Late Night Musings

Life is funny.


Like.. in the kind of way getting your nails done and getting into a fistfight before they dry, is funny.


You can't help but to look down at the complete mess you've made, and just.. laugh.


We start out in situations with the best of intentions, with tiny goals, just trying to get by. You keep your head down, try to find ways to smile, and try to keep your personal demons to a dull roar.

Then one day you look up.. and the stars sparkle for you again. The moon will be shining brightly. Orion's belt will be positioned just above your head, and the North Star damn near looks like a beacon in the night. The wind will be blowing on your skin, teasing your hair all around your face, and slowly the sounds of crickets become audible. Fireflies dance around you to an unknown muse.

Your tiny little plans at survival have blossomed into full blown preparations. Maybe that job you wanted so badly called you back. Maybe a kid on the street smiled at you and told you they wanted to have hair like yours when they grew up. Maybe your favorite t.v. show updated while your head was down. Maybe, maybe, maybe.. there's a thousand variations. But they bring hope to our world again.


I thought I was alone in this world. I mean, sure, I've made friends in the last five years. I've had to, it's kinda become my job, travelling the world for random mystical shit, encountering new visitors. But.. they all felt hollow. Like I had an ice wall put up between me and them. Like.. I could never really be myself, I was always trying to wear the newest and prettiest mask to make them like me. I couldn't be kind anymore, so I fell out of the habit except for kids and old people. I retreated down to the lowest degree you can with a pulse, and tried with every breath to end it all.

I obviously failed. Repeatedly. I wanted nothing more than to just shut my eyes and sleep. I would call it the forever sleep. The longest nap in history. “To die, to sleep – to sleep, perchance to dream – ay, there’s the rub, for in this sleep of death what dreams may come…”

Hamlet had it right. Sometimes, I would dream of the better days. The ones where a lover would be cuddled up to me tightly, an arm around me, the sunlight slipping through the blinds to illuminate their face to create the most beautiful sight you had ever seen in your life. The moments where I could watch such people sleep, and thank whatever Greater Good exists for that moment in time. I knew, in my dreams and as they happened in my life, that these moments were all too fleeting, that they would be snatched from me. I wouldn't care. They were worth every moment of pain.

Sometimes, I dreamt of my family, of my father watching over me. Echoes of his half-forgotten voice telling me I should be doing better. That I should have kept going with college. That I should never have made the Faustian deals I have, that I have damned myself. In these dreams, I argue and rage against him, my greatest internal conscience, telling him I had no choice, this life was chosen for me, that I did my best to better myself, but life interfered. As I do, his face softens and he begins to smile. "There's my girl. I knew she was still in there somewhere. You're gonna make it through this. You have to. You have too many people looking to you to protect them to quit now."

I would tell him versions of, "I don't think I'm strong enough. It's not like I can be good or evil anymore. I gave up that luxury years ago. All I can do is try to reduce the death toll, give people a place to retreat to when they begin to feel as alone or hunted as I used to. Dad, I don't know what to do anymore. I know when I wake up I'm going to go back to that haunted land, and I won't be able to see your face anymore. Why can't I just stay here with you?"

The laugh lines around his mouth would shift to reveal his hidden dimples, the same ones he passed to me, and the crows feet around his eyes would crinkle as he looked at me kindly. "You've always been strong, baby, you just forgot for a while. It's okay. We all need a break sometimes, you're just taking a bit longer than other people do. It's okay. You had a lot more on your plate than most, and you burned out trying to do too much. Everyone is allowed to mistakes. All that matters is that you come back from this. And one day, you will. I've already seen it."

"You've saved more people than you've ever given yourself credit for. Yes, you had to do some messed up things to save those lives. Sacrifice a few so-called bad guys, a few innocents, get some blood on those hands of yours. That's when you know it's real. When you have to sacrifice to get the results that you want. When you question yourself, when you sit up at night wondering if you'll ever make it to the right Other Side, that's when you know you're doing right. That you haven't lost yourself."

