#haunted by the hangman that lives in my brain. HAUNTED I TELL YOU!!!!!!!

[wastelandpizzas]

Walls: pt. 1

As we continue the journey through the personal take of SS Shaun Park Sr. And his attempt to find his son, We find the General of the Minutemen at headquarters in Fort Independence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Alright, Perkins, Garvey, on three!”

“One… Two… Three!!!” With one last shove we finished getting the last piece of the new, albeit temporary, north wall into place. It had been a grueling days work- though we had been restless from two days worth of waiting. The timbers from the thickets near Sanctuary had just arrived before dawn after a couple days worth of logging and cutting before Preston and I had even thought to head down to the Castle. The caravaneers had a hell of a time trying to manage the three Brahmin it took to haul enough lumber to do anything with. Being that the Commonwealth was, well, for lack of a better description, the Commonwealth, I was shocked to hear that Raiders, Gunners, and even Super Mutants stayed away from the caravan. It wasn’t everyday that a twelve man caravan went tromping through the Commonwealth, and much less frequent that it had a significant guard and still made it to its destination unscathed. One Brahmin master, two hands, and nine Minutemen, two of which were two of the same party from our raid on the Corvega plant earlier last month after another small group of raiders tried to hole themselves up in the old factory.

Preston had been on watch since three that morning looking for signs of our supply caravan on the south road and his face, since lunch, showed it. When they finally arrived, we had them use what cement we had salvaged from the breaking up the rubble over the entrance to the Castle’s tunnels to lay a foundation for the barracks and while the cement dried we started laying whole blocks along the edge of the wall and began to mortar them around the foundation. We had worked on putting up the wall frames for a couple hours after the cement hardened, and we were ready for a break. The two other weary Minuteman plopped down onto the ruined stone blocks off inside the fort, and after a quick look over the day’s work I joined them.

“Well, you really did mean that the walls needed work, didn’t you, General.” Preston took a long draught from his canteen before getting his words out.

“I did say that, didn’t I,” I followed Preston’s example and sat down to take a long breather. We finally had a wall set up on our northeast portion of the old star fort, the most vulnerable face to the greenskins over at the old Gwinnett pub. If I played the caravaneers right The Castle would have a new stone, or at least cement, wall to provide as a more permanent repair than the improvised barracks that our third builder, Captain Vern Perkins, brought to that rank after taking the killing shot of the Mirelurk Queen that had decided our headquarters looked as good a place as any to settle down, had planned to set up. We had plans to clear the rubble from the Northeast Bastion’s tunnel entry and try to cut a tunnel and new quarters when we had everything finished up, but that was arguably another year or two away. It took quite a bit of sweet talking, and frankly caps out the ass, but that nerve Mirna had finally agreed to set aside any cement or salvaged stone that her junkers and suppliers brought in to the city, 2500 caps upfront and 150 for each of the days she shipped more than 50 pounds our way. Cement, bricks and stone in Diamond City came at a premium given the state of the Fens after 211 years of direpair.

To make a long story short. the Minutemen were on the way to recovery. It had been nearly a year and a half since Quincy and since I had left the Vault. To say the least, we had what had once been the Northern suburbs of Boston aiding, enlisting, and paying into the Minutemen. It was something; we had a crew of 12 Regulars running active patrols around Sanctuary and the trading post and market at Starlight Drive-In which was only possible because 4 of those patrol men had cleared the Mole-rats living there once we had established Sanctuary as the main hub of the Minutemen north of Cambridge and Boston-proper, not to mention mounting support in the Fens. Hell we even had some a few Minutemen vets sent our way from somebody called Hancock over in Scollay Square. Though I hear it’s called Goodneighbor now, when I listen to the boys talk about it.​

I must have been daydreaming at that point, because Preston’s hand clapping on my shoulder brought me back to.

“General, do think we’re done for today?”

“I’m not sure, Preston,” I started. Noticing Vern had made his way back to the radio tower for a minute, I called at him,

“Perkins, what’s going on?”

