>>6178360
>Right behind you
>A .22 pistol

>>6178360
>What doesn't kill you
>20 tabs of ecstasy

>>6178360
>What doesn't kill you
>A .22 pistol
Knowing players, those ensure that we'll survive the best

>>6178360
>>What doesn't kill you
>$20

>>6178360
>Right behind you
>A .22 pistol

>What Doesn't kill you
>A .22 pistol

Writing

>>6178368
Bold of you to assume survival is the best possible outcome.

File: Motel.jpg (42 KB, 500x374)

42 KB JPG

You scoop water from beneath the running faucet and splash it across your face again and again as if you can wash away what you've become. What you're becoming. You look down at the pink water sloshing in the basin. Sitting on the edge of the sitting beside where your pill bottle had been is a pistol. It was probably about as old as you are. As a .22 it wasn't likely to do much damage unless you hit just right with it.

You pick it up and turn it over in your hands, the diffuse fluorescent light playing off its metallic finish. You consider putting the muzzle to your temple and pulling the trigger but…well, somehow you're not sure that would kill you. "Alright," you say, meeting your mirror's gaze again. "Almost home."

You find jeans wadded up on the shower floor. They're dry enough so you pull them on, tucking the pistol in your back waistband. You take one more steady breath and grip the doorknob back to the hotel room. You know what you'll find even if you don't like it. The metal feels electric in your grip.

You exhale and open the door to reveal a seen of carnage.

"Fuck…"

Well, the good news is that she's definitely dead. No need for a mercy killing tonight. The yellow glow of the motel's sign spills in through the gauzy curtains, lighting everything a sickly gold. Everything but the blood. The bed and its sheets are doused in it, more blood than a human body should really contain, though you're not a doctor or anything.

Still, you've spilled enough that you should be an expert by now

You circle the bed slowly, feet sticking slightly on the tacky floor. Your eyes don't leave the body. She's as naked as you are, face down, toned legs, perky butt, her back oozing blood from a nasty gash by her ribs.

You keep circling until you see her face. Her eyes are glazed, unfocused, jaw slack. Definitely fucking dead. Her neck is torn open, her jugular pumped what life she'd had left onto cheap pillows and sheets. You still taste iron in your mouth.

"Fuck…" You run your hands back through your hair, trying to remain calm. You've had situations like this in the past but…nothing so animalistic. You're going to have to do something about that at some point. The pills didn't work. You'll need a different type of medicine.

One thing at a time. Right now there's a dead chick in your motel room. Who is she? How did she get here? Did she know you?

You look around. Her clothes are neatly folded and siting on the dresser. You rifle quickly through them, searching for anything. Money, ID…anything.

Nothing. No cash, no cards.

You look back at the body, desperately wracking your memory. Why would you pick up a girl while you were on your way home? Surely you knew what a big fucking risk that would have been. Unless this was exactly what you picked her up for…

You shake your head. You're certain you didn't check in here under your real name, with no credit card you'd paid cash. Maybe speed could be your ally. Get packed and get the fuck out of here before anyone knows anything's wrong here. Let housekeeping deal with the rest.

Maybe it would be best to try to get the body out of here…You tug the curtain aside and peak out. Your black AMC Eagle sits just outside the door of the room. The rest of the lot is empty, bathed in shadow. It's late. Late late. No decent people are awake. If you're quick you could probably carry a sheet-wrapped body to your trunk. Maybe you could wiped down enough of this blood that no one would be looking for a murder.

Or maybe that's too much time and too much effort for too little pay off. It wouldn't be too hard to light this place up. You've got some road flares in your car. With some strategically stuffed sheets, maybe a little siphoned gas, you could burn this room to the ground. It would destroy a lot of the evidence. Probably.

>Leave the body and hope for the best
>Smuggle the body to your trunk
>Burn this place down to cover your tracks
>Write in

>>6178397
>Leave the body and hope for the best

>>6178397
>Burn this place down to cover your tracks
Ain’t like we can just leave evidence. Especially when there might be our DNA.

