#journal entry 2

[mothghhost]

biohazard romance (the optimistic side)

[hikaris-bodyguard]

July, Year XXXX,

Well today was...eventful. Aloys, a member of the Black Bulls, showed up with his younger sister Maelie. I can’t say that I wasn’t expecting Aloys to show up, but Maelie being here wasn’t something I anticipated. But considering how protective Aloys is of her, I can see why he brought her. Still, a 9 year old isn’t going to be much help with this *sigh*.

Ah well, nothing can be done about it now. Also, I now remember why I strongly dislike Josslyn’s father Zora. That man likes to stir things up. Today he tried to accuse me of knowing something that the rest of the group didn’t, which...y’know...isn’t a lie. I know a lot more than everyone else here, but that doesn’t mean it’s right to accuse someone without evidence!

But the thing that made me really mad wasn’t that he accused me of withholding information, the thing that made me mad was him accusing me of fooling around with Hikari! She and I are friends, nothing more, nothing less! As much as I wish I had the guts to tell her how I feel, I don’t. I’m too much of a coward, I’m to afraid that our relationship will change for the worse. I’d rather us stay like this, stay as friends, then take the chance of possibly losing her forever.

Ah I apologize I didn’t get to spend much time with you journal, I have a terrible headache after Captain Sukehiro grabbed me by the head and squeezed it when Zora accused me and Hikari of fooling around. I’ll come back soon alright?

— Alistar

(Taglist: @eme-eleff @thoughtfullyrainynightmare @bowandcurtsey @crazyclownthanos @jovialnoise and if anyone wants to be tagged let me know)

[teenbasher]

Journal entry #2

(Tw: child prostitution and abuse mentioned.)

December 6th.

Guess I forgot to put the date last time. It doesn't matter, honestly idk why I'm bothering now.

I didn't find money until late at night when some rich guy in a Porsche pulled up by the club I hang around outside.

He took me to a nice hotel.

Got to sleep in a nice warm bed, had a shower and ate a proper meal.

I feel human again when I get to do that.

It feels nice.

But the price isn't and I am still bruised from his rough hands around my neck.

He liked it when I cried, he liked hurting me. All of them are the same, all men are the same. They like hurting things that look weak and can't fight back.

Sir Augustus taught me that long ago, I hate it, but I can't change it.

In a way I accept it because the pain cleanses me, it makes me whole and pure again.

Takes away the sins I have caused.

At Least is what i tell myself to endure some of the awful pain.

Because if Alex and my mum can't some how forgive me through my penance, I don't think I can keep going.

I worry I will grow up to become a man like them all.

Today I sit writing this in the alleyway behind the club, shivering and hungry.

My "care giver" took away all my money yesterday and kicked me around to let out anger he had about another transaction earlier.

He said I had done poorly and the costumer had complained. But I know that's not true because the costumer didn't drop me off.

I can only hope to steal some food later & one of my alleyway mates shares a blanket with me when they come back.

Til later

-seb age 14.

[markiplitessepticeyes]

based on journal entry #2

blame @markiplier dont blame me XD

cardio is cardio I guess lol

[nocentis-a]

Journal Entry

October 15

A dream. The very same dream—the one that comes in patterns of weeks, of months. The one that haunts, that scrapes at the corners of my sanity in hopes of peeling it upward to reveal what is beneath, as if I am only held together by cheap adhesive ( and perhaps I am ). The one that can only be outrun by collapsing from exhaustion and bypassing dreams entirely. Tonight starts my vigil, so I suppose I will find plenty of time to write between the sun’s fall and rise.

The dream itself was not much different than usual. I have recorded it before and will likely continue to do so, as it lurks beyond that black silk curtain draped around the walls of my skull. Gnarled hands claw their way beneath a material all too flimsy to keep them at bay, dragging themselves and, of course, the body that belongs to them, to the forefront of my musings. Where there should be walls to contain such behemoths, there is only silk.

Though the layout of my mind is irrelevant when it is something so intangible, I suppose. Describing it as though it is a physical location seems a bit ludicrous, even to myself.

About the dream: I am standing, staring at my visage in a mirror. Naturally, I do not know how I’ve arrived at this location, nor do I remember precisely how long I have been observing myself. My face appears as it should have, had I not been branded as a child, and for a long moment I do not recognize myself. The skin surrounding my right eye paints an angry cardinal, and much in the way that seared skin tends to do, peels away rather gruesomely, allowing ink to roll along my skin in place of blood. The contrast should be jarring, but I am left completely underwhelmed. I cannot help but suppose it is fitting that a blackened heart would taint the veins and their contents as well.

I make the mistake of blinking.

The mirror glitches, and I realize all too late that it is not a mirror at all. I should have known, however, because I am not smiling, nor am I tilting my head, nor am I laughing, but he is. He begins to appear less opaque than before somehow; a thought projection, my diluted memories supply, though one with a mind of its own. One with a name, a story, a motive—all of which are hard to remember through the body of water which separates me from clear, concise recollections.