“Not sure, sir, radio just went haywire there for a second” Preston helped me up and I started heading​ over to the tower myself to see what was going on when one of the guards posted on the southwest bastion hollered at us three.

“General, Colonel Garvey, you’re going to want to see this!” I must have caught a second wind because I bolted straight up the rubble of the western wall to join the soldier who immediately just pointed out over at the parking lot and handed me his binoculars.

I saw what looked like a shimmer of bright blue for a second and did a double take when I saw what emerged. Something that looked like a tan-ish grey skinned, plastic man in what appeared to be combat armor of some kind. I had never seen anything quite like it before, and boy was I curious.

“Can you tell me what I’m looking at, soldier?” after Preston got a look he said something that reminded me of a conversation I had with a certain reporter.

“I haven’t seen one so heavily armored before, but the color gives it right away. General, that’s an Institute synth. That caravan was damn lucky they left a couple hours ago.”

I had heard a great deal about the Institute from Miss Piper, and if stories were to be believed, the Institute was the shadow over the Commonwealth that everyone feared. And with good reason, I had taken the opportunity to have someone scout out University Point and they reported crops still in the field, shops relatively untouched, but no people, no bodies, and no trace other than their material goods that people had even been there. He had found an old holotape at one of the terminals on the fringe of the ghost town and gave it to me upon his return. I hadn’t looked at it just yet but I figured -after seeing a genuine Institute construct- that it was as good a time as any to give the files a once over.

Once we were sure the lone synth wasn’t gunning for us, I jogged down the rubble slope back to my backpack sitting over by one of our building workbenches on the northeastern wall. It took a minute of digging to find the tape labeled U.Point. but when I did and popped it in I was enthralled.

It was a personal diary, it looked to have went back up to two years or so before I left the vault, roughly 2285. I sifted through the years worth of writing and a saw, close to the end a someone mention a mercenary, and that piqued my curiosity at first. I was intrigued on who this man the journal referenced was at first, then I realized I recognized the description, the newest face to haunt my sleep. A nearly bald man with a noticeable scar across the left side of his face wearing a leather jacket with short cut sleeves and an improvised piece of shoulder armor. Supposedly he came around for a few days asking about any significant technology that the town knew about. And by the looks of the writing he came back with friends, the well armed kind. That child thieving bastard sold those bastards to the Institute. I unclipped my Pip-Boy and threw it into my backpack.

I must have been perusing the journal longer than I thought I had, because the sun was now setting in between the skyscrapers of downtown. I didn’t want to go to bed thinking about the massacre. I still had plenty of those dreams from the 2060s and the war with China and needed something to distract myself, so I relieved our night watchman once I had grabbed a bite to eat after the night fell. After a quick route across the walls and some of the scaffolding, I sat down next to the broken down artillery-piece on the northwest bastion. I looked over at the parking lot where the synth had shown up. Seeing a light flicker around a couple times, I wondered if I could make an easy target of the metal man, but after a closer look it was some dogs that got ahold of the synth and his gun. I couldn’t vent my rage against my son’s kidnapper and I wasn’t about to do something rash like rushing out into a pack of feral dogs.

I just wanted to seethe out every little bit of anger I had pent up at that bastard and get on with putting a bullet in his brain, after he led me to my son.

But for all the rage in the world, it wouldn’t bring Nora back. If I just had her with me, I’d not be this damned mess. Together we would have found Junior. With her keeping me focused I wouldn’t get caught by every bleeding heart farmer who was dealing with raider issues or the honest to God threats of this post-apocalyptic, radioactive, barely recovering wasteland. Though thinking it through, it was better that she didn’t see this, see me like this.

“Hey, General, I noticed you were still up” Preston seemingly popped out of nowhere with a couple beers

“Holy shit, Preston, don’t sneak up on me like that.” it was the second time he had caught me unawares that day, Im damn glad we hadn’t gone out to find some raiders or patrol the Fens and Hangman’s Alley. As off as I was then I was no good even for watch.

“You looked a little distracted after you read that holotape from U. Point. There something you gotta say?” I’d say this about Preston, he’s a good squad commander, and he’s got a way of telling when a man needs a beer.