"The selfish don't question themselves. Evil doesn't have trouble sleeping at night, or even during the day. The innocent don't know what it means to choose to do wrong in order to help others, and that's okay. They're not meant to. Let them stay innocent, for as long as you can. They deserve that."

"You're going to wake up from this. It's going to take a while. If you try to come back now, you won't survive, and all the people looking to you for support will be lost. Don't try to force it. Heal. Heal every injury you have, from that attack you just suffered, to your broken heart, to your mind. Don't try to pick up the broken shards of your mind and hand them to the people you love. Wait."

"You have too many things left to do to quit now. I know you want to, and I know how you could, but I can't tell you. I won't. The war is coming, sweetheart, and you have to be ready when it does."

I would step up to him, wrap my arms around his frame, and bury my head in his chest. Even there, in my dreams, he would smell of rolling tobacco, cheap whiskey, and motor oil. Ever the fuck up, my father, but he loved with everything he had. I would feel at peace in those moments. I felt loved.

Then his eyes would go wide like the panicked gaze of a witch on the stake, glancing down at the flames licking at their feet, and he would shove me away as hard as he could. "Baby, you need to wake up now. They're coming. They know I made it through, and they're angry."

Invisible talons would begin to rake at his skin, scratching and clawing and tearing, cleaving his skin from him, ripping his ribs out of his chest, as still more would hit him like the blows from a sledgehammer, breaking every piece of him until he would collapse, sobbing, looking up at me.

"I have to go now, baby, or they'll catch me. Don't forget I love you. Please, don't give up."

And with that, I would be launched into the most horrific nightmares I have ever experienced. My grandmother dying of pneumonia in front of my eyes, silently mouthing 'I love you' as they pulled her plug. My running out the hospital in a haze of tears, unable to even say goodbye. Me transported back to my childhood days, my rapist smiling down at me and asking me if I wanted to play. Having to pretend I was sleeping as his weight eased down on the bed next to me, pulled back the covers, and began to touch me in a way a child should never be touched. My father finding out what happened after I got sent home from school one day with a letter from both the guidance counselor and DHR, telling him what I reported by accident one day at school. Him waiting in his beat-up old car in the driveway as I got off the bus, not even letting me go in the house one more time. You see, he had already packed all of the things he could fit in the car, and made arrangements for us to stay in halfway houses until he could save enough for a first and last deposit on a new home. My getting in the car, putting the seatbelt on, and his turning to me as he started the car, telling me he had to pawn every gun he owned so that he didn't kill his bastard brother. That was the day I first started running.

My aunt looking me in the face, and telling me I was a teenage whore that deserved everything that had ever happened to me, that I would wind up a pregnant single mom dropout, that I would never amount to anything. Learning she was diagnosed with skin cancer, and being unable to care. Sitting in a pew at her funeral, my family all in tears around me, having to bow my head so my hair could hide the fact that I could not summon a single tear for the woman that made me feel like a whore for being a rape victim. I never did cry for that woman, or forgive her. Even when she begged to apologize.

Nearly biting a kid's dick off beneath the train tracks down the road because he tried to force me to blow him.

Trying to go to church, making friends, then getting banished for being too argumentative. No longer having that escape to keep me off the streets. Being told I "dressed like a Satan worshipper anyway." Sneaking into youth group meetings so I'd stop feeling so damn alone.

Having the first true love of my life choose someone else over me. My next lover abusing me for 4 years, beating me and painting himself as my savior. My father dying, turning to him and the abuse in order to feel something.. anything.

Turning to the BDSM world.. and finding it. Only to discover no one you ever met could match your libido. Losing the only man you would have married because.. you couldn't stand the sight of him embracing other women. It tore you up inside.

Watching your great love fuck another girl while you sat, crying. Internally screaming, begging to be enough, just for once.

All of these, and so many more, flashing before my eyes in a nonstop montage, all blurring together, until I would wake screaming. Crying. Reaching for a razor to make it stop, just for a little while.

