The shadows gather close... (Diary Entry)
(Written on a scrap from Gent's pile of loose paper and stuck, after some thought, in her nightmare journal)
Waking, all I can hear are their whispers. The whispers cling, haunting me, clinging to my flesh like hands, tugging, tearing at the fabric until I am naked before them. Then they can accuse me, their bloodied fingers pointing to their wounds. Their numbers are four, that I know of, those whispered voices that I have silenced for good.
The first was in self-defence when I first arrived in the Neath. He crept up behind me in an alley and put one large hand around my waist and the other on my mouth. He should have caught and bound my hands. I had a rusted, previously bloody dagger in one hand that I'd found lying in the street my first morn here. It slipped up between his ribs out of sheer luck and pricked his heart. There was so much blood. It took days to wash all of it off m'self and I had to cut my fingernails close to get the last of it from under them. He was young, when I looked at him. Tall, gangly, wide mouth, blond hair and shocked green eyes. Probably twenty at the most. Clean, for the Neath. Shabby suit, once-good shoes, nothing in his pockets 'cept an echo or two and a pack of cards. There are enough girls who'll go with a fairly well looking lad even without payment down here, and I didn't look like I had money, which I didn't. I don't know why he attacked, but he did, and he paid for it, but his whispers join the others in my dreams.
The second was a drunk. I'd seen him beat a boy once, in the street outside his lodgings, down the way from the hostel where Lily was staying at the time. Lily showed up of a night, her eyes wet with tears, her pretty little nose red. She begged me to take her in, to give her a bed, a roof, as the hostel had caught fire and with it her little store of money from modeling for her insipid artist boyos. I couldn't do that - can't live with a girl after Rosa. But I promised to help her find lodgings. We met at the bar closest to her old hostel to discuss it, to plot over piss-weak ale and weaker whiskey. I was broke then, too. He wobbled in on already drunken feet, bending o'er the bar and demanding drink. The barmaid had no scruples about those who wished to drink themselves to death and she poured him a big one with a 'good riddance' look as she served it. Maybe she'd seen him beat the boy on the street. I saw some half-demon boys I knew from Watchmaker's Hill and went over to talk to them, and then I talked to Lily. When the man was so drunk he wouldn't have known his own mother, Lily half-carried him (a feat since she's so slight and he was not a small man) upstairs to the private rooms. A few minutes later she came down and the boys went up and brought back down with them a bundle in a sheet. Lily had a new room, a dirty one, no doubt, but a room. She sent me a note the next day saying thanks but she'd moved on, was going to try to keep from straying away from her favourite artist boyo. Good luck to her in that, I say, since she can't keep her skirts from about her waist any more 'n she can fly.
The third was an old man, crying in the street outside the honey den I was frequenting at the time as part of the paper I was being paid to write. I'd never been to a honey den before that. I've been there often since, and others, even sold some out of my lodgings for a while when Monkeytine's was closed for repairs and I needed some quick echoes. The old git was a worshiper of honey - one o' those who have given all to drift away to where one goes in those golden dreams. He didn't have a shirt left to his back, his pants were nearly falling off since he'd grown thin in his devotion to the nectar drops. In his hand he clutched a little notebook. "All my honey dreams, all my secrets!" he whimpered, his eyes hollow with need for more, always more and more. "What'd you want for for 't?" I asked him. "Anything! Honey! Echoes to buy honey! Pennies!" I tossed him a few pennies and it rattled on the paving-stones at his feet. I grabbed the book and hit him on the back of the head with it, hoping only to knock him out long enough to escape with it for such a price, but he fell to the stone and hit his head. The dark oozing around him was quick to flow, and I ran.
The fourth was once a friend but knew too much, wanted too much for his silence, and had dulled his palate with cheap wine too often to taste poison. He wished my money now, in the future, and my body besides. My body he'd had before, willingly and paid, and I figured he would have it again, but at the price he was demanding I'd have been without lodging or food and he didn't care. I told him I'd decided to agree, and to come so I could sign his contract. We'd toast his devil's deal for my soul. It was too easy to slip the pale liquid into his glass. I left once it took hold of him, took Weasel and walked until my legs gave out. I had a demoness I know a bit take him away for the price of his clothing, and saw her and her brother bury him proper before I left. Never trust a demon with a corpse you even vaguely care about. His whispers were the loudest.
This path grows steeper with each step, and the shadows darken closer each night. I don't know that anything can drive them away after this, and it will only get worse. Their numbers will multiply, and their whispers grow stronger, louder, until I am helpless before them.
