It's dark now.
You have a [[knife]]. You know nothing [[else]].
The building-light glamours on the lake like stained glass. It flickers and fails in an impossible [[hue]].
It's October, still, and [[how did it come to this?]]
It's sleek and it's dead. Unloved. Not silver.
[[♠♠♠|It's dark now.]]
Well. You know there were explosions.
[[♠♠♠|It's dark now.]]
Gold. It's always gold.
When you were younger, it was early July, and there were no demons in the world.
It's Independence Day, and you're [[not alone]] in the woods.
You have candles. Candles are like people, but they are not people, they are candles. Your schoolbag is over your shoulder and stuffed with them, white things nicked from Michael's, burying sparklers from Home Depot.
Ahead of you is the [[Hellmouth]].
The Crows call; Do you [[answer?]] After all, you are in quite the [[hurry]].
It's a forest of tourists all seeking [[Suicide Tower]]. Why would you be alone?
[[♠♠♠|how did it come to this?]]
Approx. 15 by 25 square of building, sealed up and half church shaped. Two steeples, both boarded. No doors. No windows. The roof is lower than any proper building, but still out of reach.
It's angled and sharp, like an ugly red brick church sunk into the Earth. What looks like a window is boarded up, but there's nothing behind it.
Your phone doesn't work anymore, but you have [[an old picture]]^^from last year^^
Signs say [['DO NOT TRESPASS']].
It is in a nick of the woods, between the ski jump, the lake, [[Hell]], and an [[old graveyard]]. The leaves blaze above you, coating the Hellmouth.
[[♠♠♠|how did it come to this?]]
You call. Do they answer?
[[Call again|1]]
[[Return|how did it come to this?]]
It's not sunset, but you have better places to be than in the company of ghosts.
You scamper up to the roof with the aid of a few nearby trees.
It's angled and steep. You fall even as you climb. The Crows beckon. (if: $bird is true)[You harken.](else:)[You can't see them among the trees. Their words haunt you. Stupid beasts.]
There is no roof proper^^just two steeple peaks^^ and you [[struggle]] to stay on.
You [[peer]] inside one of the small steeple windows.
Ah yes. You don't have to be near to think of it beckoning.
It's been locked for years.
[[♠♠♠|how did it come to this?]]
<img src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/6/6a/Retreattower.jpg" width="700" height="900" alt="Not your tower">
Everyone comes here.
[[♠♠♠|Hellmouth]]
Not the same as the Hellmouth. Far away, never seen. You'd like to seek it next.
(set: $hell to true)
[[♠♠♠|how did it come to this?]]
The graves are too worn to read. It's probably from the 1800s, but you can't be bothered to know.
[[♠♠♠|Hellmouth]]
You call. Do they answer?
[[Call again|2]]
[[Return|how did it come to this?]]
You call. Do they answer?
[[Call again!|3]]
[[Return|how did it come to this?]]
You call. Ah, they hear you.
(set: $bird to true)
[[♠♠♠|how did it come to this?]]
<img src="https://68.media.tumblr.com/216a2b288d3742d19d2765727cfcc233/tumblr_okcmkjqWy51sqcfboo1_1280.jpg" width="900" height="700" alt="Not your dog">
(set: $dog to true)
[[♠♠♠|Hellmouth]]
You're not in danger.
[[The roof]] is burnt red.
[[♠♠♠|hurry]]
##Half Church
##Half cage
[[♠♠♠|hurry]]
Wire and darkness. The wooden shafting doesn't help either.
[[but.]]
[[You have a knife.]]
You [[cut]] your way inside, [[sawing]] through the ancient wood and tearing apart the wire. It's not a large gap, but you are not a large person, and you slip your head through like a fist through a bubble bath.
[[It's dark.]]
Your knife is not silver.
[[♠♠♠|You have a knife.]]
You do not [[love]] your knife.
[[♠♠♠|You have a knife.]]
Knives are never loved.
[[♠♠♠|You have a knife.]]
[[Time to go.]]
Or pull out a [[lighter]] first? Do you fear the dark?
You climb through, and
you
climb
down.
It's hot down here, and you have survived a fall taller than yourself. The candles jangle in your bag. The sparklers [[seem appealing.|why are you here?]]
Or would it be safer to [[stay in the dark?|why are you here?]]
You flick up a small flame, and see nothing but black. The Hellmouth is tall, and appears to be filled with darkness.
^^figures, really^^
[[♠♠♠|It's dark.]]
<b>You're here to meet a friend, remember?</b>
Something is crackling in the dark, the purr of a fire. You smell rot from the wood above, clouds from the bats who surely rest in the rafters.
You walk forward.
Either [[call out]] or [[wait.]]
There's no [[alternative.]]
"Hello."
#"Hi," says a voice, "Hi Hi Hi."
The voice is a [[light]], and the [[light]] is your friend.
Your [[yellow teeth]] chatter in the heat. The nothingness envelops you a little, sweating on your skin, nipping at your freckles.
You don't see a [[light]], but you know one.
(if: $hell is true)[[[Perhaps there is way]]](else:)[You can't leave. Why would you leave?]
[[♠♠♠|why are you here?]]
Shut up.
[[♠♠♠|wait.]]
You exit the Hellmouth.
[[Yes. Yes you do.]]
Alt route
The Hellmouth is where the Angels lurk under the guidance of Crows they Linger and they Limp under the disguise of Light they Leer and they Laugh.
You know about a light. But you are in complete darkness.
You say: [["How Are You?"]]
You light: [[A sparkler]]
You offer: [[Your offering]]
#"Fine, Thank You. How Are You?"
You say:
[["Fine."]]
[["Good."]]
or
[["Bad."]]
(set: $angel_love = $angel_love +1)
It flickers, as sparklers do, in every color at once. You only know this. You cannot see light.
The smoke curls up inside your chest, and you think of the fireworks.
Your friend is every impossible [[hue]], and you blink once or twice. You've never met before, and [[he's male]], and he has in his hands a red sharpie.
[[You blink.]]
(if: $candles > 1)[#"Wow. You Sure Have a Lot Of Candles."]
You dump your candles onto the floor. The darkness gobbles them. If you were to try and kick them, they would be long, long gone.
It's time to light a [[sparkler.|A sparkler]]
Or would you rather ask [["How Are You?"]]
(set: $angel_love = $angel_love +1)
(set: $candles = $candles +1)
#"Good To Hear."
It's time to light a [[sparkler|A sparkler]]
Or give out your [[offering|Your offering]], you suppose.
#"How Wonderful."
It's time to light a [[sparkler|A sparkler]]
Or give out your [[offering|Your offering]], you suppose.
#"What A Shame."
It's time to light a [[sparkler|A sparkler]]
Or give out your [[offering|Your offering]], you suppose.
Angels shouldn't be Male, they should be female or not gendered, not <i>male</i> of all things, everyone is male, so why should the angels be, too?
But he is male, and the above thoughts do not occur to you, because he is Male.
[[You like Men.]]
Ah, he is here.
He is chewing on an old [[colorful|hue]] candle, the wax hot from his mouth, and it dribbles down his lips just a little before he licks them clean.
His tongue is black, he is an angel, and he is your friend.
You have [[never met him]] before.
[[Yes.]]
You like Men.
[[Yes. You Like Men.|A sparkler]]
Or [[do you not like Men, actually?|You like Men]]
In a dream.
[[You like Men.|You blink.]]
Your friend.
#"We Should Begin Soon,"
he says. His wings dangle on the ground, which you cannot see in the Hellmouth. You know they are [[red|hue]].
"I Have A Knife," you say, and there you have it: [[a knife.]]
[[<b>You like men</b>|A sparkler]]
You clutch it and spring it forward, hitting your friend in the gut.^^angels have guts. they have every organ humans do^^
You can see now; his blood is molten, dripping onto the floor in a dazzling array of color, each droplet a different shade of God.
Your hands shimmer under his bloodweight as the color dribbles from your knife to your hands. You feel your blood, heavier. You see your skin, lit.
#"Okay,"
Friend says.
#"I Do Not Do Art."
You: [[Do.]]
You: [[Don't.]]
#"Then Make It Lovely."
Your friend narrows his eyes. And his eyes. And his eyes.
He has a lot of eyes. But not in the creepy way.
[[Draw.]]
(set: $angel_love = $angel_love +1)
#"Art Is Not For Angels,"
he says sadly. Can his voice feel sad? Can he?
[[Draw.]]
A triangle in a circle with thick creamy lines of (transition: "shudder")[holy], (transition: "shudder")[holy] fire. It glows as you go. You do, too.
You Hope He Fancies You, Because [[You like Men.|menalt]]
The shape is done. It's a good shape, you do fancy it, and as you stand to admire your handiwork you toss your friend another sparkler to nibble on. [[God]] only knows what would happen if he discovered sunlight.
[[The circle blazes brazenly like a brass boardroom bible.]]
You like Men.
[[Yes. You Like Men.|Draw.]]
Or [[do you not like Men, actually?|menalt2]]
[[<b>You like men</b>|Draw.]]
(set: $angel_love = $angel_love +1)
...Yes?
[[♠♠♠|Draw.]]
You rumble and he sings, which is your friend's personal way of screaming.
There's light still from the blood, but you know about the fire, and [[you breathe, and you breathe,]] and
[[And you breathe.]]
There [[it]] is.
A [[demon.]]
You always knew of angels, but you didn't know if Hell was real. You only know where Hell <i>is</i>, which of course any halfwit could recite.
But you've never seen [[a demon]], and there [[it is.]]
Red and small, with blustery pale skin and cropped dark hair. It watches with eyes with pupils. They dart between you and your friend.
You smell [[ash]].
[[The demon.]]
[[♠♠♠|demon.]]
#"So This Is Flesh,"
your friend remarks.
#"It Is As Pathetic As I've Been Told."
You say: [["He Doesn't Mean That."]]
You say: [["I Can't Breathe."]]
You: [[Touch the demon.]]
What demons smell like.