Those dreams of my loved ones, the good dreams, kept me going even when They punished me for them. I would sleep almost constantly, trying to chase down my dead lovers in the only place they still existed: my mind.

I don't tell you these things to depress you. I tell you so you know I am human, I am vulnerable.. I feel pain. I'm not perfect. But.. If a fuck up like me could come back from the abyss, there is hope for y'all. I swear it. Better days are coming.

So keep watching for Orion's Belt, the North Star. Know that I am here for anyone who needs me, supernaturally influenced or not, no matter the faction, no matter what grudges we might have once held. That's all gone now.

The Great Game is approaching, and it is time to begin preparing. All of you.

I, for one, will greet Them with a smile on my face.

Priest

I glanced down at the pocket of my jeans, upon feeling the vibrations of an incoming phone call. An upbeat, dubstep-esque ringtone was playing, immediately letting me know who was calling.

I retrieved my phone as quickly as I could and answered the call,

"Hey babe, what's up?"

It was my lovely tech genius, Priest. 

A bit of an.. odd person, Priest is, but easily pleased and as intelligent as any three people put together. 

Unfortunately, this typically means putting up with his alcoholism, perversion, and overall laziness.

His normally laid back, smooth baritone came out as a nerve-wracking squeak as it broadcast across my phone's tiny speakers. "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god! Pokemon just passed their 1000th episode.... AND IT'S STILL GOING!!!!!!!!! ...Also, I'm hungry."

Me: "Of course they did. What region are they in right now?"

Priest: "Alola! It's like Hawaii, but with Pokemon! Also, do we have any Hot Pockets?"

I scoffed and stared down at my feet.

Me: "Top left corner of the freezer. Hidden behind the stack of ice trays."

"I'm working on getting our food situation fixed soon. I have a mage that's interested in helping us, it's just gonna cost out the ass. We're gonna have to figure out a way to fund bribing her."

Priest: "Did you ask her if she wants us to do anything for her?"

Me: "I sure did, but I doubt you'll be interested. Not unless you feel like replacing her computer rig and teaching her how to mask her presence online. That bouncing signals out of Russia and Australia type shit."

"She says she misses Facebook. And some kind of casino type slot game."

The sounds of liquid sloshing and Priest swallowing what is probably alcohol is heard, followed by his spitting it right back out. "Where the hell did you find this person, the ass end of BFE?"

"Wait, hold on. What kind of help are we needing? And does she do maid things in maid outfits?"

Me: "Um.. If you'd believe it, some backwoods swamp in Florida. Once we hammer out the details, she'll be visiting us on our dime and doing some witchy shit. She'll probably hex you if you ask her about the maid thing."

"If this goes well, she can cast a spell on our food supply. Something called 'the Pantry of Phantoms.' It's supposed to replicate any food item placed within its boundaries, without our having to replace them ourselves."

Priest: "Oooooooooooooooooh!!!!!!! UNLIMITED CHEESE!!!!!!!"

Me: "Yes, yes. We can literally put our favorite foods in there and not have to replace them. The only problem is, the spell has diminishing returns. Eventually, the food will begin to taste stale, then freezerburnt, and begin to decay. We'll eventually have to replace the foodstuffs when that happens, but that's a headache for another time."

Priest: "Hmmm... What about liquids?"

Me: "Liquids work fine, though I think they turn weird colors if they get duplicated. You might get milk that turns blue out of it, but it'll taste good."

Priest: "MUHAHAHAHHAHHAHA, UNLIMITED ALCOHOL!!!!!!!!!"

Me: "Point is, we desperately need this Wiccan bitch to cast this spell. Do you think you can help her out by teaching her how to do that stuff, maybe help her get some free internet out of the deal? The sooner the better."

Priest: "If she does the cleaning, why not let her stay here?"

Me: "She has a family to get back to, hon, or you know I would invite her. We desperately need a mage on staff, but it won't be this chick. She's a bit weird, even for us. Now, can you do it? And when?"

Priest: "Ok OK." 

