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by Sonitusia » Fri Jan 22, 2016 9:30 pm
Shyluz wrote:The second 'tanks' was said, it was all over.
Gensokyu wrote:So that happened.
They say that in the great wars of NS Summer, there was one who did not fight with blood, but with iron. They named this one the Master of Tanks, and the thunderous sound of cannon and the rattling of machine guns could be heard far and wide, the crossroads before the capital of CotM being defended by this valiant one until it stood alone. Shitposters layed in droves, and entire army having been slain by the might of Sonitusia, Master of Tanks, Commandant of Iron, and Slinger of Shells.
by North Arkana » Fri Jan 22, 2016 9:43 pm
by Aidannadia » Fri Jan 22, 2016 9:54 pm
Faal Lot Himdah wrote:Ning Kohkahycumest
"You're really are oblivious." Ning mumbled to himself as he stood up, "I'll come with you. I have nothing to here."
Not to mention that Sirina won't be returning any time soon if I know her right. he thought.
by Shyluz » Fri Jan 22, 2016 9:59 pm
Sonitusia wrote:Purnama wasn't even give a moment to reply, when their mouths joined once more, bringing her into a heavenly feeling she couldn't describe. It was odd how she became insanely attracted to Chess upon sight, but it didn't matter. All that needed to be known was that she was making out with her.
About damn time, Mint.
It hit her. Chess' feelings were for Mentari, not her. To Mentari's body or soul, maybe both. But not her. She was just using Mentari to get to Chess. This wasn't genuine. Soon it began to feel one-sided.
Even so, she pushed all that aside. All that mattered was this would happen. She pulled them over to Mentari's bed, both of them toppeling down onto the springy bed as Purnama panted through her nose, the kiss so deep it was too much to bear. She pulled Chess' face up for a moment, catching he breath before asking, "Would you love me no matter how I am?"
Mentari herself was on the edge of her seat, wondering what sort of answer Chess would give. Why was it Purnama had the guts to reveal her interest in her? How could she communicate so damn well?
"Well played you wh*re."
by The Grey Wolf » Fri Jan 22, 2016 10:17 pm
by Kuhlfros » Fri Jan 22, 2016 10:26 pm
Shyluz wrote:Sonitusia wrote:Purnama wasn't even give a moment to reply, when their mouths joined once more, bringing her into a heavenly feeling she couldn't describe. It was odd how she became insanely attracted to Chess upon sight, but it didn't matter. All that needed to be known was that she was making out with her.
About damn time, Mint.
It hit her. Chess' feelings were for Mentari, not her. To Mentari's body or soul, maybe both. But not her. She was just using Mentari to get to Chess. This wasn't genuine. Soon it began to feel one-sided.
Even so, she pushed all that aside. All that mattered was this would happen. She pulled them over to Mentari's bed, both of them toppeling down onto the springy bed as Purnama panted through her nose, the kiss so deep it was too much to bear. She pulled Chess' face up for a moment, catching he breath before asking, "Would you love me no matter how I am?"
Mentari herself was on the edge of her seat, wondering what sort of answer Chess would give. Why was it Purnama had the guts to reveal her interest in her? How could she communicate so damn well?
"Well played you wh*re."
Chess was... a bit awestruck. This was happening a bit fast, even for the Pervert with Nine Lives. First it was kissing, then more, then a bed, and then... love? Wait... did she just ask me if I loved her? Let's think this through... raw physical attraction: check, personal affection: check, can be lewd: check, sometimes adorably naive and innocent: check, heart flutters when in physical contact: check, adorable panties: check.
... I suppose that settles it. Chess gave a thin, oddly genuine smile to the girl she now hovered over. "Ten out of ten, my dear. You've won the prize." She said, playfully nibbling at Mentari's neck. "Madly, with all nine of my supposed lives." She finished, whispering the last line into Mint's ear softly before she went back to nibbling her neck, Chess' hands went to work quickly, undoing buttons on Mint's uniform.
Olive was a bit shocked at how easily the boy supported. Needless to say, when he spoke, she bolted up, unsuspecting him to be in any state to speak. Then again, she was not a good one to react to being shocked. Generally it ended with one of her sucker punches landing a hit and tearing through the victim's ribcage. Not good. But then again this boy was... very something. And the unknown scared her. Especially since he had to be so damn... warm. "I'm... fine. You are... very warm." She said meekly, her bemused eyes staring into the boys. "W-would you like an apple?" She continued, producing one of the shiny red orbs and hiding her face behind it in a rare display of shyness.
by Sonitusia » Fri Jan 22, 2016 10:27 pm
Shyluz wrote:Chess was... a bit awestruck. This was happening a bit fast, even for the Pervert with Nine Lives. First it was kissing, then more, then a bed, and then... love? Wait... did she just ask me if I loved her? Let's think this through... raw physical attraction: check, personal affection: check, can be lewd: check, sometimes adorably naive and innocent: check, heart flutters when in physical contact: check, adorable panties: check.
