Table of Contents - Coming Soon! Until then, have something pretty....
Type: Reve Gender: Female Dreamer: Amelia Lindsey
Type: Nightmare Gender: Male Dreamer: Tristan Knight
Posted: Fri Jan 03, 2014 11:07 pm
NPCs
Granny Spiderlegs: The warm-hearted woman who hands out dream catchers to troubled dreamers. She is a thin, elderly woman who appears to be in her late sixties, but the light in her ice blue eyes is bright and her mind is sharp. She lives in an apartment above her small shop in downtown Seattle, but her meager lifestyle hasn't diminished her tenacity. Her nickname comes from the local children who watched her weave the dream catchers and assemble them with her long spindly fingers. She doesn't seem to mind the nickname and even jokes about it, but woe to the mischief maker who tries to mock her or her favored children, for their nightmares that night will be worse than they could ever imagine.
Though Granny is usually a cheerful and friendly woman, she does have a sharper, darker side to her. This typically shows itself when she must deal with troublesome nightmares who go from haunting the Dreamer to cutting off their ability to function. The elderly woman gains a regal air and an iron will that she keeps well hidden otherwise, as the Oneiroi, or sometimes even human, is soon to realize and regret.
Sergeant Ray Montero: Ray has been Tristan’s partner for approximately 4 years and best friends since the academy. Both men went through the same academy class and were inseparable since. Though not partnered up after graduation, the two always managed to get into trouble even if they were completely different districts. Both Ray and Tristan applied for a Sergeant position, knowing that it would probably separate them as partners. However, both were promoted and allowed to stay in the same district let alone the same radio car. Outside of work, Ray is a married father of two young boys, which he pawns off on Tristan and Julia quite frequently so that he and his wife, Mercedes, can have a night of their own. Recently, Ray has been trying to understand what is happening with his best friend and partner. Ray is very concerned with Tristan’s drastic behavior changes and inability to sleep. Prior to Tristan’s hospitalization, Ray suffered a concussion due to a slight auto accident with Tristan during an officer involved shooting in which Ray shot and injured the suspect shooter. Believing that Tristan needed time alone, he constantly feels guilty and blames himself for allowing Tristan to attempt suicide. Ever since Tristan was hospitalized, he visits him every day and tries to help his best friend get back to ‘normal’. Seeking out Julia’s help, they tend to Tristan often. Now that Tristan has been cleared to go home, Ray has stayed by his side. When Tristan began to downward spiral again, Ray sought the help of Granny Spiderlegs after finding her name and information scribbled down on several sheets of paper. His only concern is why his best friend has changed so dramatically. Ray speaks in "#AA5303" color code
Julia Wilkes: Julia was Tristan’s former fiancé. She worked for several nonprofit organizations throughout Seattle, working the longest for Childhaven as the assistant manager of charitable giving. She recently applied for and was hired as the finance manager for UNICEF located in New York City. Initially, Julia planned on moving to New York with Tristan so that they could get married there and start their new life. However, due to Tristan’s recent downward spiral, they couple broke up and Julia moved to New York on her own. Recently she has returned to Seattle from New York to help support Tristan, her ex fiancé, now that he was released from the hospital after his apparent suicide attempt. Julia speaks in "#5B59BA" color code
Mercedes Montero: Ray's wife of 7 years. Mercedes speaks in "#385E0F" color code
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Posted: Fri Jan 03, 2014 11:07 pm
Posted: Fri Jan 03, 2014 11:08 pm
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Posted: Fri Jan 03, 2014 11:26 pm
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. . . Amelia Lindsey . . . "Listen to the mustn'ts. Listen to the don'ts."
Personality: On the whole, Amelia is a relatively quiet person. It take a while for her to open up to others. She's generally a polite person, and keeps people at arm's reach and has become cynical over the years and uses it as a shield to keep herself safe from inevitable downfall. She gives off the feeling of someone who had to grow up too quickly.
History: Amelia was raised in a conservative household where she and her two brothers were taught to be productive members of society. She had a very dreamy nature and loved children's stories that ended positively despite the trials in the story. These stories stayed with her when her parents divorced. At ten years old, the stories became a crutch of sorts after a vicious custody battle left her in her mother's care while her brothers went to live with their father halfway across the country. It left a hard lesson for her: everybody leaves.
Struggling to learn how to live with a single mom, Amelia took on a lot of extra responsibilities to help, both habits she does to this day. She struggled through the rough stages of being “the new girl” in a small town where everyone knew each other. It took a while, but she made a few close friends and was content. Towards the end of high school, she fell in love with one of the other seniors and became blind to the hints that something was wrong. They moved to a different state to go to the same university, and for two years things were okay – until she walked in on her boyfriend cheating on her. The two broke up, and she buried herself in her studies.
Like the fairy tales she had loved as a child, Amelia realized that there was a darker version, a stark truth that had been covered up with false hope. When she got into another serious relationship, it equally went south. Her boyfriend turned out to be abusive and looking for an easy way out, dragging her down with him until she finally worked up the nerve to just pack a bag and leave. She began to believe that maybe it was best people left, after all.
With an unfinished degree, Amelia is living at a local shelter and looking for a job so she can learn to stand on her own two feet. Dealing with depression on top of it, the world looks bleak some days to the point she's not sure why she bothers. Then again, maybe it has something to do with the strange dream she's been having...
Recent: Amelia has met a few Dreamers but seems unable to keep in touch with them for long. She is currently working on finding ways ot deal with her past that don't involve running. At times like this, she's glad her Oneiroi companion was drawn to the sense of hope in her dream, because Amelia isn't even sure if that hope is even hers.
. . . The Dream . . . "Listen to the impossibles, then listen close to me."
