SLEEP TIGHT: This is going to be several paragraphs long. Thus, I've included this poem which I found a few days ago and is literally the perfect summary for this entire thing. I wanted to thank all of you who loved my Troy because I'm very close to my characters as odd as that may sound to some of you. Troy grew to form a huge part of me and I so fell in love with everything he is. I feel like a mother when it comes to my characters and I think I love them like one. So, this is the hardest goodbye I've ever had to write and thank you for joining us along for the ride this summer. [LISTEN.]
"I was ready to tell the story of my life but the ripple of tears and the agony of my heart wouldn't let me. I began to stutter, saying a word here and there. And all along I felt, as tender as a crystal, ready to be shattered. In this stormy sea we call life, all the big ships come apart board by board. How can I survive riding a lonely little boat with no oars and no arms? My boat did finally break by the waves and I broke free as I tied myself to a single board. Though the panic is gone, I am now offended. Why should I be so helpless, rising with one wave, and falling out with the next? I don't know if I am nonexistence while I exist but I know for sure when I am, I am not. But when I am not then I am. Now how can I be a skeptic about the resurrection and coming to life again since in this world I have so many times, like my own imagination, died and been born again? That is why, after a long agonizing life as a hunter, I finally let go and got hunted down and became free."
Troy examined his fingernails, there was rust and dirt inside them. A cold and broken scream erupted from outside but he no longer felt the need to smile. His lips which would twitch at the sign of pain of anyone, including his own family, were now drawn into a tight line never to be pried. He moved on to study his knuckles next. Pale. He had always been a pale creature, living in California for most of his life gained him many a nicknames for that exact reason but no one bothered much with him at all after learning that that young man would not hesitate to put a knife in their throat if they ever upset him. Yeah, he'd reigned over his entire town, entire cities. States, even. Top dog he had been. Even at eighteen and before this entire werewolf situation got him tangled in it's arms. There were deep purple marks all over his hands, some slightly faded to blue, others returning to a dark red. Signs, all around him, of the terrible crimes he'd committed.
Raindrops knocked at his window, each one that made enough noise made him jump in his place. If people could see him now they'd probably laugh, spit in his face. But he wouldn't care. All these things were done. There was no way of taking any of it back, he didn't care for doing so. He was here and that was that. There was a knife sitting beside him on the coffee table. It was the same one he'd used a hot summer night when he was twenty years old; on his mother. He couldn't recall the incident any longer but that was the last time he'd seen anyone in his family. Of course the postcards and letters had followed. She'd forgiven him, she wanted him home. But Troy no longer had a home. He lived in the streets and knew that going back home would tangle his loved one's in the mess he was caught in.
He lay down on the bed, staring at the almost empty room around him. He'd shoved most of the furniture out into the living room. When the fire started he wanted it to be a gentle slow process toward him. He wanted to feel what the others felt, what it was like to be hunted. Part of him pitied never having had a nemesis worthy of his time. The closest he'd come to possibly getting murdered by someone were probably Makya or Dianne. Such a sad thought it almost made him want to laugh. But no, he would not give anyone that honor. It would be his and all his own. His mind drifted briefly to Krystal and the way her raven hair gleamed against the flames that night. She was the closest thing he'd come to family after abandoning his own. Theirs was a distorted friendship, a morbid one that you only ever heard about in fairy tale books. He prayed that Ryan would deliver his letter. He didn't want to think that he was leaving Chase or Krystal completely alone after his passing. No -- he hoped they'd both get out of here as quickly as possible. Leave this all behind. Perhaps Krystal couldn't but Chase could, he would.
The time ticked by, minutes and hours passing him by. Another thing he'd quickly become accustomed to. The last time he remembered checking the date it'd been July. Right now could be August or September for all he knew or cared. The clock above his bed slowly began to irritate him. A distant part of him wanted to smash it in but Troy simply picked it up and set in the living room before making his way back to his room. He stopped halfway there, however, realizing that the door to his office had been left open. Troy carefully took the hammer sitting outside of Krystal's room and walked in. There were empty bookcases surrounding all of the walls. Murder mysteries, a collection of newspapers, and encyclopedias had all once surrounded a man now long gone who sat at that desk plotting his next step. He'd been all for detail and formatting. Careful planning, sharpened pencils.
