This part…. Is kinda weird. Well…. Weirder than most of Elizabeth’s adventures (which are more exciting and occasionally wacky than weird). I don’t really know what happened, but two days after the last entry I posted, she wrote this:
It found me here. Course it found me here. It always finds its prey, no matter where we hide.
Just a regular day, nothing unusual, until I look down the street and see it standing at the far end. Far away, I could barely see anything except for a pale white head and black clothes, but I could recognize it. Once you’ve seen it, once you know what it is, you can never mistake it. You Never forget that feeling when you look at it, looking at something terrible, something wrong.
Can’t keep playing around like this. Need to find out how to get out of here as soon as possible.
After that, she started keeping a record of every hour. I… I don’t know what she’s talking about…. She almost sounds scared…. Her handwriting’s usually neat and very legible, but I could barely understand what she was writing here. Almost as though her hand had been shaking the entire time.
Then there are some of these from her hourly entries…. Several of them are just her routine day, occasionally complaining about having to rely on the church bell to keep track of hours, so I’ll skip to the ones which caught my attention.
5:00 PM-6:00 PM
Saw it standing outside the door of Samuel’s. Just standing right there, like it was waiting for me to come out. Didn’t pay any mind to the other customers. Didn’t even look at them. That head was fixed on me, following every movement I made. Went upstairs to my room, but it was there, right outside my window, looking in. Back down to the bar; at least there’s people there. Don’t have to be alone while I’m under its gaze.
Spent the rest of the hour chatting with Samuel. Trying to keep my mind of things.
Then the next day….
4:00 AM-5:00 AM
Woke up early. Not sure why. Looked out the window and saw it was gone. Went outside to check. Couldn’t see it anywhere. Turned around to go back inside, and there it was, between me and the door. Unmoving, for a moment. Then it leaned forward, looming over me. Tried not to flinch. Told myself I had to be brave. Wasn’t very convincing. Its arms started to reach for me, while it lowered its head, slowly coming down until it was just a breath away from my face….
I turned and ran. Didn’t look where I was going. Eyes were closed, trying to keep tears back. Couldn’t face it on my own.
It didn’t follow me. Bit of a relief, that. Hid in a stable for the rest of the hour. Didn’t see it again.
What’s this “it” she keeps talking about? I thought it might be a person, because she said it had a face and arms, but then she said it was watching her through her window…. And her room’s upstairs….
I don’t understand anything that’s happening here. One day she was talking happily about some crazy adventure, then suddenly…. This. I don’t know…. But I’m going to keep reading. Maybe I’ll find something out.
-Lisa
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Monday, August 29, 2011
Heist Part 2
Here’s the second part.
I’d been hoping it would be a train robbery. Ever since I’d come here, I’ve wanted to do a train robbery. It’s just the sort of thing you need to try once when you’re visiting. Didn’t have to be anything big or impressive. Just a little train would do.
It wasn’t a train robbery. My disappointment was immense. But when Dorian informed me of the actual target, this was mostly relieved. Bank robbery. That’s the next best thing to rob after a train. It seems that our friends the Bakers were particularly invested in a specific bank in the city. Would be a shame for anything to happen to that bank.
Dorian’s plan was very long and complicated, covering every outcome he could imagine in great detail. I won’t explain it here, because simply put, everything went to hell and the plan was completely thrown out a few minutes after starting. Not that it mattered; Dorian seems to have turned “Don’t worry, things will turn out alright” into a motto, seeing as how he repeated it every time we had to change plans during the escapade.
At first the whole thing played out like I’d always imagined one of these to go. Which maybe should have been my first sign that things were going to go south; nothing here turns out to be like I’d previously imagined it to be (would you believe that when I once asked Dorian if he’d ever had a shootout at high noon, he told me he had no idea what I was talking about?). We went into the bank, waving guns around in a threatening manner, shouting very loud demands for monetary funds. All well and good. Except neither of us had been expecting that, due to some horribly sadistic coincidence, at that very moment the sheriff and some of his friends were swinging by the bank. Not in response to our robbery; we’d prepared for that, and had been planning to be gone before they had time to come. Nope, they just wanted to make a deposit. Which created a horribly awkward situation when they opened the door and saw the two of us throwing money into bags.
That’s the exact moment when everything went crazy. Brief shootout (brief because Dorian and I just started running as soon as we saw the chance), and then the CHASE! Out the back, onto the street, our pursuers right behind us. We’d meant to make our getaway on horseback, but we now had an angry group of gun wielding men between us and those horses. No choice but to keep running. I was following Dorian, assuming that he knew where he was going, but when I look back over the experience I question that assumption. Darted through a shop, causing quite a bit of a mess as we ran through, back onto the street, into an alley, trying to prevent the men following us from being able to get a clear shot, back into another building and out another exit, dashing around the place in all directions shouting at people to make way and knocking furniture aside, leaving chaos in our wake. Finally Dorian seemed to remember that our goal was to reach our horses, not smash through every door in the city. Still hadn’t gained enough ground to make a clean getaway without receiving a bullet in the back. If anything, the chances of that happening were only rising, as the more savvy citizens were starting to clear the streets, leaving plenty of wide open ground for us to be shot in. As more bullets started to whizz by my face, the idea of being outside became increasingly detestable, even if it was the quickest route to our horses. I grabbed Dorian by the arm and went inside the closest building, hoping that we’d be able to gain some time in there.
My first impression of that building’s interior was…. Ladies. Lots of ladies. Obviously and excessively so. Next impression was of the excited and very friendly greeting which those ladies gave Dorian when they saw him. Asking him where he’d been, it’d been so long since he’d come to see them, who was the pretty girl he was with, did he have any new stories to tell them, was he going to be staying long. At least he had the decency to blush when I raised an eyebrow.
In spite of however…. Interesting…. The situation may have seemed, it actually turned to our benefit. All Dorian needed to do was quickly explain that we were on the run from the sheriff, and the girls agreed to help. When the sheriff and his friends came through the door, they were blocked by an over attentive crowd of the girls, while we were snuck out the back. From there, it was a straight shot to freedom. As the two of us ran from the place to our horses, the girls shouted encouragement to us; as well as a few offers for Dorian to come back soon. Nice girls. Still may need to talk to Dorian about how many “visits” he’s been doing to them.