Rummaging sounds are heard, the slide of a drawer opening, as well as the crash of random objects as he knocks things to the ground to get to what he was looking for. "Okay, I got what she needs. She'll need to come over to pick it up herself, though."

Me: "She has to travel here to cast the spell, anyway. You can give it to her then. After, we can make a list of the things we want to eat or drink and the tenants all chip in a bit to cover it, and I'll send one of the proxies to the store to get our groceries. We'll be eating well after that's done."

"Now, to serious business. How far have you gotten on that issue I called you about the other day?"

Priest chugs some more liquor, then belches. "What was it again? Sorry, I got too drunk and forgot."

Me: "Goddamn it, Priest, if you didn't work better drunk I would beat your ass. Ugh."

Priest: "HAHAHA, but that's where the fun is!"

Me: "The Dark Web security thing. Since we have people tracking our movements online now."

Priest: "Oh yeah... that's what this USB was for!" He tells me to hold on while he goes to retrieve something from his bedroom. He wound up telling me later that at this time, he was retrieving the USB drive, making a copy of it, and plugging it into the modem.

Priest: "All done! Time for a victory drink over the forces of evil! Better known as the federal government and corporations."

I facepalm as dramatically as is physically possible. "Are you fucking kidding me? You were already done with it and you just FORGOT about it?"

Priest giggled like a damn drunken school girl before replying. "Look. Between drinking, naps, and smoking, it's hard to remember much else."

Me: "Speaking of, did you see that bag of medical grade I left for you? I split what I got from (my informant) the other day, and left you half."

Priest: "Oh yeah! I put some in the volcano, and the rest in the super secret storage place!"

Me: "....you're stoned to the gills right now, aren't you?"

Priest: "Naaah, just waiting on you! I got some nice rum from a friend in the Carribean! You should try some."

Me: "Alright, look, I have a few more errands to run and I'll come by your place after. Don't you DARE start smoking any more without me, I wanna try that volcano out."

Priest cackled at me through the phone, and agreed: "Lmfao, okay."

Me: "Grab me a bottle from the stash of my usual, you know the one. I wanna get blitzed and kill shit on Borderlands with you. I'm gonna need it after the day I've had."

Priest: "Sure. Everything going alright?"

Me: "Not exactly. Twerk's been hitting on the proxies like an idiot, the Bitch is riding my ass about the food situation, and Thomas wants to have our daily security meeting before I get high."

"Something about the last time I showed up stoned, I started rhapsodizing about how Gallows' hair looks spread out on my pillow, 'with light hitting each individual strand like a darkly lit rainbow.' I'm probably never gonna live that shit down."

Priest: "Yeah, sounds about right. You do tend to get sentimental when you're stoned or drunk. Have you even heard from Gallows lately? Our local homeless population has almost returned to normal in the time since he last visited."

Me: "No, but I did try calling his cell and leaving messages for him on his old blog. No telling when he'll see it, but hopefully he won't show up in the middle of all this and get pissed I didn't try to warn him first."

"I gotta go. I'm getting glared at for 'being rude.' Remember to grab me that bottle, yea?"

With that, I ended the call and made my way back into the house. 

My bones and joints have begun to ache in the cold, and this winter has been no exception. Too many back alley fights, backhanded slaps to the jaw, and torture sessions to completely stay untouched by damage. Sorry, dear readers, my formerly pretty smile has a few jagged edges from those fights.

My body is deeply scarred by this point. No skin off my nose, of course, I think they're beautiful. I regard them, and my multitude of tattoos and piercings, as my physical way of saying 'fuck you' to Death. 

Not like those eldritch bastards apparently want me dead, anyway. They might act like the reverse of the Final Destination movies for me, moving hazards out of my path, but I get punished every time for being careless. Recovering from being forced to ingest a gallon of bleach, for example, was not the most pleasant way to spend an evening.

They never take the pain, or even the injuries. I'm not that 'blessed.' They just haven't let me pass away peacefully yet. So, I spend my days running Sanctuary and recovering lost objects; such as journals, mementos of those that have passed, or even nostalgic items that remind me of my old friends.