>>6178397
>Smuggle the body to your trunk

>>6178397
>>Burn this place down to cover your tracks

>>6178397
>Leave the body and hope for the best

>>6178397
>Burn this place down to cover your tracks

>>6178397
>Burn this place down to cover your tracks

>Burn this place down

Writing

It's all gotta burn.

You wrap the body up in the bloodstained sheet, tucking it tight. Next anything flammable goes into a pile. Chair, dresser drawers, her clothes, everything that's not yours.

You wash your hands and dress again, T-shirt and then your leather jacket. The chains hanging from the shoulders jingle as you pull it on. The back is emblazoned with one word.

NEMESIS

An old music project, semi-abandoned for reasons that are now all too clear.

Next you tamper with the smoke detector. Standing on tiptoe you twist the plastic assembly and let it drop down from the ceiling, hanging by a wire. You yank out the wire. It lets out a continuous mournful beep as the onboard battery dies.

You shove it under the body to muffle it.

"Okay," you say to yourself, reviewing your handiwork. "Gasoline."

You open the door to the outside, shutting it quickly behind you. The air is cool and still. Silent. Not even traffic on the nearby freeway. Your boots crunch on asphalt as you reach your car.

Like your cigarette burns, the car was something you'd got from Dad. Unlike the burns, Dad never wanted to give you the car.

You open the trunk and produce your siphoning kit and road flare. You give another nervous glance around before setting to work. Your heart beats hard as you siphon out gas into a tiny gas tank. The fumes make your head spin.

Once you have about a half gallon you go back into the room and douse the pile, pouring liberally across the dead woman's wrapped body. Whoever she was she was about to become even less.

You strike the flare. It burns a sparking, flickering pale red. Blood.

You toss the flare onto the bed and the gas spill combusts instantly. You flinch away from the heat, painfully reminded of the source of your own burns.

You cough lightly and watch the fire spread, consuming fabric and wood, now igniting the wallpaper and mattress. Nothing more to do now.

Firelight faintly flickers through the closed curtains as you shut the door behind you. The door to the Eagle creaks open and then slams shut, starting with a roar.

"Just need to get home," you say. You put the car in reverse and are out of the parking lot and onto the road.

You put accelerator to metal. It's only about fifteen minutes later that you look down at the dashboard. Your heart sinks as you see the fuel gauge needle edging E.

"Dammit."

Maybe it would have been wiser to siphon gas from someone who wasn't broke. Well, you have a couple options here. Roselake isn't much further, even on E you should be able to at least get into town if you coast down hills and watch your speed.

You can stop at a quiet parking lot and do the gas siphon trick in your own favor.

Or you can get some gas and cash all at once by knocking over a convenience store. You aren't carrying your .22 for show. Plus you've already got murder on your rap sheet. What's a little larceny?

>Try to coast home
>Stop and siphon gas
>Rob a gas station
>Write in

>>6178587
>Stop and siphon gas
We need to lay low and make distance

>>6178587
>Rob a gas station
I'm down for some larceny

>>6178587
>Stop and siphon gas
As long as we haven’t been caught, we’re still innocent. No need to draw attention to ourselves with armed robbery.

>Stop and siphon gas

>>6178587
>>Stop and siphon gas

>Stop and siphon gas

Writing

You're not going to risk drawing more attention to yourself with a holdup and you're not really all that confident the Eagle can make it the rest of the way. That leaves siphoning.

You cruise the highway towards Lasker City, eyes out for remote parking lots. You pass a biker bar but it's way too lively. Someone would see for sure. Other lots are deserted and empty.

The fuel gauge needle is humping E when you see your chance. You slow down and coast into the gravel lot on the roadside. It's full of parked city work vehicles, mostly semis and bulldozers and shit. Stuff that takes diesel, but there are a handful of pickups too.

You slow to a stop between two and shut off your car, listening to the silence before you get out. With hose and gas can you reach the first truck, open it and start siphoning. You spit out the first of the bitter, burning fluid and stick the hose into the plastic can, listening as it slowly fills. This will take a little to get the gas you need.