Got onto our horses and began to ride away just as the sheriff was escaping onto the street. He kept running after us, shouting at us to stop in the name of the law. We didn’t. Then came my favorite part of the plan: Dorian and I opened up the bags with the money we’d taken, and started throwing it into the air. The crowds surged back onto the streets to grab a part. I kept only enough to give Doc the money he needed; the rest was all thrown back to the people. And with the sheriff too preoccupied trying to grab as much of that money for himself as he could, it was an easy, untroubled ride back home.
I’d been hoping it would be a train robbery. Ever since I’d come here, I’ve wanted to do a train robbery. It’s just the sort of thing you need to try once when you’re visiting. Didn’t have to be anything big or impressive. Just a little train would do.
It wasn’t a train robbery. My disappointment was immense. But when Dorian informed me of the actual target, this was mostly relieved. Bank robbery. That’s the next best thing to rob after a train. It seems that our friends the Bakers were particularly invested in a specific bank in the city. Would be a shame for anything to happen to that bank.
Dorian’s plan was very long and complicated, covering every outcome he could imagine in great detail. I won’t explain it here, because simply put, everything went to hell and the plan was completely thrown out a few minutes after starting. Not that it mattered; Dorian seems to have turned “Don’t worry, things will turn out alright” into a motto, seeing as how he repeated it every time we had to change plans during the escapade.
At first the whole thing played out like I’d always imagined one of these to go. Which maybe should have been my first sign that things were going to go south; nothing here turns out to be like I’d previously imagined it to be (would you believe that when I once asked Dorian if he’d ever had a shootout at high noon, he told me he had no idea what I was talking about?). We went into the bank, waving guns around in a threatening manner, shouting very loud demands for monetary funds. All well and good. Except neither of us had been expecting that, due to some horribly sadistic coincidence, at that very moment the sheriff and some of his friends were swinging by the bank. Not in response to our robbery; we’d prepared for that, and had been planning to be gone before they had time to come. Nope, they just wanted to make a deposit. Which created a horribly awkward situation when they opened the door and saw the two of us throwing money into bags.
That’s the exact moment when everything went crazy. Brief shootout (brief because Dorian and I just started running as soon as we saw the chance), and then the CHASE! Out the back, onto the street, our pursuers right behind us. We’d meant to make our getaway on horseback, but we now had an angry group of gun wielding men between us and those horses. No choice but to keep running. I was following Dorian, assuming that he knew where he was going, but when I look back over the experience I question that assumption. Darted through a shop, causing quite a bit of a mess as we ran through, back onto the street, into an alley, trying to prevent the men following us from being able to get a clear shot, back into another building and out another exit, dashing around the place in all directions shouting at people to make way and knocking furniture aside, leaving chaos in our wake. Finally Dorian seemed to remember that our goal was to reach our horses, not smash through every door in the city. Still hadn’t gained enough ground to make a clean getaway without receiving a bullet in the back. If anything, the chances of that happening were only rising, as the more savvy citizens were starting to clear the streets, leaving plenty of wide open ground for us to be shot in. As more bullets started to whizz by my face, the idea of being outside became increasingly detestable, even if it was the quickest route to our horses. I grabbed Dorian by the arm and went inside the closest building, hoping that we’d be able to gain some time in there.
My first impression of that building’s interior was…. Ladies. Lots of ladies. Obviously and excessively so. Next impression was of the excited and very friendly greeting which those ladies gave Dorian when they saw him. Asking him where he’d been, it’d been so long since he’d come to see them, who was the pretty girl he was with, did he have any new stories to tell them, was he going to be staying long. At least he had the decency to blush when I raised an eyebrow.
In spite of however…. Interesting…. The situation may have seemed, it actually turned to our benefit. All Dorian needed to do was quickly explain that we were on the run from the sheriff, and the girls agreed to help. When the sheriff and his friends came through the door, they were blocked by an over attentive crowd of the girls, while we were snuck out the back. From there, it was a straight shot to freedom. As the two of us ran from the place to our horses, the girls shouted encouragement to us; as well as a few offers for Dorian to come back soon. Nice girls. Still may need to talk to Dorian about how many “visits” he’s been doing to them.
Got onto our horses and began to ride away just as the sheriff was escaping onto the street. He kept running after us, shouting at us to stop in the name of the law. We didn’t. Then came my favorite part of the plan: Dorian and I opened up the bags with the money we’d taken, and started throwing it into the air. The crowds surged back onto the streets to grab a part. I kept only enough to give Doc the money he needed; the rest was all thrown back to the people. And with the sheriff too preoccupied trying to grab as much of that money for himself as he could, it was an easy, untroubled ride back home.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Heist Part 1
Feeling a bit better now. Haven’t gotten any more calls from the library. No distractions, just me home alone, surrounding myself with stories of people better than me. In between reading journal entries, I’ve been rereading some of my favorite stories. I haven’t made this determined an effort to keep myself in the world of fiction in a long time. I just wish I could read “We” or “Beowulf” without getting a migraine…. I don’t understand why, but whenever I’ve tread to read either lately, by the third line I feel like my head’s about to be ripped apart….. And those were among my favorite stories….
I’m going to be skipping some parts of the journal today. Since her last entry, Elizabeth began to keep record of every day. Most of them don’t have anything interesting; the date plus one or two lines usually saying “Nothing of note”. Sometimes she’ll talk a little about what happened during the day, but nothing exciting happens for several pages. Then we get to this entry.
Received a letter from Doc saying that one of the toys I asked him to build was finished. Just the sort of good news I like to hear. Dorian agreed to take me to the city; this time, I think this time I’ll let him give me that tour.
The device Doc made was a bit more unwieldy than I had expected. The fault there is in my predictions, not his engineering; for some reason, it never occurred to me that sticking rope attached to a spike in a gun would make that gun much heavier than bullets would. Still, it was what I’d ordered, and only time would tell me exactly how effective it would be.
Talked a little with Doc about future projects. Some more grounded in reality than this recent creation, others…. Not so much. I have hope that he can still pull them off. He got me a grappling gun, albeit one not quite as impressive as I’d imagined. Major issue is funding; getting the money needed to construct all my dream machines can’t be easy. Told him not to worry, I’d find a way. Course I had no idea how I would find that way, but I was confident that something would present itself to me.