[[♠♠♠|a demon]]
Short and sized. Wearing blue not [[hue]]. The demon is not a disappointment.
[[♠♠♠|a demon]]
#"I Do Mean That."
[[♠♠♠|it is.]]
(set: $angel_love = $angel_love -1)
Your friend moves to your side, placing a hand on either side of your stomach. Your skin sizzles at his touch, snaps like embers.
You feel better. You still can't breathe.
[[♠♠♠|it is.]]
(set: $angel_love = $angel_love +1)
You reach out and put a gentle fist against the demon's heart, and feel the thump-thump-thump of a being who needs blood. The demon shudders against your skin, pupils quivering.
"What's going on?" The demon asks. "Who are you?"
Wait.
[[Who are you?]]
1) [[♠♠♠]] Will take you back. Some things are triggered by your history, so always use ♠♠♠ when possible- otherwise you may lose progress.
2) There are many endings. Don't spoil yourself, but a rough guide can be found [[here.|guide]]
3) Have fun!
4) fact to be deleted in the final version: there are currently a bunch of side endings. the main route is to 'not betray', but that has least written for it atm. it's worth it to poke around at all the side stuff. also, there are secret dog pics.
[[Go|It's dark now.]]
There's nothing to go back to.
Who are you?
[[You are a human.]]
[[You are an angel.]]
[[You are a Crow.]]
[[You don't know who you are.]]
(if: $quiz is true)[[[You know exactly who you are, thanks.|nextslide]]]
This sounds right. You are not a demon. Your friend is an angel.
And you were at like, Home Depot this afternoon, something which <i>probably</i> only humans do.
[[Right.|nextslide]]
(if: $an_angel is true)[Your friend is an angel, but [[you are too?|nextslide]] Evidently?
(does the world really need <b>two</b> angels?)](else:)[No, your friend is an angel, remember?]
[[♠♠♠|Who are you?]]
(if: $a_crow is true)[You know exactly who you are. You know exactly what a Crow is, too.
(because [[you are one|nextslide]])](else:)[Now, that can't be right, can it?]
[[♠♠♠|Who are you?]]
Troubling.
Care to [[find out?]]
[[♠♠♠|Who are you?]]
You don't know who you are.
[[It's time.]]
[[♠♠♠|Who are you?]]
Q: WHAT IS THE BEST COLOR COMBINATION?
1: [[BLACK AND GOLD|DICKS]] (click: "BLACK AND GOLD")[(set: $angel = $angel + 3), (set: $demon = $demon + 1)]
2: [[RED AND BLUE|DICKS]] (click: "RED AND BLUE")[(set: $human = $human + 3), (set: $angel = $angel + 1)]
3: [[PASTEL PINK AND PASTEL BLUE|DICKS]] (click: "PASTEL PINK AND PASTEL BLUE")[(set: $demon = $demon + 3), (set: $human = $human + 1)]
4: [[WHAT DOES THIS HAVE TO DO WITH WHO I AM|DICKS]] (click: "WHAT DOES THIS HAVE TO DO WITH WHO I AM")[(set: $killjoy = $killjoy + 3)]
Q: YOUR WORST FEAR
1: [[SLEEP PARALYSIS|DICKS2]] (click: "SLEEP PARALYSIS")[(set: $angel = $angel + 3), (set: $demon = $demon +2)]
2: [[BEING FOLLOWED HOME BY A STRANGER|DICKS2]] (click: "BEING FOLLOWED HOME BY A STRANGER")[(set: $human = $human + 3), (set: $angel = $angel +2)]
3: [[MORTALITY|DICKS2]] (click: "MORTALITY")[(set: $demon = $demon + 1), (set: $human = $human +1)]
4: [[DO ALL BEINGS OF ONE RACE SHARE A COMMON FEAR, OR ARE YOU JUST PULLING MY LEG. SURELY THIS IS MAGICAL RACISM|DICKS2]] (click: "DO ALL BEINGS OF ONE RACE SHARE A COMMON FEAR, OR ARE YOU JUST PULLING MY LEG. SURELY THIS IS MAGICAL RACISM")[(set: $killjoy = $killjoy + 1)]
(set: $dickweed to false)
Q: YOUR MOST PRIZED POSSESSION
1: [[CURSED BRACELET, GRAVEROBBED TOO SOON, SHE WILL MISS IT|DICKS3]] (click: "CURSED BRACELET, GRAVEROBBED TOO SOON, SHE WILL MISS IT")[(set: $demon = $demon + 3), (set: $human = $human + 2)]
2: [[POSTCARDS OF ANGELS, CHURCHES, DEMONS, AND HOT FICTIONAL CHARACTERS|DICKS3]] (click: "POSTCARDS OF ANGELS, CHURCHES, DEMONS, AND HOT FICTIONAL CHARACTERS")[(set: $human = $human + 3), (set: $angel = $angel + 2)]
3: [[SHAME AND REGRET FROM BUYING SO MANY G-DDAMN CANDLES|DICKS3]] (click: "SHAME AND REGRET FROM BUYING SO MANY G-DDAMN CANDLES")[(set: $angel = $angel + 3), (set: $demon = $demon + 2)]
4: [[WOW. THIS IS KIND OF PERSONAL. WHAT IF IT'S NONE OF THE ABOVE, JACKASS|DICKS3]] (click: "WOW. THIS IS KIND OF PERSONAL. WHAT IF IT'S NONE OF THE ABOVE, JACKASS")[(set: $killjoy = $killjoy + 1), (set: $dickweed to true)]
(if: $dog is true)[[[5: I SAW A DOG ONCE|DICKS3]] (click: "I SAW A DOG ONCE")[(set: $goodperson = $goodperson +777)]]
(if: $dickweed is true)[GOOD POINT, DICKWEED.]
Q: ARE YOU MARRIED
1: [[MY EARS ITCH AND ARE SO DRY|DICKS4]] (click: "MY EARS ITCH AND ARE SO DRY")[(set: $human = $human + 3), (set: $demon = $demon + 3)]
2: [[MY NOSE IS ALWAYS BLEEDING|DICKS4]] (click: "MY NOSE IS ALWAYS BLEEDING")[(set: $angel = $angel + 3), (set: $demon = $demon + 3)]
3: [[MY EYES ARE DRY AND FLAKING OFF|DICKS4]] (click: "MY EYES ARE DRY AND FLAKING OFF")[(set: $human = $human + 3), (set: $angel = $angel + 3)]
4: [[NO, BUT MAYBE SOME DAY IN THE FUTURE|DICKS4]] (click: "NO, BUT MAYBE SOME DAY IN THE FUTURE")[(set: $killjoy = $killjoy + 2)]
Q: WHAT ARE YOU EXPECTING
1: [[CHALK AND SOFT I COLLAPSE LIKE DEAD PINE, MAGGOTS LIKE BRACELETS I WOULD RATHER SLEEP THAN DIE|DICKS5]] (click: "CHALK AND SOFT I COLLAPSE LIKE DEAD PINE, MAGGOTS LIKE BRACELETS I WOULD RATHER SLEEP THAN DIE")[(set: $demon = $demon + 3), (set: $human = $human + 1)]
2: [[I AM THE BEAT OF SUMMERS PAST AND THE SWEAT OF BEADS AGAINST A WOODEN NECK. I HAVE SWINDLED TO SWADDLE MY LOVE IN FAME|DICKS5]] (click: "I AM THE BEAT OF SUMMERS PAST AND THE SWEAT OF BEADS AGAINST A WOODEN NECK. I HAVE SWINDLED TO SWADDLE MY LOVE IN FAME")[(set: $human = $human + 3), (set: $angel = $angel + 1)]
3: [[I AM A BEING OF EYES AND I EYED WHAT I EAT WITH NO SHAME AND WIDE OPEN FLAIR|DICKS5]] (click: "I AM A BEING OF EYES AND I EYED WHAT I EAT WITH NO SHAME AND WIDE OPEN FLAIR")[(set: $angel = $angel + 3), (set: $human = $human + 1)]
4: [[I THINK THIS IS PROBABLY RIGGED. WHAT AM I BUT 'YOU'. ANYWAY, NOT SURE WHAT IS GOING ON ABOVE, BUT I'M NOT REALLY FEELING IT.|DICKS5]] (click: "I THINK THIS IS PROBABLY RIGGED. WHAT AM I BUT 'YOU'. ANYWAY, NOT SURE WHAT IS GOING ON ABOVE, BUT I'M NOT REALLY FEELING IT.")[(set: $killjoy = $killjoy + 1)]
(if: $dog is true)[5: [[I would like to see a dog.]]]
Q: PET PEEVE
1: [[BEING INTERUPTED|DICKS7]] (click: "BEING INTERUPTED")[(set: $angel = $angel + 2), (set: $human = $human +1)]
2: [[LOUD CHEWERS|DICKS7]] (click: "LOUD CHEWERS")[(set: $demon = $demon + 3), (set: $angel = $angel +1)]
3: [[PUBLIC DISPLAYS OF AFFECTION|DICKS7]] (click: "PUBLIC DISPLAYS OF AFFECTION")[(set: $human = $human + 2), (set: $demon = $demon +1)]
4: [[PRETENCIOUS JERKS WHO THINK THEY'RE DEEP|DICKS7]] (click: "PRETENCIOUS JERKS WHO THINK THEY'RE DEEP")[(set: $killjoy = $killjoy + 1), (set: $jerk to true)]
OH.
OK.
THAT'S COOL.
<img src="https://68.media.tumblr.com/9b895188559770fe63ba9fa5832dd563/tumblr_okcmmjC4Te1sqcfboo2_250.jpg" width="600" height="800" alt="Jake">
[[MORE DOG PLEASE]]
[[♠♠♠|DICKS4]]
Q: IT IS TIME
1. [[YEEHAW]]
2. [[YEEHAW]]
3. [[YEEHAW]]
4. [[YEEHAW]]
5. [[YEEHAW]]
6. [[YEEHAW]]
7. [[YEEHAW]]
8. [[YEEHAW]]
9. [[YEEHAW]]
10. [[I WOULD NOT SAY 'YEEHAW']] (click: "I WOULD NOT SAY 'YEEHAW'")[(set: $killjoy = $killjoy + 1)]
(print: $angel)
(print: $demon)
(print: $human)
(print: $goodperson)
(print: $killjoy)
[[WAIT WHAT DO THOSE NUMBERS MEAN]]
FINE.