You crouch on your haunches, a cold breeze blowing your hair, your eyes fixed on the empty highway. After a minute you hear the gas can is nearly full. You also hear distant sirens, fire trucks probably.

Without a phone or watch you're not really sure how long it's been. Maybe half an hour? Hopefully enough to burn up any trace of what happened in that motel room.

You pull the hose out and pour the cans into your gas tank. It's about half a gallon. It should get you home. If you take more time you could probably get a full tank and not have to worry about gas money for a bit.

Besides, maybe there's something in these trucks? Tools you can use or sell. Maybe some cash.

Or maybe you'd better get the fuck out of here.


>Fill the tank and search the trucks
>Just get home
>Write in

>>6178758
>Just get home

>>6178758
>Just get home
There's no reason to incriminate ourselves. Let's vamoose.

>>6178758
Get the gas, ignore the contents of the trucks.
Resist the urge to pee into the fuel tank of those who have more than you. Undeservingly so.

>>6178758
>Just get home

>Just get home

Writing

"Fuck it," you say, sticking your siphoning kit back into the trunk. You slam it closed and then look at the nearest truck. After a moment you shake your head. If you don't have time to loot then you definitely don't have time to piss on the gas tank. Even if you wanted to.

You climb back in and start it. The needle climbs above E a bit. But not enough to be comfortable with. It'll have to do.

You put the car in drive and pull back onto the freeway, pressing harder on the accelerator, looking to get miles between you and the fire. You get off the freeway before the exit to Lasker City and start onto the winding rural roads you remember. It's weird how quickly things return to you, memories of a childhood spent in suffering.

You flex your grip on the steering wheel, watching the scars stretch on the back of your hand. Every mile you drive shifts your concern from the motel and to home. You haven't been back in five years since you left the first time, what you thought was for good.

The hills rise around you, the endless commercial sprawl and infill of the highway corridor forgotten. The dark, sooty highrises of Lasker City lost in the gloom behind you. The moon climbs above the hills, pale light playing off endless acres of pines. It makes you feel small in a way you don't like. It makes you feel insignificant.

You cross Foster's Bridge. The deep drop off to the creek far below is invisible in the dark. You can feel your anxiety rising as the tires of your Eagle thud back onto solid pavement.

Roselake. Home. Where it all began.

A short distance further down this road will put you in downtown Roselake, such as it is, just beyond that the Lake itself. That's not where you're headed though. You take a left, driving up into the hills, the trees closing in around you. After a few minutes you hit gravel. A few more minutes later and pull off to a driveway beside a dead oak trunk and a mailbox that says MERCER.

Home.

You cruise slowly up the driveway, past an open shed and a closed up tin-sheeted barn. A small, two-story farmhouse sits atop the hill overlooking what were once cow pastures but now are just more dense pinewoods.

You pull in beside an aging Chevy pickup. Like the Eagle, it was once Dad's. You park and shut the car off.

The paint on the house is peeling, flaking away. The wooden floorboards of the porch are warped with age. Drifts of dead leaves have collected in the corners and hollows of this place making it look forgotten, abandoned.

The downstairs is dark, but garish pink light glows from the upper bedroom, your room at one point.

You get out of the car and close the door, not taking your eyes off the house. This place had been a prison for you when you were a kid. You'd swore never to come back. Guess you're not good at promises, huh?

The porch creaks and the screen door squeals on dry hinges as you pull it open. There's no doorbell. You knock twice, hard. Then you wait.

After a moment a light appears downstairs, then a pale, gaunt face appears in the window. Your mom, her light hair tied back severely. Her expression goes from suspicion to shock and then fear when she recognizes you.

She disappears from the window and the lights snap off. You sigh and knock again. You hear a voice, muffled but familiar.

"What the fuck are you doing, mom? Who is it?"

Your sister's voice is unmistakable, a relic of a time you'd done everything you could to forget.