With business taken care of, I could afford some fun. Dorian finally got his chance to show me around the city. On its own, the place had little for any visitor to ogle at, but Dorian made up for that with his own style of tour guiding. Every locale, no matter how seemingly insignificant, had some anecdote attached to it which Dorian would retell. His stories were always so over the top, so blatantly exaggerated, exaggeration which was only added to by his wild gestures, that one couldn’t help but become endeared to them. The more stories he told, the more I noticed he was including himself in them; gradually creating a larger role until towards the end, he was telling more about his heroic antics than the city. It took all I had to not start laughing in the middle of the street as he imparted a tale of his drunken chase after an equally drunken horse thief in the middle of the night (he says he doesn’t remember exactly what happened, except that he woke up the next morning in bed three cities away with two girls, the thief, and the horse).
It was in the midst of one of his stories that we were rudely interrupted by three men. Official looking people, judging by the badges they wore. The speed at which Dorian dropped his cheer and became extremely grim when he saw them approaching was surprising. Their conversation was in hushed voices, so I never learned exactly what it was about. The three seemed to be enjoying the talk more than Dorian, especially the man in the lead. His big, droopy mustache couldn’t hide that ridiculous grin. Occasionally he would leer towards me, and once asked Dorian, loud enough for me to hear, when Dorian had started traveling around with “prostitutes”. I cannot describe the amount of self control it took to not crush his face into the ground after that.
Whatever they were talking about, it didn’t last long. The three walked away laughing, while Dorian stood in place, sullen mood remaining. He was quiet through the rest of the day, and then through the next as we returned to Los Valle. First time I’d seen him like that; nothing could get a response longer than two words from him.
Back in Los Valle, the first thing Dorian did was go to Samuel’s bar and order a drink so he could sulk by himself in a corner. Still unresponsive to all conversation starters. That was a lost cause, so I adjusted my route of attack, and started questioning Samuel instead. He’d known Dorian since they were both young, so perhaps he might have an explanation for his friend’s mood. Samuel was initially reluctant to explain anything, but my apparent concern seemed to win him over.
The man with the badge and mustache who had led the group which had spoken with Dorian was Frederick Baker, sheriff of the area. He was the cousin of Thomas Baker, the current mayor of Albuquerque. Mayor Baker was a man who had followed the time honored tradition of placing family members within all positions of power upon election. Which was something of a problem, as Dorian’s family had never gotten along well with the Bakers. It had started as a small dispute over land between the Bakers and Gardner’s, back before the railroad had turned the place from countryside into a city, and continued through the years with constant enmity. Much of Dorian’s family had been killed as the feud heightened, and they had killed an equal number of Bakers in retaliation. It was the Bakers who won in the end, taking control of the city and driving the surviving Gardners out. Dorian’s travels during his youth had been a result of this exile. He had only begun to return recently, after receiving word that the Bakers had grown complacent enough that they probably weren’t going to shoot him on sight. But even then, he tried to avoiding attracting too much attention; something he had failed to do during our last visit.
Bit of a sob story. You almost wouldn’t believe it, if you only saw his usual, optimistic self.
Samuel dropped his voice as he continued. Lately, he suspected that Dorian was planning something against the Bakers. Whenever Dorian risked coming back home, it was for a reason; and elusive as he’d been on what the specific reason of this visit was, Samuel knew the man well enough to guess. I asked if it would be possible to talk Dorian out of whatever he was planning, but Samuel didn’t think so. At the very least, I could keep an eye on the man. Make sure he didn’t do anything too extremely suicidal.
Told Samuel I’d do my best to ensure Dorian didn’t get killed. Then, hoping to catch Samuel while he was in the mood for revealing secrets, I asked him a question which had been bugging me for some time:
Why did Dorian wear so much black (especially in a place as dry and hot as this)?
Samuel smiled at that, and leaned forward before answering. Dorian wore black whenever he was trying to impress the ladies by looking dashing. Some “fool notion” he’d picked up from reading too much Byronic poetry.
But Samuel, I asked, still confused, Dorian’s almost always wearing black when I’m around.
Exactly, Samuel said with a wink.
Oh.
Well.
Um.
Huh.
Been a while since I’ve seen someone laugh as hard as Samuel did at my expression. Then he told me this was the subtlest attempt to woo a girl he’d ever seen Dorian do; probably because Dorian was terrified I’d break his arm if he tried anything. Affronted, I claimed that I wasn’t that violent…. Only for Samuel to crush that argument by pointing out the number of bar fights I’d resolved by knocking out all participants.
I decided I’d think about that revelation later. Other things to take care of at the moment. Dorian was still in his depressed fortress of sulking. If I had to drag him out by force, I would.
Went over to his table and snatched the drink out of his hand. Didn’t seem to even notice; just kept looking down into space. Okay, more forceful this time. Loudly told him I knew about the Bakers, and that Samuel suspected he was planning something against them.
In no uncertain terms, Dorian told me his opinion of my sticking my nose into his business.
Well, maybe I’d make this my business, if he kept acting like a baby.
Most of what followed was a bit of a blur, consisting of the two of us shouting at each other with rising volume. The last straw was when he told me that a woman had no place getting involved in what he was planning.
I reminded him just who this woman he was talking to was by grabbing his arm and throwing him on his back. Bit rash. But I was getting tired of this shit.
Attacking Dorian did not get the reaction I would have expected. He bounced back up, huge smile across his face. It seems I had the superior argument in this debate. Or all he really needed was a good knock on the head to beat some sense back into him. Once more we were back to his boundless energy and optimism. No more “ain’t no place for a woman”; now he was enthusiastically trying to enlist my support. He did have the courtesy to try and warn me ahead of time what I would be getting into. It would be dangerous, he said.
Danger? Danger is my middle name! (Not really, but I think he understood the figure of speech)
It’d be illegal.
Illegal? Finally! I’d been looking forward to getting my own wanted poster!
Was I absolutely sure I wanted to get involved in this?
Hell yeah I did.
With those formalities out of the way, and neither of us lacking in resolve, it was time for Dorian to fill me in on just what this big plan was….
Getting a bit lengthy, so I’m going to put the rest in a different post.
-Lisa
I’m going to be skipping some parts of the journal today. Since her last entry, Elizabeth began to keep record of every day. Most of them don’t have anything interesting; the date plus one or two lines usually saying “Nothing of note”. Sometimes she’ll talk a little about what happened during the day, but nothing exciting happens for several pages. Then we get to this entry.