Waking, all I can hear are their whispers. The whispers cling, haunting me, clinging to my flesh like hands, tugging, tearing at the fabric until I am naked before them. Then they can accuse me, their bloodied fingers pointing to their wounds. Their numbers are four, that I know of, those whispered voices that I have silenced for good.
The first was in self-defence when I first arrived in the Neath. He crept up behind me in an alley and put one large hand around my waist and the other on my mouth. He should have caught and bound my hands. I had a rusted, previously bloody dagger in one hand that I'd found lying in the street my first morn here. It slipped up between his ribs out of sheer luck and pricked his heart. There was so much blood. It took days to wash all of it off m'self and I had to cut my fingernails close to get the last of it from under them. He was young, when I looked at him. Tall, gangly, wide mouth, blond hair and shocked green eyes. Probably twenty at the most. Clean, for the Neath. Shabby suit, once-good shoes, nothing in his pockets 'cept an echo or two and a pack of cards. There are enough girls who'll go with a fairly well looking lad even without payment down here, and I didn't look like I had money, which I didn't. I don't know why he attacked, but he did, and he paid for it, but his whispers join the others in my dreams.
The second was a drunk. I'd seen him beat a boy once, in the street outside his lodgings, down the way from the hostel where Lily was staying at the time. Lily showed up of a night, her eyes wet with tears, her pretty little nose red. She begged me to take her in, to give her a bed, a roof, as the hostel had caught fire and with it her little store of money from modeling for her insipid artist boyos. I couldn't do that - can't live with a girl after Rosa. But I promised to help her find lodgings. We met at the bar closest to her old hostel to discuss it, to plot over piss-weak ale and weaker whiskey. I was broke then, too. He wobbled in on already drunken feet, bending o'er the bar and demanding drink. The barmaid had no scruples about those who wished to drink themselves to death and she poured him a big one with a 'good riddance' look as she served it. Maybe she'd seen him beat the boy on the street. I saw some half-demon boys I knew from Watchmaker's Hill and went over to talk to them, and then I talked to Lily. When the man was so drunk he wouldn't have known his own mother, Lily half-carried him (a feat since she's so slight and he was not a small man) upstairs to the private rooms. A few minutes later she came down and the boys went up and brought back down with them a bundle in a sheet. Lily had a new room, a dirty one, no doubt, but a room. She sent me a note the next day saying thanks but she'd moved on, was going to try to keep from straying away from her favourite artist boyo. Good luck to her in that, I say, since she can't keep her skirts from about her waist any more 'n she can fly.
The third was an old man, crying in the street outside the honey den I was frequenting at the time as part of the paper I was being paid to write. I'd never been to a honey den before that. I've been there often since, and others, even sold some out of my lodgings for a while when Monkeytine's was closed for repairs and I needed some quick echoes. The old git was a worshiper of honey - one o' those who have given all to drift away to where one goes in those golden dreams. He didn't have a shirt left to his back, his pants were nearly falling off since he'd grown thin in his devotion to the nectar drops. In his hand he clutched a little notebook. "All my honey dreams, all my secrets!" he whimpered, his eyes hollow with need for more, always more and more. "What'd you want for for 't?" I asked him. "Anything! Honey! Echoes to buy honey! Pennies!" I tossed him a few pennies and it rattled on the paving-stones at his feet. I grabbed the book and hit him on the back of the head with it, hoping only to knock him out long enough to escape with it for such a price, but he fell to the stone and hit his head. The dark oozing around him was quick to flow, and I ran.
The fourth was once a friend but knew too much, wanted too much for his silence, and had dulled his palate with cheap wine too often to taste poison. He wished my money now, in the future, and my body besides. My body he'd had before, willingly and paid, and I figured he would have it again, but at the price he was demanding I'd have been without lodging or food and he didn't care. I told him I'd decided to agree, and to come so I could sign his contract. We'd toast his devil's deal for my soul. It was too easy to slip the pale liquid into his glass. I left once it took hold of him, took Weasel and walked until my legs gave out. I had a demoness I know a bit take him away for the price of his clothing, and saw her and her brother bury him proper before I left. Never trust a demon with a corpse you even vaguely care about. His whispers were the loudest.
This path grows steeper with each step, and the shadows darken closer each night. I don't know that anything can drive them away after this, and it will only get worse. Their numbers will multiply, and their whispers grow stronger, louder, until I am helpless before them.