Quote:
The road is endless, the hot dry despite the roaring sea nearby. It feels as though she has been walking for so long that she can no longer remember. Nothing has changed. The scenery is exactly as it has always been, the wind coming out of nowhere to blow away any footsteps, removing proof of her existence from any others unfortunate enough to travel the same path. There is no mercy, no cool air or soft promise, just hard grit and intense heat until she wants to let it all go.
It would be so easy, wouldn’t it?
They play out for her, one at a time on an endless loop until she can no longer tell where one failure ends and the other begins. A divorce she could have prevented if only she'd been good enough, siblings to keep and love if she had tried harder. If she had stood up, spoken out and defended her love, it would have remained. She could have flourished. She could have had everything. Every reminder beats her down until the weight upon her shoulders is too much and she collapses, too hot and dried out to cry but feeling the overwhelming power to do so anyway.
Her arm is jarred, sending needles of pain that break through the bleak veil her mind has created. An indent in the sand – no, a footprint. She pulls back, staring even though her eyes should burn and ache from blowing grit. But the wind is gone, the howling no longer full of accusations that steal her breath away.
There is a footprint in the sand.
Startled, she looks out, and before her there is a series of footprints leading on past the horizon. She twists around and sees the same prints having come up from behind. A soft breeze blows, filling her lungs with soothing cool air and something more. More footprints, more paths. More evidence of people who have walked this once lonely road.
She is no longer alone.
A soft sigh echoes in her ears as the breeze dies down. She imagines soothing hands lifting her to her feet, steadying her as the despair gives way to something greater, something that makes her more than herself. For every vision of suffering and failure she once saw, it is mirrored with another vision. Great things, amazing things. Events and people who have changed the world because their light did not go out. A light that they protected and chose to carry on with.
Before her, the visions of family fade, reflected by a home that she knows is her own. A tender voice calls her name from inside, the sound broken by childish shrieks and happy laughter. Energy flows through her veins as she feels her heart beat, now racing as she leans forward, uncertain if it is a mirage or something else.
“You can do it.” The laughter fades, the stranger's voice a gentle nudge as she takes that first step, almost stumbling but catching herself. The visions change. She is successful; she is making a difference. She is reaching out her hand to lift others from their faraway places, wherever they have fallen. Tears of joy are sliding down her cheeks as she lets out a ragged laugh, a sound she has not heard in so long that it startles her. She sees the bright future of others alongside her, their paths intertwined and growing brighter as she takes another step, then another, each more solid than the last.
Forward, she realizes, is the way to go. The way to turn her gaze. Towards the future. To home.
To hope.
- - - - -
She wakes with a start and sits up, uncurling from her position beneath her blanket. It isn't fear or a subconscious warning of danger that wakes her, but wonder. Nothing real could possibly be so wonderful, and yet she believes in what she saw. Those horrible sensations were still tangible, but no longer able to reach out and choke her or hold her back. As time passes, more and more of the dream was focused on her future, the thing she fought for most.
She doesn't understand why these dreams are so vibrant when her hope has been floundering for so long. Or maybe that is why her dreams have happened at all: to remind her not to give up on her life as she has on so many people, including herself.
Sighing, Amelia turns to the duffel bag that contains most of her possessions, reaching out to touch the catcher out of habit, to feel its warmth and be reassured that it is still there, as is the spirit she has been told about.
The catcher is gone.
Alarm fills her, the sensations of warmth and belonging fading as she digs around in the bag, searches under her cot, even walks the length of the room while trying not to disturb the others. It is dark, but she knows she will find the catcher thanks to the soft glow of light gold it emits. Strangely enough, few others have noticed it.
Turning back, she bites back a sigh of relief when she finds it on her bed, the familiar glow peeking out from her pillow, where she doesn't remember putting it. She does remember worrying about its safety before falling asleep however.
Just to be sure, she picks up the catcher and examines it, gingerly touching the pure white feather woven into the center. She hears a soft, delighted laugh that fills her mind and lifts her heart, the sound now as familiar to her as the voice in her dream, its gentle whisper reminding her of one thing above all others: she can do this. She can succeed.
She is not alone.
. . . The Solos . . . Staff journal formatting should not be copied. We reserve these for plot-specific pieces.
Quote:
Silence filled the room as Amelia stared at the letter in her hand, her grip so tight that it wrinkled the paper. The sound crackled like thunder in bathroom of whatever fast food restaurant she had entered, the name not important and the interior just as bright and plastic as any other. It felt like there was a knot in her chest, struggling to push past her throat as an anvil crushed her chest, her breathing rapid and shallow as she struggled to process what she had read.
Why? The single word chased out all other thoughts like a hamster on speed, running through her mind in endless circles until she felt a gentle touch on her upper arm, a mix of fabric and leather that wasn't quite there, like she was feeling a blanket on her when she was still half asleep. What would normally have been a comforting sensation startled the brunette so much that she yelped, the sound breaking through the high-pitched ringing in her ears like a god's wrath. The paper fluttered to the floor, but she quickly retrieved it before the damp tiles could ruin it.
“Amelia?” Nu'eth's presence could be seen in the reflection of the mirror, her soft golden glow causing her Dreamer's eyes hurt until she looked away with a shudder.
“Nothing...it's nothing.” It was a great big lie was what it was, but Amelia didn't feel like sharing the scars of her past with the spirit who inhabited her dream. A dream that, after this, seemed like a slap in the face. All because she dared to hope. She knew she wasn't fooling her companion, but it was too much to think on in such a public place.
Why was this happening? Why now? She'd finally started to put her life back together, and now it felt like all her hard work was being ripped out from under her feet. A job, a bank account...soon, Amelia had hoped to find a cheap apartment of her own, to build up her credit and be of some use to the world and the people in it. It didn't have to be much, but she wanted more than running the risk of not making it to a shelter soon enough to get a bed for a night. Summer, thankfully, meant that it wasn't as hard a press to get one, but that wasn't saying much. It just meant sleeping outside wasn't going to cause you to freeze to death.
