of insanity.

-[x] Check myself. Am I still missing a digit? Is that key still in the keyhole?

(Maybe this seems a bit too brisk considering what Clint's just been through, but the other choices were nondescript ellipse-fests. But hey, maybe that was the point.)
>> No. 24054
Speaking of Demetrious, Expect a lot more votes for this story Stove.
>> No. 24063
File 13145818511.jpg - (298.03KB, 1116x1145, jacket.jpg) [iqdb]

Well, expect an update at some point soonish. I can't spend FOREVER acclimating to the dorms again.

here's some mostly shitty Clint I did a while back! what have i become this is pathetic
>> No. 24065
>drawfag thinking a good picture is shitty

Stove. You are awesome. Your drawings are awesome. The sheer fact you can make a good story, and use your drawfag skills at the same time is awesome.
>> No. 24066
>Well, expect an update at some point soonish.

>> No. 24112
File 131517299639.jpg - (699.77KB, 1586x996, Can't.jpg) [iqdb]
I am the worst at sticking to deadlines! the worst. This update will not write. Or rather, it's started and went some places, but petered out.

here have a depressing picture
>> No. 24116

That is depressing. Poor Clint.
>> No. 24117
File 131525649638.jpg - (1.21MB, 1968x1283, still prog.jpg) [iqdb]
FUCK IT this picture isn't entirely done and the I'm more dissatisfied than usual with the writing but fuck it let's at least try to make a little progress.



[x] This can’t…

This can’t… really be happening, can it?

Breathe. Breathe. Come on. My feet may as well be made of lead for all the good they do me – taking a single step forward is torturously hard. Distant warnings blare in my skull, a miserable cacophony of shrieking klaxons, telling me that I don’t belong.

Something odious, thick – greasy almost, a sensation of disgust clinging to my skin and seeping into my bones; I’m a foreigner in my own home. Ha. Ha ha. The quiet has a cutting sort of gravity to it, simultaneously familiar and alien.



How? When did it come to this?

Was – is any of it…? Real? To begin with, wasn’t it all like some sort of – miserable dream? A miserable dream full of frantic motion, and fear, and change


I can’t handle this. Not right now. I scrub at my face, rough and clammy and scarless, and hate the feel of bandages with every fiber of my soul.

Ten fingers, but. It feels like eleven. Knotted up, strained and bent. Twisted phantom awareness, waves of cold shivering through the nerves. But that’s… just some kind of lingering effect, right? Some kind of lingering aftereffect of a dream…

A dream full of pain. Impossible, unreasonable pain. Dreams are supposed to be painless, thoughtless; escapes into twisted visualizations of stress. So why?

My chest aches. Like I reached a hand inside and snapped off a rib, but somehow less – concrete. A metaphysical sort of feeling, an abstract sensation of loss; to describe it, it’s almost… I was reading a fairy tale and someone started tearing out the pages. Bitter, spiteful, desperate.

(…Me. I did. I ripped them up and tossed them in the fire. Nothing gained, nothing lost, and what I have left – I can’t lose it. Throwing away everything else, for here and now… that’s fine. That’s fine, that’s fine, that’s fi)

A wave of nausea crashes into the back of my throat, stomach clenching, hands curling tight into fists- but no. I let out a breath, steady and slow.

Really. It’s – nothing new, right? This sickening self-loathing.

It’s always been this way.

I hunch over the table that barely fits in my little kitchenette, old wood creaking softly as it supports my weight – I half expect to see a fancy tea cup, a saucer, sitting idly near the far end… but no. There’s nothing. At least half of me feels vindicated, taking solace in the monotonous emptiness of my, my home.

But… vindication doesn’t make the ache go away.

Even so. Even so, aches and pains are standard fare. When was the last time I didn’t have to deal with them?

So it doesn’t matter. Bills won’t pay themselves; this isn’t that kind of world.