I can't say it's been a bad life these past few years, despite how entirely fucked up it has become. 

I get to help people. I get to stay high. I get to get laid when I want, however I want, and no: my lover doesn't care. We both find our distractions in the months in between his visits. I don't take it personally.

Someone tried anonymously emailing me from an obviously new email address, and asking me if I was fucking Slendy. For anyone else that had that horribly mistaken notion, no. That's creepy and nasty as hell. I'm just his occasional torture doll.

I have a complicated relationship with, well.. everyone. Even Them. I'll eventually talk about it, but Priest is waiting for me at his place, and I reeeeally need to smoke after wandering outside to catch a signal for that phone call. Plus, errands.

No riddles today, but hey, I'll be nice: I'll have friendly conversations with my commenters. Tonight only. 

I mean, I'll be hammered and stoned for the duration of the night, thus no guarantees to the QUALITY of said conversations, but never let it be said I never try to be as nice to you guys as I used to be. 

It's just excruciating to do so when I'm sober.

I'll be near my phone for anyone that cares. Over and out, guys.

Excerpt from Purgat0ry

I have had many friends over the years. Some Proxies, some Runners, a whole bunch of shady and neutral characters.
I don't know how most of them are doing until they come through my home or I get a confirmed kill report.

I try my best to get to the scenes of their demise, and find what I can to salvage from their belongings. Be it info, journals of their last days, or sentimental tokens of their lives to remember them by.

But sometimes.. sometimes things are brought to me as bribes for protection or safe shelter. And sometimes, items literally show up in my path.

This is one of those items.

The sharp-eyed should figure this one out quickly, anyway. I don't need to hold your hands on this one.. I hope.

"I'm dead.  I have to be, there's no reason on Earth or in Heaven why I could still be alive.  This is hell, it has to be.  Its Hell. This endless weary existence i've fallen upon, trudging these leaves beneath my feet.  I feel like I've forgotten everything, every principle part of existence. Laughter, Hunger, Tears.

Well that's not all true, I remember some things. Shame, regret, fear.  I can't be dead if I feel, can I?  Everything's so monochrome.  I walk along a path of black leaves, everywhere I go, and I never find the end.  I don't remember why I walk.  I just know I need to.  Keep moving, eyes forward. Avoid the trees

The Trees

I feel like I deserve this. Every bit of it. That I did something stupid, something horrible, that I cost people something valuable.

This is hell. This is my penance

God help me I'm so tired."

The page crumbled at the edges as I set it out to read again and document.

Ash now coats my hands.

Your job, now, is to figure out who wrote this page. I know by handwriting, but I'm aware that's unfair.

So. I will give a hint. The name is literally somewhere on this page, and not in the image. The answer is staring you in the face. Look very closely.

Oh, there is a false lead or two for the veterans.

First to figure it out gets to ask me any question they want answered, within reason.

Enjoy your little riddle, kiddos.

Tricks of the Trade

No leads yet as to the origin of the notebook. I have quietly spoken to a few of my regulars, asked them to start putting out new feelers for me. We'll see what comes of that in the coming days.

Today, I had a mildly annoying encounter with an informant. By mildly annoying, I mean I had to fuck him stupid to get what I wanted. By informant, I mean my connect for green, Ant. Ant barely managed to escape his Mafia ties a few years ago, and the only story I could get from him involved some very vague details about a shoot-out and a warehouse burning down. For my sake, I try not to ask him too many questions.

I couldn't make this shit up if I tried. But, he's convenient in that he has connections to the vanilla scene's underworld that I can't procure for myself without attracting more attention than I need. So, I bite my tongue, and essentially trade my body in exchange for sanity and protection. I never said my life was pretty.

Every aspect of my life can be explained, at least in part, by the concept of equivalent exchange: a series of exchanges, trades, and bargains with various personal devils and angels. Hell, even one of my contacts for Sanctuary goes by the alias of Angel. With her hip length steel gray hair, piercing electric blue eyes, and her perpetual 'stick up her ass' attitude, I almost do believe the woman has some angel blood. What do I know? It's not like I'm a professional warlock or any some such shit. Oh, that my life were that simple.