Q: IT IS TIME
1. [[WONDERFUL|YEEHAW]]
2. [[HOW EXCELLENT|YEEHAW]]
3. [[I AM PLEASED|YEEHAW]]
4. [[LET US HURRY THIS|YEEHAW]]
5. [[IT IS ABOUT TIME|YEEHAW]]
6. [[HOW LOVELY|YEEHAW]]
7. [[GOOD|YEEHAW]]
8. [[FANTASTIC|YEEHAW]]
9. [[YES|YEEHAW]]
10. [[OKAY. FINE. I WILL SAY 'YEEHAW'|YEEHAW]]
(print: $angel)
(print: $demon)
(print: $human)
(print: $goodperson)
(print: $killjoy)
THAT'S YOU.
(if: $angel > 15)[[[YOU ARE AN ANGEL?|ANGEL]]]
(if: $demon > 15)[[[YOU ARE A DEMON?|DEMON]]]
(if: $human > 15)[[[YOU ARE A HUMAN?|HUMAN]]]
(if: $dog is true)[[[YOU ARE A FAN OF DOGS?|DOG OWNER]]]
(if: $killjoy > 8)[[[YOU ARE A KILLJOY.|KILLJOY]]]
[[YOU SURE ARE SOMETHING]]
You are glory incarnate, [[hue]] without blood. You melt hearts, minds, steel, candle wax, and chocolate. Your eyes are plentiful and beautiful, and you have never taken a bath.
Is this really true?
You are an angel?
Isn't your friend supposed to one?
Aren't you supposed to be human?
But the test doesn't lie. You breath in <b>bold.</b>
(set: $an_angel to true)
[[DOES THIS MEAN ANYTHING FOR THE STORY?]]
(set: $angel_love = $angel_love +7)
Ah, what a twist. A demon summoning another demon, in the Hellmouth, not Hell. Funny. Bit odd, but funny. This sort of information feels better served for a late game plot twist, but there you have it: you are a demon.
Weak, sad, pathetic, red little thing.
You are a virgin and have never be kissed.
(set: $a_demon to true)
[[DOES THIS MEAN ANYTHING FOR THE STORY?]]
Well, we already knew that, didn't we?
You're human. Why, we're all human here. Nice, kind, happy humans. Good people. Nice ones. Plenty of skin to go around- boy, do we humans have a lot of skin!
(set: $a_human to true)
[[DOES THIS MEAN ANYTHING FOR THE STORY?]]
You and me both. Wow. Dogs are great.
(set: $dogfriend to true)
[[DOES THIS MEAN ANYTHING FOR THE STORY?]]
(set: $angel_love = $angel_love +1)
Your eyes are the color of eyes and your teeth are still yellow. You have skin that usually feels like skin, and you have failed a personality quiz, that, gosh, just really wanted you to succeed.
(set: $loser to true)
[[DOES THIS MEAN ANYTHING FOR THE STORY?]]
[[CAN I BE LIKE, A cROW OR SOMETHING?]]
Well, of course it does. Why would it not?
[[Because programming four different play sets based on this quiz seems like a lot of work?]]
Yeah sure. Be a Crow. Who gives a shit.
(set: $a_crow to true)
(set: $loser to false)
[[DOES THIS MEAN ANYTHING FOR THE STORY?]]
(set: $angel to 0)
(set: $demon to 0)
(set: $human to 0)
(set: $dogfriend to 0)
(set: $goodperson to 0)
(set: $killjoy to 0)
[[Wow. Just going for it, huh? Good luck.|It's time.]]
What a buzzkill. A dick jerk. A baby. God. Wow. Can't even have some fun, huh? Too judgey to have free fun on the internet in this capitalistic day and age? Go get a job, ass wad. Go earn some 'feasible wages' and 'retire happily'. You think I care?
(set: $a_buzzkill to true)
[[Try again?]]
[[DOES THIS MEAN ANYTHING FOR THE STORY?]]
Hey.
[[C'mon now. Get moving. Snap back to reality. All this has just been one NICELY NARRATED flashback. It's time to remember: your friend is an angel, and in front of you is a demon]]
And you, of course, are (if: $an_angel is true)[an angel](if: $a_demon is true)[a demon](if: $a_human is true)[a human](if: $a_crow is true)[a crow](if: $dogfriend is true)[friend of dogs and an ally of canines](if: $loser is true)[an enigma without ambition, promise, or hope]. (if: $a_buzzkill is true)[Alive. But also like, a total buzzkill.]
(set: $quiz to true)
[[Yep. That sure was fun.|Who are you?]]
"I Brought You Here,"
you say,
"Who Are You In Comparison?"
Oh, how your voice trembles and tremors- Oh! How your eyes must ramble with power! [[You are divine]], and not so, never die-cast let alone [[born.]]
What do you wish for? You ought to know the answer, who <i>doesn't</i> know this sort of thing? A soul for a wish, a wish for the night.
You want something, and it isn't world peace. And that doesn't mean that you're golly-awful, that you're planning an air raid from your bedroom window. But c'mon- how many times did you wish as a child for happiness? How many stars, first or not, candles, yours or not-
Nothing will come true.
But a demon is not a child.
[[So.]]
#"You Are To Grant A Wish,"
Your friend says
#"As Demons Always do."
[[A wish. Yes.]]
(if: $a_demon is true)[You are not divine, of course. You are a demon. You know this. We all know this. If you were divine, so would The Demon, and we plainly all can agree that is false.](else:)[[[Divine?|divinedicks]] Who ever said you couldn't be?]
A wish. Anything you could ever want.
You: [[Want money]]
You: [[Want love]]
You: [[Want glory]]
(if: $a_buzzkill is true)[You: [[Think relying on a magical demon wish to get something is done is rather silly, and in fact believe some sort of 'monkey's paw' scenario is about to happen, so would like to sit this one out|rude]]]
[[Nice try, nitwit.|try again douche]]
You could buy everything with money, your own children, your own home. You could bath in drugs you never will take, sleep on the pelts of snow leopard and miniature horses. You can look any way you want to look when you have money, support any cause you'd like and make it the right one.
You will choose the leaders with your funding, and make them pay you for it. You will be beautiful because you will have power. And you will be (transition: "shudder")[holy] because you can demand that, now.
When you have money, you can own things, you can own people. You can point to any tree and buy it, if you wish. And no one will call you anything but savvy for it.
[["I Wish For Money,"|wished]] you say.
In your bed late at night the spirits sing to you often of this other fate, of promised surgery and laissez a faire fancies. You pull you blankets, three, one, two, and curl and bundle, and wonder what they cost.
(set: $want_money to true)
You look at your friend as you think this, and they say this: [["Love. Give Me Love."|wished]]
Would there ever be anything more (transition: "shudder")[holy] than you two? Out on the downtown promenade, out of the woods. If he touched you you would melt like the food which he eats. Maybe. If he spoke too softly your ears would scream like he does: in song.
Oh, love. Oh, beauty. He has been your friend for so long, and though you meet him for the first time tonight, you'll dream of him for so long after.
He is sweet and song and Male.
In your room you steam and stretch, your calves tight and tired, living without relief. Your friend, though. Your friend. He will not sleep with you, as angels never do, but he'll burn your bed to ashes, and make you a new nest.
(set: $want_love to true)
Is there anything you deserve more than to stampede the sidewalk, laced up and alone? When you die they'll burry you in an ugly grave and leave leaves every year from the burning maple trees, and there you'll be:
Awake.
You will smell of neon and become more object than person, admired throughout by those you'll never see again, and you will know what they are thinking: 'You.' Even the (transition: "shudder")[holy] will creep around your legs.
[["I Need Glory,"|wished]]
You say.
You. And you will be pleased by this. Every thought you'll keep pinned to your bedroom wall on the tackboard, hammering the cheap pins in with a bar of soap as you curl into bed.
They will never whisper your name, but you will be known.
(set: $want_glory to true)
A wish. Anything you could ever want.
You: [[Want money]]
You: [[Want love]]
You: [[Want glory]]
##"I Need To Escape,"
Your friend bores his voice like a pencil into a desk,
##"I Have Been Here For Too Long. Trapped Like Air Under The Beach. You Must Bring Me To Reign."
"I can only do one thing at once,"
The demon snivels, small and snide. How silly! A sad creature it is, sorrowed and soupish. It flicks its fingers up and down as it speaks.
"One or the other. (if: $want_love is true)[Love](if: $want_money is true)[Riches](if: $want_glory is true)[Glory] or freedom."
You say: "(if: $want_love is true)[True And Honest Love](if: $want_money is true)[Wealth And Privilege](if: $want_glory is true)[Eternal Glory]. [[Of course.]]"
You say: "Freedom. [[For my friend.]]"
#"(if: $want_love is true)[[[Love|LoveXXX]]](if: $want_money is true)[[[Riches|richesxxx]]](if: $want_glory is true)[[[Glory|gloryxxx]]]? Is That Really What You Choose?"
Your friend sweeps to face you. (if: $want_love is true)[His eyes are weaker than an angel's should be. His tips are charred from the sparklers.]
#"I Have Been Here For So Long."
He is low now, his voice trailing as if moribund.
[[No. You change your mind.|wished]]
(set: $angel_love = $angel_love -3)
The demon is three cuts above an automatron. With a firm grip, you shake on the deal, and all at once the darkness is a little less enveloping. Your friend's blood glows a little less.
Daylight streams in from the roof, and its closer than it used to be. Your friend, the angel, looks up, hungry.
You will help your friend. [[You love your friend.]]
(if: $angel_love > 5)[#"Love? You... [[You Love Me?"]]](else:)[Your friend is [[further silent.]]]