Received a letter from Doc saying that one of the toys I asked him to build was finished. Just the sort of good news I like to hear. Dorian agreed to take me to the city; this time, I think this time I’ll let him give me that tour.
The device Doc made was a bit more unwieldy than I had expected. The fault there is in my predictions, not his engineering; for some reason, it never occurred to me that sticking rope attached to a spike in a gun would make that gun much heavier than bullets would. Still, it was what I’d ordered, and only time would tell me exactly how effective it would be.
Talked a little with Doc about future projects. Some more grounded in reality than this recent creation, others…. Not so much. I have hope that he can still pull them off. He got me a grappling gun, albeit one not quite as impressive as I’d imagined. Major issue is funding; getting the money needed to construct all my dream machines can’t be easy. Told him not to worry, I’d find a way. Course I had no idea how I would find that way, but I was confident that something would present itself to me.
With business taken care of, I could afford some fun. Dorian finally got his chance to show me around the city. On its own, the place had little for any visitor to ogle at, but Dorian made up for that with his own style of tour guiding. Every locale, no matter how seemingly insignificant, had some anecdote attached to it which Dorian would retell. His stories were always so over the top, so blatantly exaggerated, exaggeration which was only added to by his wild gestures, that one couldn’t help but become endeared to them. The more stories he told, the more I noticed he was including himself in them; gradually creating a larger role until towards the end, he was telling more about his heroic antics than the city. It took all I had to not start laughing in the middle of the street as he imparted a tale of his drunken chase after an equally drunken horse thief in the middle of the night (he says he doesn’t remember exactly what happened, except that he woke up the next morning in bed three cities away with two girls, the thief, and the horse).
It was in the midst of one of his stories that we were rudely interrupted by three men. Official looking people, judging by the badges they wore. The speed at which Dorian dropped his cheer and became extremely grim when he saw them approaching was surprising. Their conversation was in hushed voices, so I never learned exactly what it was about. The three seemed to be enjoying the talk more than Dorian, especially the man in the lead. His big, droopy mustache couldn’t hide that ridiculous grin. Occasionally he would leer towards me, and once asked Dorian, loud enough for me to hear, when Dorian had started traveling around with “prostitutes”. I cannot describe the amount of self control it took to not crush his face into the ground after that.
Whatever they were talking about, it didn’t last long. The three walked away laughing, while Dorian stood in place, sullen mood remaining. He was quiet through the rest of the day, and then through the next as we returned to Los Valle. First time I’d seen him like that; nothing could get a response longer than two words from him.
Back in Los Valle, the first thing Dorian did was go to Samuel’s bar and order a drink so he could sulk by himself in a corner. Still unresponsive to all conversation starters. That was a lost cause, so I adjusted my route of attack, and started questioning Samuel instead. He’d known Dorian since they were both young, so perhaps he might have an explanation for his friend’s mood. Samuel was initially reluctant to explain anything, but my apparent concern seemed to win him over.
The man with the badge and mustache who had led the group which had spoken with Dorian was Frederick Baker, sheriff of the area. He was the cousin of Thomas Baker, the current mayor of Albuquerque. Mayor Baker was a man who had followed the time honored tradition of placing family members within all positions of power upon election. Which was something of a problem, as Dorian’s family had never gotten along well with the Bakers. It had started as a small dispute over land between the Bakers and Gardner’s, back before the railroad had turned the place from countryside into a city, and continued through the years with constant enmity. Much of Dorian’s family had been killed as the feud heightened, and they had killed an equal number of Bakers in retaliation. It was the Bakers who won in the end, taking control of the city and driving the surviving Gardners out. Dorian’s travels during his youth had been a result of this exile. He had only begun to return recently, after receiving word that the Bakers had grown complacent enough that they probably weren’t going to shoot him on sight. But even then, he tried to avoiding attracting too much attention; something he had failed to do during our last visit.
Bit of a sob story. You almost wouldn’t believe it, if you only saw his usual, optimistic self.
Samuel dropped his voice as he continued. Lately, he suspected that Dorian was planning something against the Bakers. Whenever Dorian risked coming back home, it was for a reason; and elusive as he’d been on what the specific reason of this visit was, Samuel knew the man well enough to guess. I asked if it would be possible to talk Dorian out of whatever he was planning, but Samuel didn’t think so. At the very least, I could keep an eye on the man. Make sure he didn’t do anything too extremely suicidal.
Told Samuel I’d do my best to ensure Dorian didn’t get killed. Then, hoping to catch Samuel while he was in the mood for revealing secrets, I asked him a question which had been bugging me for some time:
Why did Dorian wear so much black (especially in a place as dry and hot as this)?
Samuel smiled at that, and leaned forward before answering. Dorian wore black whenever he was trying to impress the ladies by looking dashing. Some “fool notion” he’d picked up from reading too much Byronic poetry.
But Samuel, I asked, still confused, Dorian’s almost always wearing black when I’m around.
Exactly, Samuel said with a wink.
Oh.
Well.
Um.
Huh.
Been a while since I’ve seen someone laugh as hard as Samuel did at my expression. Then he told me this was the subtlest attempt to woo a girl he’d ever seen Dorian do; probably because Dorian was terrified I’d break his arm if he tried anything. Affronted, I claimed that I wasn’t that violent…. Only for Samuel to crush that argument by pointing out the number of bar fights I’d resolved by knocking out all participants.
I decided I’d think about that revelation later. Other things to take care of at the moment. Dorian was still in his depressed fortress of sulking. If I had to drag him out by force, I would.
Went over to his table and snatched the drink out of his hand. Didn’t seem to even notice; just kept looking down into space. Okay, more forceful this time. Loudly told him I knew about the Bakers, and that Samuel suspected he was planning something against them.
In no uncertain terms, Dorian told me his opinion of my sticking my nose into his business.
Well, maybe I’d make this my business, if he kept acting like a baby.
Most of what followed was a bit of a blur, consisting of the two of us shouting at each other with rising volume. The last straw was when he told me that a woman had no place getting involved in what he was planning.
I reminded him just who this woman he was talking to was by grabbing his arm and throwing him on his back. Bit rash. But I was getting tired of this shit.