... I suppose that settles it. Chess gave a thin, oddly genuine smile to the girl she now hovered over. "Ten out of ten, my dear. You've won the prize." She said, playfully nibbling at Mentari's neck. "Madly, with all nine of my supposed lives." She finished, whispering the last line into Mint's ear softly before she went back to nibbling her neck, Chess' hands went to work quickly, undoing buttons on Mint's uniform.
Shyluz wrote:The second 'tanks' was said, it was all over.
Gensokyu wrote:So that happened.
They say that in the great wars of NS Summer, there was one who did not fight with blood, but with iron. They named this one the Master of Tanks, and the thunderous sound of cannon and the rattling of machine guns could be heard far and wide, the crossroads before the capital of CotM being defended by this valiant one until it stood alone. Shitposters layed in droves, and entire army having been slain by the might of Sonitusia, Master of Tanks, Commandant of Iron, and Slinger of Shells.
by Serah » Sat Jan 23, 2016 4:12 am
by Sindrya » Sat Jan 23, 2016 5:02 am
by Sonitusia » Sat Jan 23, 2016 5:41 am
Shyluz wrote:The second 'tanks' was said, it was all over.
Gensokyu wrote:So that happened.
They say that in the great wars of NS Summer, there was one who did not fight with blood, but with iron. They named this one the Master of Tanks, and the thunderous sound of cannon and the rattling of machine guns could be heard far and wide, the crossroads before the capital of CotM being defended by this valiant one until it stood alone. Shitposters layed in droves, and entire army having been slain by the might of Sonitusia, Master of Tanks, Commandant of Iron, and Slinger of Shells.
by Charlia » Sat Jan 23, 2016 7:04 am
by Faal Lot Himdah » Sat Jan 23, 2016 10:23 am
Charlia wrote:Faal Lot Himdah - A wizard. Possibly evil. Seen associating with Charlia, who baas at him a lot when he doesn't feed her enough. #BlameVoid
Kuhlfros wrote:Fall Lot Himdah=Alakazam (May or May not have to do with Merlin)
Spindle wrote:I swear, you two are pretty much the font of all evil in this world...
Spindle wrote:Aaaaaand, the font of all sass.
by Aidannadia » Sat Jan 23, 2016 1:37 pm
Faal Lot Himdah wrote:Ning Kohkahycumest
Ning followed beside Togami, he listened with a smirk as he spoke.
"You know... I've never had coffee. I never needed it. Tea, now that's different. My grandmother made the best tea from scratch. I remember that tea.... Ah... Good times." Ning said as he walked, "Who are these friends? I'm just wondering."
by Charlia » Sat Jan 23, 2016 1:43 pm
by Imperial--japan » Sat Jan 23, 2016 9:36 pm
Faal Lot Himdah wrote:Sirina Zezili
Sirina turned her face towards Anastasia. It was best described as comically unimpressed.
"So royalty, eh. Does it look like I care for royalty. Hell, if you were the queen of my rectum, I still wouldn't give a shit." Sirina said with a slight smile, "Would you mind toning down the ego a little.... Ok, more like a lot. Sirina Zezili." She finished and put her hand out.
by Serah » Sun Jan 24, 2016 2:24 am
Charlia wrote:She was in a library, drawn ever on towards one book lying on a table, just waiting for her to read it. It was green. It had no title, and the pages were edged with gold. She opened it slowly, wondering what was inside, and it fused with her flesh, causing her to scream. Oh, the agony! It was searing into her hands, she literally could not put it down. And then she looked down at the pages and realized what was inside it.
Her life.
But it wasn't just words, it was pictures. There were words, and images, frighteningly detailed, all in blazing color, the masterful rendering making them appear almost three-dimensional.
"No," she cried, "I don't want to read this! I don't want to look at this! I can't bear it!" But the pages turned all on their own, and she could not tear her eyes away from the text and the art. At first, it wasn't so bad. Her early years were happier. But as the pages continued to turn, it grew darker, until she found herself in the chapters she had been dreading.
The words were graphic and descriptive, recalling the shocking emotions and feelings that had overwhelmed her mind. But it was the images that were truly painful--her dark past painted clearly, horrible, disturbing, frightening images that chilled her soul and crushed her heart. She felt sick, just glancing at them. She couldn't bear the pain.
Eventually, though, the book ended. It ended with her, dreaming that she was in a library reading the book of her life. Clearly, it wrote itself as she lived. Either that, or she died while she was unconscious, which she supposed wouldn't be so great a loss. There would only be a few people to mourn her anyway. She imagined her funeral would be small. Short, but sweet. Maybe someone would say a few words. Maybe they'd just drop her in the ground and be done with it. It was hard to be sure. Although if she was honest with herself, she wouldn't really say she even had the right to a funeral. She'd seen cruelty, and in return, she'd been cruel. She'd been cruel to a lot of people. She could make the excuse that she just didn't want to be hurt again, but nobody cared about her excuses. If she did die here, they might not even bury her, she realized. They might just leave her body out in the woods or something, to rot.
Well. It's not as if she deserved anything better.
