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Warnings:
Implied s/h and s/icide attempt
Depression
Abuse
Bullying leading to injury
Inpatient/psych ward mentions
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Tim...
Timâs mother didnât talk to him much. She never had to begin with, until heâd started to be a problem for her. He wasnât a bad kid. Couldnât be. Terrified to be.
The first time he was in the inpatient facility, he was only six. He was there for a year, maybe moreâ his memories have never been particularly accurate. But he had problems. He lost time. He forgot where he was or what he was doing. He had headaches that made him scream, something he was forced not to do. It only meant bad things to follow.
He ran away. A lot. He usually came back, but sometimes people had to find him. He hadnât even realized he was gone, and no one knew why heâd left; not even he did. He lost so much time; Sometimes whole months would be forgotten. People at school talked about conversations he didnât know heâd had with them. He did his work without remembering. He had bruises he didnât recall getting. His mother was angry. Always so angry.
He didnât know what he was doing wrong.
But it seemed like he was always doing something wrong.
When he was thirteen, he had to go back in. He hated it, and the operation left him with a nasty scar on his arm. He was there until he was fourteen. A shorter stay than the last time, and he was glad for that.
Tim was moved from inpatient to intensive outpatient care. It was almost worse this time. He was lost, confused, anxious, terrified of the idea of ever going back. He had to be good. He had to be quiet. Head down, not speaking unless someone talked to him first.
He went back to school. He didnât talk much at all. He avoided everyone, and that might have been his first mistake. Safety in numbers might have helped him, but he didnât want anyone too close to him. Something bad would happen to any friends he made, he was so sure of it. But that meant letting bad things happen to himself, it seemed.
More bruises, blood drawn by schoolmates, more headaches. Visits to the nurse, to the counselors, to the principal. Some of the counselors were sympathetic, but the principal seemed like he couldnât care less what was happening. Even after Tim spent a month healing from a broken leg.Â
Some older student named Mike, along with his friends, had had him cornered in the stairwell. Theyâd taken something heâd needed. A matte plastic black and white mask. It looked low-effort and maybe dumb, but he needed it. No one knew why he had it, why it was so important. Tim didnât even quite know why he needed it. Theyâd thrown it down the stairs, calling him a freak and other phrases he was used to. But when he tried to get it, when he turned his back, Mike slammed a foot into his back and sent him flying.
They took the mask and left him.
After that, he started losing time again. It was almost unnoticeable, but he started to catch on. He started leaving sticky notes around his room, and sometimes there would be new ones. They were signed simply with an âMâ. He knew who was leaving the notes. He started getting really annoyed with Martin. He could handle his own life, he could take it, he could do what he needed to do.
âLook, kid, you needed someone to watch your back. Iâm here to do that, and so is James. -Mâ
âLeave me alone! Both of you! Get out of my life! -Timâ
âSCARED SCARED SCARED -Jâ
âWATCHING. NO FACE. NO EYES. HIDE YOUR FACE. CANâT SEE YOU NO FACE -Jâ
âYouâre freaking him out -Mâ
James was the name Tim gave to the angry one. The doctors said that he and Martin were auditory hallucinations. But he didnât hear them, not really. He felt their presence, their words. Sometimes. James didnât talk much, but Tim knew he was there. He could feel him breathing down his neck, he could feel his anger and paranoia and disgust.
Tim hated James.
But James would never do anything more than loom and linger.
Something happened. He didnât know what, but everyone seemed scared of him. He didnât know what heâd done wrong. He could never have done something bad. He wasnât a bad kid. He didnât know what happened. He left notes for Martin, asking questions, receiving no answer. Martin didnât know what happened.
But James did.
James...
It was a bright day. No stormy clouds or thunder or anything so dramatic. It was simply a day. It was normal. The sneers and jabs and names were normal. Everything was perfectly fine. James was watching. He was always watching, just in case, but usually he was quiet about it. Almost subtle. James wasnât good at subtle. Martin and Tim didnât understand what he was watching for.
Everything was fine, so Tim didnât know why James felt so much closer than usual. But that one guy was back again. James couldnât remember his name. The one shaped like a brick with about the same amount of intelligence as a wooden spoon. The one who put Tim in the hospital.
The one who stole his mask.