Attacking Dorian did not get the reaction I would have expected. He bounced back up, huge smile across his face. It seems I had the superior argument in this debate. Or all he really needed was a good knock on the head to beat some sense back into him. Once more we were back to his boundless energy and optimism. No more “ain’t no place for a woman”; now he was enthusiastically trying to enlist my support. He did have the courtesy to try and warn me ahead of time what I would be getting into. It would be dangerous, he said.
Danger? Danger is my middle name! (Not really, but I think he understood the figure of speech)
It’d be illegal.
Illegal? Finally! I’d been looking forward to getting my own wanted poster!
Was I absolutely sure I wanted to get involved in this?
Hell yeah I did.
With those formalities out of the way, and neither of us lacking in resolve, it was time for Dorian to fill me in on just what this big plan was….
Getting a bit lengthy, so I’m going to put the rest in a different post.
-Lisa
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Doctor K. Jeter
Why do I even try. I just want to live without needing a crutch like this keeping me going on. That’s all.
I was doing good. For two weeks, I didn’t even look at this blog. Not even when I got an email saying my post had been commented on. And the black box with all of Elizabeth’s things had been untouched since I put it back in the attic. I’ll admit that sometimes I was curious about the rest of her journal (I hadn’t read much further than I’d posted) but I never acted on that curiosity.
Then my old boss from the library called me this morning.
Hated how smug he sounded. I think he was trying to act kind and forgiving, but missed the mark. Just made him come out as an even bigger jerk.
He told me that if I reconsidered his “offer”, he’d be willing to think about giving me my job back. I said no. Along with… a lot of other things that I won’t be repeating here. Then I hung up before he could start shouting at me. He called again right afterward…. And then again and again, for two hours. I hid under my bed sheets and tried to ignore the ringing.
I needed something to help me after that…. So I went back to the attic, unlocked the chest, and read the first letter I picked up. The handwriting was terrible, the spelling and grammar equally so. But that didn’t matter to me. It was from a woman, thanking Elizabeth for saving her son’s life. I…. I wish I could be the type of person who could go out and save others. The sort of person who people call a hero. But I’m not. And I never will be.
Read her journal next. Even her prose is so much more confident than I am…. Just reading it didn’t feel as though it was enough. If others read it…. Maybe it would feel more real. I wouldn’t be the only one carrying her stories in my head…. I hope the other people don’t start posting here again…. If they do…. Maybe I can just ignore it…. Pretend it isn’t there….
Been spending too long sitting around. Peace is nice, but I have things which I need to do. Can’t let myself get complacent in it. Went out one morning before sunrise, and found the streets to be deserted. Even that early, it was strange to not see a single person around. Only birds; hundreds of black birds, silhouetted by the gray twilight, along the rooftops. All faced towards me, eyes drilling through my skull. No movement, no sound, just those eyes, staring. Then, the tip of the sun came over the horizon, and the birds scattered.
It was a reminder. Couldn’t idle around forever. Had to get back to work. Letters had been sent out, but it would take time for them to reach their recipients. Using a telegraph barely sped things up; the closest telegraph line was too far away. Any messages had to first be mailed to them before they could send the telegraph.
But there were other things I could do as I waited. I doubted that New Mexico would have huge resources of the information I was looking for, but I had to give it at least a quick look around. Hard to make inquiries while avoiding the topic of what you’re inquiring about. Closest I got to a lead was from Dorian, who told me about a Doctor K. Jeter in Albuquerque. Apparently considered to be the most knowledgeable man in the city; I assumed that if I was fortunate, that would means he’d have at least a passing familiarity with some of the more esoteric theories I needed facts on.
Dorian took me into the city to meet with the doctor. Acted like he would have rather played tour guide for me around the place, but I kept him focusing on the task at hand. Can’t say I wanted to stay in the city any longer than I had to. Too many corners and alleys; kept looking into every shadow for any glimpse of movement. Put me on edge; I might have snapped a few times at Dorian. I should probably apologize to him for that…. Maybe tomorrow.
The doctor’s place didn’t look anything like the clinic I’d been expecting; later I would learn that “Doctor” was a term of respect coined by the locals for his intelligence rather than an official title. The interior was even less clinical in its appearance: seemingly random pieces of machinery were lying half disassembled on the floor, blueprints and plans were nailed to the walls (including a few replica Da Vinci plans I recognized), as well as several neatly organized bookshelves. The doctor was in the middle of it all, tinkering with some device filled with gears. Dorian got his attention with a loud “Hello!”, and when he looked up from his work and saw us, the doctor greeted him with warmth. Unlike his home, the man is exactly as I imagined he’d be: wild and grey hair, wrinkles on the face, and a near constant manic expression, only emphasized by the eccentric gestures he would make while talking. When Dorian introduced us, the first thing the doctor said to me was a comment on my manner of speech. Not uncommon; most people I speak with at least refer to how different I sound from them. But this man was the first not to buy my “It’s just my East Coaster accent” excuse. Apparently that line doesn’t work on people who have been to the east. Brief moment of panic, as I listened to him pointing out how my style of speech was foreign from any English (or any other language) he’d heard before, including the use of words and metaphors no one, even easterners, used. Thankfully he didn’t press the issue, quickly changing the subject mid sentence so he could ask Dorian a question about what he’d been doing in the months since they’d last met. Saved by the man’s short attention span.
I soon learned that having a conversation with the doctor is like trying to catch a rabbit with your bare hands. Just as you think you’ve got a hold of it, it’s suddenly darting off in a new direction. It was only thanks to Dorian being experienced at communicating with him that I was able to keep a handle on our conversation. In between his ravings about a beautiful sunrise he saw last week which just had to be captured in a painting and a monologue on some of his ideas to increase the efficiency of the railroad line going through Albuquerque by 15%, I was able to edge in a few questions. First, I learned that he is perfectly content with being called “Doc”, which is what I shall refer to him from now on. Secondly, my hopes to use him as a source of information proved fruitless, as the moment I began to enquire in a relevant direction, he shot down all ideas with labels of “pointless superstition which can be discarded in this new age of science”. Bit of a downer, that. But that doesn’t mean Doc has no use to me. He’s an extremely talented inventor; talking about his little creations, or his plans for future ones, is the only topic I’ve found which he can stay focused on for more than a minute. We must have spent over an hour discussing technical matters, from the merits of steam power to the potential uses of clockwork. Poor Dorian must have felt completely lost by our talk, as he was quickly relegated to quietly smiling and nodding as Doc and I discussed matters far above his head. There were a few plans Doc mentioned with interested me; he called them “infeasible fancies”, but after some talking, I convinced him to attempt to construct working versions of them. Which means I may soon come into the possession of a few nifty toys.