The book she was holding vanished, and she stared down at her hands. Where it had burned itself into her flesh, she saw nothing. But it had hurt so much... Was it all in her mind? Was the pain that had seemed so real and physical... Had she caused that?
Books began to topple off shelves, opening and spilling out words that echoed in the air around her. Painful words. Words that made her huddle into a corner of the room, trying to escape them. But they just continued to echo.
I just want to sleep. A coma would be nice. Or amnesia. Anything, just to get rid of this, these thoughts, whispers in my mind.
She knew I could tell with one glance, one look, one simple instant. It was her eyes. Despite the thick makeup, they were still dark-rimmed, haunted, and sad. Most of all though, they were familiar. The fact that we were in front of hundreds of strangers changed nothing at all. I'd spent a summer with those same eyes-scared, lost, confused-staring back at me. I would have known them anywhere.
I'd still thought that everything I thought about that night-the shame, the fear-would fade in time. But that hadn't happened. Instead, the things that I remembered, these little details, seemed to grow stronger, to the point where I could feel their weight in my chest. Nothing, however stuck with me more than the memory of stepping into that dark room and what I found there, and how the light then took that nightmare and made it real.
She couldn't get away.
The blade sings to me. Faintly, so soft against my ears, its voice calms my worries and tells me that one touch will take it all away. It tells me that I just need to slide a long horizontal cut, and make a clean slice. It tells me the words that I have been begging to hear: this will make it okay.
And it is in the past, you say? Then why is it still happening, every day, every time I close my eyes? Every time I hear someone behind me, and I don't know who it is? How is it that I get an almost irresistible urge to kill anyone who happens to touch me unexpectedly? Tell me, Hemarchidas, how do I forgive, let alone forget, something that is still happening, that keeps happening over and over? How? How do I do that?
Here, from her ashes you lay. A broken girl so lost in despondency that you know that even if she does find her way out of this labyrinth in hell, that she will never see, feel, taste, or touch life the same again.
"No! No, stop it!" she screamed. "I don't want to hear this! I don't want to listen anymore!" Her voice cracked, and then broke, trailing into indistinct sobbing and keening wails, and a whisper.
"...I don't want to listen..."
Alone with thoughts of what should have long been forgotten, I let myself be carried away into the silent screams of delirium.
He did not care upon what terms he satisfied his passion. He had even a mad, melodramatic idea to drug her.
I know the grim probability of my own future. The odds are high that the best of me has already been ripped away and that if I don't keep hold of myself I will lose what's left.
The terror takes you. The cage is locked and the curtain drawn. Fingers dance along as blades, carving memories into your flesh that will leave scars long past being healed.
This is no place for miracles.
I just want to sleep. The whole point of not talking about it, of silencing the memory, is to make it go away. It won't. I'll need brain surgery to cut it out of my head.
And I don't want to hurt anymore. I want to be someone who makes it through.
The silence was killing me.
And that's all there ever was. Silence. It was all I knew. Keep quiet. Pretend nothing had happened, that nothing was wrong. And look how well that was turning out.
It's so hard to talk when you want to kill yourself. That's above and beyond everything else, and it's not a mental complaint-it's a physical thing, like it's physically hard to open your mouth and make the words come out. They don't come out smooth and in conjunction with your brain the way normal people's words do; they come out in chunks as if from a crushed-ice dispenser; you stumble on them as they gather behind your lower lip. So you just keep quiet.
I don't want to see anyone. I lie in the bedroom with the curtains drawn and nothingness washing over me like a sluggish wave. Whatever is happening to me is my own fault. I have done something wrong, something so huge I can't even see it, something that's drowning me. I am inadequate and stupid, without worth. I might as well be dead.
I'm the girl who is lost in space, the girl who is disappearing always, forever fading away and receding farther and farther into the background. Just like the Cheshire cat, someday I will suddenly leave, but the artificial warmth of my smile, that phony, clownish curve, the kind you see on miserably sad people and villains in Disney movies, will remain behind as an ironic remnant. I am the girl you see in the photograph from some party someplace or some picnic in the park, the one who is in fact soon to be gone. When you look at the picture again, I want to assure you, I will no longer be there. I will be erased from history, like a traitor in the Soviet Union. Because with every day that goes by, I feel myself becoming more and more invisible...
When you're lost in those woods, it sometimes takes you a while to realize that you are lost. For the longest time, you can convince yourself that you've just wandered off the path, that you'll find your way back to the trailhead any moment now. Then night falls again and again, and you still have no idea where you are, and it's time to admit that you have bewildered yourself so far off the path that you don't even know from which direction the sun rises anymore.
That is all I want in life: for this pain to seem purposeful.
The worst type of crying wasn't the kind everyone could see--the wailing on street corners, the tearing at clothes. No, the worst kind happened when your soul wept and no matter what you did, there was no way to comfort it. A section withered and became a scar on the part of your soul that survived. For people like me and Echo, our souls contained more scar tissue than life.
When you're surrounded by all these people, it can be lonelier than when you're by yourself. You can be in a huge crowd, but if you don't feel like you can trust anyone or talk to anybody, you feel like you're really alone.