Money is, scarce. Checking’s completely empty now. If I run out of cash (which is looking likely if I want to buy anything more expensive than a few gallons of gas and a pack of gum) I’ll have to dip into savings… which is more of a puddle than a pool now.

Fat lot of good that degree is doing for me in this job market.

But then I notice it.

A ringing, scything through the silence. Too harsh, much too harsh compared to the scratching of pen on paper. The uncomfortable, slimy feeling comes back, creeping along my skin like a steady humid rot.

This shouldn’t even take a moment of thought. Just answer the phone and be done with it. Just, just- answer the phone. And be done with it.


My hand just doesn’t want to-

Time’s running out.


[ ] Answer the phone.
[ ] Don’t answer the phone.
>> No. 24118
[ ] Don’t answer the phone.
>> No. 24119
[X] Answer the phone.

Argh! Will answering the phone shatter this illusion(?) or solidify it?
>> No. 24122
[x] Answer the phone.

We have to know who phone was.

also dont try to force a picture an update, just go with the flow
>> No. 24128
The picture took a hell of a lot less time than writing the update.
>> No. 24131
[x] Answer the phone.

Ignoring it won't tell us anything.
>> No. 24132
[x] Answer the phone.
>> No. 24133
[X] Answer the phone.
>> No. 24137
[X] Answer the phone.

Works for me~!
>> No. 24141
[ ] Answer the phone.
>> No. 24143
[x] Don’t answer the phone.

Damn bill collectors.
>> No. 24145
[x] Don’t answer the phone.

Fuck phones. Hate them so much.
>> No. 24153
[x] Don’t answer the phone.

Accurse electronic messenger! Thine ringing is a great irritation to mine ears!
>> No. 24170
[X] Answer the phone.

Not like we have a choice anyway.
>> No. 24172
[x] Answer the phone.
- [x] Ask them what kind of pizza they would like to order.
>> No. 24173
alright this one convinced me to change my vote
to this
[x] Answer the phone.
- [x] "Hello and welcome to da Indian speciality restaurant Taj Mahal. My name is Rajid Mahar, how can I help you?"
>> No. 24194
[x] Answer the phone.

Oh oh telephone line, give me some time, I'm living in twilight~♪
>> No. 24195
[x] Answer the phone.

I can't help but get the feeling it would be bad if the phone doesn't get answered.
>> No. 24261
[x] Answer the phone.
- [x] Ask them what kind of pizza they would like to order.
>> No. 24265
[x] Don’t answer the phone.

Either we hear "SEVEN DAYS" or, we get told to duck, avoiding death narrowly.

So either way, its fucked with tension or fucked with sudden death.
>> No. 24266
File 131707622071.jpg - (1.22MB, 1708x1460, phoned2.jpg) [iqdb]
MAN I AM REALLY SORRY ABOUT THIS SLOW UPDATE SPEED. I'd give some kind of excuse about schoolwork but, well, nope. Doesn't even begin to cover it.

ALSO THIS POST'S IMAGE IS PRIMARILY UNRELATED. going into strange waters here with the writing. Strange, retarded waters.

[x] Answer the phone.

God damn it. Who the hell is calling me at this hour? A ripple of pointless frustration works its way through my jaw, clenching and unclenching as I stare at the phone – the number doesn’t mean anything to me, but most numbers don’t mean anything to me. I don’t exactly receive a lot of calls. Comes with the territory – that is, comes with getting your phone number changed fifteen goddamned times.

Yeah, just keep on ringing. I get it. I shift around in my seat in some lethargic bid to get at the bothersome thing, jostling the table with a clatter of pens and a rustling of paper (half-written checks and bills with neglected envelopes.)

Let’s narrow this down real quick – why would I go into a potential conversation unprepared? Can’t be the landlord (rotten old bitch,) shouldn’t be the bank (although my balance is getting low enough that… well, maybe soon,) might be a telemarketer even though I’m on the national ‘do no call’ list, but that wouldn’t quite fit; it looks like a personal number. Mike? No, he just doesn’t have the time anymore; we haven’t even gone out for drinks since he settled down… God, how long’s it been?