Didn’t want to leave, but the day was growing late. Look forward to seeing Doc again; maybe that time, I’ll let Dorian give me the tour of the city.
I was doing good. For two weeks, I didn’t even look at this blog. Not even when I got an email saying my post had been commented on. And the black box with all of Elizabeth’s things had been untouched since I put it back in the attic. I’ll admit that sometimes I was curious about the rest of her journal (I hadn’t read much further than I’d posted) but I never acted on that curiosity.
Then my old boss from the library called me this morning.
Hated how smug he sounded. I think he was trying to act kind and forgiving, but missed the mark. Just made him come out as an even bigger jerk.
He told me that if I reconsidered his “offer”, he’d be willing to think about giving me my job back. I said no. Along with… a lot of other things that I won’t be repeating here. Then I hung up before he could start shouting at me. He called again right afterward…. And then again and again, for two hours. I hid under my bed sheets and tried to ignore the ringing.
I needed something to help me after that…. So I went back to the attic, unlocked the chest, and read the first letter I picked up. The handwriting was terrible, the spelling and grammar equally so. But that didn’t matter to me. It was from a woman, thanking Elizabeth for saving her son’s life. I…. I wish I could be the type of person who could go out and save others. The sort of person who people call a hero. But I’m not. And I never will be.
Read her journal next. Even her prose is so much more confident than I am…. Just reading it didn’t feel as though it was enough. If others read it…. Maybe it would feel more real. I wouldn’t be the only one carrying her stories in my head…. I hope the other people don’t start posting here again…. If they do…. Maybe I can just ignore it…. Pretend it isn’t there….
Been spending too long sitting around. Peace is nice, but I have things which I need to do. Can’t let myself get complacent in it. Went out one morning before sunrise, and found the streets to be deserted. Even that early, it was strange to not see a single person around. Only birds; hundreds of black birds, silhouetted by the gray twilight, along the rooftops. All faced towards me, eyes drilling through my skull. No movement, no sound, just those eyes, staring. Then, the tip of the sun came over the horizon, and the birds scattered.
It was a reminder. Couldn’t idle around forever. Had to get back to work. Letters had been sent out, but it would take time for them to reach their recipients. Using a telegraph barely sped things up; the closest telegraph line was too far away. Any messages had to first be mailed to them before they could send the telegraph.
But there were other things I could do as I waited. I doubted that New Mexico would have huge resources of the information I was looking for, but I had to give it at least a quick look around. Hard to make inquiries while avoiding the topic of what you’re inquiring about. Closest I got to a lead was from Dorian, who told me about a Doctor K. Jeter in Albuquerque. Apparently considered to be the most knowledgeable man in the city; I assumed that if I was fortunate, that would means he’d have at least a passing familiarity with some of the more esoteric theories I needed facts on.
Dorian took me into the city to meet with the doctor. Acted like he would have rather played tour guide for me around the place, but I kept him focusing on the task at hand. Can’t say I wanted to stay in the city any longer than I had to. Too many corners and alleys; kept looking into every shadow for any glimpse of movement. Put me on edge; I might have snapped a few times at Dorian. I should probably apologize to him for that…. Maybe tomorrow.
The doctor’s place didn’t look anything like the clinic I’d been expecting; later I would learn that “Doctor” was a term of respect coined by the locals for his intelligence rather than an official title. The interior was even less clinical in its appearance: seemingly random pieces of machinery were lying half disassembled on the floor, blueprints and plans were nailed to the walls (including a few replica Da Vinci plans I recognized), as well as several neatly organized bookshelves. The doctor was in the middle of it all, tinkering with some device filled with gears. Dorian got his attention with a loud “Hello!”, and when he looked up from his work and saw us, the doctor greeted him with warmth. Unlike his home, the man is exactly as I imagined he’d be: wild and grey hair, wrinkles on the face, and a near constant manic expression, only emphasized by the eccentric gestures he would make while talking. When Dorian introduced us, the first thing the doctor said to me was a comment on my manner of speech. Not uncommon; most people I speak with at least refer to how different I sound from them. But this man was the first not to buy my “It’s just my East Coaster accent” excuse. Apparently that line doesn’t work on people who have been to the east. Brief moment of panic, as I listened to him pointing out how my style of speech was foreign from any English (or any other language) he’d heard before, including the use of words and metaphors no one, even easterners, used. Thankfully he didn’t press the issue, quickly changing the subject mid sentence so he could ask Dorian a question about what he’d been doing in the months since they’d last met. Saved by the man’s short attention span.
I soon learned that having a conversation with the doctor is like trying to catch a rabbit with your bare hands. Just as you think you’ve got a hold of it, it’s suddenly darting off in a new direction. It was only thanks to Dorian being experienced at communicating with him that I was able to keep a handle on our conversation. In between his ravings about a beautiful sunrise he saw last week which just had to be captured in a painting and a monologue on some of his ideas to increase the efficiency of the railroad line going through Albuquerque by 15%, I was able to edge in a few questions. First, I learned that he is perfectly content with being called “Doc”, which is what I shall refer to him from now on. Secondly, my hopes to use him as a source of information proved fruitless, as the moment I began to enquire in a relevant direction, he shot down all ideas with labels of “pointless superstition which can be discarded in this new age of science”. Bit of a downer, that. But that doesn’t mean Doc has no use to me. He’s an extremely talented inventor; talking about his little creations, or his plans for future ones, is the only topic I’ve found which he can stay focused on for more than a minute. We must have spent over an hour discussing technical matters, from the merits of steam power to the potential uses of clockwork. Poor Dorian must have felt completely lost by our talk, as he was quickly relegated to quietly smiling and nodding as Doc and I discussed matters far above his head. There were a few plans Doc mentioned with interested me; he called them “infeasible fancies”, but after some talking, I convinced him to attempt to construct working versions of them. Which means I may soon come into the possession of a few nifty toys.