I have to consistently juggle questions such as, what do I have to do in order to survive? What can I do to ensure the continued existence of those I care for (and oftentimes, those I would kill, but pay me too well to think too frequently about where my shotguns rest in their varying hiding places throughout the house)? The answers are often ugly, but I have to ask them. If I didn't do this, all would fall to ruin around my ears. Dozens of people without their Sanctuary, or their information broker, or hell, even their friend. I can't let that happen. I have learned to be strong, if not for me, then for them. I bite, scratch, and claw my way through life with the help of liquid courage and happiness brought to me a la Caterpillar style: in a haze of smoke.

I couldn't live my life sober, not with the last dregs of my sanity intact. So what if it took me an entire gram of medical grade to survive the encounter with Ant. I didn't have to pay for it. I got what I needed from him, plus some. I am well-fucked and in a fair enough mood to share (some of) the details of my life.

Most in our fucked up little transient community understand the measures I take to ensure the food in their bellies, the roof over their heads, and the suspiciously well maintained gear and equipment that they bring with them into the field when they leave the confines of Sanctuary. I hear the occasional 'whore' or 'manipulative cunt' remarks, but I take them in stride as compliments. I'm used to people whispering about me and suddenly stopping when I enter a room. Like I don't know what my life looks like from the outside. Like I don't know the rumors better than they do. My followers would be better off just sitting down and gossiping with me, because I happen to know all the best rumors.. and which ones are true.

As I lay flat on my back as Ant thrust into my body, I floated on a cloud far away from my body, musing on the events of my life. I came to the realization that much work lay ahead of me, such as the contacts I needed to resume contact with.. assuming any of them are alive. (Getting back into what we jokingly refer to as the Fearverse is an all in or nothing measure in the supernatural crowd. You either reach out to as many as you can in hopes of dodging the next strike and surviving to the next day, or you keep your mouth shut and run).

Clearly, I've put down too many stakes into this land this time to run. I'm certainly not capable of shutting up once I decide to start talking again, as has been proven time and time again. Measures have to be taken to ensure my neutrality policy. Mages contacted, drug runners set up to procure what I need to handle the eccentric personalities of those I will run into, a new permanent position to establish for a cook, and the issue of grocery procurement. A thousand small errands to juggle and designate to my 'house guests.'

Busy, busy I shall be. As Loretta Young once said, 'a charming woman is a busy woman.'

My informant was kind enough to play music as we fucked, to enable my ability to continue to the end. After a certain.. incident.. that occurred while I was still active with the Bureacracy (the formal name for the corporation-esque chain of command for the Proxies), I became bitter towards the sound of music for a couple of years. Gradually, though, music slowly took over my life as a security blanket. I would feel less alone as it played, to the point where it plays through speakers or ear buds at virtually every moment of my life. David inadvertently provided me with a vital coping mechanism with his efforts. I must remind myself to thank him for that one day, or possibly TMV if his husband is missing again.

Afterwards, I ate like it was my last meal. Three pieces of king cake, an entire pot of doctored macaroni and cheese, a sleeve of Ritz crackers as we waited for the water to boil, and eventually a couple of hamburgers and a coke. Enough food to feed three people and create a spike in blood sugar to cause the healthiest man an ER visit, was just enough to rescue my blood sugar from plummeting into a crash. When I got home, I proceeded to eat half a bag of chips, a fully loaded hot dog, and another three cokes.

I am not physiologically set up the same way as the average person, and take enough calories to survive to boggle the mind. It doesn't help that I've been borderline starving for the past few weeks, as Sanctuary (my hostel) has been rationing food to make it through the winter. One meal a day can get you through, but when you encounter a plethora of food, you eat like a dying person. Period.