You don't hear your mom's reply, but the light comes back on and the door jerks open. Your sister, Candi Mercer, stands in the open doorway, haloed with light. Her eyes are ringed with kohl, lips painted black. She wears a loose T-shirt and gym shorts. You would assume she was getting ready for bed if not for the makeup.

She has your same pale eyes and blonde hair, though hers is actually shorter than yours, beld haphazardly back from her face with hair ties and clips.

A moment of silence passed as she stares at you in disbelief. A ghost.


>Hey sis, I'm home. Surprise!
>You gonna stand there and stare or let me in?
>Candi. It's been a while.
>Write in

>>6178837
>You gonna stand there and stare or let me in?
Alibis are important.

>>6178837
>You gonna stand there and stare or let me in?

>>6178837
>You gonna stand there and stare or let me in?

>>6178837
>Hey sis, I'm home. Surprise!
classic psycho

>You gonna stand there and stare or let me in?

Writing

You stare back for a moment. "Are you gonna stand there and stare, or are you gonna let me in?" You say finally.

Candi's jaw snaps closed but she doesn't say anything. Instead she steps aside, lifting an arm, beckoning you inside.

You step by her and hear her close the door behind you. Your mom is gone already, vanished back to her room leaving only the lingering skunky odor of marijuana. The living room is virtually unchanged from when you were a kid. A threadbare couch sits against the far wall facing an ancient television set. Beside the couch is a well-worn recliner. Dad's recliner. You half expect to see him sitting there, his face glowing in the ghostly light of the TV, beer can in hand, eyes hard, sharp.

Of course he's not there. Not anymore.

The coffee table has a handful of coasters and a handful of watermarks from glasses which didn't use coasters. The walls are covered in photographs of people, family you assume, though none are of you. There's one of Candi when she was sixteen. Her hair is back in pigtails, braces glittering in her mouth, she wears a Nine Inch Nails shirt.

"Jesus, Kyle," Candi says, looking you over. She seems shaken which is so unlike her that it almost unsettles you. Candi survived everything you did and more. If your presence here startles her… honestly, no clue what that means. Things are worse than you thought maybe.

You look back at her, regarding her silently.

She seems shaken, surprised. "I thought you…" she shakes her head. "Well I guess I'll go make some coffee, huh? I bet we have to do some catching up." She pushes past you and goes to the kitchen. There was enough room that the push was unnecessary, just a little sibling love. You watch her pass, unwelcome memories surfacing unbidden.

It will make you stronger.
It's okay. I'll show you.
We can do this.

She smells sweet, like perfume. She never smelled like that before you left. You see her through the open door of the kitchen, flitting from cabinet to counter, dragging out the accoutrements to make a low quality cup of instant coffee.

"Sure," you say.

You leave the living room, walking slowly, your footsteps squeaking floorboards. The smell of this place is eerily familiar. Somehow it's like you never left. The musk of your mom's weed, the sickly sweet tobacco smell of Dad's cigarettes, it's all here still, all these years later. You cross through the entry hall and stop in the doorway of the dining room. It's small, dark, mostly taken up with an old piano and a tiny table. A shotgun hangs on the wall here, double barrel. God knows if it has shells in it or not. You hope you won't have to find out.

Your eyes fix on the door to Dad's room. Really your mom's room now, but…it will always be Dad's room in your mind. It's closed, the soft sounds of the 700 Club coming from beyond. Flickering television light shines from beneath the door. You won't go in there.

You return to the hall and start up the stairs. There's a single door here, once your room- Candi's room too you suppose. It glows with the same eerie pink light you saw from outside. Once at the top of the stairs you seize the door handle and stop. Someone, probably Candi, has scored the wood here with a knife or a hatchet. A deeply carved equilateral triangle marks the door here, like a child's depiction of a mountain. This was new. Dad would never have allowed this. No one would have dared.

The meaning eludes you. Candi being Candi probably.

You push the door open and are bathed in neon pink. The room beyond isn't yours anymore, that's for sure. You step inside slowly, scanning everything. The bunk bed is gone, replaced by a large, queen size bed on a metal bed frame wrapped in LED lights. The wall above the bed has a pentagram marked on it in black spray paint from floor to ceiling. Across the wall are more lights, pink, the source of the glow. They wrap and cascade down the wall.