Didn’t want to leave, but the day was growing late. Look forward to seeing Doc again; maybe that time, I’ll let Dorian give me the tour of the city.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
I'm Done
You know, I was actually starting to like this blog. Writing about Elizabeth on it was an escape from this life, into something much more exciting. Whenever I read the journal, and as I transcribed onto the blog, I always imagined myself as Elizabeth…. Like I was in a world where I was someone who could stand up for themselves, who lived with excitement and who met amazing people, instead of being a pathetic girl who can’t even make herself go outside. I was almost able to make myself forget the strangeness at this blog’s start. There hadn’t been any new posts from anyone else in a while, so I’d assumed that whoever had first made this blog had given up on it. It was starting to feel like it really was my blog, instead of something handed to me by a stranger for some reason.
Then…. Those last two posts happened. And…. A new person was added. Most of the posts before mine started were like something out of a novel. Some strange fantasy world with monsters and lots of running. I might have enjoyed reading them if not for the circumstances around this blog. But that post by “Grendel”? I…. I don’t know what to do with that. It’s creepy beyond anything else I’ve seen here so far….
I don’t want anything more to do with this. I locked up and put the black box back in the attic. No more stories about Elizabeth Wells. No more reading about darkness chasing people through impossible libraries. Just me, going back to my life of hiding under the covers and never talking to anyone. Once I post this and close my browser window, I’ll be through with this blog and everything relating to it. I really, really mean it this time.
Then…. Those last two posts happened. And…. A new person was added. Most of the posts before mine started were like something out of a novel. Some strange fantasy world with monsters and lots of running. I might have enjoyed reading them if not for the circumstances around this blog. But that post by “Grendel”? I…. I don’t know what to do with that. It’s creepy beyond anything else I’ve seen here so far….
I don’t want anything more to do with this. I locked up and put the black box back in the attic. No more stories about Elizabeth Wells. No more reading about darkness chasing people through impossible libraries. Just me, going back to my life of hiding under the covers and never talking to anyone. Once I post this and close my browser window, I’ll be through with this blog and everything relating to it. I really, really mean it this time.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
August 15, 1963-Oxford, England
677
Still annoys me that blogger doesn’t believe in dates before 1970. Posting from this timeframe works, but it feels so unprofessional. As if the timeline wasn’t screwy enough.
So I’d learned what I needed to do, but not how. Do you realize how vague “You must collect several ancient relics to perform a ritual” is? I don’t even know what this ritual is supposed to be! And collecting ancient relics? Half my life these days involves me collecting ancient relics from the days when the planets were young! This world is crawling in ancient relics! I so much as walk out the door and I trip over a pile of ancient relics! You need to be a bit more specific!
Sent out some queries to my contacts in Arkham. They weren’t able to give me much (Genuinely surprising. I’d been starting to think that there wasn’t anything Orne Library didn’t have on its shelves), but they gave me a lead to follow. I was told to seek a small, untitled book written by Abdul Alhazred, one of the few of his writings not already in the possession of Orne Library.
Took me some time to pinpoint where I could find it. When I did discover the location, I can’t say I was very enthusiastic about going there. Like I have a choice.
Dropped into Oxford, and went looking for a bookstore. Not just any bookstore. Had to be the creepiest, oldest, most blatantly ominous bookstore in the city. Found the place squatting in an alley, so obscured by shadows you could barely tell it was day. No signs or external markings on the building; the only reason one could tell it was a bookstore was because of the piles of dust covered tomes scattered around the door.
When I opened that old door, I found that the interior followed the same pattern of organizing its contents as outside. I’d be surprised if the owner had ever heard the concept of putting books on shelves. Or dusting. Though the scattered organization could have been because of lack of space; this building was only a single room large.
Even given the room’s small size, it took annoyingly long to find the owner. He was hidden behind a wall of books, so focused on frantically scribbling on a parchment that he had failed to notice my entrance. Older man; ancient, really. Scarcely a wisp of hair left on his wrinkled head, eyes almost obscured by heavy spectacles seated on a crooked nose, over a mouth half filled with yellowed teeth.
Slamming my hand down on a book next to him got him to notice me (it also created a cloud of dust which caused us both to go into a coughing fit for several seconds, but let’s just skim over that). Looked to be a bit angry at my presence, and shouted that the shop was closed. I ignored that, and told him I needed to get into the back room.
Anger was instantly replaced by fear. The owner didn’t say anything more to me. Stood up, and pushed a stack of books by the wall aside, to reveal a door. Pulled out a key and unlocked it, opened the door, and there was…. Blackness. The light from inside this room barely pierced through the shadow behind that door.
Once I stepped through that door, the owner closed it behind me. For some time, I was alone in darkness. Then, a small flame flickered before me. Followed by another, and another; small candles, stretching as far as I could see, lit themselves, creating tiny pockets of illumination in the darkness. The light revealed my location; I was standing in a massive library. Though perhaps mausoleum for books would be a better description. The shelves stretched far off into the distance, filled with unmarked books, haphazardly stacked and piled. Their height of the shelves was equally immense; when I looked up, the candles illuminating the upper shelves were so far away that they looked like stars in the sky.
I walked down the rows, ignoring the unearthly sounds which came from behind the shelves. Occasionally I would turn and walk down another row, but that served no purpose beyond alleviating the boredom of walking in a straight line. This place didn’t conform to our traditional sense of directions; I would reach the book when the Library allowed me to reach the book, no matter which path I took.
Can’t say for certain how long I was in there. Sense of time was completely destroyed the moment I had stepped through that door. I couldn’t feel the progression of time around me, couldn’t see the lines of time moving through past and future. Felt about as bad as going blind. But my journey came to its eventual end. After walking through dozens of endless rows, I finally reached a dead end, where the shelves blocked further progress. In the center of this shelf, directly at my eye level, was the book I’d been seeking. It was a small thing, barely larger than a pamphlet. But it had the knowledge I needed, so I took it from the shelf, and began my walk back.
My journey into the Library had been calm (or at least as calm as my life gets). Leaving, on the other hand…. The strange sounds I was hearing behind the shelves increased in intensity the further I walked. They were no longer a quiet part of the background, but direct, and hostile. Still, sound on its own is nothing to be afraid of…. Until the lights started to go out. It began far behind me, so far that I almost didn’t notice the flickering of the flames. Soon it became obvious, as more candles went dim, and the darkness spread. Light after light went out, moving towards me as a roar which no creature should be able to produce bellowed from the blackness.