Sanctuary's guard, Thomas, tipped his head to me as I shakingly made my way through the house to find a lighter. He inquired as to my health, and proceeded to initiate a text conversation as to my recent activities. It is his job to ensure our overall physical safety, so each encounter with outsiders draws his attention.  He knows more than most any 5 men or women do about my day to day activities; he has to. Needless to say, he was very upset to learn of the notebook's appearance.

My personal safety is directly tied to that of the others.

A middle aged man of medium build with salt and pepper hair and permanent laugh lines adorning his face, his presence doesn't immediately inspire fear to outsiders. Their mistake. That man, once upon a time, was an enforcer and meth cook for the drug cartels in four states. Broken bodies and cold cases follow that man everywhere he goes, but I don't mind. He is dedicated to my service after I saved a few of his relatives from poverty and relative ruin several times over the last decade.

His normal light mood darkened as I finally admitted to him the shadows that began to snake through the bedroom during my earlier meeting. He knew that without saying that it is nearly time for my annual meeting with the Hollow Man. (I refuse to call him by the media's name for him, it's ridiculous). This means I will be watched for the next few days, and show my consent to meet with him in the woods that border my land.

Then, I must report my actions and withstand his 'fun' little tortures at the hands of his shadows. His blank stare piercing me as he watches me inquisitively to see if, this year, I will finally break for him. I never do, and he knows this. Each year I survive and meddle in his affairs, I slowly grow more immune to his darkness, and more of his features begin to haunt the supposedly featureless plane of his face. Last year, I swear I saw his eyes sparkle as I screamed for him with blood running down my arms to drip to the ground. If ever there was a sadist, it would be him.

I have a delicate relationship with those that others have deemed 'the Fears.' They tormented my every waking moment as a teenager, but I apparently survived long enough to pass their sick tests. Some, I see as borderline friends. Others, as hated acquaintances I speak to with great reluctance and caution.

In the beginning of Sanctuary's creation, my involvement understandably worried my visitors. How can someone with ties to Them claim neutrality? After a fateful encounter with the Wooden Girl stringing me up from the ceiling, upside down by dulled piano wire, my screaming my head off as she cooed her sweet nothings in my ear, my visitors began slacking off in their condemnations. Word of mouth is a powerful thing.

We must increase security and begin the process of gearing up for war, just in case. I need to contact my lover. He will be very displeased with me if he walks into a war zone without being notified first. Mental note to self, get some anesthetic and bandages before he visits. I'll need them in the off chance he's feeling frisky.

That's it for now. One of my regulars, Xeraxios, is in the living room bitching about the quality of his haircut at the hands of our resident housekeeper (we fondly refer to her as the Bitch). I must interfere before their antagonizing reaches critical levels and doors get slammed. I do so hate replacing hinges.

Don't Trip Down The..

At most, I could be considered a neutral party with good intentions. If you live long enough in the world these days, you learn that all things are not black and white. Everyone lives in shades of gray, they just don't advertise their wrong-doings to the world. I mean, who does? You'd have to be a fool to consider blemishing your reputation out of some misguided attempt at moral honesty.

Well.. I am a fool. I will tell the world in the same breath that I've had to steal food to survive, that I do ithat I gave a homeless man my last $5 last Tuesday so HE could eat. People have to survive, and often times what we have to do to ensure that survival isn't pretty. Life, itself, isn't all love hope and rainbows, though once upon a time I did believe so.

My name, for those of you that haven't met me yet, is Dia. I run a hostel of sorts, for those that have no other safe place to go. At all times, there are at least half a dozen people camping in my home or on my land. The kind of people that are running from their personal demons, their past, or even worse the kind of demons most people can't see. I charge the ones that can afford it, and put the rest to work.

Everyone is capable of labor: be it emotional, helping out their neighbors when they're afraid and feeling alone; be it mental, teaching those around them how to survive out in the cold when every twig breaking sounds like the next attack; or physical, fixing the things that mysteriously break in the middle of the night, cooking what food we can muster up so no one goes to bed hungry, or building new features onto the land so that more may visit without having to camp in a tent to survive.