On the opposite wall is a small desk, a gaming chair, a laptop and a webcam affixed to a tripod with a circular halo light mounted on it. A streaming set up. A large, pink vibrator sitting on the desk tells you what you need to know about what sort of content Candi is making here.

The corners of the room, invisible from the camera's perspective, are full of heaps of dirty clothes. A mix of Candi's usually dark attire, more casual clothes, and less decent things. Lingerie, harnesses, costumes, a panoply of debauchery.

"Coffee's ready," Candi says, standing behind you.

You look back at her, her expression is blank, unreadable. It's no surprise, hiding her true feelings was something she got good at when Dad was alive. Maybe the reason why her body is unblemished and yours is a road map of pain.

"It's downstairs," she says, glancing with casual indifference at the vibrator and then back to you.


>What did you do with my stuff?
>Camming? Really Candi? Is this what you've been doing?
>Thanks. (Go downstairs)
>Write in

>>6178936
>What did you do with my stuff?

>>6178936
>What did you do with my stuff?
There's no malice, just curiosity.

>>6178936
>What did you do with my stuff?

>What did you do with my stuff?"

Writing

You take another look around the room before looking back at your sister. "So what did you do with my stuff?"

Candi stares at you before folding her arms over her chest. "What did I do with your stuff? Kyle…what the fuck are you talking about?" She blurts. "You've been gone for five years. And now you show up, walk in like nothing happened and want your stuff?" She closes her eyes and sighs. "I don't know. There's probably a box of tiddie mags and knives and rat skulls or whatever out in the shed." When she opens her eyes again they seem to glitter. She smirks, her expression changing like a mask. "Unless you miss our old bunk bed. Sorry, had to sell that one, hun."

"I noticed." You look back at the bed. "Well…let's get that coffee. We'll catch up." When you turn back around Candi is closer, nearly chest to chest with you.

She leans in slightly and you feel her breath on your neck, hot. She sniffs once, lays a hand on your chest and looks up into your eyes. "You smell like blood, Kyle. Again." She smiles, pearly whites peeking from behind lush, black lips. "I wonder why." She pulls away before you can answer. "I'm sure you'll tell me when you're ready." She walks out of the room, leaving you momentarily at a loss behind her. It's like you never even left.

You follow after her, closing the bedroom door behind you, blocking out that lustful pink light. "You haven't changed," you say.

"No?" She glances back at you as the two of you descend the stairs. "And how would you know? You've only just met me."

"Ha."

She walks through the dark living room and into the kitchen, pulling out a chair at the table. Two mugs of coffee steam on the counter. Cindy's is a novelty mug. It has a muscular Indian in a feathered headdress on it. When it gets hot his loincloth disappears.

Yours is white ceramic and lacks any nudity, tasteful or otherwise.

You sit opposite her and she sips the coffee, wincing. "Wow this is bad."

You sip and likewise wince. "Yeah."

Regardless of how hot it is or how bad it is, she drinks. She keeps her gaze fixed on you, staring at you over the mug. She's waiting for you. She finally sets it down. "So. You're back."

"I'm back," you say.

"For how long?" The question is tight, bitter.

You don't answer. You can't because you really don't know.

"Hm." She sips again, looking away.

"Alright. So what then? Why did you come back?" Her eyes are wide, unguarded, unjudging. She's not often like this. You both developed methods to survive what you went through. Her scars are on the inside, her defense mechanisms much more nuanced than yours, less visceral. For Candi to be open is an exceptional act of bravery on her part. Maybe she deserves an honest answer. Or at least part of one,


>I have to a score to settle
>I need to fix what's wrong with me
>I came back for you

>>6179033
>I have to a score to settle
Punished Kyle.

>>6179033
>I need to fix what's wrong with me

>>6179033
>I have to a score to settle

>>6179033
>I need to fix what's wrong with me
Love me some atonement.