She thought she'd outrun the b*****d who'd hurt her. She'd wasted enough of her life for him; living with him, for him...more than loving him. Being blind to and for him, even when there were flaming red flags telling her to get out before it was too late. She still had some of the scars from the worst of their fights, though they never showed. She had left the man she'd spent so many years with and blended in with the crowd, fallen through the cracks.
Or so she'd thought. The letter in her hands said otherwise. It said she was still a prisoner. Still being followed by a man who wanted gods only knew what. Tears burned in her eyes as Amelia crumpled the paper, throwing it in the wastebasket with a muffled sob as she crouched on the floor, pressing her fists against her eyes as she shuddered. She felt the silent presence of Nu'eth continue, the touch now rest on her head as the elf tried to comfort and support her Dreamer through the struggle that felt like it would rip her apart. What was the point of trying if this was the end result?
The world jolted upright when the door opened, a crew member of the restaurant peeking in and stopping at the sight of a disheveled woman who was clearly distressed. Pushing herself upright, Amelia murmured an excuse and started to leave before the stranger could ask any other questions. She was nearly out the door when she stopped, the heavy wooden door slamming into the back of her head enough to make her stumble. Wincing, she turned back around and walked into the bathroom, ignoring the strange stare she got for reaching into the wastebasket, retrieving the letter with a grim expression and laying it flat against her stomach to smooth out as many wrinkles as she could.
No, she wasn't going to give up. She'd come to far, and he wouldn't win. She'd....she'd think of something. After some time alone. After enough time had passed for her to accept that the man she'd left behind didn't appreciate being left and was probably still an a*****e.
If there was any way to measure how much time that would take.
Personality: One of the first things others notice about Nu'eth is that she is by no means a wallflower Reve. This elf has spunk and sass to her when she feels like it, and if you're out of line, you can bet she feels like it. Though supportive, she's going to be honest if you're doing something wrong or holding yourself back. She enjoys life and watching people around her, though she also wants to be able to experience the physical sensation of living one day. Not one to sit idly by, she has the confidence to stand up against pain, fear, and anger without backing down, though it seems her own pride could also leave a few flaws in her bright aura.
. . . Tristan R. Knight . . . “The feeling of not being good enough for anyone, is the worst feeling ever no doubt.”
Name: Tristan R Knight Age: 28 Gender: Male Race: Undisclosed, Caucasian Height: 6'3" Weight: 182 lbs Personality: Tristan is quiet, but confident. He is practical, resourceful and someone with an iron will and steely resolve. He is serious, self-disciplined, determined, and able to persevere in the face of adversity. He spends most of his energy at work, where he has risen in ranks as well as acquired many commendations and achievements in an unusually short amount of time. He tends to keep his personal desires and joys to himself and it oftentimes appears that he doesn’t much passion at all—which is not true.
History: At this time, all that is publicly known about Tristan is that he was raised by his grandparents in a suburban town, grew up to go to college and went straight into law enforcement for the city of Seattle. He applied when he was 20 and went through the academy at 21. He has been employed as an officer for 7 years, working as a sergeant for the last 2.
. . . The Nightmare . . . “I'd say my greatest fear is giving it everything I have, being completely dedicated, do everything I can, and still not being good enough.”
Quote:
Even when you’ve been working the beat for a long time, there are still those calls that get your adrenaline pumping—causing you to get sweaty, breath faster, your mind starts to race and suddenly you forget about the potholes in the road that you normally try to avoid. You’re focused…too focused. There’s a sense of impending doom, a sense of urgency. That every single action you take determines the outcome of what you’re trying to prevent…or who you’re trying to save.
There weren’t any sirens… Or at least, you couldn’t hear any. But the voice of your partner talking is loud and clear. You can’t hear what he’s saying, you just know he’s speaking—but you don’t know why you can’t hear them…You’re not that focused. You turn to look at him, nod your head at what he says and look forward again. He’s driving. You’re both in uniform, both on duty… The call came in as a code 3 response to an officer requesting back-up…another officer you know. A Trooper to be exact. You know him just as well as you know your partner—well, probably not that well but you’d like to think you do. You haven’t met his wife and kids like you have with your partner, but you know who they are… You’re hoping that when you get there, it’s a situation that can get diffused by the presence of more officers. You’re watching the road.
Then, suddenly, you find yourself parked… you’re not in the patrol car anymore. You realize that the car you had been in isn’t what you normally ride in… but for some reason that is normal for you now. You’ve reached your destination… And you find yourself standing at the front left fender of the crown vic that you’ve been riding in. Your partner isn’t next to you. For some reason, he’s standing out in the open about 15 feet away from you. Behind him is another car, but it’s not cover that’s close enough to him.
You look back to your right, to watch the scene unfold in front of you. It’s too quick and yet, your gut is telling you to do more—to act faster—even though that’s impossible. You see the Trooper that requested your assistance. He’s talking to a large group of men—gang bangers, you recognize the group but you don’t know why. The Trooper appears to have the situation handled…but then the man he’s talking to pulls a gun from the small of his back. You watch as the Trooper gets shot, the life and light immediately go out from his body as he collapses to the ground.
You scream something—maybe “gun”—but it was too late anyway. You draw your weapon and immediately take a position of cover behind the engine block. You aim but you hear gun shots fired at you from more than just the one gun you saw. You duck down, turning your back against the tire.
Your hands are sweaty. You can barely hold your weapon. Your heart is beating so fast that you can only hear that. You turn your head to the right, to look for your partner. You see him collapse and grab his leg—he’s been shot. He’s too far away from you and he can’t get his weapon. He’s calling out to you—telling you to get him. You try to lean towards him but hear bullets fly past. You’re pinned.
