Rorschach's journal. December 8th.
[Private]
Beginning to wonder what the point was of dying for a cause if it turns out I didn't die at all, and can't remember what that cause was.
It was important. I remember that. I remember the anger, the rage ... a certain sense of urgency, of something delayed or put off for far too long until a minor wound I could have healed festered into something infected and impossible to fix without amputation. I remember being prepared for that. Being ready to die for the truth, again.
I thought I really had died until Jack The Question Charlie he told me I'd been a child for two weeks. That I acted the way I used to in the Charlton home.
It wouldn't have bothered me if it had been like any other ridiculous Castle loss. If I remembered it. If he didn't seem to have liked me better that way. If it hadn't come fast at the heels of something that I also can't remember. As if this place hasn't ripped enough away from me - now it sees fit to revise my mind however it wants to contain its own malignant secrets. The memories I'm missing have likely been replaced by the festering tumor of the Castle's deception - some lie spreading and growing through my mind.
It won't deter me. Not so easily. I WILL know the truth.
Now that he hates me for simply being myself, I don't have anything else.
[/Private]
[after his writing session, one Mr. Walter Joseph Kovacs decides to do something he hasn't done in months ... make himself a picket sign and go camp out in the lobby. So, amidst all your holiday cheer, Paradisa, you have a hobo that's ... slightly less scruffy and smelly than usual. after all, Question might hate his guts now, but he still managed to break him of a few of those bad hygiene habits. he's a hobo, though, nevertheless, toting a big ol' cardboard sign that says THE TRUTH WILL BE KNOWN.
under a very large cluster of those silver bells.
fail, Rory.]
Beginning to wonder what the point was of dying for a cause if it turns out I didn't die at all, and can't remember what that cause was.
It was important. I remember that. I remember the anger, the rage ... a certain sense of urgency, of something delayed or put off for far too long until a minor wound I could have healed festered into something infected and impossible to fix without amputation. I remember being prepared for that. Being ready to die for the truth, again.
I thought I really had died until Jack The Question Charlie he told me I'd been a child for two weeks. That I acted the way I used to in the Charlton home.
It wouldn't have bothered me if it had been like any other ridiculous Castle loss. If I remembered it. If he didn't seem to have liked me better that way. If it hadn't come fast at the heels of something that I also can't remember. As if this place hasn't ripped enough away from me - now it sees fit to revise my mind however it wants to contain its own malignant secrets. The memories I'm missing have likely been replaced by the festering tumor of the Castle's deception - some lie spreading and growing through my mind.
It won't deter me. Not so easily. I WILL know the truth.
Now that he hates me for simply being myself, I don't have anything else.
[/Private]
[after his writing session, one Mr. Walter Joseph Kovacs decides to do something he hasn't done in months ... make himself a picket sign and go camp out in the lobby. So, amidst all your holiday cheer, Paradisa, you have a hobo that's ... slightly less scruffy and smelly than usual. after all, Question might hate his guts now, but he still managed to break him of a few of those bad hygiene habits. he's a hobo, though, nevertheless, toting a big ol' cardboard sign that says THE TRUTH WILL BE KNOWN.
under a very large cluster of those silver bells.
fail, Rory.]