Hold on.

Hold on, if that’s – it shouldn’t be, couldn’t possibly be…

Who am I kidding? It must be her. Nobody, nobody else would even bother.

My hands aren’t shaking, but nothing is steadier than my tone. Cold, flat, distant – I hear myself talking, and it doesn’t sound anything like me at all. (That’s a lie.) Or rather, it’s the other way around. I hear myself talking, and for once, it feels frighteningly honest. The arbitrary niceties, the mores and moral obligations, all those bold-faced lies are stripped away. All that’s left is…

My tongue feels heavy.

My mouth is full of cotton.

“Stop calling me.”

The earpiece shrieks silently at me, a withering hiss of white noise and static. There’s no reply, and my hands begin to shake. Everything is far too light. There’s no sensation of reality, no cessation of the anxiety pressing down on my shoulders. This frantic tension, this strained anticipation coiling tight around my throat (and strangling me, every breath choked and ugly)… for what? Why? I guess it doesn’t really matter.

My hands aren’t shaking.

My voice is steady.

And –

– I’ve never felt less.

“I know it’s you.”

The dying glow of the afternoon sun flutters across my skin, hard lines of illumination peering in through the blinds, a red cast washing over everything. The casing of the phone buckles slightly, plastic creaking and popping beneath my fingers, and I frown. (The railing, burns my hand.)


But I finally found you again.

I couldn’t just leave you be.


[ ] Hang up.
[ ] Give in. (What do you want?)
[ ] Say nothing.
[ ] [write-in]
>> No. 24267
[X] Say nothing.

Let's not even dignify this with a response.
>> No. 24268
[x] Give in. (What do you want?)
creepy stalker route gogogo
>> No. 24270
[x] Give in. (What do you want?)
>> No. 24271
[x] "Hey bitch."
-[x] Hang up
>> No. 24272
[X] Say nothing.
-[X] Hang up.
--[X] If she calls again, unplug the damn phone.

[X]Hope like hell that it doesn't ring while it's unplugged.
>> No. 24273
[x] Give in. (What do you want?)
>> No. 24274
[X] Give in. (What do you want?)

Maybe a new purpose to pursue will come.

Beats feeling forever being hunteed and haunted within your own damn home. Could it even be called home any more?
>> No. 24275
[x] Give in. (What do you want?)

Holy shit, this is getting creepy.

Hate towards Yukari rising.
>> No. 24276
[X] Say nothing.
-[X] Hang up.
--[X] If she calls again, unplug the damn phone.
>> No. 24277
[X] Say nothing.
-[X] Hang up.
--[X] If she calls again, unplug the damn phone.
>> No. 24279
What makes you think it's Yukari?
>> No. 24280
[X] Say nothing.
-[X] Hang up.
--[X] If she calls again, unplug the damn phone.

Damn phone.
>> No. 24281
Gee, I fucking wonder why. It's not like you know its already heavily implied or anything if you would just read the story!
>> No. 24283
File 131731668058.jpg - (542.61KB, 1800x1629, fallingsmaller.jpg) [iqdb]
Don't get smarmy. Also, you're wrong. You're adjacent to the real answer though.

was working on this image a few weeks ago, might as well try posting something less shitty to make up for that update image
>> No. 24288
[x] Rip the cord out the wall.
>> No. 24381
[x]Give in. (What do you want?)

Couldn’t leave me be? Of course she couldn’t leave me be. Couldn’t stand leaving me with a whole half of the things I owned. Couldn’t stand leaving me alone to find my own life again. Couldn’t stand a single goddamn thing.

There’s no hatred boiling in my gut, howling and shrieking and burning cold. There’s no sorrow ripping at my heartstrings. There’s no regret weighing me down.