My hand lifts. Restrospectively, I do not remember giving it the command to do so, but it lifts all the same. I feel the energy coursing through my fingers along with the burning, aching, agonizing wish to expel this false version of myself. It is a motion so familiar, almost second nature in some way, and so I do not think before I give in. It lulls me, the hum of magic through my bones, into a docile vessel. I realize a moment too late that my mouth is forming words. They echo; my voice, too loud, repeating something cruel and soaked in malice back to me. All else is silent.

‘Altairis,’ ricochets off of the walls. It repeats, and it repeats, and it repeats, and when the smoke clears, I have not defeated myself as I struggle to think that I had originally intended. Had that been the intention? It is all so unclear.

Three bodies. All dead, surely. All by my hand. The first, a friend I have not seen since before I blinked and was eight years older, standing in a crystalline tower with hands a bleeding red. The second, a soul unknown to me who was brought into a fight that was far from their own.

The last, a love. My love, more specifically, and for a moment I can do nothing more than stare. I stare because I cannot agree with the image in front of my eyes; these people cannot be here, cannot be dead, when a moment prior I was staring at myself. I stare because the breath in my lungs has died and I have forgotten how to inhale. I stare because the silence is so definite, so crisp, so potent, that it is disorienting. It is far too quiescent to be inhabited by death; I am far too calm, too composed, too collected.

‘It’s okay,’ she says—my love, I mean. Her voice is soothing, entirely too soothing, and her bloodied head lifts from the ground, propped up leisurely by a twisted, snapped arm. For a moment I cannot tell where her hair ends and where her blood begins. Her eyes are open, dull, lifeless already, and her sunshine-smile stretches to lengths I cannot rationalize to be anatomically plausible. ‘It’s not your fault,’ she assures. ‘Look.’

My head turns to accommodate the strings tied at my wrists. They are so thin, so flimsy—I hadn’t even noticed that they were there.

‘It wasn’t you, not really,’ she promises. Her voice feels like a palm stroking my cheek, like fingers carding through my hair, like the gentle cradle of someone madly in love. It feels wrong.

It’s strange, I think, because it surely looked like me, it felt like me—I can remember the motions clearly, I can remember the words and the way they tasted leaving my mouth.

And that is when the glass beneath my feet breaks. Not literally, in this sense, but it is the moment of realization. That is when the staring in silence is no longer staring, and it is no longer silent, and instead the strings have snapped and I am falling to my knees. I hear nothing through the white noise, but I am sure that I am screaming because my throat is raw. I am sure that I am crying because my face is warm. I am sure that I am dying because water, or blood, or ink, is filling my throat, my lungs, and I am choking. I cannot breathe. And I do not want to breathe.

‘Don’t you see that it was not your fault?’

No. I do not. I cannot.

The strings were too frail to have pulled me along. Had I resisted, had I done anything at all, things would not have ended this way. You would be alive. You would all be alive.

And maybe I would be dead instead.

[jailshark]

I'm a monster

I killed them I'm a murderer aren't I?

I wasn't there to respond to their messages I didn't realize that they messaged me

Now they can't contact me at all

Their dead aren't they?

I couldn't save them it's all my fault I killed them

I didn't mean for them to die

There dead now right?

I don't know if they're alive but there most likely dead

I'm a murderer

[anatomic-adoration]

6/25/23

Finished work early today so I decided to head back to the coffee shop. It was fairly uneventful, but as I was getting near I saw a familiar face.

Just across the street there's a flower shop. They're normally not my thing- when I take plants home I'm condemning the poor things to a death sentence- but that guy from the other day was there! Upon closer inspection, I could just make out that he was wearing a green apron. Does he work there? I shouldn't be surprised, he's obviously a very gentle person. Maybe that's why he dresses that way, as a form of protection? Seems silly, considering his size. He's definitely over six feet(!), but it's hard to gauge just how much from a distance. Regardless, it's not my place to judge what makes others comfortable.

I found myself watching him through the window in the coffee shop. It wasn't easy, considering I was looking through both the coffee shop and the flower shop across the street's window, but I could somewhat make out his form moving around in there. I ended up nursing my too bitter coffee for so long it was cold before even half was gone. Eh, it happens. Iced coffee is good too!

No use choking down the rest of the gross bean juice, so I made a quick trip to the customization station to add more sugar and some honey. No cream like I wanted though; they didn't have any lactose free options. I've never understood that, there's more lactose intolerant people than vegetarian, and yet there's almost never options for the former. If I was running a business I'd made sure to accommodate all my customers. Everyone's needs deserve to be given acknowledgement and respect.

Anyway, my "quick trip" evidently wasn't quick enough, as when I got back to the table he was gone. Shift probably ended. I'm not sure why, but I was actually a little upset to him gone. It's kind of exciting to see him. He... intrigues me. I mean, I've only seen the guy twice and he's disproved my expectations both times.

I spent the rest of the time there studying in one of the corners since they had a little alcove-like area with a book shelf and some couches. At one point I thought I heard the bell on the door ring as if someone was about to come in, but the door closed again almost immediately. I swear I saw a familiar gray blur, but I can't be sure it was him. Old people exist, after all. Wouldn't be surprised if one opened the door and was put off by all the skulls and the rock music. Still, kinda weird...

[honeybeedollie]

Oh! Before I forget, how was your day?...