Going to let this vote run another eight hours or so. Then we'll see what motivates you.

>>6179033
>I need to fix what's wrong with me

>>6179033
>I came back for you

>>6179033
>>I came back for you

>>6179033
>>I need to fix what's wrong with me
I sense some incestuous sexual tension in here

>I need to fix what's wrong with me

Writing

You look away from her, staring unfocused at the tabletop. "There's something wrong with me, Candi. It's…it hasn't stopped since that night. It's gotten worse."

Surprise flashes across her features swiftly hidden and replaced with concern. "Worse?"

You nod. "I…I can't remember things. Things I should. I wake up places and…"

"Are you hurting people?" She asks.

You think of the girl in the motel. You think of the others. You think of the blood. You nod.

"I came here to fix it. To…to find out what's going on and fix it," you say. "I've tried pills and…" you shake your head. "I'm all fucked up."

Candi's fingers brush across your cheek, gently guiding your attention back to her. "There's nothing wrong with you, Kyle." She gives you a patient smile, her fingertips on your dead skin. "I like you just the way you are."

You pull away, leaning back out of her reach. You can't meet her gaze. "It wasn't supposed to keep happening. What if I hurt someone important? Someone I care about?"

Candi's expression flashes sour, her lower lip pouting out. "Hey, good thing you came back to me," she says. "Otherwise you might have hurt someone you care about!"

"I'm not going to hurt you," you say in disgust.

"No? Why not? Is something wrong with me?" Candi blurts the question.

"No! Fuck, what's the matter with you?" you spit back.

She blinks and the anger is gone. She sighs softly. "I'm sorry. I…there's a lot going on right now and…" she sighs again, rubbing her face, careful not to smudge her lipstick or eye shadow. "Listen, you can stay here. Obviously you can stay here, Kyle. This is your home. Always. As far as what's going on with you…I'll look into it, okay? In the meantime…I don't know, go talk to Ralphie about something to help you sleep. All we've got is Mom's shitty skunk weed," she says bitterly.

Ralphie. A name from your past. A weasley kid blessed with the knowledge of marijuana cultivation. Maybe he'd have something to help you.

"Ralphie's still around?" you ask.

Candi nods but looks distracted. "Who isn't? Kyle, you really think anyone leaves Roselake?"

"I did."

"You did," she agrees with a saccharin smile. "And look where you are now. Right back where you left me."

Silence lapses. Candi stares at her empty Indian mug and then looks at the clock on the microwave. "It's getting late. Where are you sleeping?"

The bunk bed is gone of course, but there's room enough in Candi's new bed. She's a small sleeper. That or the couch in the living room. It's lumpy and smells like ass, but you'll be alone. If that's what you want. Dad's room is out of the question. Even if you made Mom sleep on the couch you won't go in there, certainly won't sleep there.


>I can sleep with you
>I'll sleep on the couch
>Write in

>>6179304
>I can sleep with you

>>6179304
Damn, Punished Kyle is a no-go.
>I'll sleep on the couch
Best to avoid awkwardness.

>>6179304
>>I can sleep with you

>>6179304
>I can sleep with you

LET'S GOOOOOO

>I can sleep with you

Writing

"I was planning on sleeping with you," you say.

Candi blinks a few times at you. At first you think she's batting her eyelashes but then you realize she's just surprised. "Really? You're sure? You wouldn't rather sleep in your car? It's supposed to stay above freezing tonight."

"Ha."

Candi shrugs. "Yeah that's fine. If you want. I just hope you're not still a bed hog."

"It was a twin mattress," you say. "There wasn't even enough room on it for just me."

"Suuure." She grins but then freezes, suddenly looking horrified. "Oh shit. What time is it?" She looks at the microwave clock and takes out her phone.

"What?" you ask. "Why? What is it?"

She types a bit and shakes her head. "I had a stream scheduled tonight but…I guess I'll reschedule. Yeah, it'll be fine."

You don't really know how you feel about that so you say nothing.

Candi types a bit more. "Yeah, I'll just do something tomorrow instead. No biggie."