The only thing I feel is nothing at all.

I see my reflection in the glass and the expression looking back is laughably blank – it would seem less inhuman if I were carved out of stone.

Oh, don’t be so dull. I know you’re there!

I can hear you breathing.

I know.

I know I know I know

But there’s one thing I don’t know. I can’t fathom, can’t guess, can’t even begin to try wrapping my mind around it. I heave a sigh and let it pour into the receiver, futility making me sag over onto the table. My free hand clenches and unclenches, bare but swathed with an inescapable sensation of medical bandages and phantom pain. It feels like every motion should be smearing blood across the wood.

There’s just, one thing.

“…What do you want?”

Why are you calling me again, Madison? Why are you invading my life again, Madison? Why are you doing this to me again, Madison? Why can’t you just leave well enough alone? A glass tumbles off the countertop and shatters, shards glittering in the light as they scatter across the tile and vanish (from sight, anyway – I’d never be so lucky.)

Of course. Of course this happens when I’m not wearing any shoes.

God damn it.

What was that? Don’t go breaking things!

It’s really immature.

Warmth trickling down my chin, pearling on my neck. Beads of heat dripping onto the table in a patternless rhythm. A flick of my tongue and I know it’s that old familiar taste – why the hell is my nose bleeding?


Really. Does it matter?

I wipe my face, smearing it a slapdash rouge and staining my bandages- I don’t have any bandages- leaving a streak of red cooling on my arm.

“Don’t dodge the question.”

Laughter, high-pitched and soft and achingly grating (a rusty knife ripping at a chalkboard.) The blood keeps pouring down my face, and it frightens me that – why is it so bad? I haven’t had a proper nosebleed since …

…falling, selfish lights, glowing eyes, vertigo and weightlessness…

Since the last time I talked to an awful blonde-haired witch. The wonders of pattern recognition, I suppose.

Well, if you want to be rude…

I’m in town again. And I’ll definitely be stopping by.

I, at this point, I already knew. Has it really been two years? Since the last time we- But that’s not important, is it.


[ ] No, you won’t.
[ ] I– yeah. Fine.
[ ] (Say nothing.)
[ ] Write-in
>> No. 24382
File 13187193831.jpg - (348.43KB, 1426x1138, in the rain2.jpg) [iqdb]
here, have some shitty 2 month old irrelevant art since I don't feel up to drawing something new. God, dark souls ate my life.
>> No. 24384
File 131871962028.jpg - (310.31KB, 701x1608, now.jpg) [iqdb]
I guess it was a shitty then-and-now sort of deal, except the "now" is sometime in the future or sometihng. I don't know why clint has that rope. for stranglin' maybe?
>> No. 24385
[x] No, you won’t.
>> No. 24386
[x] No, you won’t.
>> No. 24387
[x] No, you won’t.
>> No. 24388
[x] No, you won’t.

You know, I dont understand any of this, but if I did, that guy over there would still have his legs. And at least one of his balls.
>> No. 24389
[X] No, you won’t.

Away with ye, vile harlot.
>> No. 24390
[X] No, you won’t.
>> No. 24391
[X] No, you won’t.

Works for me~?
>> No. 24392
[x] No, you won’t.

Ruin his life, then come knocking on his door. I don't think so, sister.
>> No. 24423
File 131934303459.jpg - (243.51KB, 1114x609, ruffle.jpg) [iqdb]
Sorry for being a worthless fuck! Here, have a potential preview of where this could all be going!

>> No. 24425
That was kinda touching.
>> No. 24434
>> No. 24441
Despite the things you yourself are saying about your art skills, you're actually pretty good at drawing cuddly wuddly cute things.
>> No. 24547
File 132070411675.jpg - (367.53KB, 1138x803, over with.jpg) [iqdb]
No excuses, just be careful with your thoughts here. If this is too vague and shitty, let me know and I'll provide some reasonable choices instead.

please excuse shitty art

[x] No, you won’t.