#fallout 4 #sole survivor #preston garvey #noncompanions #the castle #minutemen

[favouriteworstnightmarexo-blog]

Pray for Me

"Whore"

"Devil"

"Slut"

"Witch"

Each and every insult casually rolls off of the tips of the tongues of the masses, violently ringing in my ears as I'm led in the line of a procession of 6 women. They hang their heads as if in shame, treading as though they carry the weight of the world on their hunched shoulders. Back and forth the crowd, dressed in rags and old word clothing, jostle, desperately wanting to get a good view.. but of what? At first I don't understand why all of these people are gathered, but then the procession ahead comes to a grinding halt and I am forced to look up at the most gruesome sight I have ever laid eyes upon. Up ahead stands a hangman's scaffold, proud and overbearing against the backdrop of the glorious ruby red sky.

“Move” shouts a rough, unfriendly voice in my ear as I feel the force of a boot kick against the backs of my knees to spur me into a forwards motion. It is then as my arms jolt out in front of me to steady myself that I notice and feel the heaviness of the iron shackles at my wrists. I notice the way mothers protectively recoil from my swaying body, pulling their children in close as though I am ridden with plague. It is then than I tremble uncontrollably with the realisation that the angry faces and accusatory fingers are all being pointed at me. It is then that I realise that I am not merely a spectator but that I am part of the procession being lead to their frightful end, and all of these people have gathered to see me die.

“This is a mistake. I haven’t done anything. I haven’t” I scream at the top of my lungs, desperate for someone to hear me and end this farce. Every instinct in my body is telling me to run, to escape and save myself, but all at once there is a harsh palm against the base of my spine, ruthlessly pushing me onwards until I am forced to stand at the foot of the uneven steps leading to the scaffold. I am rooted to the spot, forlorn and fumbling with the shackles in the naive hope that I might be able to miraculously free myself from this disastrous fate. With bated breath I watch the figures of the condemned women before me taking their designated places beneath the noose set to end their existence. Each one is secured around their slender throats as they snivel and wail, muttering pitiful pleas of innocence and forgiveness while the executioners dutifully Tighten the ropes. Then it’s as if time stops and all eyes fall on me, expectant and impatiently waiting for me to take up my ‘rightful’ place. I can’t. I physically can’t bring myself to move. Already I feel dead inside. Numb. It’s as if my heart has suddenly stopped and my brain has given up on me, Amethyst the lost cause. There is no way out of this - the notion hits me as hard as a ton of bricks, leaving me heaving for air as the tears begin to stream down my cheeks like a river that has burst its banks. I can’t die. I’m too young to die. What about my family? What about grandmother? She’ll have no one left. I don’t even know why I’m here nor what I’ve done. What did I do that was so bad to warrant my death?

A forceful hand secures itself around the chain binding my shackles, impatiently dragging me up the steps despite the flailing of my legs and the twisting of my upper body. “Please, please. Stop this. I can’t die. I don’t want to die. Let me go. You’ve made a mistake.” I cry so loud my throat begins to burn whilst my stomach knots uncontrollably as I am yanked towards the swaying noose like a doll that can be thrown every which way possible. All at once I’m held by the shoulders, gagging at the stale scent of ale and sweat coming off of those greedy to earn their coin when I’m hoisted onto the stool at my feet. I sway back and forth, once again trying to stabilise myself though I am internally panicking at the prospect of snapping my own neck from stumbling. My shoulders are gripped so hard that I wince, convinced there will be bruises left by the roughness of the grip that surrenders me to the hangman as he secures a hand around my throat before bringing the noose over my head. Without a second thought for the life about to be snatched away, he tightens the rope and steps back to cast a proud eye over the distraught faces of us women lined up before him. I grimace as his eyes meet mine, the coins in his pocket clashing while he flashes me a sickening grin to display his yellowing teeth. It’s a look that says ‘I can’t wait till it’s your turn’. His heavy boots cause the floorboards of the scaffold to creak as he strolls back towards the first girl, ignoring her wailing as he kicks the stool from beneath her to pull the rope taut. There are jeers and whistles from the crowd. I close my eyes at the sound of the rope creaking, desperately trying to eradicate images of her frail body twisting against the force of her fall whilst she gasps for her last final breaths. My tears begin to flow while my body shivers against the easterly wind whipping across the courtyard, my ears aching with the choked last whispers of the women beside me. I know nothing of them, not their names nor their crime. I know not where they are from nor their age nor occupation and yet still I empathise with them. I feel their hearts bleed for the lives they will never have. I ache desperately for the love they will never share. I know at once that they are like me, unfairly subjected to the terrors and prejudices of a cruel, cruel world. We are one in the same.