Admiring the old wooden desk only took up a few minutes of Troy's time before he lifted the hammer above his head and sent it flying down on the desk. He repeated the movement over and over and over again until the desk was no longer there. In it's place stood a pile of wood and old newspapers. "A clever hiding spot." He remembered thinking to himself the first time he'd stuffed them inside the desk. He sat down like a child on the floor and began going through the newspapers. Mugshots of him at eighteen, at twenty, at twenty three...years and years. Others were simply stories of murders he'd committed but people never knew he was to blame. Now-a-days, he watched the news and anyone could get away with saying they were crazy. Double personality. Bullshit. Some people just wanted to kill for...for different reasons. Troy knew that he killed to feel powerful, whenever someone cringed in his presence, it made him feel important; useful.
Truth was he was the most pathetic person he'd ever encountered. He piled the newspapers atop each other and set them down on a table in the living room. He could still hear the screams outside his door but they were distant now, like voices only buzzing in his head. Troy picked up a sweater that belonged to Grace and had lazily been thrown on the ground before once again thinking about making his way back toward his room. The longer he drew this out, the harder it would be and he knew so. But something in the distance behind him caught his eye. There was a young boy standing at the other end of the hallway, staring at him. But it wasn't just any little boy. It was him. He felt like a zombie, making his way down toward the boy, reaching out to touch him. But before he could the boy vanished and Troy found himself in his childhood home.
He turned in a full circle until his eyes grew adjusted to the amount of light that was admitted into the white picket fenced home with wide open windows. There was a grand piano as soon as you entered. The living room was spacious, he wondered how many movie nights his parents spent there after he left. The kitchen, the kitchen had been his mother's favorite. He made his way there only to see if the chalkboard pinned on the fridge still remained. That's where she wrote her notes about the time his father would be home, play dates, what they'd run out of. It was so simple. A stupid old chalkboard decorated with macaroni. But it was her chalkboard and he loved her. Oh, he loved his mother. If there was someone who deserved a Nobel prize for anything it'd be her. She could've been his savior. Could have being the key words.
A voice rang from upstairs and Troy clumsily hurried to find the voice. What he found with instead were rats. A puzzled look spread across his face. The voice continued to speak and this time he recognized it; Grace. His Grace. She wasn't saying anything that made sense, speaking of a long forgotten toy she'd lost when she was six. Troy tried to turn around only to find that he was back in his own current home. Sweat lined every inch of his body and his sight was beginning to blur. Fire, he'd lit the fire but hadn't gotten out of the living room. He stumbled into the hallway, still hearing the rats from before. They were gnawing at his feet and racing in the walls. A rat, that's what he was. His bedroom door appeared before him and Troy quickly walked inside. The rats were there, too. Sitting all around him. He coughed for what seemed an eternity before his lips twitched and a smile spread across his face. "You've come for me, haven't you?" he asked no one in particular before laying down and allowing the rats to surround him. They waited until he was fast asleep to begin devouring him.
Eventually, slowly but surely, his vision returned to him and Troy stood on his bed, a child again. He was jumping up and down, losing his balance quickly and landing on his back. The wooden floors melted around him as he slipped through into the sea. Everything was blue and green around him, so clear. He could hear a familiar melody in the background but didn't care to try and distinguish what it was. When he became comfortable enough with the sea to try and move, everything around him once again melted and this time instead of sea he found lava. Burning against him as he gasped for breaths. A laugh imploded all around him, making him frantic as the lava dissolved and turned into tiny snowflakes. The ground below him was cold, a beautiful contrast to the fires he'd just experienced. A sigh of relief broke through his lips and a quiet smile was displayed on his face. There was no noise here, only him and the snow. Perhaps this was the option Ryan and him had never considered; being alone. Which, he'd longed for for a very long time. For once in his life--or, now death; Troy Jacobs stood up, stuffing his hands in his pockets and whistling a rhyme he didn't recognize as he paced through the snow. He'd be okay, he was home.