Like hell. Like hell I’ll just let you waltz back into my life. Waltz back in and yank at the leash I tore out of your hands, wheedle and urge and wrap me around your perfectly-manicured finger. Like hell I’ll just let you drag me down to your level for hollow, pointless sex.

The blood trickling down my face feels like molten lead, a splinter of fire buried in my sinuses screaming white-hot with painless agony. But… I don’t feel anything at all – except. No.

No, that’s a lie. Against all reason, there’s one thing I do feel.

Hm? Did you hang up on me? Because that’s just-


Certainty. I’ve never felt so god damn certain of anything in my entire life.

There’s a pause, almost incredulous. Words driven with a self-assured momentum jumble up in knots, script torn up and scattered to the winds. Hesitation creeping in.

What did you say?

“No. You won’t.” You won’t set a single fucking foot in my apartment. You won’t move a single step closer to ruining my fucking life again. I can’t stand you. I won’t stand you. Every empty, parasitic interaction we’ve had, this twisted relationship with crooked teeth hooked deep inside my skin, all of it. It ends now.

And this time, I’m going to follow through.

“Stay the hell out of my sight. Stay the hell out of my life.”

Follow through, like I should have the first time. Like I should have a long time ago.

You- You can’t just- Clint, please-

Her voice has that fever-pitch, that pointed fear, that self-centered desperation longing for some way to assert control. Control over anything, everything. A pretty painting of shattered glass, mindlessly sharp and deliberately false.

Some tiny, shriveled part of me dies when I hear that voice. Good. Good riddance. There’s nothing more satisfying.

“Don’t call me again, Madison.”

I nearly break the button when I end the call, carelessly tossing the phone somewhere behind me and sagging back into my chair. The only sound is my steady heartbeat, the rhythmless pitter patter of my blood on the table, the whisper of air as I take a deep, invigorating breath.

For some reason, the blood doesn’t drain back into my throat. There’s no more burning, just a comfortable heat settling into my bones, and I take the time to wipe at my face again. Clean. The nosebleed mysteriously clearing up just serves as icing on the cake.


I haven’t felt this good in years. It’s an alien sensation, foreign in my mind (and welcome, all the same.) But with it comes… All I have left are questions. No answers, no clues, just doubts and confusion. Hell, I can deal with that.

It’s just.

I stare at the ceiling. Mind drawing blanks, yards of empty canvas piled in the corners. No frantic search for answers, no giggling monster to drive me forward.

Just two words.

…Now what?


[ ] Write-in

>> No. 24548
[X] "Now...now we are free. Just rest, sit back. Enjoy the feeling of the weight lifted off your shoulders."

Free, free forever. Now we can finally sit, and just THINK, and untangle this mess.
>> No. 24549
[x] Think about what you'd want out of life and where to go.
>> No. 24550
[X] "Now...now we are free. Just rest, sit back. Enjoy the feeling of the weight lifted off your shoulders."
>> No. 24551
[X] "Now...now we are free. Just rest, sit back. Enjoy the feeling of the weight lifted off your shoulders."
-[x] Think about what you'd want out of life and where to go.

Things tend to be much more tangible and approachable after being free from things that had haunted as well as blinded some one from their personal goals and interests.
>> No. 24552
I'd have voted for drinking and masturbation myself, but hey. Whatever's cool.
>> No. 24594
Now we get drunk and go to a doctor to see about stopping those nosebleeds.
>> No. 24642
>I stare at the ceiling. Mind drawing blanks, yards of empty canvas piled in the corners.

So I'm guess he a painter?

[x] Think about what you'd want out of life and where to go.

This is basically a write-in to give us voting options.
>> No. 24646
>writer is prominent drawfag
>> No. 24648
File 132215925145.png - (515.12KB, 1000x1000, 01350d71a7b28c56bc991f6147bd1d8e.png) [iqdb]

>> No. 24653
the corners are in his mind, not literal corners. It was shitty prose.