The creaking grows louder and louder until I am finally the last one standing. I hear the heavy intakes of breath in the crowd, the suspense building by the second, and it’s then that I decide to open my eyes, to take one last look at the world. And then it all becomes clear. In the crowd stands @VileZealot, and at his hip is a girl the spitting image of me. A girl with my freckles and my curls, with my blue eyes and my full mouth, but I can tell from the wicked glint in her eye that she is not me. I can tell from the way her arms possessively encircle his waist that she is in fact Elizabeth Howe - the ancestor that has haunted my adolescence - and that it is her place upon this scaffold that I have taken. I am paying for her wrongs, and she is taking my place in the arms of the man that I love. She is stealing my love and my life, leaving me to pay the price for the suffering she has caused. She glares at me and, even when he dips his head to press his mouth firmly against hers, she is watching me. She is revelling in the sight of me at death’s door for she knows she has won as the stool is kicked from beneath me and I descend into a thick blanket of darkness...

━ ❖ ━

I wake with a start, sitting bolt upright in my bed whilst my shirt sticks to my spine from the sweat coating my skin. I reach for my lamp, squinting violently as the brightness illuminates the four walls of my bedroom. Upon my bedside table stands a vase containing roses in full bloom brought for me by.. Sage. My brows crease in confusion.

He was in my dream.

With her.

And I was...

“No. It can’t have been real. Of course it can’t. It was just a dream, Amethyst” I tell myself in a scolding manner, half laughing of the ridiculousness of the paranoia racing through me. It was a dream. That’s all. A nightmare like all the others. Simply something to forget.

I climb from my bed and stumble towards the bathroom, desperately trying to avoid the creaking floorboards and disturbing my grandmother’s sleep. The last thing I need is her asking questions I don’t wish to answer. I step inside the bathroom and fumble for the light switch, Sleepily rubbing my eyes with the backs of my hands as the light flickers into action overhead. I bend over the basin to run the tap, splashing my face with ice cold water as if to cleanse myself of the dark thoughts tormenting my mind and my heart. Straightening my petite frame, I elicit a groan at the creaking of my spine before suddenly releasing a shrill, animalistic scream. All at once I clutch at my mouth with my hands, recoiling with a shiver while my breathing becomes frantic and I fall against the edge of the bath.

There on the bathroom mirror inscribed in blood is four little words. It’s a message. A warning.

It’s a promise;

“I’m coming for you.”

#erysimumdeitas solos

[thereins]

Hope in God

Now, ere this feeble heart beneath youth’s spell, To its illusions bids a last farewell, I fain would keep the old philosophy Which makes Epicurus divinity. I fain would live and love, and learn mankind, In quest of joy, small profit hope to find, And do what men can do, be what they are, Gaze upward to the sky nor feel one care.

I cannot; me the infinite torments, Fearless to dwell thereon hope consents; Heedless of men’s words, reason is dismayed To comprehend it not, though clear displayed. What is the world, what are we doing here, If we, in peace, must veil the skies in fear, To move like sheep, eyes fixed upon the ground, Deny the rest, can that be pleasure found? It is no man to be, degrade the soul. Chance made no part in the created whole; Or happy, or unhappy, woman born, I cannot flee away from men in scorn.

What shall we do? Seek joy, command the wise, Rejoice and die; the gods to sleep advise.