You cry out something. You’re trying. You’re trying to do something. You turn around again, trying to peek over the hood to take your shot, but you’re met with gunfire as the men walk towards you and your car. You scream something but you can’t hear it. You fire off two shots—it’s what you’re trained to do.
You hope that you can get a break. You try to do everything you can. But you look back to your left and your partner is no longer moving. There’s a red mark on the underside of his jaw—blood is dripping from it and you can see he’s dead. You did everything you could but it wasn’t good enough. You look back ahead of you, but everything you do is so sluggish. It’s too slow. You can’t move fast enough.
You let two friends die because you’re moving too slow! How is that you’re moving so much slower than everything else? When you look back ahead of you, suddenly the men are standing right in front of you—the car is gone. The man who shot your friend—the Trooper—is pointing that same gun at your head. You can’t see the barrel but you can feel the heat from the metal burn against your skin. You’re sweating. You’re shaking. Your gun is gone. Where is your weapon? How did you lose it? You breath and look up at the man only it’s not the gang banger from before. It’s a shadow visage of a man you’ve seen before but could never figure out why. He had a red smoky haze to him…and his eyes burned like the barrel of the gun. He’s shaking his head.
He says, “Not good enough.”
He pulls the trigger.
In a cold sweat, Tristan gasps and flinches so violently that his cat—who was sleeping soundly beside him—meows in protest and gets up, walking away from his side and laying down at the farthest corner of the bed from him possible. Panting and staring ahead of himself into the darkness, Tristan swallows.
It was the same nightmare that he’d had last week…and the week before that. The same exact one. Only as time goes by, the hazy figure becomes more and more identifiable… more distinguished. This time he knew it was a man and he could see his eyes… Who was this man?
Slowly calming down, Tristan sat up and rubbed his face with a groan. Though the moment his fingertips touched his forehead, he was consumed with a jolt of pain and he froze. He sat still for a moment, keeping his fingertips against his forehead as he stared ahead of himself with a wide-eyed gaze.
It was a nightmare, right? Just a nightmare…?
In one quick movement, he threw his feet off of the bed and rushed across his small apartment bedroom, colliding with the bathroom door and throwing it open. His hands searched the wall on the left for a light switch, his fingertips finding it through touch alone and the lights flashed on. He was blinded momentarily but that didn’t stop him from throwing himself then against his bathroom sink, his hands grasping the edge of the countertop as he leaned in close to the mirror.
Once the white spots from his vision cleared, he focused on the reflection of himself. He felt his heart stop and flutter pathetically as his eyes focused on the burn on his forehead… a burn that was absolutely from the barrel of a gun.
Was it a nightmare? Swallowing, Tristan turned to look through the open doorway into the bedroom, his eyes landing on the dream catcher that he had acquired several weeks ago to help him sleep. It... almost looked like it was shrouded in a red smoky haze...
. . . Solo Roleplays . . . Tristan does not have a normal journal like other Dreamer's, do not model your Dreamers' journal after his. Staff journals are meant to be reference points for future shop RP plot events.
Quote:
“So when are you putting in your notice?”
Hearing that male voice was like hearing a blaring horn cut through thick fog on a wet beach… It jolted Tristan to the point of physically flinching and for just a split second he forgot where he was. Blinking to catch up on his memory lapse of environment, Tristan glanced over to where he heard the familiar male voice, realizing that the source was his partner and friend Ray Montero. He stared at Ray for a moment, continuing to blink and not realizing that he looked rather dumb and confused which caused Ray to raise a brow and suddenly point ahead of himself… pointing forward to…
Like a tidal wave, Tristan was hit with all of the sensory that he hadn’t realized had been absent—sound, sight, smell, touch… even memory. He visually connected the dots with Ray’s hand gesture and looked ahead of himself, realizing in that split second that he was driving. Panic washed over him and the adrenaline kicked in as he took in the stopped line of cars immediately ahead of him, bright red brake lights signifying that they were stopped and…he obviously wasn’t. Inhaling a sharp breath, Tristan reacted and slammed his right foot on the brake, forcing the old crown Victoria to a tire-screeching halt, the ABS kicking in and fighting Tristan’s motor-reaction but stopping the car just in time. Both Tristan and Ray lurched forward from the motion but were safely restrained by their seat-belts.
“What the ********?!” Ray shouted, his hands having grabbed the right door grip while his left hand was firmly planted on his left thigh, “Where is your head?”
Tristan stared ahead of himself, blinking as he continued to let the adrenaline dump through his system. He only half registered the children in the back-seat of the car in front of him turning around to look at himself and Ray or the walking homeless men that were pointing and laughing, shaking their heads. He heard one of them saying ‘our tax dollars at work’ while another said ‘don’t they teach you how to drive?’
How could he completely forget he had been driving? Or that he was on duty? How in the world did he forget that? Where had his mind been? How long had he been ‘tuned out’? He had no idea what Ray was saying initially and not sure how much of that conversation he even heard.
“…Sorry, I must’ve just spaced out or something…” Tristan muttered as he forced himself to relax in his seat, letting one hand release from the steering wheel to instead turn up the mobile radio. It was a habit that he often turned it up when he was trying to recollect himself… a way of falling back into the routine of work.
“Yeah, no s**t. You sure you’re okay to drive?” Ray wasn’t really relaxed, however, and Tristan didn’t blame him. It is worse sitting in the passenger seat since you can’t do anything at all.
“Yeah, I’m good. Just tired I think… I’ll swing by Stumptown and grab a coffee… You want one? I think I owe you this time…” Tristan knew he sounded like he was changing subjects and he knew that Ray would pick up on it immediately—they’ve been partners for too long.
“…sure.” Ray answered flatly, finally relaxing just a little bit but not removing his eyes from Tristan’s face for a while longer. The man inhaled a deep heavy breath before looking away, knowing that Tristan wouldn’t look back at him but continue to ignore his pointed stare.
