23/02/2004
First part.
I sit staring at my computer screen. Normally it’s a comfort blanket, populated by people I can talk to or ignore, exchange information with or bitch about, safe in the knowledge that they don’t know where I live, who I am, and more importantly do not care.
It’s 4:30 am and I would normally be in an argument with someone playing fantasy that they’re they’re part of the Lone Gunmen from X Files, or coding: numbers and letters streaming across the pages.
Tonight I can’t think of anything to do. I want to be anywhere but here. My nice safe flat in London before I knew Laughs, before I knew anything about stupid monsters and combat machines. Even my bed in the Children’s Home, listening to whichever problem kid they’d foisted on me this time breath.
I’d give anything to be able to tell Stu about what’s going on, to enlist his help. Sure there are people busy giving me advice - or lectures - and trying to help, but I want my brother here. I want someone to hold me and tell me everything’s going to be okay. That I haven’t irreparably damaged my friendship with the one person who didn’t deserve to be hurt.
I want to rewind time and let Martin Calthorpe play his little power games, only this time I’d not muck things up. I’d be the good little kinfolk, tell him what he wants to hear. Do what he wants to do. Listen when Silver tells me not to tell anyone.
Every time I close my eyes I see Ryan “Download” Calthorpe lying on the grass, throat ripped out, blood pouring from his wounds and then I see Stu’s broken body superimposed over it. Another Garou dead, for stupid reasons and stupid causes, when the Nation needs them all.
A Garou dead because of me. A father has lost his son, a grandfather their grandchild, two brothers have lost their sibling. All because of me. Me. Am I worth all that suffering? All that loss?
To think I am is surely arrogance. I’m nothing, worthless. Hell I can’t even breed for the Nation can I?
I suddenly have an overwhelming urge to find a knife. To find a quiet place far away and run away from it all. To take the Winter Wolf because I’ve fucked up so royally. Am I any better than Winter’s Sorrow? To take his own life was considered to be an honourable action though, and I’m not sure I’m that honourable. A silver knife, a ritual suicide, all very epic and noble. I don’t do epic. I don’t do noble.
I know one thing though. I don’t want to feel any more.
My eyes light on the bottle of Ann’s medication on the shelf.
I don’t want to feel.
I sit staring at my computer screen. Normally it’s a comfort blanket, populated by people I can talk to or ignore, exchange information with or bitch about, safe in the knowledge that they don’t know where I live, who I am, and more importantly do not care.
It’s 4:30 am and I would normally be in an argument with someone playing fantasy that they’re they’re part of the Lone Gunmen from X Files, or coding: numbers and letters streaming across the pages.
Tonight I can’t think of anything to do. I want to be anywhere but here. My nice safe flat in London before I knew Laughs, before I knew anything about stupid monsters and combat machines. Even my bed in the Children’s Home, listening to whichever problem kid they’d foisted on me this time breath.
I’d give anything to be able to tell Stu about what’s going on, to enlist his help. Sure there are people busy giving me advice - or lectures - and trying to help, but I want my brother here. I want someone to hold me and tell me everything’s going to be okay. That I haven’t irreparably damaged my friendship with the one person who didn’t deserve to be hurt.
I want to rewind time and let Martin Calthorpe play his little power games, only this time I’d not muck things up. I’d be the good little kinfolk, tell him what he wants to hear. Do what he wants to do. Listen when Silver tells me not to tell anyone.
Every time I close my eyes I see Ryan “Download” Calthorpe lying on the grass, throat ripped out, blood pouring from his wounds and then I see Stu’s broken body superimposed over it. Another Garou dead, for stupid reasons and stupid causes, when the Nation needs them all.
A Garou dead because of me. A father has lost his son, a grandfather their grandchild, two brothers have lost their sibling. All because of me. Me. Am I worth all that suffering? All that loss?
To think I am is surely arrogance. I’m nothing, worthless. Hell I can’t even breed for the Nation can I?
I suddenly have an overwhelming urge to find a knife. To find a quiet place far away and run away from it all. To take the Winter Wolf because I’ve fucked up so royally. Am I any better than Winter’s Sorrow? To take his own life was considered to be an honourable action though, and I’m not sure I’m that honourable. A silver knife, a ritual suicide, all very epic and noble. I don’t do epic. I don’t do noble.
I know one thing though. I don’t want to feel any more.
My eyes light on the bottle of Ann’s medication on the shelf.
I don’t want to feel.