There is no point treating a depressed person as though she were just feeling sad, saying, 'There now, hang on, you'll get over it.' Sadness is more or less like a head cold- with patience, it passes. Depression is like cancer.
Some friends don't understand this. They don't understand how desperate I am to have someone say, I love you and I support you just the way you are because you're wonderful just the way you are. They don't understand that I can't remember anyone ever saying that to me.
The so-called 'psychotically depressed' person who tries to kill herself doesn't do so out of quote 'hopelessness' or any abstract conviction that life's assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise... Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire's flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It's not desiring the fall; it's terror of the flames.
That's the thing about depression: A human being can survive almost anything, as long as she sees the end in sight. But depression is so insidious, and it compounds daily, that it's impossible to ever see the end.
There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds.
I want to weep, she thought. I want to be comforted. I'm so tired of being strong. I want to be foolish and frightened for once. Just for a small while, that's all....a day.....an hour.
And she began to scream. Falling forward, pounding the floor, tears streaming down her face as her entire body heaved with sobs, wracked by the pain of a thousand tortured memories brought back by words and images she did not want to know. She would have gouged out her eyes rather than see the pictures in that book. She would have burst her eardrums had it meant she would be spared from the painful words echoing through the air around her. And if she had known, if she had had any inkling of what was coming to her that first endless night, she would have just killed herself then and there instead of facing the pain.
But now she couldn't. She couldn't kill herself, because that was such an important decision. And if there was one thing Michael had taught her, it was that she wasn't allowed to make important decisions. She wasn't allowed to choose what was going to happen to her. It was against the rules.
"Enough!" she screamed. "This isn't right!"
She decided. She decided that she had had enough.
But the words assaulted her mind. They forced her back into the pain. And in the end, she found herself curled up on the floor of the library, sobbing brokenly, and remembering just how much it all hurt.
She hated this. Hated this life. Hated this living death. Hated herself.
She hated herself. That was an old concept and yet somehow brand-new and familiar. How wrong was that? It was very wrong. Almost as wrong as she was.
There it was--another one, another of those little nagging thoughts that wasn't so bad on its own. But when it joined with all the other little nagging thoughts, suddenly it was a ten-ton weight that was tied to her and dragging her into darkness.
She had to cut the weight free.
Cut it free...
And then, at last, in that moment of pain and suffering, surrounded by books and knowledge and what had once been comfort, surrounded by the answers to billions of questions...
She found the answer to her own.
by Sonitusia » Sun Jan 24, 2016 3:33 am
Shyluz wrote:The second 'tanks' was said, it was all over.
Gensokyu wrote:So that happened.
They say that in the great wars of NS Summer, there was one who did not fight with blood, but with iron. They named this one the Master of Tanks, and the thunderous sound of cannon and the rattling of machine guns could be heard far and wide, the crossroads before the capital of CotM being defended by this valiant one until it stood alone. Shitposters layed in droves, and entire army having been slain by the might of Sonitusia, Master of Tanks, Commandant of Iron, and Slinger of Shells.
by Neo ORB » Sun Jan 24, 2016 4:28 am
by Charlia » Sun Jan 24, 2016 7:01 am
Serah wrote:Charlia wrote:She was in a library, drawn ever on towards one book lying on a table, just waiting for her to read it. It was green. It had no title, and the pages were edged with gold. She opened it slowly, wondering what was inside, and it fused with her flesh, causing her to scream. Oh, the agony! It was searing into her hands, she literally could not put it down. And then she looked down at the pages and realized what was inside it.
Her life.
But it wasn't just words, it was pictures. There were words, and images, frighteningly detailed, all in blazing color, the masterful rendering making them appear almost three-dimensional.
"No," she cried, "I don't want to read this! I don't want to look at this! I can't bear it!" But the pages turned all on their own, and she could not tear her eyes away from the text and the art. At first, it wasn't so bad. Her early years were happier. But as the pages continued to turn, it grew darker, until she found herself in the chapters she had been dreading.
The words were graphic and descriptive, recalling the shocking emotions and feelings that had overwhelmed her mind. But it was the images that were truly painful--her dark past painted clearly, horrible, disturbing, frightening images that chilled her soul and crushed her heart. She felt sick, just glancing at them. She couldn't bear the pain.
Eventually, though, the book ended. It ended with her, dreaming that she was in a library reading the book of her life. Clearly, it wrote itself as she lived. Either that, or she died while she was unconscious, which she supposed wouldn't be so great a loss. There would only be a few people to mourn her anyway. She imagined her funeral would be small. Short, but sweet. Maybe someone would say a few words. Maybe they'd just drop her in the ground and be done with it. It was hard to be sure. Although if she was honest with herself, she wouldn't really say she even had the right to a funeral. She'd seen cruelty, and in return, she'd been cruel. She'd been cruel to a lot of people. She could make the excuse that she just didn't want to be hurt again, but nobody cared about her excuses. If she did die here, they might not even bury her, she realized. They might just leave her body out in the woods or something, to rot.