>>full agreement
>> No. 24876
File 132544873689.jpg - (433.61KB, 1253x1233, update.jpg) [iqdb]
Guess who isn't dead? Whose whose art got WORSE? This guy.

i took some liberties with this update at the last minute by making it retarded. please try and deal with it calmly and let me know if you feel i should change it.



[x] Take a deep breath and reflect warmly on life.
-[x] Drink.
--[x] These nosebleeds aren’t normal. There IS that walk-in clinic not far from here…

I take a deep, deep breath, and it feels like I’m coming up for air – the massive weight behind my eyes simply melting away, liquid heat trickling down my spine … it’s amazing. A blind pressure, so constant I couldn’t even recognize it, just fading away.

Ha. Ha ha. I could… laugh. Laugh at how easy it was. At how much I’m relieved by one stupid, sickening thing.

I take another breath, long and deliberate. Breathe in the sharp, wearied scent of my apartment – old papers and ink, a muted caress of smoke and cloves. Smells like home.

God, I could just- just- do something, someone, run outside and yell at the top of my lungs and damn what anybody thinks, all this manic gleeful energy working its way through my body and leaving me shaking like a giddy child; I’ve earned it.

“My my, aren’t you proud of yourself!” That voice drives me out of my mild euphoria, those sultry, dulcet tones irritatingly familiar.

But you know what?

This, it really – doesn’t matter. So… what the hell, right?

I move like a man possessed, like I just made it back from the war, like I didn’t have a single care in the world – I spin this dangerous, inhuman woman around in my arms and sweep her up off her feet, planting a ridiculous, overdramatic kiss right on her smug mouth. I feel her arch slightly with my hand at the small of her back; feel the warmth of her neck through that silky blonde hair.

For one long moment, those too-sharp eyes are wide open.

Then the moment ends. I put her back on her feet, actually laughing; there’s no pause, no segue, just a flurry of motion as I snatch the old coat draped over my chair and grab my keys off the counter, no words to spare for the visibly dazed woman as I damn near swagger out of my apartment and lock the door behind me.

I feel ready to take on the fucking world – god, nothing would go better with this feeling than a drink. Or two, or three. Hell, the numbers aren’t important, but a good buzz and some good times feel like the least I could do to justify this excitement.

…Probably not too many, though- I tamp down the fevered desire to just rush forward and live today like I haven’t lived in years. These nosebleeds sure as hell aren’t normal- neither are these… fuck, I can’t call them hallucinations can I?

Delusions, maybe? They feel a bit too real, a bit too terrible.

I shrug on my ragged jacket and make a mental note to stop by the walk-in clinic not far from here, at least get myself checked out to make sure it’s nothing too serious... Fuck, what a way to rain on my own parade.

As I hustle down the steps to the parking lot two at a time, metal railing almost cold enough to numb my hand, the nagging voice of indecision leaves me frowning up at the sky.

First things first, I definitely need to-


[ ] Get those drinks. There’s a cheap liquor store not far from here. Within walking distance, actually.
---[ ] Alternative: get in the car! We’re going to the nice one. One last hurrah before I go broke.
[ ] At least pretend to be a responsible adult. That clinic isn’t even irritatingly far away.
[ ] Panic. What the hell did I just do?
[ ] Write-in
>> No. 24877
[ ] At least pretend to be a responsible adult. That clinic isn’t even irritatingly far away.

We just flabbergastified Yukari. HELL YEAH US.
>> No. 24878
I saw that.

[x] Get those drinks. There’s a cheap liquor store not far from here. Within walking distance, actually.
>> No. 24880
File 132545035241.jpg - (1.28MB, 3704x2160, season.jpg) [iqdb]
also here have a shitty unfinished greeting card
181posts omitted. First 100 shown.
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