“…so you lied when you said you got some sleep?” Ray continued, his voice laced with utter disappointment, a tone that made Tristan’s heart heavy with guilt.
“…ye—well, no…not really. I mean, considering what I consider…um…sleep to be these days, I slept.” Tristan grunted and shifted his weight in his seat as the light finally changed green and he proceeded forward in the line cars traveling southwest on E Madison street. It wasn’t rush hour thankfully, but that didn’t mean that there weren’t a lot of cars driving in the city…
“So then what do you consider sleep?” Ray replied quickly, not looking at Tristan again but instead looking around at the people walking along the sidewalks and the cars passing by, “…Hobo Bill found himself a new cart…”
Tristan grunted, looking at Ray to see where his partner was looking, spotting the man in question pushing a rather shiny black painted shopping cart down the sidewalk. Tristan grunted, shaking his head as he smiled and looked ahead again, “…leave it for grave shift. Let him get to where he’s headin’ and then he can unload his stuff.”
“Psh,” Ray scoffed and waved his hand at Tristan, “He can keep the cart. I doubt wherever he got it from wants it back once he’s taken ownership…”
“…good point…” Tristan muttered and made a face, recalling the last shopping cart they had returned from the possession of Hobo Bill. “Think he turned in that application you gave him last week?”
“Mm.” Ray grunted, a sign that he didn’t think so without actually answering…and nor did he believe Hobo Bill ever would.
Tristan nodded, returning his focus to the roadway ahead. He realized then that his head was feeling heavy and foggy again. His eyelids felt like they were made of lead and he had a hell of a time keeping them open. So he forced himself to blink several more times, bringing his right hand back to the steering wheel and gripping it hard to focus himself.
“…you never answered my question, by the way,” Ray said though he still didn’t look at Tristan while he spoke.
“Huh?” Tristan had definitely already forgotten the question or hadn’t even heard it.
“Your notice, when are you putting it in?”
“My notice? What in the hell are you talking about?” Tristan replied quickly, his brows furrowing as he looked at Ray with a demanding scowl, “You know something I don’t?”
That immediately caused Ray to look at him, the man’s eyebrows practically flying off his face while his lips were pressed into the thinnest line ever, “You’re ******** with me, right?”
Tristan lifted the corner of his lip as he continued to split his attention from the road and Ray, his expression only worsening as he tried to figure out why in the hell his partner would assume he was putting in his two weeks’ notice…
This was answer enough and Ray’s expression went from horror to completely baffled. He scoffed and shook his head, rubbing his face with his hands, “So you let her go?”
Suddenly the context crashed down upon Tristan and his own expression dropped. He went pale and looked ahead of himself, blinking slowly as he realized what Ray was talking about. He… had completely forgotten.
“I… … did…?” He said quietly, sounding more like a question than a final response though Ray didn’t pick up on the question part.
“Why? What the hell has gotten into you? She was the best thing that ever… Damnit, Tristan….” Ray shook his head again and inhaled a deep breath, shoving his lips into his knuckles as he rested his elbow on the open passenger windowsill. He was frustrated and Tristan didn’t need to read his body language to figure that out.
Tristan didn’t answer… he didn’t need to. He continued to drive and saw the approaching sign for 12th Avenue and continued on past…no longer wanting any coffee. Ray didn’t comment on their direction of travel either, so he left it at that.
Swallowing hard, Tristan’s mind continued to wrap around the horrible realization that he was just faced with. He had forgotten, completely forgotten. The last couple of months had become a blur of sleepless nights, self-loathing, and depression. He didn’t go out anymore, not even to work out. He lay in bed most of the day but never slept. His mood and behavior had changed so dramatically that his relationship with his fiancé had crumbled horrifically…and now, apparently, it was completely over.
It was about a month ago that Tristan and Julia had gotten into their biggest and apparently last fight… He had never realized he could get so angry and he didn’t understand where all the rage had come from. But he was so angry for no apparent reason all the time and Julia had enough. She had enough with his self-loathing and she had enough of his erratic mood-swings. For months she had been talking about moving to New York for a management job and she had hoped that he would move with her, that they could take their next step in a new place. For a while he had been considering it and for a while… it seemed like it was going to happen…that is, until that fight. Julia gave him an ultimatum in the end, telling him that she was taking the job and moving and that he had two weeks to decide if he was going with her. If she didn’t hear from him, she would assume their relationship was over and she would move on her own.
The two weeks was a week ago… and he forgot.
“She’s better off, you know…” Tristan finally replied in an attempt to break up the awkward silence that was suffocating them.
“Better off? You’re kidding, right?” Ray spat back, looking over at him with a disappointed shake of his head, “What the hell, Tristan?”
“I was only holding her back, Ray. She deserves better than me. I was never good enough for her.”
“Are you even listening to yourself?” Ray leaned forward slightly in his seat, twisting his posture so that he was facing Tristan the best he could in the passenger seat of crown Victoria. “When did you become so goddamn pathetic?”
“Of course I hear myself! I’m not good enough!” Tristan barked, surprising himself at his sudden angry outburst. He immediately closed his mouth and looked ahead of himself, trying to figure out where that rage came from and recalling the fight he had with Julia and how angry he became for no reason…
“Okay, okay…” Ray said as he leaned back into his seat, facing forward again. He watched Tristan cautiously as he leaned his arm on the windowsill again. He didn’t want to antagonize Tristan any further, not while they were on the beat. It was not a good time to have such unstable emotions.