He was apparently determined to jab and prod more than usual. That was fine. Tim was handling it. He was walking, not looking back, not looking the guy in the eye. James didnât need to do anything, as much as he wanted to curse the guy out.
But then the guy grabbed his bag, and James threw Tim into the darkness. It was the first time heâd ever done anything more than make noises and write mildly ominous notes. He was angryâ he was pissed, and he was done with this guyâs bullshit. He grabbed the guyâs hand and threw him over his shoulder.
He tossed their bag aside and slammed his heel into the bully as he was trying to get up. James straddled his chest and punched him, finding a very satisfying crack somewhere when his fist connected to his jaw. The guy made some pitiful sound reaching up to try and grab at Jamesâ hair. He turned his head and bit down on his hand as hard as he could.
He didnât see the other hand before he was punched, though. He fell off but wasnât deterred. He got right back up and tackled the guy when he was still getting onto his feet, right into the lockers. The guy started spewing insults like a sewer spews shit, and James wouldnât have that. He punched him again, a gut shot, and snarled.
He took another hit and felt blood on his lip. James spat blood on Mike âOh, that was his name!â just before they were torn apart.
He didnât speak. Not even when they called Timâs mother. He always hated her. He hated everyone except for Tim and Martin. Well, maybe Martin a little. But Tim? Tim he had to protect. He had to save him. Itâs all he knew how to do. Tim didnât think he was helping, he didnât understand, but James knew.
James always knows.
No one tried to take his mask ever again.
No one would ever hurt Tim again. Not unless they wanted to die.
New survivors were always a part of Dwightâs never ending list on responsibilities. He served as their guide for their new found home in the Entityâs realm, as much as he wished it wasnât the case.
Among the patch of survivors was one that Dwight noticed was ratherâŚquiet. In all fairness, theyâd just been thrown in a purgatory like realm, it would make sense if they werenât in the most conversational mood. Dwight always tried to give the survivors their space to process their imprisonment, that theyâd be stuck doing trials for the unforeseeable future. And Dwight would always promise heâd find a way out of here for them, even if he was unsure of how to fulfill it.
When he saw Tim lagging behind the other survivors, he made the move to approach him. He made sure his arrival was clear, not wanting to spook the newbie. After what theyâve been through in their first trial, Dwight was certain theyâd be on edge for the time being. A branch snaps beneath Dwightâs foot, announcing his arrival. Thereâs a kind smile on his face.
âHow are you holding up?â Dwight asked. He hardly asked if they were okay anymore. He already knew the answer.
Everything was different; From his stance to his mannerisms. It was almost as if heâd grown taller, too, but that wasnât the case. His aura was just.. bigger. He took shorter breaths, clenched and unclenched his hands. He looked ready to either run or fight. Paranoia likely was common among new survivors, though, right..?
The snapping branch seemed to startle him, but not in a very amicable way. Even with the mask hiding his face, a keen eye could tell he was scowling. Practically snarling; an angry dog ready to bite. He whipped around to look at Dwight, taking a half-step back. He didnât answer, at first. He looked like he was debating simply punching the poor guy.
So I always felt for Tim in Marble Hornets, and I couldnât help but feel like the writers just⌠Accidentally created a character with Dissociative Identity Disorder? So anyway this is a little self-indulgent, but this is Martin; one alter of Timâs. The other is James, otherwise known as the masked man.
Martin is the more subtle kind of protector. The kind who knows when things require a touch slightly more delicate than Jamesâ approach of just wailing on a guy. However, this doesnât mean he wonât absolutely throw hands. And probably win.
âLoomingâ wasnât a word often used for Tim. He wasnât particularly tall, but he always made himself smaller. Maybe it was a defense mechanism, maybe it came from years of being made to feel lesser than others. But now, in this moment? He... Loomed.
In one hand, he held a flashlightâ Fresh from the previous narrow escape from the Doctor, heâd managed to keep it intact. In the other hand is something heâd pulled out of a box just before the doors had opened. A white and black plastic mask. Its features were few: Black around the eyes, small eyebrows, and the lips had been drawn over in black sharpie as well. The holes in the mask looked just a little too low to be comfortable seeing through.