I don't want to give the wrong impression, none of us are what you'd call rich, not even me. I lose more money helping the survivors than they could possibly be of benefit to me, but I can't bring myself to turn them away. 

The sneakthieves, the swindlers, and the suspiciously well off are just as welcome in my home as the beggars. Their scams and plans keep us afloat in the times no one else can pitch in.

Most don't stay for more than a few days. Some don't even speak beyond a text message alerting me to their arrival and a text message alerting me to their departures. Others come for a few hours, to take stock of their personal inventory and catch a few zzz's in the warmth before they start 'traveling' again.

I don't mind. I've become the equivalent of a very fucked up den mother, and their presence helps keep the nightmares at bay. There are occasions where the supplemental income of my visitors helped keep the roof over all our heads, when my 'side jobs' aren't enough to pay the bills.

Don't get me twisted. I enforce an incredibly strict code of conduct for anyone that steps foot on my land. All previous grudges, battles, beefs, animosities, or claimed 'sides' to the supernatural battle are suspended once they become one of my 'flock.' Petty squabbles are sent over the property lines: I don't frankly care who does what outside of my tiny jurisdiction. 

More serious offenses, however..

Those are met with hostility and violence. I make no secret of who I've been or what I am capable of. Minor offenses are harshly reprimanded and result in steep fines or food procural. 

Heavier offenses, such as theft, dishonesty, or deliberate withholding of information that could save a life, those are met with a crowbar to the knee, a la Joker style. The worst offenses, such as violence towards another visitor or the baiting of traps to lead towards the incarceration or death of my visitors.. 

Well, I'll be honest. There are more than a few unmarked graves on my land, filled with the bodies of those whose heads I've blown off with a 12gauge shotgun. I feel no remorse for their deaths. They knew the price of disobeying the tenets of my home.

Why am I explaining all this to you? Well, dear reader, I was once much more involved in the supernatural community than I am now. I've changed names and property titles more than most have changed jobs. It's necessary to keep ahead of those that have decided they want my head on a pike.

I've successfully been able to stay three steps ahead of the game for approximately five years.. until today. 

Today, I found an object lying on my bedspread after I got home from work that I haven't seen in six years: the Gatherer notebook I kept while I was still employed by the 'darker side.'

Gatherers, for those that don't know, are basically sleeper agents that gather information on the 'light side' by pretending to be survivors, that feed said information to Procurerers or Berserkers. Depending on how valuable or dangerous to their cause you are, this information can lead to your kidnapping or violent death.

Yes, yes, I used to be one of these people. I'm not proud of it, but I don't feel guilty either. The skills I gleaned during my time of employ have saved more lives than I can ever count. My 'kill count' is lower than my 'save count.' Thus, the scales are tilted favorably towards me.

Before I formally 'ran,' I had a meeting with a very cranky individual known as the Messenger (or as I liked to call him to annoy him, Messi). He was a techy Gatherer, with a permanent chip on his shoulder and bags under his eyes. I won't go into what happened to him yet, that's a story for another day, but suffice to say I had my reasons. At the end of my meeting, I bequeathed to him my most prized and dangerous object:

You guessed it. The very same notebook, innocently lying on my bed, as if it never left my hands. Inside this notebook is a copious amount of information, including: my real name, privileged information on both Runners and Proxies (the official names for those on each side of the war), and my true kill count. This notebook was meant to be released to the community at large upon the event of my death, past the time I would care about the consequences of my actions. I wanted to be remembered, selfishly, despite my many crimes.

The notebook was supposed to be kept in monitored storage, locked away from prying eyes for many years to come. I'm not sure how the notebook fell out of Messi's hands, but you can be rest assured heads are going to roll.

Because this time, I'm not running. I'm not a Runner anymore. I'm a Survivor, with a truckload of stories to tell you guys.

But for now? Whoever left this, warning received. It's time to watch my back and start profiling people again. If I had a guess, The Great Game is about to come sprawling onto my doorstep.

I'll be ready this time.