(if: $angel_love > 5)["Define [[Need.|Needed]]"](else:)[#"What [[Do You Mean]] By That?"]
Say: "I Love You." (click-replace: "I Love You.")[I Want To Own You.](click-replace: "I Want To Own You.")[No. I Love Only You And I Need Only You.](click-replace: "No. I Love Only You And I Need Only You.")[Here You Should Stay- Angels Aren't Real Except In The Teeth Of The Hellmouth.](click-replace: "Here You Should Stay- Angels Aren't Real Except In The Teeth Of The Hellmouth.")[You Will Leave Me If I Free You.](click-replace: "You Will Leave Me If I Free You.")[I [[Love|love2]] You. No. I [[Need]] You.]
Your friend is the golden boy of God, and you see it in each shining eye that you are the Light Bringer: candle supplier, sure, but all at once you Feel Loved.
You are a knife, unloved and ugly, but there is no better yielder of a weapon than a warrior. He hasn't fought for a long time, but he holds you. You hear his heart shimmer and hiss like a decades-old radiator.
#[["You Are My Mirror,"]]
he says.
#"You Do Not Know Me Anymore Than You Know What Is Best For Me. A Creature Like You-"
(if: $an_angel is true)["I'm An Angel Too. That's Why I Talk Like This. Why I Don't Belong To The Sun Anymore Than You do. I Was Born (transition: "shudder")[[[Holy|holyxxx]]], Can't You See?"](else:)[You begin to [[tear]] up.]
"I Know Light, I Consume Light, And I Would Never befoul My Stomach With You,"
"I love you,"
You say,
and even though you're an angel you were not cut out for this. Your friend is thunder and you are some other weather effect, perhaps an ocean current or an underground lake, never meant to be seen by anything as lovely as him.
You begin to [[tear]] up.
He places a hand softly against your cheek, and you can feel your blood vessels pop and glitter. You must look transparent to him, eating light but not emitting.
Without him you would be dusk in a well, unseen, unappreciated.
It's Independence Day, and you're in the woods alone, again.
The demon is watching, but even in this ill-defined space you've created it flickers in and out of existence, story lines and soul wishes ignored.
You reach for your bag, and [[clutch]] your knife.
Your cheek is still hot, still red, but the angel is gone, the demon is too. You run through the woods of The Retreat, suicide tower tugging not beckoning, and then keep running.
The leaves patter and snap underfoot, old screams echo. Ghosts swirl around you like howling hellhounds, and for a moment you look:
The woods is deep, and you are not alone. As you run, you think of monsters. As you hurry, you see them, too.
By the lake. With the knife.
[[You've been here before.]]
You have a [[knife|knifelove]]. You know nothing [[else|else2]].
The building-light glamours on the lake like stained glass. It flickers and fails in an impossible [[hue]].
It's October, still, and [[You Know How This Happened.]]
Unloved. Not silver. There's dirt on the cheap blade, bright orange from Home Depot. The safety lock is still on.
You hate your knife.
[[♠♠♠|You've been here before.]]
There were no explosions, only sparklers and heat. Footsteps echo.
[[♠♠♠|You've been here before.]]
You loved someone. And how you thought it would change the game!
The wind flickers through your hair, your heart is steady with the beat of the leaves in the trees, and you hear footsteps:
An angel and a demon.
"Are you okay?" The demon asks, her hair still, her hands in her pockets.
"You kind of freaked out,"
Your friend, the angel, states.
#=END=
"Weath,"
You declare.
"I Will Buy The World."
And your friend has never looked sadder.
#"You Are The Folly Of Creation,"
The angel says,
#"Do You Not Have Shame?"
You say: [["I Will Set You Free. Live What Life We Want."]]
You say: [["There Is Nothing Wealth Cannot Buy, You Included."]]
You are a thunderclap without reverb, for a few seconds at least.
"I Need Glory."
You say.
"I Need Fame."
Your friend exhales, his breath heavy and sweet, a mist of peppermint that clogs your nostrils. Light leaves with him, until he is only an echo without a bang.
Constellations twinkle like embers under his skin.
You say: [["I Will Come Back For You."]]
You say: [["I Do Not Need You."]]
<img src="https://68.media.tumblr.com/14835ad0adada9d110bc6ae381199449/tumblr_okcmmjC4Te1sqcfboo1_250.jpg" width="800" height="700" alt="Jake">
[[ADDITIONAL DOG PLEASE]]
[[♠♠♠|DICKS4]]
<img src="https://68.media.tumblr.com/b4743a3c62376aae50076f8e49da234f/tumblr_okcmmjC4Te1sqcfboo3_500.jpg" width="800" height="700" alt="Jake">
THANK YOU.
[[♠♠♠|DICKS4]]
You are (transition: "shudder")[holy].
Who isn't?
[[♠♠♠|nextslide]]
Angels are birds, and your friend is the canary in the mineshaft, a sweet bundle of heat in the depths of the church. You will return, victorious and pure.
You like your friend, you really do. But angels do not walk the Earth for reasons like this. Crows do not stumble to the ground for reasons like this.
Your friend is star incarnate, and you are nothing else but a petty thief. If you drowned at sea it would be an upgrade, not a setback, in your career.
"I Need To Be Better Than You, First,"
you say,
"You'll [[Outshine|okay.]] Me Otherwise."
What is a friend but someone better than you, someone who makes you happy, keeps you pleased, and in doing so reminds you how lonely you are without them?
You do not need a friend. You need people.
When you walk in the sun, there are people there. Your friend is here. These have always been different people, different downtowns.
An angel does not belong anywhere else. He'll suck the sun out of the seaside, your friend. He'll come to rely on another lesser creature.
You needed a demon. You've needed company, a place to leave your candles.
Soulless, you will be [[okay.]]
(set: $betray to true)
Your heart is a [[knifefight]].
##<b>"I Am Not Of You,"</b>
Your friend boldly says
##"I Am The Summerset Of The Seaward Sistine, The Sentiment Of Some Salacious- I Am A Knife,"
He proudly says,
"And I Deserve To Be Free."
He [[is a knife]]. But [[you have one]].
You step back. It has never been wise to enrage something born of God, and with a twice-known passion he switches his fingertips into a torrent. His skin pops like a laundry pod, flesh dissolving with bubbles of white and yellow.
He is the favorite knife of someone who is not you, and he does not pierce you but <i>shove.</i>-
You fall back, watching his face hiss.
[[Do you want to fight back?]]
[[Or do you lay there, staring at each misted freckle?]]
He is holding a red sharpie, the ink boiling at his touch, dripping onto the floor.
You clutch your knife and slash him, not a gentle stab like before but a rip up the fabric of his skin. He tears like curtains in the wind, his red-orange veins bursting from the seams of flesh, his fiberglass heart lay bare in his chest like a durian among molten rocks.
He doesn't scream, because that is what he does when he is happy. Rather, his voice leaks like a hard-rusted taxicab.
"so this is how we stand."
he says.
"[[i trusted you]] to love me through this."
He is two people before you; two halves and a [[pile of blood]].
Your knife is not silver. There's blood on the poor blade, bright red with dots of yellow. The steel drips to the floor.
You like your knife, not love.
[[♠♠♠|you have one]]
The wind shrieks through (click-replace: "through")[around] the half-church, the demon waits to the side, holding its (click-replace: "holding its")[holding her] hands together judgmentally. You do not appreciate it.
Your friend, he-
[[No.]]
(click-replace: "appreciate it")[appreciate her]
(click-replace: "he-")[She-]
You have killed your friend. His body is dead, he is sunlight and cheap candles and more-expensive shoes, and he can never be free.
(click-replace: "You have killed your friend. His body is dead, he is sunlight and cheap candles and more-expensive shoes, and he can never be free.")[You're leaning against half a church, some weirdo building in the woods, with your two friends, looking up. You can't climb it, though you've tried a few times. Sometimes when you're alone you'll give it another go, too.
Your hand is bandaged from your last attempt last Thursday.
It's a cool afternoon, July the fourth, and after this you're going to watch the fireworks on the hill near the pool, so high you can taste the ash and watch the embers fall.
You have never been near a cathedralesque lake, never clutched a knife at the end of the world.
Your friends are smoking.]
(click-replace: "Your friends are smoking.")["It's not a big deal," She says, blowing out a cloud of smoke, "So I don't know why you're so worried."
"Yeah," the other says, [["We're still going to be friends."]]]
When you were younger, you played in the woods, and often dreamed, and one day you never woke up.
Your friends still dream, you think everyone does, but here in the shadow of the church you think of girls and angels and whether or not a soul's ever done you good. (click-replace: "girls")[men (as you do, really do, Like Men)]
She coughs on the cold air and you wonder what's inside her, what's inside this church. You wonder why you're still here, and if you're going to die here too.
You do have a knife in your bag, and yes, it is silver. And it's engraved, too; and you dearly, dearly, do quite love it.
#=END=
(if: (either: 0, 1) is 1)[You bounce up to your feet, and pull out your knife. His eyes [[glitter]] at the sight.](else:)[You bounce up to your feet, and pull out your knife. His eyes are [[black and unseeing]].]
Or perhaps you could [[stay on the ground.|Or do you lay there, staring at each misted freckle?]]
He smolders and blurs, cut from darkness like an amateur charcoal reduction.
You realize that the stardust in his eyes are tears, big bubbles of gas that snarl and sizzle as they slip down his face.
You are sitting at [[the feet of the demon.]]
Oh, how he glitters! His eyes are coals, his skin like a snowman bathed in red food dye. He sees your knife and raises his own blade.
And tit and tat your life becomes just that: a knick against a knack, a missed twirl and a sudden, jarring, cut against the thigh.
Oh. How cold you are, then, how mortal: You are conquered. You fall back again, and your friend all ablaze kneels by your side.
#[["This Is Victory."]]
You do not slice him. You harm him.
Knife in hand, you plunge your arm into this fiery depths, and what emerges from the other side is neither him nor you. His face hurts. He hurts. You do not.