So they both fell into silence, keeping to themselves as they continued down E Madison. The streets lights were beginning to flick on as the sky grew darker, the sun having set already and its light finally seeping away. Though neither spoke to one another, Tristan’s mind felt like a verbal battlefield as he replayed the argument with Julia in his head, trying to figure out what went wrong and what started the stupid argument in the first place. He realized that he wasn’t hearing his own mental voice in his head but rather that damned voice that haunted his dreams…well, nightmares now. The voice kept telling him how he was a failure, worthless, pathetic and not worth a dime of anything. How Julia was indeed better off because she needed a real man and not some pathetic robot like he was. He was a failure with love, a failure of a fiancé and a failure of a friend. Of course he was a failure at work because he was never good enough at anything he did.
The more the voice continued, the more distant Tristan became. His mind shrouded in a fog of self-mental mutilation. His expression grew dark and the grip on the steering wheel grew tighter and tighter until his knuckles became white from the strain. He hand realized that he was driving faster but not any more recklessly. He was so focused on that voice, that voice telling him he was never good enough, that he didn’t even hear the squawk of the radio…or the desperate calls that followed. It didn’t even register in his mind…
“3732 to any nearby units, I need code 3 cover! Repeat, code 3 cover!”
It wasn’t a voice he recognized and he didn’t even pay any attention to it. It was just another voice that was in the battle of voices of his mind—and it was a losing voice.
“3700 to 3732, what is your location?”
That voice was one he recognized…but Tristan still didn’t really process the words at all. He had tunnel vision and was focused directly on the road ahead of him, his lips pressed even more firmly into a thin line. He didn’t even notice Ray’s sudden movements beside him.
“3732, 939 Madison—the abandoned warehouse—“
The radio cut out but Tristan still didn’t hear it. He also didn’t notice that he was approaching that exact location.
“Shots fired! Shots fired!”
He still didn’t register what was going on… or the fact that you could hear gunshots in the background of the screaming voice. He didn’t notice Ray grab the radio mic nor did he hear what he was saying… He also didn’t notice the patrol car ahead with its lights on, parking diagonally in the overhang warehouse drop off with the driver’s door wide open. He didn’t notice the large tall male running down the street away from the patrol car… nor did he notice the officer that was being dragged to the back of the patrol car by his partner.
He didn’t hear Ray shouting at him to stop; all he was focused on was driving forward. Suddenly, Ray reached over the center console and grabbed the shifter, yanking it down into park which forced the car to violently change gears from drive to a squealing grinding halt, skidding down the street and throwing Tristan against the steering wheel and Ray against the dash.
Why wasn’t Ray wearing his seat belt? He heard the smash of Ray’s head on the windshield and he saw the spider web cracks that centered around a perfect skull imprint. Tristan was confused and he cried out in surprise when the he was thrown against the steering wheel. He shouted at Ray but he wasn’t sure what he even said. He didn’t understand why the hell Ray threw the car into park! He was certain the tranny was shot now!
But then, Ray threw himself out of the car and was running. Why was he running? He just hit his head on the windshield and now he was out of the car and running?
He could hear Ray shouting and realized it wasn’t him actually hearing Ray but over the radio that he was hearing him. Reality was slamming back into Tristan and he suddenly realized what was going on. But the voice in his head was only getting louder, screaming at him to. Telling him that this was his fault and he was a failure. That he did this. That he wasn’t good enough. That his partner’s head was probably cracked open from that windshield and it was his fault!
Tristan cried out after his partner, throwing open the door and practically falling out of the car but was pulled back in when he realized he was still in his seat-belt. He shouted angrily and unbuckled his belt, throwing himself out of his car and running around the front end of the crown Victoria, jumping up and sliding over the hood of the car to run after his partner who was already running up Madison and turning left down an ally.
Tristan ran as fast as he could, not even registering that he hadn’t drawn his weapon or that allies were funnels of death. He didn’t even stop to clear the ally, instead he just turned left and ran down head-first. He shouted after Ray though he wasn’t shouting at Ray but rather at the large male that was still ahead of them both. He shouted at him to stop but he knew the man wouldn’t.
He could see the man suddenly veer left on Spring Street and Ray following behind him. But both were so far ahead… Tristan exited the ally and veered left as well, his eyes frantically darting around for any sign of where his partner and the suspect had gone. Then he spotted Ray running across the intersection of 9th and Spring, to the parking garage on the corner. He heard Ray shout for the man to stop and that was all Tristan needed.
Not even registering his physical exhaustion, Tristan took off running towards the parking garage. Thankful that all the cars that had been present were stopped as they watched the scene unfolding in front of them…instead of actually helping but that would make them liabilities. Tristan leapt over the fence and shrubs that decorated the entrance of the parking garage, practically vaulting himself inside the incredibly dark structure. He squinted, trying to get used to the even darker interior of the garage and the interior lights that were there. He began to run forward, trying to locate where Ray and the suspect had gone but he couldn’t see any movement. He rounded the hood of a tall work van and came face to face with the barrel of a gun. He skidded to a halt and froze, staring face to face with the suspect that had already shot a uniform on Madison and 9th.
The voice in Tristan’s head was louder than the blood rushing in his ears—shouting at him that he was worthless and deserved this. That he wanted the suspect to pull the trigger! That he wanted this because then he wouldn’t be a disappointment to anyone else! He was worthless and never going to be good enough for anyone!
It was only seconds until Tristan heard the sound of a gunshot, silencing the voice in his head and making the world mute. He flinched violently and took a step back, expecting to have been hit…to feel pain erupt somewhere… But he didn’t. Instead he watched as the suspect cried out and crippled to the ground, clutching his side.
Tristan didn’t understand. Why was the suspect shot? He was supposed to have been shot. He was supposed to have died. Why…?
“What the ******** is WRONG WITH YOU!?” Came Ray’s out of breath voice from Tristan’s left. Tristan flinched and looked over to see Ray running towards the suspect, immediately kicking the gun away from the suspect and climbing on top of him as he forced the man onto his stomach to handcuff up.