I began to run, as fast as I could. The darkness screamed at me, growing louder, louder, each moment coming closer. Kept running, couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Couldn’t let it catch me. Must have run for miles through those shelves, pain ripping through my legs, lungs raw, couldn’t stop running, darkness gaining on me until it was just behind me, reaching out and grasping at my hair….
Then, the door. So far away, but I could see it. One last burst of speed, and I slammed into the door, throwing it open. Without wasting any time, I threw it shut with as much force as I could. I sank to the ground, exhausted, but safe.
But then I looked around, and realized that I wasn’t in the bookstore. And when I looked over my shoulder, there was no door behind me. Just me, sitting alone in an empty alleyway. No sign that there had ever been anything else there.
Doesn’t matter. I got the book I was looking for. So I’m calling this one a victory.
And next time I’m going to remember to bring a flashlight. Or a grenade launcher.
Scratch that, next time, I’m going to bring a flashlight taped to a grenade launcher.
I-330
Still annoys me that blogger doesn’t believe in dates before 1970. Posting from this timeframe works, but it feels so unprofessional. As if the timeline wasn’t screwy enough.
So I’d learned what I needed to do, but not how. Do you realize how vague “You must collect several ancient relics to perform a ritual” is? I don’t even know what this ritual is supposed to be! And collecting ancient relics? Half my life these days involves me collecting ancient relics from the days when the planets were young! This world is crawling in ancient relics! I so much as walk out the door and I trip over a pile of ancient relics! You need to be a bit more specific!
Sent out some queries to my contacts in Arkham. They weren’t able to give me much (Genuinely surprising. I’d been starting to think that there wasn’t anything Orne Library didn’t have on its shelves), but they gave me a lead to follow. I was told to seek a small, untitled book written by Abdul Alhazred, one of the few of his writings not already in the possession of Orne Library.
Took me some time to pinpoint where I could find it. When I did discover the location, I can’t say I was very enthusiastic about going there. Like I have a choice.
Dropped into Oxford, and went looking for a bookstore. Not just any bookstore. Had to be the creepiest, oldest, most blatantly ominous bookstore in the city. Found the place squatting in an alley, so obscured by shadows you could barely tell it was day. No signs or external markings on the building; the only reason one could tell it was a bookstore was because of the piles of dust covered tomes scattered around the door.
When I opened that old door, I found that the interior followed the same pattern of organizing its contents as outside. I’d be surprised if the owner had ever heard the concept of putting books on shelves. Or dusting. Though the scattered organization could have been because of lack of space; this building was only a single room large.
Even given the room’s small size, it took annoyingly long to find the owner. He was hidden behind a wall of books, so focused on frantically scribbling on a parchment that he had failed to notice my entrance. Older man; ancient, really. Scarcely a wisp of hair left on his wrinkled head, eyes almost obscured by heavy spectacles seated on a crooked nose, over a mouth half filled with yellowed teeth.
Slamming my hand down on a book next to him got him to notice me (it also created a cloud of dust which caused us both to go into a coughing fit for several seconds, but let’s just skim over that). Looked to be a bit angry at my presence, and shouted that the shop was closed. I ignored that, and told him I needed to get into the back room.
Anger was instantly replaced by fear. The owner didn’t say anything more to me. Stood up, and pushed a stack of books by the wall aside, to reveal a door. Pulled out a key and unlocked it, opened the door, and there was…. Blackness. The light from inside this room barely pierced through the shadow behind that door.
Once I stepped through that door, the owner closed it behind me. For some time, I was alone in darkness. Then, a small flame flickered before me. Followed by another, and another; small candles, stretching as far as I could see, lit themselves, creating tiny pockets of illumination in the darkness. The light revealed my location; I was standing in a massive library. Though perhaps mausoleum for books would be a better description. The shelves stretched far off into the distance, filled with unmarked books, haphazardly stacked and piled. Their height of the shelves was equally immense; when I looked up, the candles illuminating the upper shelves were so far away that they looked like stars in the sky.
I walked down the rows, ignoring the unearthly sounds which came from behind the shelves. Occasionally I would turn and walk down another row, but that served no purpose beyond alleviating the boredom of walking in a straight line. This place didn’t conform to our traditional sense of directions; I would reach the book when the Library allowed me to reach the book, no matter which path I took.
Can’t say for certain how long I was in there. Sense of time was completely destroyed the moment I had stepped through that door. I couldn’t feel the progression of time around me, couldn’t see the lines of time moving through past and future. Felt about as bad as going blind. But my journey came to its eventual end. After walking through dozens of endless rows, I finally reached a dead end, where the shelves blocked further progress. In the center of this shelf, directly at my eye level, was the book I’d been seeking. It was a small thing, barely larger than a pamphlet. But it had the knowledge I needed, so I took it from the shelf, and began my walk back.
My journey into the Library had been calm (or at least as calm as my life gets). Leaving, on the other hand…. The strange sounds I was hearing behind the shelves increased in intensity the further I walked. They were no longer a quiet part of the background, but direct, and hostile. Still, sound on its own is nothing to be afraid of…. Until the lights started to go out. It began far behind me, so far that I almost didn’t notice the flickering of the flames. Soon it became obvious, as more candles went dim, and the darkness spread. Light after light went out, moving towards me as a roar which no creature should be able to produce bellowed from the blackness.
I began to run, as fast as I could. The darkness screamed at me, growing louder, louder, each moment coming closer. Kept running, couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Couldn’t let it catch me. Must have run for miles through those shelves, pain ripping through my legs, lungs raw, couldn’t stop running, darkness gaining on me until it was just behind me, reaching out and grasping at my hair….
Then, the door. So far away, but I could see it. One last burst of speed, and I slammed into the door, throwing it open. Without wasting any time, I threw it shut with as much force as I could. I sank to the ground, exhausted, but safe.
But then I looked around, and realized that I wasn’t in the bookstore. And when I looked over my shoulder, there was no door behind me. Just me, sitting alone in an empty alleyway. No sign that there had ever been anything else there.
Doesn’t matter. I got the book I was looking for. So I’m calling this one a victory.
And next time I’m going to remember to bring a flashlight. Or a grenade launcher.
Scratch that, next time, I’m going to bring a flashlight taped to a grenade launcher.
I-330
Thursday, July 28, 2011
it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts
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