You've had your chances, and though he is your friend, it isn't long before he is murk again. His blood splatter gives the darkness a homely [[hue]], but it fades as he does.
You are breathing, very hard and very soft, as your friend disappears.
It's dark. You think he [[may be dead.]]
This is glory. A fight to the death. You'll tell the press it lasted longer, speak how the heavenly host itself descended to watch your combat, how he sparkled like fireworks against your blade.
Your knife was gold. The demon is pale.
The body is black and covered in dust, like it's been here for years. [[You look to the demon.]]
"Glory,"
You speak of.
[[And then it begins.]]
#"You Have Won After All,"
He declares. It feels like too soon, but not to you: you are dying, you are darkness. You will be dead soon. For all intensive purposes, you are already.
#"There Is Glory In War."
Ah, [[he sounds sad too.]]
You are an angel, and you have just killed your friend. Your candle supplier. Your sparkler-giver. Ah. Mercy. You will never have such delights again.
You were barely hit by their blade, and it lies on the floor now. Your galaxy-arms reach out and hold it: stupid little thing, cheap, and star-metal. You think it reminded your friend of you.
Your friend often said such things, that they saw you in cloudy nights and farewell parties. That they kept angels pinned to their notice-board, and dreamed of smelling like myrrh.
They were in love with you, but angels do not love creatures like themselves.
The demon is still waiting. [[You have a choice.|creatures like themselves.]]
They will be like glory here, neon in each declining breath you take. You eat the sun like sköll. Demons have always been set back by the limited scope of mortals.
You bring yourself to whisper, and you speak to demon, each word lower, softer, [[less capitalized]], less meaningful.
You are an angel.
You are too afraid of death to cut yourself open and let your skin light the way, so you sit in the dark each and every day, and wait and wait:
At night you hear whispers, prayers from the humans above you. In the day you hear their songs, and you hum a low, calling tune back.
You cannot leave, but through the eyes of Crows you follow a boy, out on his own:
In his hands, a star-metal knife. In his heart, he thinks of you, and you love him, you really do.
So you wait for him to return, peppermint candles in hand.
#=END=
The world rebuilds itself, and you're in the sunlight every day from then on.
You are alone. You do not need Friends, you do not need Angels: now, what you need is what you are given, and you are given everything.
In your bag, in your satchel, in your purse always is this: A rusted knife, painted over with gold.
In the avenues of the sunset, you parade down the street in clothes too nice, with a face too perfect. People know who you are, and [[they speak of you.]]
They know your life, too, every detail of it.
But they do not know of angels. They do not know what you did to a friend in the basement of Creation.
You have banished God from the world, every inch of him and his Sons, and though the crows still circle you like the halo of a giant, they are silent, they are blind.
There is no cawing by the birds anymore, but rather you shout;
And the world harkens.
#=END=
The demon is confined to its circle, thankfully, though now you exist within it. Your friend, the angel, circles wistfully.
##"I Can't Bring Myself To Hurt You,"
he says. He turns away.
##"Go Ahead. Sell Your soul.(if: $betray is true)[ I Suppose [[I Don't Need You]] Either.](else:)[ But [[Please Come Back]] Sometime.]"
This is a lie. Your friend needs you. He is alone here, trapped in the dark, and all your life he's been whispering his whims, ordering the Crows to flock outside your bedroom window.
[[Without you|you are bolder]], you suppose, he could always find someone else. Summon another demon.
But perhaps you're having a [[change of heart?|Please Come Back]]
Your friend is coiled around himself, a snake of aether and human eyes. His wings cover his body in soft, red-gold feathers, which buzz in every lovely hue.
You sit at the feet of the demon, and you have a good, kind thought. Your friend's blood has dried into dusty red clay, and you crawl forward towards him, dragging your hand through the symbols on the ground.
By the time you reach him, the demon is gone, and you are alone in the dark. [[You curl against him.]]
It may not be love, but he is part of you, and now you will be part of him.
There is glory in flesh, great pride in body heat, in holding someone very very close. There is God in his eyes and blood on your lips.
It is dark, very dark, as his bleed-light fades, and at the bottom of the church-cage [[you've come to hold an angel.]]
You will still read of demons, still look into their spells. But tonight you leave in the arms of a thousand eyed serpent, and your hand spends too long on his cheek.
He cannot leave his cell, but he brings you to the door, and you slide off the roof, knife in your bag. The fireworks are tonight, and you wish he could be there with you, swallowing the explosions like pop rocks, holding your hand as you wait in line for fried dough.
It's getting to be night, now. You throw your knife in the lake, and it doesn't matter what color it is by the time it sinks into the mud.
You run off, and you will change one day, but for now you have tasted Heaven. And it compliments the smell of smoke perfectly.
#=END=
#"I Have Been Here For Forever,"
he says, but then he looks into your eyes, and it's what the movies have been telling you, it's every stupid and forced romance in a TV drama, every overblown YA kiss. He is soft and you are softer.
"i have been here for forever, watching the world from the darkness, speaking to Crows and calling out. And your mind has fed me color."
"I Have No Other Friends But You,"
you say,
And he says: (click: "And he says:")["you don't have to talk like that anymore."
And [[his eyes]] are yellow.]
Oh, and he looks at you, and you hear the Frog's Galliard strum and beat.
You had no other friends but him, and now you have no friends and a Love.
You <i>Love</i> Him.
And you don't have to speak like an angel anymore, because once you've met one there's no need to read books about them, pin postcards to your wall and dream of having wings. You are already better than the children without.
And he kisses you, and yes, the demon is still there, but you're too busy reliving every fantasy and each fiction.
You see in color, he sees in light.
#=END=
"I'm Incomplete,"
You say,
"I Will Never Be More Than Half."
This is true. You would never lie to a creature like him, a friend woven from the chords of Shenandoah.
He's screamed at you enough times that you know every beat of his song, and you've collected enough Crow feathers to have realized you have no one else but him.
#"And What Am I? [[A Whole?]]"
"Who Am I Without You?"
You say in dismay.
"Without You, What I Am But Less Beautiful?"
He blinks at you, and it's like a crowd doing the wave, each set of eyes switching on and off.
#[["You're Wrong."]]
#"You've Done So Much More Than Me."
The angel laments,
#"How Could You Think I'm Priviledged, Locked Up Like This? I Cannot Love You, But I Need You Too."
The angel is your friend.
"You're More To Me Than I Am."
He gets down on his knees. You hadn't noticed, really, but he'd been growing since the demon arrived, and now he is giant compared to you. His fingers brush your shoulder.
#"We're Still Friends. [[We'll Always Be Friends.]]"
"What About It?"
You ask, pointing to the demon.
"Its Going To Give You Want You Want, Help You Escape- Things I Can't Do! Did You Only Need Me To Summon It? Only Want Me For My Soul?"
#"You're Worth More To Me Than That,"
He says,
#"You're My Friend. I'll Come Back To You. Visit Some Day."
You don't believe him.
Do you: [[Give up your soul for his wish]]
Do you: [[Abscond]]
Do you: [[Give up your soul for your own wish]]
He is too lovely to deny, too piteous to forget. You can only keep him chained for so long.
"Good Luck Out There,"
You say, and you want to keep it lovely, but your voice begins to fail:
[["I'm sure it'll be fine."]]
You scurry and you scamper, and though it seems impossible, you're soon at the mouth of the Hellmouth. You sit in the steeple, stunned in the sunlight.
It's not night, it's afternoon still: the sun beats down against your skin, and the air is cool but not frigid. You see no darkness but the feathers of Crows.
[[They call.]]
You want love. You want to be held, cradled, loved, and there is no one better but a sunbeam to hold you. No one more special to love a creature as undesirable as you.
You realize that, now: He never would love you as is. He wasn't your friend. You hate this demon, and you would hate him if his eyelashes weren't so gold-flecked.
With a simple few words, and the world spins, and you are less dark. You can see, now, and your lover is there. He shines for you, and you curl up in his arms, breathing sanctuaries against his neck, able to read the prayers carved along his bones.
He is in love, he is in love, and you are no longer a lonely kid without any friends. You go to the fireworks together, and his stomach growls, but [[he holds your hand.]]
There are rainbows against his irises no matter the night sky, and you dance with him every night.
You are not nothing: You are worth him, and an angel is a commodity among the living. You watch him sit by the fire some nights, his body still, his feathers flame-dipped.
He is in love.
One night you take him to the lake, and there in the building light he slips from your grasp and dives into the lake, thrashing through the moonlight, aching to chomp on the reflections of the water.
He does not know any better, as he sees the world as black and white as the knife in your hands. And he is in love.
#=END=
You hear but try not to listen. They're not minions of his, but they listen for him. He sees through their eyes some days, his voice caught in between their caws.
You look back into the steeple, and see only black. He never loved you, never needed you. And without you, perhaps he'll find another sad, lonely human.
[[You wonder if there's been others.]]
You shake hands with the demon, and it doesn't grin. Poor red-pale thing.
You are soulless in a blink, and your angel watches with supernovas on his cheeks. You'd always suspected he'd like you better despicable, but then he is gone too, and so is the demon, and certainly the darkness.
[[It is dark outside, but not you are not in darkness.]]
You slide down the roof, walk through the leaves. You mean to wander, but soon you're at Suicide Tower.
You've always wanted to climb it, but they keep it locked^^because of the suicides.^^
A crow circles you, singing, and it lands by your feet as you settle onto the tower's single step.
"i am sorry,"
it says,
"i am sorry, sorry, sorry"
[[Crows have lied to you before.]]
Crows don't speak to everyone, but they speak to you, and this has always made you feel special.
Under the shadows of Suicide Tower, you cry and think of wings you'll never touch, wishes you never made. You hope the demon and the angel get along now, trapped in the dark together.
You know you never want to return.
The Crows might be lying to you, but the Murder follows you home, chanting "sorry sorry sorry" all day and all night long.
You will not become anything, but if you allow yourself to forget, [[you'll never know]] anything else.