Well. It's not as if she deserved anything better.
The book she was holding vanished, and she stared down at her hands. Where it had burned itself into her flesh, she saw nothing. But it had hurt so much... Was it all in her mind? Was the pain that had seemed so real and physical... Had she caused that?
Books began to topple off shelves, opening and spilling out words that echoed in the air around her. Painful words. Words that made her huddle into a corner of the room, trying to escape them. But they just continued to echo.
I just want to sleep. A coma would be nice. Or amnesia. Anything, just to get rid of this, these thoughts, whispers in my mind.
She knew I could tell with one glance, one look, one simple instant. It was her eyes. Despite the thick makeup, they were still dark-rimmed, haunted, and sad. Most of all though, they were familiar. The fact that we were in front of hundreds of strangers changed nothing at all. I'd spent a summer with those same eyes-scared, lost, confused-staring back at me. I would have known them anywhere.
I'd still thought that everything I thought about that night-the shame, the fear-would fade in time. But that hadn't happened. Instead, the things that I remembered, these little details, seemed to grow stronger, to the point where I could feel their weight in my chest. Nothing, however stuck with me more than the memory of stepping into that dark room and what I found there, and how the light then took that nightmare and made it real.
She couldn't get away.
The blade sings to me. Faintly, so soft against my ears, its voice calms my worries and tells me that one touch will take it all away. It tells me that I just need to slide a long horizontal cut, and make a clean slice. It tells me the words that I have been begging to hear: this will make it okay.
And it is in the past, you say? Then why is it still happening, every day, every time I close my eyes? Every time I hear someone behind me, and I don't know who it is? How is it that I get an almost irresistible urge to kill anyone who happens to touch me unexpectedly? Tell me, Hemarchidas, how do I forgive, let alone forget, something that is still happening, that keeps happening over and over? How? How do I do that?
Here, from her ashes you lay. A broken girl so lost in despondency that you know that even if she does find her way out of this labyrinth in hell, that she will never see, feel, taste, or touch life the same again.
"No! No, stop it!" she screamed. "I don't want to hear this! I don't want to listen anymore!" Her voice cracked, and then broke, trailing into indistinct sobbing and keening wails, and a whisper.
"...I don't want to listen..."
Alone with thoughts of what should have long been forgotten, I let myself be carried away into the silent screams of delirium.
He did not care upon what terms he satisfied his passion. He had even a mad, melodramatic idea to drug her.
I know the grim probability of my own future. The odds are high that the best of me has already been ripped away and that if I don't keep hold of myself I will lose what's left.
The terror takes you. The cage is locked and the curtain drawn. Fingers dance along as blades, carving memories into your flesh that will leave scars long past being healed.
This is no place for miracles.
I just want to sleep. The whole point of not talking about it, of silencing the memory, is to make it go away. It won't. I'll need brain surgery to cut it out of my head.
And I don't want to hurt anymore. I want to be someone who makes it through.
The silence was killing me.
And that's all there ever was. Silence. It was all I knew. Keep quiet. Pretend nothing had happened, that nothing was wrong. And look how well that was turning out.
It's so hard to talk when you want to kill yourself. That's above and beyond everything else, and it's not a mental complaint-it's a physical thing, like it's physically hard to open your mouth and make the words come out. They don't come out smooth and in conjunction with your brain the way normal people's words do; they come out in chunks as if from a crushed-ice dispenser; you stumble on them as they gather behind your lower lip. So you just keep quiet.
I don't want to see anyone. I lie in the bedroom with the curtains drawn and nothingness washing over me like a sluggish wave. Whatever is happening to me is my own fault. I have done something wrong, something so huge I can't even see it, something that's drowning me. I am inadequate and stupid, without worth. I might as well be dead.
I'm the girl who is lost in space, the girl who is disappearing always, forever fading away and receding farther and farther into the background. Just like the Cheshire cat, someday I will suddenly leave, but the artificial warmth of my smile, that phony, clownish curve, the kind you see on miserably sad people and villains in Disney movies, will remain behind as an ironic remnant. I am the girl you see in the photograph from some party someplace or some picnic in the park, the one who is in fact soon to be gone. When you look at the picture again, I want to assure you, I will no longer be there. I will be erased from history, like a traitor in the Soviet Union. Because with every day that goes by, I feel myself becoming more and more invisible...
When you're lost in those woods, it sometimes takes you a while to realize that you are lost. For the longest time, you can convince yourself that you've just wandered off the path, that you'll find your way back to the trailhead any moment now. Then night falls again and again, and you still have no idea where you are, and it's time to admit that you have bewildered yourself so far off the path that you don't even know from which direction the sun rises anymore.
That is all I want in life: for this pain to seem purposeful.
The worst type of crying wasn't the kind everyone could see--the wailing on street corners, the tearing at clothes. No, the worst kind happened when your soul wept and no matter what you did, there was no way to comfort it. A section withered and became a scar on the part of your soul that survived. For people like me and Echo, our souls contained more scar tissue than life.