Hope only, answers our firm Christian faith, Heaven watches thee. Thou canst not die, it saith. Between two roads I, wavering, stop and stay, Aloof, would follow easier, gentler way. Not one exists, so speaks a secret voice, Believe, deny, there is the heaven-given choice. And such my thought; for souls with torture burn; Make mere excuses, this, or that, in turn. But the indifferents are an atheist's rout. They could not sleep had they one day of doubt. I yield me then and since the thought has bred, Deep in my heart desire and anxious dread, My knees shall bend, with hope I will believe. What fate is mine, what would high heaven receive?

Held in the hand of God, more dread, I go, Than all the ills combined here below. Alone, a wanderer, frail, wretched man, My deeds that witness eye must ever scan. He watches, follows. Let heart beat too high It might His great divinity defy. A gulf is 'neath my feet. If I fall in, Eternity will expiate my sin. My hangman, judge, with victim plays his game, For me is all a snare, all changing name; Love is a sin, and happiness a crime, Temptation all that work of seven days' time. Of human nature naught can I retain, Virtue for me is dead, remorse they feign. The recompense I wait, the pain I shun, My guide is fear, toward death, my mask, I run.

And still, they tell me, waits unbounded joy The elect. And when those blest without alloy, If you deceive me, will you life deny? If you speak to me, so can you ope the sky? That land of beauty of the prophet’s cry, If it exists above, must be a desert dry. The blest you make you wish them all too pure,

Though joy may come, the suffering more sure. I am a man no more, would not be less, Nor try for more. What shall I then confess? Since I believe no promises of priest, Shall I then go consult the indifferent beast?

And if by haunting visions thus bent, My heart the real seeks some joy to get, With each vain pleasure summoned to my aid, Disgust and gloomy death my sense invade. The very days when impious is my thought, When ending doubt denial full has brought, Should I attain whatever in this life Each man can seek with vast desire and strife, Both power, and health and riches freely give, And love itself, the good for which we live, Let fair Astarte, idol of ancient Greece, Outspread her arms from azure lands of peace, Could I explore the bosom of the earth, To win the secret elemental birth, Transform enlivening matter to my will, Make matchless beauty my desire to still; Should Horace, Epicurus old, Me at their side a happy mortal hold, Should they, in love with nature’s ancient code, Loud sing of joy and contempt of God, My words would come "Whatever we may be done, I suffer on, the world is older grown. Hope fills the earth with infinite surmise, In our despite toward heaven we lift our eyes!"

What then remains? Reason revolts, breaks out, Tries to believe, in vain, the heart to doubt. The Christian frightens, but the atheist creed Despite the senses, shall not hear nor heed. To truly pious men impious seem, Me, the indifferent, merely crazy deem. To whom shall I resort, what voice’s sound Shall soothe this heart when doubt inflicts its wound?

There is, they say, one philosophic creed Which can without a revelation read, Can guide us safely through our existence, Betwixt religion and indifference. I acquiesce. But where are they who frame Systems of truth nor wish the faith to name, Sophistic impotents, believing but themselves, What are the arguments, their reason delves? One shows me here two principles at war, Which, both defeated, both immortal are; Another finds far off within some heaven lone, A useless god who asks no altar stone. I see the dreams of Plato, Aristotle see; I listen, praise and walk my pathway free. Under the monarch find a despot God. To-day he gives a democratic nod. Pythagoras, Leibnitz both me transform. Descartes abandons me in vortex storm. Montaigne, self-student, nothing learns and sees. Pascal, a-tremble, his own vision flees. Pyrrho my sight, and Zeno senses, takes, Whatever stands, Voltaire casts down and breaks. Trying th’ impossible with wearied air, Spinosa finds his God is everywhere. The English sophist cries, Man's a machine, And in the fog a German rhetor's seen, Who of philosophism, ruin wrought, Declares our heaven void, concludes with naught.