There is one last step. A tacky white knife, with a handle made of pearls. The Crows sat on your shoulders as you bought it, purring.
It reminded you of him, and you hoped it reminded him of Heaven. Some nights, as you changed with the windows open, his voice would creep through his Murder like radio static, speaking of glory, glory, glory.
You skip the fireworks and walk to your old elementary school. You don't know why, and it doesn't really matter: you throw it into the lake and hear it <i>plock</i> against the rocks.
Let some poor child find it, let some other bastard find your angel, and let that sad creature find another soul to steal.
Tonight though, the Crows say, he is <i>sorry, sorry, sorry</i>.
#=END=
You are bathed in the light of a palace, sitting in a tomb-like gazebo. The building-light shines in your favorite [[hue]], and in your hands is a coal-black knife.
It says on it, glory, and you're not sure if this is a lie or not, but you do know that you feel real.
[[You walk.]]
The building is grander than a palace, a statehouse built like every one of your tackboard-dreams, and you realize you're in dress far finer than even your angel-friend could've afforded.
You know you are alone here, but you think you feel love. A great party is in swing, filling every room of the cavernous mansion, and every beautiful person is rapt by your side. They heed like hellhounds.
You clutch your knife and dance through the crowds. Who are you but glorious? What are you but a legend?
There are no wings on your back, but every wall in one room is a mirror, every surface in another gold. When you look at yourself, you are older, still.
People come to embrace you, and when you drink red wine, it is [[sweet]] and it is beautiful.
You are not alone in your bedchambers that night, and never again will you sleep in the cold, or dream about the fireworks from behind a cash register window. You are curled and beloved, precious really.
Your knife never leaves your hand, and you fear that perhaps if you let go everything would dissolve like a watercolor coated in salt.
You fill one room with peacocks, pheasants, and partridges, and it is both inside and out, with glass walls and a crystal ceiling.
A Crow caws, from its gilded cage, and you hear no words.
#=END=
He spoke to you through the birds, watched you with the help of the Crows. You heard his songs in their screeches, his sermons delivered through Murder.
Maybe you had no one else but him because of this. Maybe no one else heard his call, or else perhaps they were wise enough not to heed it.
He needs your soul to escape. But it's [[your soul to spend.|Without you]]
You sink your hands into a shake, and the angel's dream comes true. The demon melts away, and the sky is full of light.
Ah. (click: "Ah.")[There's a sky now.
You are outside, by [[the water's edge.]]]
It's night, and colder than it's been, and you're not sure where the last few hours have gone.
The angel is shining, brighter than his blood. His wings are no longer red-gold, but simply <i>light</i>: they blind you, even.
He stands at your side, not illuminated but illumin<i>ating</i>. You can tell he's nervous by how the light shimmers about him, and how a low buzz emanates from his halo.
"It Has Been Since Creation,"
He says. His voice is still formal, but less booming, as if he now had all of the world to echo through.
"I Am Afraid To Stretch My Wings."
You ask about: [[Creation]]
And then you say: [["It'll be okay"]]
"The Beginning. The First Light. I Am All Things The World Has Forgotten."
[[♠♠♠|the water's edge.]]
You touch him on the back, you feel his feathers pinprick your nerves, and you love this boy, you really, really do.
"Come back for me, some day or night,"
You say, watching the stars blossom in his Heaven-searching eyes,
"Please tell me you'll need me again."
"I Don't Know If I'll Need you. But I Will Always Remember you."
His voice stings.
"We May Come Together Again, Years From Now."
[[You-]]
He hugs you, tight and hard, and you inhale sulfur and seaside.
"I love you,"
You promise.
"Many People Have Loved Me,"
He says,
"And It Has Never Worked For Them."
[[And he leaves you.]]
He leaves you covered in dust and flecks of sadness, his light eating the sun like a black hole, and you still hear him for days after that.
He moves, and the world listens, and you still hurt for him. You still love him, more so now that everyone does: jealousy is a dragon, and it worms around your heart.
"I Am The Light Bringer,"
your friend declares to the world, words like yellow knife-cuts-
"The Morning Star, The Truth."
The Crows don't echo him anymore, but they sing [[sweeter]] than before.
You love him, and you dream of a place in his world.
##"I Am The Truth,"
he says one day, through a Murder of Crows. They circle you like carrion flies.
##"And You Still Deserve To Be Loved."
And that could've been for anyone, for any lost, soulless beast, for any dead-end [[heathen.]]
But as you lean against Suicide Tower, a Crow lands on your shoe. You may never leave this mountain-shadowed town, may never find a love that keeps you warm, but the crow-song tells you this:
##"Don't Beat Yourself Up Over It."
#=END=
#"I Am Here,"
He says, and then quieter:
"I Am Here."
"You're An Angel,"
You remind him.
"I Am <i>Here,</i> Never Free. When I Watch You, How Could You Really Think You Are The Incomplete One? I Am Nothing But Darkness And [[A Few Shards Of Glass.]]"
"I Need <i>You</i>,"
He says.
And it's what you've wanted to hear for so long, the opposite of what your heart has been singing through your ears. You need him, because without him you are sad and you are nothing. And he needs you, because his eyes are colorless.
He's not meant to be free, you still think this, but as the demon watches, as you hold his hand and feel his blood-beat, you know something of the world.
You say: [["We Don't Need Demons."]]
You: [[Sell your soul to need him further.]]
You blush at your own betrayal, but could you have ever imagined something else?
You need him. Without him, you are no one more than <i>nemo.</i>
You bind him to you like a the cover to the page, you weave his Grace through your arm like an infected tattoo.
He needs you, now. The demon is gone in a shift of the world, and you hold him close. The afternoon sun [[does not blaze.]]
You do not need demons to tell you you are a bad person.
He does not need a soul to realize how alone he is.
You are both halves, and perhaps not meant for each other- but whoever else you're bound to meet, they're out there in the wide wide world. And you know you'll never meet them. He is here, locked in this peeling cage, and you are bound to this small hometown.
The streets turn and change with the colors of red and orange and brownstone housing, and you've never known another home that didn't sing of mildew.
You belong to the Crows, and [[the Crows belong home.]]
You hold him, he holds you, and you are each other's homes for a good while long.
The demon is banished, and you've never been happier to see a creature leave, never been more pleased to feel your skin boil. You are not in love, you are in Need.
The longer you hold each other the worse your vision gets, until at last you remember the [[shadows of the world]] more than color.
You've melted in his grasp, and as he nuzzles against you you feel entropy bleed from your eyelids. The world is black and white and gold all over.
You kiss him, and feel his sharp teeth against your tongue, taste the ink of his mouth against your lips. You don't think about how this is what you have always wanted, how long you've spent twisted in bed dreaming of touch:
You Need him. [[You cannot let him go.]]
When you were a child, you were not always alone, but your friends felt like rudimentary warm ups to the real thing. You knew you were supposed to be someone else, somewhere else. On the planes of Angels, or the realm of magic.
You think you were meant for more than second-hand smoke on the stair-steps of the school, but reality never answered your calls, and one day the birds came: the Crows. They called. You answered.
Now you have a boy- no, an angel, a monster of your own, and The World May Never Know You, but forgotten you are stronger.
[[You blink]] in his arms.
You are part of his existence, maybe, part of another world at last: <i>the other</i>.
You never knew to return from your days in the woods, and you dream of many things: lakes, mirrors, fireworks, knives, and thumbtacks. You see in white, light, and then the best color:
Black. You blink, and you see a lonely someone, tracing a stream on a summer afternoon. You see children without homes, women seeking respite, and men on mountaintops.
You try to speak, and your voice is hoarse, low, black:
"i am the truth,"
You tell them kindly,
"and Murder i may be.
The world is glitter, night, and joy,
and you will find no one else but me."
#=END=
He was a being of God once, an essence and a loved Son, but now his hand is clammy against yours. His hair is flaxen, colored instead of merely existent. His cheeks are red, blushing, the vessels filled with red blood.
When you kiss him, his tongue is pink, his teeth are flat and yellow-white, tamed knives, yours to control.
No one blinks at an empty boy who needs you, so very much; at the fireworks they sell you lemonade, and you know your classmates will be jealous, if only they catch sight of you.
At the playground, you hide the glare of the fireworks with tree cover, and sit in the near dark with your angel. There are children, some you know, and you hope they see him with you.
The first explosions begin to quake, and he watches the sky, hungry but mouthless.
#=END=
(this guide will be written/updated eventually)
WHAT COLOR IS YOUR KNIFE?
Red
Orange
Gold
Yellow
Yellow-white
Green
Blue
Indigo
Purple
Pearl
Yes, Silver
Black-White
Coal-Black
Star-metal
Colorless
Ugly
It doesn't matter
You do not know if he considers it, but you do know his skin falls from uncolored to violet.
You have spent more time dreaming of the lottery than you have of unfeasible things like power and love. You know that everything else comes with opportunity, with a better private college or your mother's choice of breakfast on the fifty-fifth day of your life.
You know what you want: Money to pay off your loans, your friend's loans, money for the hospice and money for the animal shelter. Funding for the homeless, donations to the poor. No store will close on downtown because of you, you may still never shop there but <i>they will remain the same.</i>
And you will join them, a cozy little store off main street, with dim lights and bad music, which you will sing along with as you water the plants each [[morning.]]
#"You Are So Haughty,"
He says, but your hand is already entwined with someone else's, and the world is already catering to your whim.
In a flock, he is gone, and with a great screech the darkness itself lifts and compresses, and without a blink the Hellmouth is nothing more than the bottom of a church, a cover for an ancient spring.
He was a Suneater, and such creatures would drain you of [[your riches.]]
You reach your hand out, and don't feel your fingers touch the demon-
You feel nothing, not even your hand, and then realize something is stinging on your arm, a sensation of coldness where it shouldn't be, the new sound of dripping.
Your friend, the angel, has cut your hand off with his blade. It is on the floor, and if you take your eyes off it for too long, you know the darkness [[will gobble it up.|split]]
#"I Have Seen Too Many Follies. Please."