When you're surrounded by all these people, it can be lonelier than when you're by yourself. You can be in a huge crowd, but if you don't feel like you can trust anyone or talk to anybody, you feel like you're really alone.
There is no point treating a depressed person as though she were just feeling sad, saying, 'There now, hang on, you'll get over it.' Sadness is more or less like a head cold- with patience, it passes. Depression is like cancer.
Some friends don't understand this. They don't understand how desperate I am to have someone say, I love you and I support you just the way you are because you're wonderful just the way you are. They don't understand that I can't remember anyone ever saying that to me.
The so-called 'psychotically depressed' person who tries to kill herself doesn't do so out of quote 'hopelessness' or any abstract conviction that life's assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise... Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire's flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It's not desiring the fall; it's terror of the flames.
That's the thing about depression: A human being can survive almost anything, as long as she sees the end in sight. But depression is so insidious, and it compounds daily, that it's impossible to ever see the end.
There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds.
I want to weep, she thought. I want to be comforted. I'm so tired of being strong. I want to be foolish and frightened for once. Just for a small while, that's all....a day.....an hour.
And she began to scream. Falling forward, pounding the floor, tears streaming down her face as her entire body heaved with sobs, wracked by the pain of a thousand tortured memories brought back by words and images she did not want to know. She would have gouged out her eyes rather than see the pictures in that book. She would have burst her eardrums had it meant she would be spared from the painful words echoing through the air around her. And if she had known, if she had had any inkling of what was coming to her that first endless night, she would have just killed herself then and there instead of facing the pain.
But now she couldn't. She couldn't kill herself, because that was such an important decision. And if there was one thing Michael had taught her, it was that she wasn't allowed to make important decisions. She wasn't allowed to choose what was going to happen to her. It was against the rules.
"Enough!" she screamed. "This isn't right!"
She decided. She decided that she had had enough.
But the words assaulted her mind. They forced her back into the pain. And in the end, she found herself curled up on the floor of the library, sobbing brokenly, and remembering just how much it all hurt.
She hated this. Hated this life. Hated this living death. Hated herself.
She hated herself. That was an old concept and yet somehow brand-new and familiar. How wrong was that? It was very wrong. Almost as wrong as she was.
There it was--another one, another of those little nagging thoughts that wasn't so bad on its own. But when it joined with all the other little nagging thoughts, suddenly it was a ten-ton weight that was tied to her and dragging her into darkness.
She had to cut the weight free.
Cut it free...
And then, at last, in that moment of pain and suffering, surrounded by books and knowledge and what had once been comfort, surrounded by the answers to billions of questions...
She found the answer to her own.
Theriam had left long ago, after yet another salt rant, he had enough.
At least by going to see Charlotte, his ears would be spared.
'She's gotta be in her room, I'm not finding her anywhere else.' He had checked several other places before the dorm room, and for some reason, it had never occurred to him until now that she may have been there.
So he started to make his move and ran, getting boosted by his Aura along the way, he jumped over the first dorm building in several jumps and ended right behind team CMCL's dorm room window.
'Alright, now that I'm here...' He then saw what was happening on the bed of one of the team members.
'Ooooooooooooooooooooh~'
It's gonna be one of those days isn't it?
'Allez, mange tes morts putain.' He entered the dorm room swiftly, assuming the security system wasn't so retarded as to go and shoot him, he grabbed Charlotte and left the room.
Laying her down against a tree, he nudged her several times.
"Heeeeey. Wake up." His way of waking up people was very much akin to Artol's way, poking them in random places and telling the person to wake up.
"Wake up Charlotte." It wasn't that he didn't know what was happening inside her dream, it was just because he didn't know how else he should wake people up.
For someone like him, it seemed oddly childish.
Then again, people often called him childishly cruel.
by Kuhlfros » Sun Jan 24, 2016 8:43 am
Serah wrote:After feeling that he had been ignored for several minutes, Artol simply left and continued eating his ice cream bowl.
"I need to find a friend.
Since Vehlto isn't here, I can't really do anything, or appreciate my time here.' He thought, looking at his mechanical watch he had also made himself, he found a photo of a brown haired person, and him, both smiling happily at the photographer and possibly at each other.
'Been a while since I haven't seen her.
I wonder how they're doing.
Then again, she has her shield, so I'm sure they're doing fine.
I'd love to see them again.
One... Two... Five years.
Five years since we haven't met again.' The man sighed, showing a rare display of negative emotions then scratched the back of his head.
"I shouldn't think too hard about that.
Oh! Maybe I could go and find Ice cream girl!
I think Heamet said her team was CMCL.
I should find their dorm." With this, he started to run towards the dorm, lightly smiling although he was cleaving the very air, leaving some potent cuts to be unleashed just in case, however he didn't even notice it himself.
After a few minutes of running, he got to the dorm's entrance and walked in, carrying several ice cream types in his hands, head and blade.
In total, he was holding at least thirteen and none of them were even trembling.
'Looks like the lessons I took with Vehlto are paying off.' He smiled as he suddenly met Lucas with a girl atop of him, giving him an apple.