Again, you respond with uncertain silence.

She looks up at you and then wrinkles her nose. "Just go shower first. You smell like blood."

"I thought you liked the smell of blood," you say, smirking.

She looks at you dubiously. "Sometimes. But I don't need it in my bed. Just go clean up, okay?"

"Sure." You dump your coffee and put the mug in the sink before going into the hall bathroom. The trashcan here is overflowing with wadded tissues and makeup removal pads. A clothes hamper is heaped high with more of Candi's shit. The sink is crowded with makeup in all its forms. You shove it aside and hear a few bottles drop to the floor but nothing shatters. You undress, folding your clothes up and setting them by the sink, finally resting your .22 on top.

You stare at your reflection again. Home. Full circle. You made it. You just hope Candi can help you. You sniff the back of your hand, smelling only skin. How the hell can Candi smell blood on you? Is t really that bad? Maybe she was fucking with you.

You sigh and put it out of mind. You shower, mindful of the phalanx of hygiene products that litter the tub. Plastic product bottles, lotion, shampoo, conditioner, exfoliating pads, back scrubber, loofa, razors, god, how much shit does one chick need?

Clean enough, you pull on boxers and head upstairs. The pink light is off. Moonlight comes in through the window, the only light in the room.

Candi's eyes shine in the dark. She lays in bed, half under the covers which she pulls aside for you.

You cross the room and lay beside her. She throws the sheets over you and curls up beside you, resting her head on your chest. "I'm glad you're back." You can't see her clearly but you feel her fingernail trailing the path of scars across your skin. "I thought you were gone for good," she says. "I thought you…" she trails off. "You're always welcome here, Kyle. I mean…with me. There will be a spot here until the day I die." She shifts slightly, looking up at you. "I'll never forget what you did for me."

You can see it in your mind's eye, the memory floating through the murk of your thoughts up to the surface. Candi's fingers interlaced, her nails painted black. You see her eyes closed, brow furrowed in concentration. She opens her eyes and looks at you. She nods. We can do this.


>We took care of each other. You looked out for me too.
>I'd rather not think about it at all. The past is behind me.
>Say nothing
>Write in

>>6179408
>Damn, Punished Kyle is a no-go.
Don't worry. There will be plenty of opportunities to exercise violence against those who deserve it and maybe those who don't.

>>6179588
I FUCKING LOVE VIOLENCE. I LOVE HURTING PEOPLE. I LOVE CAUSING EXTREME PHYSICAL TRAUMA. I LOVE UTILIZING VARIOUS OBJECTS TO LETHAL RESULT.

>t. what Candi probably wishes Kyle would say

>>6179587
>We took care of each other. You looked out for me too.

>>6179587
Say nothing

File: Tumblr_l_1445413921327052.jpg (16 KB, 270x270)

16 KB JPG

>>6179602
Just because she (sometimes) likes the smell of blood you assume she must also like drawing blood?

That's a bold assumption, Anon.

>>6179587
>I'm glad to be back, too.

>>6179587
>We took care of each other. You looked out for me too.

>We took care of each other. You looked out for me too.

Writing

"We took care of each other," you say, staring at the ceiling, lost in darkness above you. "You looked out for me too." You remember Candi getting Dad off your case more than once. It wasn't any easier for her than you. It took guts and more than that it took love.

"Mm," Candi hums happily. "What else are big sisters for? But still…you're the strong one, Kyle. You always were."

You're not sure if that's really true or not. You saw what Dad did to Candi night after night. Thinking about it sets your teeth on edge, makes your pulse quicken. But it's over now. You try to relax, focus on your breathing, focusing on the weight of Candi's head on your chest, her arm across you. You did what you had to do to survive."

You're not sure if that's really true or not.

It will make you stronger.

Candi nuzzles into the side of your neck, her face against your scar. "Goodnight, Kyle."

"Night." You close your eyes and breathe easy.