You are in pain, but have two hands.
You: [[Will betray]] your friend. Have your wish, alone.
You: Will Forgive [[his mistake.]]
You wait and he's gone. You're gone, too. Your teeth are no longer yellow- they shine opalesque, too white to be real.
You don't remember leaving, don't know where you put your bag, but all at once you're on a train. And it's a fine thing, a fake thing- gold and yellow and red and shine, all mashed into one machine. It rumbles and roars as it moves. You don't remember where it's going.
You have gloves with pockets in the front, fancy clothes without any- you do not need pockets, anyways, because you are Rich. And the rich do not need pockets.
The train sings [[as it suffers]] forwards.
You wish despite him, and when your soul is gone, your eyes are not yours but as green as the gap where your soul ought to be. Wealth is having everything, money when you need it, bills and bankcards and even when you have nothing: a last, shiny golden ring to wager.
Your friend can never leave his cage, not until you buy him a soul of his own, but [[you come back]] for him, of course you do.
He can't come with you, but you bring him light every year. The fireworks show has never been brighter, better. The town loves you, finally, as much as you have loved it.
You bring him sparklers, every color of candle, every smell of Yankee Candle air freshener. You build a ladder to his Hellmouth, and some days you throw him a 2x4, others a bag of birdfeed.
You buy him torches, LED lights, tiki-lamps, but you've learned how he hates lavalamps^^they haunt him like vials of his own blood.^^
His home is still dark, all-eating, but he is your friend, too, and you provide for him. You can afford to close your shop somedays and wander. You are allowed to spend the night, if you please.
[[There are no rules.]]
Money can buy everything, and his home is more homely now. Less a pit, more a shop of his own. There are no walls in the Hellmouth, but you can make some out of drywall and concrete, and slowly there is light everywhere, too much for him to eat.
He is sad and soulless, still, you suspect. He wants to be free, but the world isn't ready for angels.
On the holidays, you walk out with a Crow on your shoulder. He used to guide you with their hoarse calls, but now he lives through them entirely. You watch the fireworks by a lake in the woods, and you can buy them, you think. You could buy this lake, this tree.
Everyone already thinks you bought this trained Crow.
You feed it from the palm of your hand, and every bang and boom elicits a weak, weak 'ah' and 'oo' from your feathered friend.
#=END=
Paperwork flurries around you in easy swishes, the world turns to be at your service. You get what you want, and it is glorious, it is <i>lovely:</i> A shop of your own, on Elliot, across from the ice cream shop, nearby the booksellers.
You sell what you want to sell, at any price you like. You give jewels away to children whose eyes linger too long, you pay off the debt of anyone genuinely kind.
The shop is stocked with everything you like, dice and birdseed, bread and ice cream. You have postcards of angels and art prints [[of churches.]]
And on your wall, a green knife, labeled: GREED.
At your side is long knife of royal purple, more of a sword than anything else, and when you look out the window you see only wheat fields.
Far from a downtown shop, but even as you think it, you remember yourself differently: perhaps you only wanted to exist downtown because there was nothing else to know. Perhaps you really needed to escape.
Meet new people. Make new friends. Because that's what you do when you travel, right? Change? Meet new people who don't know [[your past]]?
You are not alone in this grand voyage. Sixteen Crows dot the cabin, shuffling their feathers as they hop along. [[Three humans]], too.
He used to follow you through Crows. But he's gone, now.
Was it really so dramatic? Surely not, but it feels that way, it feels like the biggest deal that's ever been dealt. A new city, of more or less people, would know your life even less.
[[♠♠♠|as it suffers]]
Are they your new friends? You don't remember them, and as you think, you realize you do not know them. They're just passengers, as are you.
Alright then. You could stand to meet new people. Everyone you've met has never liked you, so it's about time you meet someone who [[hasn't met you.]]
The moment you meet them, they have met you, and it's too late:
You are unloved, unliked.
You have money now, and you trample the train follow by a Murder. The waiters bow, the people look away, and you feel pride at how witch-like you must seem. Powerful, maybe.
The Crows are silent, and you stare at them in fury. Your mouth is dry- unable to talk, unable to meet another human.
The Crows are dry, and they stare at you unable to talk, only able to caw, preen, and hop, slowly, along.
#=END=
You have everything now, every whim filled with petty cash, every love bought and trained to act as you'd like. You don't walk the woods anymore, not when the city towers beckon, not when the pigeons, quiet, coo.
You needed this space, to get away, and whenever you miss the forest sounds you remember that you can buy a forest, if you'd like. You can fly out to the Redwoods, go deep diving in a blue hole, free jump into a canyon, or sail across the ocean.
You can learn to parasail, skydive, play piano, play bridge, mountain-bike, embroider, play violin, play hockey, ride horses, tame lions, take photographs, paint masterpieces, play cricket, write novels, program games, hunt zebras, ice-skate, backstroke, sing, ribbon-dance, walk on fire, dance, or ski.
Because that's what [[rich]] people do.
With so much available to you, do you feel squandered? Was life maybe easier before you had everything?
It's hard to tell, because already you're forgetting what it was like to live without, to not dream of the cool touch of a demon each night, to bath in the forest stream and want nothing more from that.
You have always known you were meant for more, and if you weren't where you were right now, you suppose you might've killed yourself in protest. Hoped that reality could be soft-reset.
But are you [[happy]] with this life?
Or do you [[daydream]] about what the night won't give you?
This is what you wished for, and perhaps the idea has a deathgrip on you now: There is nothing more that you want but to continue, all the same.
You buy yourself a political office^^what, like it's hard?^^ and pay someone else to make sure your infinite money never runs out. Your eyebrows have been falling out lately, not thinning but shedding at an absurd pace. Each night before bed you pull at them and marvel as 15 hairs are stuck between your fingertips.
It doesn't mean anything, but your ears are dry, too, and you can't help but harm them twice a day. More often than you brush your bleach-dyed teeth you swab your eardrums with spit and cotton, sighing at the pain. An itch only you have the power to scratch.
[[You move up in the world.]]
So you've bought friends, and they smell like egg-shells, and their skin is grey-gold. You can dye your hair now. You can buy any fancy old thing you see.
But you don't own the past. You have a lot, but you don't have Your Friend, you don't have a place to store your candles.
You're in a butterfly garden. It's hot, and humid, and in every single way it doesn't remind you of him. Living butterflies circle, never landing on you. A few dead ones rest on the ground. They're every color, some transparent, many blue.
Do you remember [[what he said?]]
Because it can be hard to [[move on.]]
When someone has enough money, they stay in the shadows usually. They join a cult, or found their own, and pick players like pawns. Sides don't matter.
Maybe you do have opinions, maybe you'd just rather feel involved: You run for office, and then higher office still. Things go well, because you have bought people to rally your causes, bought speeches, and bought strategists. Your ads are expensive, the best. Your people are talented, the best.
You think you're a good person, but your life is not good but [[life, again.]]
It hits you in the middle of a rally, as the rain beats down on the white-tent roof. You own so much, and no you don't regret it: but you are an adult now.
You have let life change you, you have let the world slip through, even with your lockjaw hold on everything you thought you loved. But some of the things you cared about bore you now. Some of the stores have closed, some of the people have died.
You don't think of knives anymore, don't wonder about Hell. Your soul is gone, and you are blue because of it, an ugly slate-cerulean like a disappointing skipping-stone.
The rain pitter-patters like pebbles on a porcelain platter, and there in their audience, you are young again, foolish.
[[A Crow caws, and you jump.]]
You're too old to understand it.
But you don't know where it came from, don't see it anywhere. You bite dead skin off your lips, and wonder more what you need to want to feel happy again, but you can't.
Your speech is forgotten, and though you should continue, you can't.
In the crowd is a creature and a single white Crow, and you eye him. You can't move. That'd be unprofessional.
There may be some childhood lust left in you then: a boy, an ex-friend, certainly dead, long gone. In a crowd under a tent, listening to a soulless politician struggle to speak.
You own many, many things, but never an angel. And you think you never will.
#=END=
Oh.
Right.
What was said.
You don't love him, of course, if you loved him you wouldn't have wished for this, if you loved him you would have said it better, would have spent more time with him. Not [[left]] him alone in those musty old woods, where the old graves rot.
(click-replace: "him")[her]
You said it to him because it needed to be said, and you obviously shouldn't have, but it's over, right? It's over, and you're fine now.
[[Nothing changed.]]
Something blue and ugly touches your arm.
You leave the butterfly house and drive. You don't need to drive, you have people who could drive you, but your long melancholy is hard even on those around you.
The Retreat is long and vast and you used to go there as a kid, for hours, and draw. In the woods, you watch Suicide Tower, and the stumble downhill, towards that building.
You can't buy it, but your first instinct is to try. You [[grapple]] with the roof.
So she moves.
So did you.
The world didn't care.
#=END=
There's no knife this time, no lake, no explosions, no fireworks, no October.
It would have been red, though.
It's a struggle. You lose.
[[You try again.]]
You can't climb it. It's steep, and taller than you, and the old stumps and logs that used to boost you are too rotten to stand on.
The wall is brick, defaced, and vague. You circle the Hellmouth for a while, jumping and grabbing and cutting yourself open.
[[You don't make it.]]
So you buy a ladder, from Home Depot, and shoplift some candles for old times sake. They smell of sea breeze, and you know the angel has never smelt that before, so you're pleased.
Since you're in town anyways, you pick up more things: a silver necklace shaped like a moon, a pack of playing cards that you quite fancy, a new sweatshirt, and a new, indigo knife.
On the drive back, you imagine some more about your reunion. He's not your friend, and you haven't spoken in years, but it's not like he can leave. He'll remember you. He'll ask how you've been, and he might say 'Sorry To Hear That' if you're honest with him.
You'll feed him [[your memories]] of light.
You lean your ladder and climb up the roof, failing twice before you make it to the steeple. The window has been patched, somehow, with new chicken-wire and wood-mesh. Your new knife is of use, again, and you slowly saw.