So human science then becomes a wreck! Five thousand years of doubt are at our beck, Five thousand years of persevering fag With doubt, as final word, perplexed we lag. Ah! poor distracted, paltry human brains, How intricate your key that all explains; To mount above, no wings upon your back,

Desire you have, but faith alone you lack. I pity pride, that racks your wounded soul. You feel the torments round my heart that roll. You understand it, all that bitter sight Which makes man shudder at the Infinite. Pray we! Forswear the miserable toil Of childish reckonings, petty futile moil. Now that your bodies have returned to dust, Fall on my knees beside your tombs, I must. Ye pagan rhetors, first in knowledge, come, Departed Christians, dreamers here at home: Believe me, prayer is hope’s expectant voice! That God, man answer; speak to Him, rejoice, For God is just and good to pardon send. Your sufferings great, the rest to Him commend. If bare is heaven, to none offense we make; One, if he hears, shall on us pity take.

Oh! Thou whom none has ever known, Nor being false, can e'er deny Who gave me life, 'twas Thou alone, And who, to-morrow makes me die!

By faith alone, art understood. If faith be ours, why doubts of Thee? Why give not faith in measure good, That none may say Thou canst not be?

As soon as man lifts up his head, To that great temple in the skies, He sees a vast creation spread, A glorious temple in his eyes.

When now descends into his heart, He finds Thee there; thou livest in him. He can not weep or love apart, 'Tis God alone, wills every whim.

The highest aim of human thought, The grandest rôle as played by man, To prove Thou dost exist, be taught Thy name, O everlasting One.

Whatever name Thou mayest be called, Jesus, or Jupiter, Brahma, Or Truth Eternal, thus extolled, Toward Thee all arms are stretched, Allah!

The latest of the sons of earth Will give thee thanks, from grateful heart, When misery is turned to mirth, And happiness appears in part.

The whole world gives Thee glory, praise. The bird sings sweetly on its nest; To Thee, for rain of rainy days, A thousand anthems are addressed.

Thy every act astounds our gaze, Nor ray of love divine is lost, No soul so vile, Thou canst not raise, For this we kneel upon the dust.

Why, then, O Master, so supreme, Hast Thou created evil great? That reason, virtue, in its gleam, On seeing it, affrighted wait!

When all the splendid things of earth Proclaim Thy attributes divine, Bear witness to a father’s worth, Love, strength and goodness will combine.

Then how in view of heaven’s sight, Are acts so full of hideous hate, That prayer will die, unhappy plight! On lips of the unfortunate?

Why, in Thy heavenly work of love, Should discord draw unhappy breath? What is it crime and pest may prove? Just God! Why should we suffer death?

Thy pity must have been profound When, with its blessings and its ills, This world with love and horror crowned, Came forth from chaos! Sadness fills

My heart, to think Thou didst submit Thy sons to torture! Can Thy sight Find pleasure in the burning pit? Thy power for good is infinite.

Why shall the misery of earth Conceive of, and divine, a God? Doubt has despoiled our heavenly birth. In place of Thee, we feel the rod.

If these, Thy creatures, are so base, Unworthy of approaching Thee, In nature Thou shouldst leave no trace By which Thou might discovered be.

Thy power would remain no less, And we still feel its heavy blow; But rest and ignorance, we confess, Would make our ills more mild, we,know.

If suffering, and prayer, and praise, Move not thy glorious majesty, Preserve Thy grandeur from our gaze; In Space’s dread immensity.

But if our mortal anguish touch Thy heart with pity, if Thine ear Amid the heavenly songs, be such As can our direst moaning hear,

Shatter that canopy of space That hides our eager quest of Theee. Tear down the veil that mars thy grace, And show thyself, most amiably.

Then wilt Thou see on earth a flame Of firmest faith and burning love. All earth will then adore Thy name, As do the heavenly hosts above.

The years which have exhausted it, The burning tears that dimmed its eyes, Like dew beneath the sun shall flit, And earth will be one paradise.

Then Thou will hear hosannas sung In concerts of celestial joy, Like heavenly music heard among The courts of heaven, which saints enjoy.

Our chants would sound o'er land and sea, And Pain and Hate would howling fly, And Doubt and Blasphemy would flee, And Death itself, at last, would die.

#Alfred de Musset #1838