“You want to die or something!? For ******** sake!” Ray continued as he used his body weight to force the man to comply, putting on the handcuffs and using his chin to cue his mic and request a bus for the injured suspect, reporting that he had been shot and that they will need a supervisor and response team to investigate.
Tristan stood frozen still, his eyes wide as he watched Ray pin the suspect down until an ambulance could arrive. His eyes slowly moved to the gun that was lying under the back end of a station wagon parked in the garage.
What had just happened? He froze… he just stood there. He was going to let that man shoot him.
Maybe the voice was right, maybe he wasn’t good enough for this anymore...
Quote:
‘To whoever finds this letter… I’m sorry.’
For all of his thoughts and emotions, that was all Tristan could put down on paper. He had re-written those exact same words over and over again, always on a new sheet of paper every time. Yet every time he wrote it he realized that he couldn’t think of anything else to write after that simple line; that simple, short, vague line. He wanted there to be more, an explanation to his behavior and a reason that justified his actions but he really didn’t have one.
Ever since the nightmares started he had assumed that he was just under a lot of stress at work and home, that the stress was manifesting itself into those nightmares. Then they got worse and more frequent—they started to cause stress instead of him thinking that stress caused them. He wasn’t sleeping and began attempting desperate remedies to try and sleep without nightmares. Sleeping pills, naturopathic oils, self-help books, dream catchers, extreme exhaustion workouts, hypnosis and even alcohol but nothing seemed to work because every time he fell asleep the nightmares were there waiting; the nightmares and a voice that was growing more and more familiar… like a disgusting and revolting comfort.
His personality changed and he could no longer tell if the voice he heard in his dreams was his own voice or not. He began to believe it was his own mind talking with him, like a monologue between his spirit and mental being. It was degrading, self-depreciating and full of so much hate. He was angry all the time for no reason but the lack of sleep tempered that emotion to the point of coming across as flat and vapid. He looked worse than the addicts he was dealing with on the streets and he had been questioned numerous times by his coworkers and superiors if he was on something…and the result was always a UA test. He never tested though Tristan wished that sleep deprivation would show as a test result somehow… So that he could prove to people that he wasn’t lying but rather just tired.
He began to forget things—small things at first, like where he placed his keys or if he turned off the stove but eventually those small things grew into huge things like hours of time and remembering how he got to where he was. He forgot his fiancé…forgot the ultimatum that she gave him so that they could move away together, start their lives somewhere new. He forgot his weapon at work more than once… leaving it in his locker but never getting out of the precinct thanks to his partner double checking him every shift.
The more he forgot, the more time he missed he found had been replaced with thoughts that he began to believe were his own creation. He hated himself and he hated how pathetic he was. The voice in his head telling him how he was useless and would never amount to anything, that even his attempts to make a difference were futile because he would always fall short and never get what he deserves…which is nothing. He wasn’t worth anything and he was never going to be good enough for anything. Initially he fought these thoughts, thinking that it was just nightmares scaring him but as time passed he believed them and it changed him.
He began to hallucinate though he was certain it was from the lack of sleep. He would frequently see a figure in his apartment…or around him in general. It was just a haze and he could never make out what or who it was. Like a shape that you see for a second out of the corner of your eyes and when you look directly at it it’s gone. It made him paranoid and he often found himself spinning around and screaming at a wall to go away…to leave him alone. He learned to ignore it, despite how unnerving it was to him. He would often see it at work and it would cause him to have a panic attack which he always tried to keep to himself. He learned that if he told Ray he needed to use the bathroom somewhere he could get out of the car and get some space to deal with the panic attack before resuming shift… but that presence never went away.
It only grew worse and worse… that shadowy presence constantly hanging over him, like a grim reaper following him with every step and just waiting for him to mess up. Only…he was messing up a lot now. The day that he almost got shot was evidence of that. He wasn’t good enough anymore. Ever since that evening he was put on administrative leave—so was Ray, but that was standard procedure for him since he had to fire his weapon. Though for Tristan…his reasoning for being put on leave was for something entirely different. An internal investigation was opened up in regards to his behavior lately and if his actions that night was cowardice or something worse, drug influence. The rookie officer that had been shot that night recovered, the suspect did too and was in jail on multiple felony charges… but the fact of the matter is that Tristan was right there and somehow didn’t even recognize the situation and the investigation was trying to figure out of his actions were intentional or not.
Either way… he wasn’t good enough. He was pathetic now.
For the last few weeks he had been contemplating going back to Granny Spiderlegs like he told that bookstore clerk—Amelia—he would, but he never did. He couldn’t bring himself to going back to that woman. Not that he didn’t like her or trust her, he just felt like he had messed up her hard work somehow. That it was his fault it didn’t work and he didn’t want to admit another failure to another human being.
He was left to sit alone in his apartment, doing nothing while he waited for the results of the investigation. Sometimes he would go out and walk the city streets but most often he was inside, sitting on his couch and staring ahead of himself at a blank TV screen.
He swallowed and looked down at the stack of papers that had that single line written on each and every one of them. His 22 lying down next to the papers, his own personal firearm that the department didn’t take away because they didn’t think they needed to take it away…how wrong they were. Biting his lip, Tristan reached down to the coffee table to pick up his firearm, pulling back the slide to carefully look into the chamber to spot the glimmer of a metal round lodged where it needed to be in the chamber. All he wanted was some sleep…and this was the only way to do it.
Closing his eyes, Tristan leaned back into the couch cushions, setting the firearm on his thigh as his finger slowly slide into the trigger guard to gently rest against the trigger. Maybe it was strange that he was happy to finally get some sleep but he didn’t care. He would finally be able to sleep without nightmares… He would finally get some rest.
“You think that if you off yourself you’ll be able to escape the nightmares?”