"Friend! Do you want ice cream?" He spoke, squatting down to the two of them's level.
"Do you want ice cream too?"
It was a true mystery as to how he managed to hold so many ice creams in his hands, but also on himself without it hindering him by the fact that not only are they many, but that they aren't even melting.
In fact, his civilian cover was that of an ice cream vendor, and truth be told, he sometime made even more with ice cream than some of his missions paid.
by Shyluz » Sun Jan 24, 2016 9:35 am
Beacon Union of Delinquents & Perverts
Case File #69
Subjects: Caitlyn ‘Chess’ Cheshire, Mentari Nachtmann, Purnama Nachtmann, Charlotte Noble, Theriam Lareylis
Report:
Caitlyn ‘Chess’ Cheshire, the outcome of a merging of two auras (Isaac Cheshire & Caitlyn Cheshire) has begun an interesting relationship, despite the odd circumstances surrounding the two. At 2400 hours, the two were confirmed to have shared a first kiss. Further investigation was difficult, as the acts described below took place in the Team CMCL dorm. We have confirmed that subjects Charlotte Noble and Theriam Lareylis were at one point in the room. Agents Fir and Fitz have been selected to interrogate the witnesses as they both have previous experience with Noble and Lareylis. Interrogation is pending as of writing this report, however, any new information will be added upon it’s completion.
Speculation includes the use of Those who do, however, tell of horrors that were once men-- creatures that eat the flesh of those who once embraced them like brothers, wolves that cannot be seen until they are upon you, tearing your very being apart. They tell of spirits who are lost, wandering the snowy plains outside of the gates, of the ruined cities that thrived the day before. They tell of warriors who wander the snow, of great mages in towers that pierce the heavens themselves. They tell of those who would dare to do what others do not. They tell of those who wander by Cheshire.
Subjects were heard Wyverns circle, preying upon meager flocks and us ourselves make life on a mountaintop harsh, and cave-ins do the same for our brethren below. We lack the ability to rebuild, to reclaim our land from the frost’s clutches. We lack the ability to grow, to expand. We lack the space to live, each city is huge, overcrowded, and disease runs rampant. Few ever leave the presumed safety behind the gates, and those who do rarely come back, walls will be soundproofed in the future.
Subject Noble appeared to faint after witnessing Winter has made this world devoid of freedom, imprisoning us in our caves, on our mountaintops, in our great walls. It has turned this once verdant world into a barren waste of snow and ice. With great silver pines, and vicious hounds who stalk through the frozen forest. Every day our prison shrinks as wards fall and villages are consumed by the frost; as wolves stalk about the city walls, watching, waiting for their opportunity for an easy meal, knowing that it shan’t be long. Further precautions will be taken in the future.
Subject Lareylis entered the room and recovered subject Noble after witnessing The oldest of us didn’t see the Summer, they only saw the snow, the frost, the ice and the cold. They never lived on the great plains of antiquity, where great cities stretched far, and food was easy to come by. Nor have we, ourselves.
This concludes the initial report on Case File #69. Agent Fir signing off.
by Sonitusia » Sun Jan 24, 2016 9:54 am
Shyluz wrote:The second 'tanks' was said, it was all over.
Gensokyu wrote:So that happened.
They say that in the great wars of NS Summer, there was one who did not fight with blood, but with iron. They named this one the Master of Tanks, and the thunderous sound of cannon and the rattling of machine guns could be heard far and wide, the crossroads before the capital of CotM being defended by this valiant one until it stood alone. Shitposters layed in droves, and entire army having been slain by the might of Sonitusia, Master of Tanks, Commandant of Iron, and Slinger of Shells.
by Serah » Sun Jan 24, 2016 1:14 pm
Kuhlfros wrote:Serah wrote:After feeling that he had been ignored for several minutes, Artol simply left and continued eating his ice cream bowl.
"I need to find a friend.
Since Vehlto isn't here, I can't really do anything, or appreciate my time here.' He thought, looking at his mechanical watch he had also made himself, he found a photo of a brown haired person, and him, both smiling happily at the photographer and possibly at each other.
'Been a while since I haven't seen her.
I wonder how they're doing.
Then again, she has her shield, so I'm sure they're doing fine.
I'd love to see them again.
One... Two... Five years.
Five years since we haven't met again.' The man sighed, showing a rare display of negative emotions then scratched the back of his head.
"I shouldn't think too hard about that.
Oh! Maybe I could go and find Ice cream girl!
I think Heamet said her team was CMCL.
I should find their dorm." With this, he started to run towards the dorm, lightly smiling although he was cleaving the very air, leaving some potent cuts to be unleashed just in case, however he didn't even notice it himself.
After a few minutes of running, he got to the dorm's entrance and walked in, carrying several ice cream types in his hands, head and blade.
In total, he was holding at least thirteen and none of them were even trembling.
'Looks like the lessons I took with Vehlto are paying off.' He smiled as he suddenly met Lucas with a girl atop of him, giving him an apple.
"Friend! Do you want ice cream?" He spoke, squatting down to the two of them's level.