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When you open your eyes again it's still dark. Sort of. It's night but everything looks… You sit up in bed. Everything is grainy, stark, a blood black negative. Your first instinct is to exclaim, say something like "What the fuck" or "Huh?" but a second, older, far stronger instinct overcomes you, an instinct that tells you to stay silent and very very still. You're in danger. It's a sensation you haven't felt since you were a child here, but its unmistakable.

You look around, head turning slowly. Candi's room is as it should be, aside from looking like you're staring at it through a fucked up red filter. Her computer is powered down, accent lights off. Candi herself sleeps curled in a ball beside you, knees to her chest, eyes closed. Her chest rises and falls softly.

"Candi." You speak softly, calmly. Not quite a whisper.

She doesn't stir.

"Candi," you repeat. You touch her shoulder.

"Mmmm," her brow furrows and she holds herself tighter, like she's having a bad dream. She's cold to the touch. Or maybe you're cold. Either way, something is wrong and she's not waking up. She's not a heavy sleeper. You're considering trying again anyway when you realize that the scars on your arms, some of them anyway, the important ones, are glowing.

The light is cold, white, dim, but its there. You hold up your forearm and marvel at the strange, angular paths. The cigarette burns and random slashes are there like normal, dull red like the rest of your flesh in this strange redness, but the special ones are all lit up.

Again, you resist the urge to say something about this out loud. That feeling of danger is only growing stronger.

You slide silently from bed, bare feet on cold wood. Dull light comes from the window. You go to it, staying in the shadows and peer out. You see the car and truck parked out front, the yard is as it was when you got here, the woods pressing in from all sides, all bathed in grainy crimson. There's no moon and no stars but somehow you can tell it's night.

You cross the room, moving past Candi's streaming set up to a second window looking toward the side of the house. You see more woods of course, blanketing the hills of what could laughably be called the Mercer Farm. You stop and squint slightly, surprised to see another pale white glow, this one tinting the horizon. Something deep in the woods, beyond the hills, is glowing very brightly. You don't have the faintest idea what that could be or what's even out there. Exploring the woods was always more Candi's thing.

You freeze, your heart skips a beat when you realize there's a woman standing at the edge of the woods.

She's stark naked, almost a hundred yards away. Her hair blows softly. Despite the distance, despite the dark, you recognize her. Its the woman from the motel. The woman you killed. She's staring back at you, her eyes shining in the red night. Although you should be hidden in shadow you're certain she can see you.

A chill runs up your spine but she doesn't move, only stands and stares.

Something else darts through the hellish red woods behind her, something bigger, something crueler. You catch half a glimpse of a pale flank and powerful limbs before it's gone, circling toward the front of the house. The sense of being in danger has amplified now, growing beyond an uncomfortable tickle. Now it's the voice of a terrified little boy screaming in your head to GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT.

You ignore the voice and hurry to the front window again, trying to get a glimpse of the pale thing out there. You stare into the yard, watching tall grass blow in the breeze. The pines sway as one. Whatever it is, you don't see it anymore, but you know it's still out there. Somehow you know it's still out there and it's trying to get in here.

You look back at Candi. She turns in her sleep, whimpering softly. A nightmare for sure.

There's nothing to fight with in this room except your fists and teeth and you aren't sure those will work on whatever you saw. There are two guns in this house. A shotgun in the dining room and your .22 pistol.

The .22 is farther away in the bathroom in the downstairs hall. The shotgun is much closer in the den, but you're not actually sure if it's loaded.

>Go downstairs and get the shotgun
>Go downstairs and get your pistol
>Try harder to wake up Candi
>Write in

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I'll let voting continue to 3:00PM UTC or until there's a clear consensus if that comes sooner. I'll try to stick closer to a schedule going forward. Expect updates every day.

I'll try to update by the following times at least if I don't get a clear consensus before that.

3:00 PM UTC
12:00 Midnight UTC
4:00 AM UTC

Happy hunting.

>>6179837
>Try harder to wake up Candi
We wake her up. She wakes us up. No more scary things in the woods.

>>6179837
>Try harder to wake up Candi
Hoo boy here we go

>>6179837
>>Try harder to wake up Candi