That voice. It was the same dark voice he’d been hearing in his head…only this time it wasn’t in his head. Tristan’s eyes flew open and he found himself staring directly at a tall, thinly built man with large black feathered wings. His appearance was fuzzy; making Tristan feel like his vision was out of focus except everything around the man was very clear and in focus… Tristan made a gag-like gasp of a sound before he leapt up to his feet, immediately pointing the gun directly at the man.
“LET ME SEE YOUR HANDS! NOW!” He shouted, his whole body shaking as he realized that he didn’t really care about the man’s hands. For months he had thought this voice was his own and now… now there was a very obvious physical presence attached to it. Was he hallucinating?
“Even in death you won’t escape me.” He replied, instead of showing his hands or any sort of peace-gesture he took an awkward step forward…awkward in that it almost looked like he was floating and gliding instead of actually stepping.
Tristan yelped and stepped back, his calves hitting the couch behind him so he quickly climbed up onto the couch and over the back-seat of the couch, backing up into the kitchen of his apartment. He was hyperventilating and sweating, his hands shaking so much that he didn’t even think if he shot the man that it would hit him.
“You are so pathetic. Even now you’re proving how worthless you really are—taking the easy way out by killing yourself? You’re not good enough for death, Tristan. You’re not good enough for life either but death is where people that deserve it go and you do not.” The man continued to move towards him, moving through the couch as if it were transparent… Tristan was definitely hallucinating now.
Yet… what he was saying was making unbelievable sense. He wasn’t good enough to die… Here he was thinking that if he did die he would finally be at peace but that wouldn’t be the case. If he died, he wouldn’t go where heroes who die go. He wasn’t good enough for that… meaning he would never rest, never sleep, and never be at peace.
Tristan shuddered, still pointing the gun at the pale haired man that continued to approach him, “GET BACK!” Why was he shouting useless commands? It was obvious that this man wasn’t going to get back and it was obvious that he wasn’t going to show him his hands either…
“You aren’t allowed to die, Tristan, you’re only allowed to suffer.” The man laughed then, shaking his head as he began to smile. His laugh was one of pure pleasure…that he was obviously enjoying what was happening in the apartment and what was happening to Tristan. Which… lead Tristan to a surprising thought.
Suddenly Tristan turned the gun on himself, pointing the barrel to the side of his head as he stared at the mirage of a man before him. Like an angel of death…only… more evil. Tristan suddenly realized that this voice, this hallucination… all this time was feeding him negativity and pain because that’s what it thrived on. He didn’t know where this epiphany was coming from but it made sense! It didn’t want Tristan to die because it wanted him to suffer! Well, Tristan decided it was time to pay the damned man ******** you.” Tristan spat, gritting his teeth as he began to pull the trigger. In that second of tightening his finger across the thing piece of plastic that was the trigger he watched as the pleasured look on the man’s face contorted to pure horror and fear. It caused Tristan to grin because he was right. He was finally going to get some sleep…
He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger back hard, hearing the click of the safety going off and finally the final bang of the gun firing. Then… nothing; he was still breathing, still shaking, still standing. He opened his eyes and saw that the man wasn’t standing in front of him anymore. Tristan stared ahead of himself, his eyes wide and his mouth parted slightly as he realized he was still holding the gun to his head, his finger still pulling hard against the trigger and having yet to release it. Then he began to feel a burning pain, searing hot and quickly radiating throughout his…leg? Tristan looked down and realized that his hand wasn’t holding the gun to his head but rather pointed to his thigh, a close-contact bullet wound slowly oozing blood that soaked into his jeans on his right thigh. His breathing accelerated as he looked at his hand, suddenly realizing that another hand was holding his wrist—a hazy blurry pale hand.
Tristan looked up to his right, staring straight into the eyes of the pale haired man—there was a fury on his face that sent instant chills and fear throughout Tristan, enough to block out his pain. The man leaned in close, allowing Tristan to realize that the man’s eyes were a blood red and they felt like they were burning his own skin by just being looked into.
“You stupid worthless fool!” The man hissed, squeezing Tristan’s wrist to the point of actually breaking bone. Tristan could hear a crack and pop which was immediately followed with excruciating pain. Tristan screamed and began to cripple, his body finally giving in to the overload it was experiencing with being shot and assaulted. Tristan was forced to let go of the firearm, hearing it clatter to the floor nearby.
“If sleep is what you wish, then that is what you shall get… but I will be waiting for you there, I promise.” The man said in a low tone that held so much violence in it. He let go of Tristan’s now broken wrist, allowing the broken man to fall to his kitchen floor.
“You will never escape me, Tristan. You will never be good enough to escape me.” The man said with a glower as he stood over Tristan, a sadistic smile creeping onto his face as he took pleasure in Tristan’s pain.
“No… no… no…” Tristan repeated over and over again, pleading with no one in particular. Pleading to not fall asleep…to not be met with those nightmares again but his vision was growing dark and he couldn’t tell if it was from his own body going into shock as he began to lose consciousness or if it was caused by the evil dark angel standing over him.
“…no… please no…” He whimpered as the black spots in his vision increased in size, the pain fading away to numbness as well. Eventually, the entire room went dark and for a second he thought that he was dead…until the hazy figure of that man began to appear in the darkness, that sadistic smile spreading across his face.
Just like he promised, he was waiting.
. . . Roleplays . . . Below are the roleplays that Tristan and/or Azazel have participated in.
. . . Specter . . . “The worst thing about that kind of prejudice... is that while you feel hurt and angry and all the rest of it, it feeds you self-doubt. You start thinking, perhaps I am not good enough." - Nina Simone
Name: Azazel Age: Unknown Gender: Male Race: Nephilim Aspect: Never Good Enough Stage: Specter
Personality: He's pretty much a douche. And he's quite the connoisseur of tacky insults in which he should write a book highlighting them all.