Timâs fingers tapped against the matte plastic. As the others walked towards the campfire, he stayed behind. His limp was more pronounced, and it seemed like he just couldnât be bothered to walk much further. Who could blame him? It was his first time.
Things were different. He seemed more pale, his hair looked darker, his eyes looked a little lighter than their normal near-black brown. His facial features had turned a little angrier... well, much angrier. He looked about ready to punch something. He wasnât paying attention to anything or anyone around him. He twitched at the slightest noise in the trees. Soon enough, in a somewhat hurried motion, he slipped the mask on.
Choke. Just think about it, seriously. Think about what choking is and imagine speaking while itâs happening. That would fuckinâ hurt, man.
Hiss. Look, itâs just not possible, okay? No matter how âevilâ you want your character to seem.
Snarl. Animals snarls. The Beast from Beauty and the Beast snarls. The Hulk snarls. You know who doesnât snarl? PEOPLE WHEN THEYâRE SPEAKING.
Shriek. Come on, 99% of the time, âshriekâ is not the word you want.Letâs face it: if you put an exclamation point at the end of the sentence, your reader gets the picture. Donât bring to mind banshees and screaming toddlers.
Sneer. Iâm not even going to bother explaining this one. âSNEERâ ISNâT EVEN A SOUND.
Choked is not meant to be taken literally, an obstruction in the throat. It means theyâre having difficultly speaking, theyâre forcing the words out with difficulty. Often used when the character is convulsed in tears or laughter.
Hiss is a low, threatening whisper. Raw, guttural, vicious. It is NOT a literal hiss like an animal, it is a tone of voice that serves the same function. Someone will hiss that theyâre going to cut your throat- a message from one person to the other.
Snarl is the same kind of thing. Not literal, itâs a tone of voice that serves the same function. Itâs raw and gutteral like a hiss, but more savage than vicious. Itâs loud, itâs showy, itâs intimidating. Itâs very alpha male, big man, look at how fucking dangerous I am. Iâll take ALL of you on. Even if theyâre snarling at one person in particular, nobody better back them up or theyâre gonna get fucked up too.
Shriek. Come on, seriously? Weâve all heard people shriek either in fear or outrage. High pitched, loud, out of control, feminine. Men can shriek, but itâs funny and emasculating. Think angry italian women throwing pots and pans or ladies on tables who just saw a mouse.
Sneering is contempt whether itâs a facial expression or a tone of voice or both. There are a hundred different ways to sneer with your voice, but it all adds up to the same thing.
WHAT THEY SMELL LIKE: Cheap soap with a very low-key scent; maybe lavender or vanilla. It only barely covers up the cigarette smoke lol.
Sometimes, though, he smells like pine and soil, smells like a forest fire, almost.
HOW THEY SLEEP. SLEEPING POSITION. SCHEDULE. ETCâŚ: Tim sleeps on his side if he goes to sleep properly. Occasionally he wakes up in weird positions, not to mention weird places.
WHAT MUSIC THEY ENJOY: Rock, folk punk, niche indie shit, game osts
HOW MUCH TIME THEY SPEND GETTING READY EACH MORNING: In the morning? About five. But he usually prepares the night before by setting out what clothes he wants to wear, making sure he puts his wallet in the same place, etc.
FAVORITE THING TO COLLECT: Itâs expensive, but definitely instruments.
LEFT OR RIGHT HANDED: Right handed. (Martin is left handed, James is ambidextrous)
FAVORITE SPORT(S): He doesnât watch sports that often but sometimes heâll turn on a game of golf in the background if he needs to fall asleep.
FAVORITE TOURISTY THING TO DO WHEN TRAVELING: Take pictures. He has a pretty cinematic mind, he likes finding the beauty in the mundane, the little details people would usually miss. Thatâs what intrigues him.
FAVORITE KIND OF WEATHER: He likes spring. He likes the smell of new life, but he can still wear flannels and long sleeve shirts.
WEIRD / OBSCURE FEAR THEY HAVE: My manâs terrified to find a bug or bugs in his food.
THE CARNVIVAL / ARCADE GAME THEY ALWAYS WIN WITHOUT FAIL: Tim knows theyâre pretty much all rigged so he doesnât play them. Martin, however, will knock those bottles down like a fucking madman.
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