"Do you want ice cream too?"
It was a true mystery as to how he managed to hold so many ice creams in his hands, but also on himself without it hindering him by the fact that not only are they many, but that they aren't even melting.
In fact, his civilian cover was that of an ice cream vendor, and truth be told, he sometime made even more with ice cream than some of his missions paid.
Even Lucas was at a loss now, In hand he held an apple, in his other hand he reached for Artol's ice cream without thought.
"I-I Uhhhm how do you do that?!" Lucas exclaimed at the guy holding 13 cones at once. "I don't know if I really want an ice cream cone right now Artol...but with you carrying so many maybe it's better I take one off your hands."
Regaining his composure he returned to smiling at Olive and said, "So Yeah I'm Lucas, that's Artol, he's like an ice cream ninja, and yeah it's great to meet you."
"I already said that me you idiot."
"Yeah well maybe reintroducing myself will help, she looks a little...amused? scared? I dunno."
Charlia wrote:Serah wrote:
Theriam had left long ago, after yet another salt rant, he had enough.
At least by going to see Charlotte, his ears would be spared.
'She's gotta be in her room, I'm not finding her anywhere else.' He had checked several other places before the dorm room, and for some reason, it had never occurred to him until now that she may have been there.
So he started to make his move and ran, getting boosted by his Aura along the way, he jumped over the first dorm building in several jumps and ended right behind team CMCL's dorm room window.
'Alright, now that I'm here...' He then saw what was happening on the bed of one of the team members.
'Ooooooooooooooooooooh~'
It's gonna be one of those days isn't it?
'Allez, mange tes morts putain.' He entered the dorm room swiftly, assuming the security system wasn't so retarded as to go and shoot him, he grabbed Charlotte and left the room.
Laying her down against a tree, he nudged her several times.
"Heeeeey. Wake up." His way of waking up people was very much akin to Artol's way, poking them in random places and telling the person to wake up.
"Wake up Charlotte." It wasn't that he didn't know what was happening inside her dream, it was just because he didn't know how else he should wake people up.
For someone like him, it seemed oddly childish.
Then again, people often called him childishly cruel.
The library had faded into blackness. Nothingness. Except for a maddening dripping sound, that accelerated and came from all around her, redness dripping from four invisible walls and an invisible ceiling to an invisible floor, filling the darkness with blood. She was drowning in blood. Was it her own?
Heeeeey. Wake up.
What? What was that? Was someone talking? Oh... How strange. She was usually alone in her dreams.
Wake up Charlotte.
Oh, no, that's Theriam. Trying to wake me up.
Might as well do it now...
She opened her eyes slowly, frowning.
"Th...Theriam? Hi..."
by Charlia » Sun Jan 24, 2016 1:44 pm
Serah wrote:Charlia wrote:The library had faded into blackness. Nothingness. Except for a maddening dripping sound, that accelerated and came from all around her, redness dripping from four invisible walls and an invisible ceiling to an invisible floor, filling the darkness with blood. She was drowning in blood. Was it her own?
Heeeeey. Wake up.
What? What was that? Was someone talking? Oh... How strange. She was usually alone in her dreams.
Wake up Charlotte.
Oh, no, that's Theriam. Trying to wake me up.
Might as well do it now...
She opened her eyes slowly, frowning.
"Th...Theriam? Hi..."
Theriam smiled lightly at the girl, if he could manage to keep her awake longer or have her sleep with something comforting, he felt like he could help the nightmare related problems.
"Hey. How are you feeling?
Bad I suppose.
Stay here for a while, if anything, you can sleep again, it won't be cold tonight.
If you have nightmares again, try to find me, I'm almost always awake these days.
Coffee's a great invention." He smirked and kicked back.
"To be honest, I help just about everyone and their brother here with psychological problems.
I'm the therapist of my friends.
Heh." His eye started to glow with a blue haze, one that showed he was extremely relaxed.
by Serah » Sun Jan 24, 2016 2:36 pm
Charlia wrote:Serah wrote:
Theriam smiled lightly at the girl, if he could manage to keep her awake longer or have her sleep with something comforting, he felt like he could help the nightmare related problems.
"Hey. How are you feeling?
Bad I suppose.
Stay here for a while, if anything, you can sleep again, it won't be cold tonight.
If you have nightmares again, try to find me, I'm almost always awake these days.
Coffee's a great invention." He smirked and kicked back.
"To be honest, I help just about everyone and their brother here with psychological problems.
I'm the therapist of my friends.
Heh." His eye started to glow with a blue haze, one that showed he was extremely relaxed.
She felt an overwhelming wave of nausea as she remembered the circumstances surrounding her blackout, and pressed a hand to her stomach as if trying to repress the feeling of complete and debilitating illness. (Mental illness, of course.)
"Oh, Monty..." she muttered. "I can't believe they would do that... while I was still in the room..."
She almost remembered the plan she had come up with, but refused to think of it... Theriam couldn't know. He'd surely try to stop her, and then it would all be for nothing.
She would not let anyone stop her...
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