NEWS:
Troy Ephraim Jacobs was found the following day laying in his bedroom with bite marks all over him. It was stated in the newspaper that there are also burn marks. Police believe that Mr. Jacobs first burned himself in different places with the cigarettes found dumped in his living room and later fell into a delusional state resulting in him biting himself all over. What killed him were bite marks straight through the veins in his arms. A knife was found near him but no stabbing or cutting occurred. Troy Jacobs was a murderer newly released from prison after ten years and even had a display of newspapers with his mugshots in his office. It appears other people lived with Mr. Jacobs but no traces of them were found anywhere in the home other than clothing items which Mr. Jacobs took care to wash before his scene. No fingerprints either other than his own though it is said the others were two females and a male. According to notebooks also found in his office Mr. Jacobs was behind the bombings as well as possibly a few of the other deaths in Florence, Washington.
A nun? G-God, Troy, I’m a Baptist not a Catholic, s-silly. And you say this as if you can’t leave either. I d-don’t know you all that well but… I know you’re not a bad guy. Don’t ever think you are ‘cause you’re not. You’re a great, great leader, Troy. Don’t ever forget that. I-I’m sorry for not being able to carry out the task like I should and for not being capable enough to help y-you or the others but I can’t. I can’t Troy, I can’t live this life and still live with myself. I’m sorry.
You know, if you were anyone else Dianne, it might be difficult to believe the words coming out of your mouth. I apologize for not taking care of you enough to even know your religion anything about you, really. You don't have to live this life. This life was not meant for you...there is so much pain and I know you feel it all. So, go, Dianne. With your family, with other friends you've made. Leave this behind because this...this only creates monsters. You are not one.
Ryan: "You know you don't..." He bit his lip and looked down, nodding. This wasn't his decision to make. And if Troy really thought that this was the only way he could do right by everything that happened then it wasn't Ryan's place to argue. Still. "You know if you look hard enough there are as many differences between people as there are similarities. Doesn't matter who you compare. The answer's always the same." He smiled. Halfheartedly. "Just because I haven't done all you've done doesn't mean I don't know what you're feeling." It wasn't an apology. And Ryan wasn't trying to talk Troy out of anything. He just wanted him to know. When Troy asked if he could do a favor, Ryan nodded, carefully taking the paper presented to him and putting it in his pocket. "Sure." Another nod. "Yeah, I'll find her."
Troy: placed his fingers on the bridge of his nose finding it hard to concentrate on the situation. Lately he'd been having a lot of these moments where he'd get dizzy and only gather chunks of the conversation. "I wish no one knew what I was feeling." he said more to himself than to Ryan. He looked around slowly one last time before making his way toward the door. "You...you take care, please." he said. Opening the door, Troy headed out into the night feeling at least somewhat more released. He wasn't going to do charity work and apologize to everyone he'd ever hurt, that would be pointless. He had to feel and he had to suffer.
But He gives us glimpses; hints, if you will. And He has shown me that this is far from the end. Florence might be erased from the map but the people residing in it will not. I-I won’t allow it. I—…e-end, huh…?
T-Troy… I would never blame you for my own sins. I’m suffering because of my own stupid decisions, not because of you. Y-You still have time! You don’t have to do anything else. We… We can just leave and let Florence go.
You're absolutely right. All the people can't be erased from the map. Death isn't a simple thing nor is it one that can easily be brushed off your shoulders. You can leave Florence, you should leave Florence. Make something of yourself, Dianne. Be a nun if that's what you fuckin' wanna do. You can move past this, you have all the time in the world.
N-No! Y-You can’t! I-I’ve met the monsters you so desire to kill on a personal level, somewhat anyway. T-They’re not the real monsters here, w-we are! Rom— I-I mean, this guy, he has suffer so, so much since we’ve arrived here and none of this— none of this would have happened if we never stepped foot here. He’s a great guy who deserved nothing but happiness and we destroyed that for him. Y-You, me, Makya, Krystal, every single one of us. A-A-And don’t you d-dare bring Makya into this. She didn’t want this life. S-She’s blinded by revenge and hatred towards a group of people she doesn’t even understand! A group of people I don’t even understand…Â
…W-What do you mean? W-What a-are you planning? Tell me?! Please don’t do this, Troy. Y-You’re better than this. They don’t deserve this…please.
That's the thing about God Dianne, he never provides all the answers, does he? I don't care that Makya didn't want this life it's the one she's leading. It's the one you're leading. I didn't bring any of you into this and as hard as it may be for you to hear, or as strange, this isn't exactly the life I would have chosen for myself either. Shocker, I know. But I have no sob story for you here. The facts are we've done the damage, there's a lot more to follow but this is the end, Dianne.
The things that happen to us shape who we are. Our believes, our reactions. Everything. What's morbidly sad to some may only be a repetition of the past to others.
All differently of course. It's simply interesting to watch the different verities. There's those who mourn, others get angry, and then you have the particular one's who go insane.
Has the guilt suddenly gotten to you, Dianne? Or no, guilt might be too insulting. Being best friends with a murderer doesn't make you one, does it? Not in a literal sense of course. Don't worry, this will all soon be over for all of us.
Ryan: had wanted to kill Troy himself. He had wanted to watch the man die and drop him in the ocean, and he had wanted to take pleasure in doing it. And now he just felt... guilty. When Ryan looked at Troy, he didn't see the murderer. All he saw was someone trying to escape from problems that were, if Ryan was being honest, very similar to his own. What he wanted to say was 'I was afraid of that.' Because he was. Because if that was Troy's logical next step then there was a chance that it should have been Ryan's logical next step, and he didn't want it to be. But instead he took another drink, sat his bottle down on the counter, and looked over to Troy with the same defeated and worried expression, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed in a small frown. "You've already made up your mind, haven't you?"
Troy: examined his bruised knuckles, knowing that at one point they had been the one's to send Ryan to the hospital. He felt guilt about that. It was as if every single person he'd ever murdered or injured in some way was dancing around in his mind. Picking at it, whenever he so much as let his guard down they would attack. "Indeed." He said as an answer to Ryan's question before finishing the rest of his beer. Troy looked at the young man standing before him, remembering his father and even more so the time he'd spent in jail. "Y--you're not like me, Ryan." he said with a sigh. "For you there's still time. Time to back out of this all, you're already on your way. You can't see yourself reflected in me while I'm breaking down in front of you here because that'll only do you harm." He ran a hand through his hair again, a nervous tick he had whenever he felt stressed out. "Can I ask just one last favor of you...I know I'm in no position to but, well, might as well." he searched in his pocket, taking out a piece of paper that had obviously been crumpled up once or twice. "Do you know Krystal? Small, dark skinned as well as dark haired. She'll try to kill you if you go near her...do you think you could give this to her, when the time is right?"
Ryan: nodded. "Or like being an alcoholic." Just then, he was talking more to himself than to Troy, and as his guest shook his head Ryan closed the door to the refrigerator. Absently, he took another drink, leaned up against the kitchen counter, sighed. With the exception of not needing another drink, everything Troy was saying registered with Ryan on a level he wasn't entirely prepared for. It was terrifying. He swallowed. "So what're you gonna do?" Ryan sounded defeated. Ryan looked defeated. He tapped his foot on the ground, and it echoed dully off the walls of his home. On one end, no. Troy probably didn't deserve a happy ending. On the other end, it was really hard to wish ill fate upon someone he sympathized with. No matter who he was. "You just eliminated your only two options."
Troy: let out another dry laugh. "Yeah, like that." He was aware that he wasn't being careful or rather was being very much unlike himself. He always had heightened senses, noticing everything that went on around him as soon or even before it happened. He could hear the defeat in the other's voice almost as much as he could hear it in his own voice. He figured it was natural, both of them being hunters. But Troy didn't think badly of any of the hunters. They were hunters, killing werewolves because they felt it was the right choice not simply killing because it made them feel like better men. He killed out of cowardice. "There is one option left." He said drily. "Death."
Ryan: finished the rest of his beer and set it down on the floor by his foot and shook his head. Everything Troy was saying was true. Both of them knew it. Ryan just didn't want to accept it. Mostly because the alternative to not murder was. Well. Murder. He frowned. "But why not try? You're sitting in a trailer and confiding in a guy that you dislike so much you sent him to the hospital. You just lost someone that meant a lot to you. You're obviously not happy, and staying here won't fix it. Doing what you're doing won't fix it. What do you have to lose by moving somewhere and trying to live a normal life? What are your other options?" Ryan sighed and stood up, picked up his bottle, set it in the sink, walked over to his refrigerator. He pulled out another bottle and opened it on the counter, taking another drink before looking back over to Troy and pointing at his drink. "Are you still working on that, or do you want another?"
Troy: looked down at his feet. At the worn out sneakers he'd chosen to wear. Like the one's he'd run around in when he was younger. He remembered how much he loathed having his mother tell him that his shoes were to worn out to be taken to school and now -- now you would never see Troy in worn out shoes. He had an image to uphold. Ironically enough. "It's not that simple and we both know it. I can try but it's the knowing I won't succeed anyway that makes it so difficult. It's like if I was running across an empty field hoping to find an ocean at the end but already knowing that the ocean no longer exists." He shook his head slightly. "I made a wrong choice and then another and then another. I don't get an even descent ending because I don't deserve one." He picked up the bottle he'd forgotten was there and shook his head. "I'm good with this one."
Ryan: nodded, attentively listening to what Troy had to say until - "Your Grace..." The Grace here? The one that had been murdered? The one that Ryan had assumed was a wolf after said murder? They had been a thing? They had...? Ryan sighed and leaned back against the couch, ankle resting on his knee as he clutched at his beer. If what he just inferred was true, he was 99% certain he knew exactly what Troy was feeling. And that feeling sucked. "So don't do it." He frowned, his words calm and collected and carefully chosen. Too many times over the past few months Ryan had asked himself why he was doing what he was doing and why he was helping the people he was helping and whether or not the thing he was doing was even the right thing. This was not one of those times. "Go somewhere else. Do something else. Sell your knives on ebay, and start over."
Troy: could hear the surprise in the young man's voice when he'd mentioned Grace but he shrugged it off. It was obvious that not everyone in town was going to know about them. Honestly, it seemed that people in this town were quite oblivious to most things that were important. How they hadn't managed to kill even one of his own was still beyond him. Perhaps they weren't as tough as they made themselves out to be. Troy's pained expression turned into a smile briefly when Ryan suggested that he go do something else. "It's not that simple." He explained as if he were talking to a child. "I--I can't just pick up and go somewhere. It's not just being a hunter, Ryan. I was a murderer long before this werewolf business. Heck, I don't even hate the fucking bastards. But it's...it's in my system." he set the beer down on the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. "I know that as much as I try to avoid it, maybe I could even go years without murdering someone...but I'd still always go back."
Ryan: wasn't sure what he was expecting, but what Troy said definitely wasn't it. "You..." Shit, what did he say to that? What do you do when you start to feel guilty for hating someone that stabbed you? He took another long drink and leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he stared down at his feet. "Alright." Bad thing to say. "So why are you telling me that?" Worse thing to say. "You don't even like me. Why...? What are you gonna do?" Ryan looked up and over to Troy, furrowing his brow half in confusion and half in concern. Whatever this was, it wasn't good.
Troy: shrugged again. He didn't have the answers to any of these questions. It was as if his body were here and part of his mind was but not his soul or any actual intelligent part of him. He wasn't making any sense until it hit him; the hunter was gone. He was sitting here in front of Ryan, full body and soul but he was Troy Jacobs not the hunter; not the murderer. "I don't feel I have much time. I suppose that's why I'm saying all these things...I--I want to do what I promised my hunters would be done but after that, after losing my Grace, after everything we've been through...I'm not sure I could do this all over again." he let out a dry laugh, running his free hand through his hair. "I'm getting old."