The hole is wider than before; you are bigger.
You see darkness down the hole, cough up on dust from within. You have no lights on you, no lighters or sparklers. It slipped your mind amidst your dreams.
You hold your breath, and [[jump for it.]]
You never exhale.
#=END=
##"You Need To Help Me,"
He makes his case,
##"When I Am Strong Again, I Can Heal You. I Can Help You. But Do Not Waste A Soul On Something Without Value."
He is smaller now than he has ever been, nearly your height, prayer-bells in his eyes. His curly nonexistent hair bobs when he shakes it, as if to command you, [['No No No'.|will gobble it up.]]
He told you to do this. Told you to meet him here, to feed him color and help him escape. He is not of the Crows but can speak through them, and you have long heard his whimpers echo through their caws- like a tug, like a soft grip around your heartstrings.
His song and his scream are one, and they've latched themselves around your heart. He needs you, and you need to feel special.
You climb out of the Hellmouth, and with one hand you bring your friend [[out]] with you.
The Murder beckones, but though they heed to his words he does not control them. Their cankerous caws grow as he faces the sun for the first time, again.
You are holding his hand, and it is hot, first warm in the dark but now, as he bathes in the cloud-covered July sun, he grows hotter and hotter still until you think your skin might [[burn.]]
Reflexivly, you let go. You don't want to, though, and already you feel far from him as you watch him [[climb down from the roof.]]
You used to eat hot food too fast so that your mouth would blister and peel, and you'd drag your bitten nails across the white skin, freeing it and swallowing it.
It was a good sensation though, skin or not. You did it on accident at first, but then you did it because you needed to. Did it because it made the rest of the hours feel better, feel special.
It does not hurt to drag your tongue against a gentle burn.
[[♠♠♠|out]]
A <i>boom</i> tumbles through the forest like an out of season gunshot. Almost in response, you're suddenly aware of cricket-song: up, down, they twitch their dissonance like the erratic heartbeat of a captive bird.
#"It's seventy-one degrees out,"
Your friend remarks. He always knows the perfect thing to say.
#"Quite hot."
You nod, a little. It's not once, but it's not any number really- up, down, you shake a little, not sure how to [[speak.]]
You don't know what to say. You've never been good at that, it's why you have him: why he came to you, why you liked him. He Was Birds, and you were alone to hear that song.
The woods are steep with trees and other such miscreants. The cricket-song is unable to build, but it feels like it's getting louder anyway, just to spite you.
You should say something:
[["Yeah."|no wait]]
[["Wow, Maybe We Should Go Swimming?"|no wait]]
[["Want To Head To Town, Then?"|no wait]]
You <i>should</i> say something, but you don't.
You are out of the woods, the river-brooks flow overpowering anything else. Here, where your feet sink into the mud, is the old graveyard.
You wonder if your friend knew any of them. You're not sure why you assume this, as he has always been in The Church, but it seems like the right sort of assumption to make about an angel.
He stoops down to read one of them, traces the lettering. You catch up and [[look over his shoulder:]]
The grave is worn, and you can't read it. There is nothing to read, in fact, just moss on an ugly, bent stone near a fallen pine tree. There is nothing interesting about this graveyard, nothing historic. It is a field.
The crickets are taunting you to say something, think something, but you finally find respite [[out from the forest.]]
Your friend lingers on the barrier for a moment, falling behind as you stride into the blazing sun, the heat pin-prickling your skin. Then he joins you, and you stand.
There is an interstate by the river. The Retreat is up the road, and The Retreat Meadow sits beside it. Cars pass. Some weird building, maybe a motel, isn't far from you. The dusty summer air passes you in bubbles, pushed along by each speeding pick-up truck.
A black fly lands on your skin. It might've drowned in your sweat if you hadn't swatted it [[dead]] first.
Your friend is free. You have made him so. And now it is summer, and you don't know where you're going, or where he will end up. All you know for certain is that he'll be gone soon, that he's not going to bother with you longer than he needs to.
That tonight are the fireworks, and tomorrow the birds will be quiet again, like they used to be, before you turned [[10.]]
[["Hey. Where do you want to go?"]]
You ask, and you're [[not whispering]], you're just speaking.
You were small back then and the birds said things to you and whenever it was recess you'd run to the chainlink corner of the yard and watch them hop about. And tip-tip-tip they'd preen proudly and prepare you for this:
You were young and then you grew, and you always wanted them to come with you. To sit on your shoulders during the summer parades, to rap on your window during school. To make it more obvious to the others that <i>you</i> were the special one, that you were the loved.
You always wanted, but you didn't get.
[[♠♠♠|dead]]
###"Where are we?"
he says, looking up the road, already walking toward The Retreat.
###"What time is it?"
It's nice of him to keep his voice down. You follow, doggedly, your palms curled into fists, marching a steady step-step against the gravel dirt. You don't know how to move your hips, and that's what you think about. Where does each foot go? Is it normal to be broad stepped, or thin stepped?
Your friend just walks, and you don't know if it's thin or broad or tight or strong, it's just walking. You don't know how to [[just walk.]]
Angels talks as they do because everyone word is Important. Every Word Is Capital, And Sacred, And Something Others Would Perchance Enjoy To Hear.
When you dream you are like them and when you speak in public you pretend you are, you Polish Your Words as best you can. You hoped the angel appreciated it, you hope your friend thought you awfully cool-
but the ruse can only last so long. you do not speak like that. you are not an angel(if: $an_angel is true)[*].
[[♠♠♠|dead]]
(if: $an_angel is true)[*^^'But you are angel!' You might be crying. Well, huh. You might be. You think you are because you are one, right? Funny thing is, you might be an angel, but you were born without wings, you were clipped and you were sold halfprice by a shady dealer into a shitty life. You may have been born divine, born to Speak Like A Good Person, but you are not. Sorry, but you are not.^^]
You know, you could do something.
really, buddy- you could do something! you could say something! you could stop him from leaving if you play it right, or maybe get him to love you. maybe if you do something extreme he'll even affirm that he ever liked you, tell you he needed you, thank you for coming. buy him more candles or something or flowers? or soap? does he like soap, has he ever bathed or maybe he's had enough of that, the thing about angels is that they don't really have interests or hobbies or likes they just exist and that makes gift giving a real pain in the ass but also hey wait angels aren't real magic isnt real hes just a Boy [male] u like and you should say smething or tel him orr uh
[[Ummm]]
Wait a second. Okay, Yeah, Wait A Second.
You swallow, and the spit in your mouth doesn't seem to go anywhere, it just rubs against your parched inner-skin like cottonballs on an open wound, but you think you've just remembered something:
You've lived before. You've done things before, in fact- you've spoken at various points in your life, you've been capable or walking, and expressing yourself, and you can actually do this.
Say:
[["Want to go swimming?"]]
[["We should get coffee!"]]
[["There's a good candle store not far from here."]]
The brisk summer breeze seems to itch the inside of your ears like a wet Q-tip, soothing you in ways you didn't know you could be soothed. You're out of the woods and walking along the interstate, along the river. The Retreat, where you used to go some years ago, owns this whole plot of land. You could dip anywhere, but you are a beast of old habits, and you stagger down the road to the one spot you like to swim.
[["I've Never Been In Water,"]] Your friend says [[quietly.]]
You can't see the river, really, from where you walk, but you can hear it.
dating sim? three-5 endings, star rating?
main path. dating sim on side, continues story until night along this path.
weirdo weird stuff yankee candle
(if: $jerk is true)[YEAH. I FEEL YOU MAN. GOD. WHAT IDIOTS.]
Q: ARE YOUR EARS PIERCED
1: [[YES|DICKS8]] (click: "YES")[(set: $angel = $angel +2), (set: $human = $human +1)]
2: [[NO|DICKS8]] (click: "NO")[(set: $demon = $demon + 2), (set: $angel = $angel +1)]
3: [[MAYBE ;)|DICKS8]] (click: "MAYBE ;)")[(set: $human = $human + 2), (set: $demon = $demon +1)]
4: [[THIS IS A TRUE/FALSE QUESTION HOW DID IT GET INTO A FOUR QUESTION QUIZ|DICKS8]] (click: "THIS IS A TRUE/FALSE QUESTION HOW DID IT GET INTO A FOUR QUESTION QUIZ")[(set: $killjoy = $killjoy + 1)]
Q: HOW MANY TIMES HAVE YOUR BROKEN YOUR BONES
1: [[I AM A DANGEROUS FUCK WHO LIKES HEARING MY SKELETON (OCCASIONALLY) GO 'SNIP SNAP CRACK'|DICKS9]] (click: "I AM A DANGEROUS FUCK WHO LIKES HEARING MY SKELETON (OCCASIONALLY) GO 'SNIP SNAP CRACK'")[(set: $human = $human +2), (set: $demon = $demon +1)]
2: [[MY WHOLE SKELETON IS IN PHASE TWO OF RECONSTRUCTION|DICKS9]] (click: "MY WHOLE SKELETON IS IN PHASE TWO OF RECONSTRUCTION")[(set: $demon = $demon + 2), (set: $angel = $angel +1)]
3: [[I HAVE BROKEN EVEN MY EARS, EVEN MY SKIN, I AM A CONSTANT DISASTER, THE HINDENBERG REBORN IN A TOMB OF FLESH, AND SOON YET I WILL BURN|DICKS9]] (click: "I HAVE BROKEN EVEN MY EARS, EVEN MY SKIN, I AM A CONSTANT DISASTER, THE HINDENBERG REBORN IN A TOMB OF FLESH, AND SOON YET I WILL BURN")[(set: $angel = $angel + 2), (set: $human = $human +1)]
4: [[ZERO TO TWO|DICKS9]] (click: "ZERO TO TWO")[(set: $killjoy = $killjoy + 1)]
Q: WHAT IS THE STRANGEST PLACE YOU'VE EVER BEEN
1: [[THE SNOW-LIGHT OF JANUARY 20TH, AT 10.53PM AS THE BLIZZARD RUNS IN, THERE I STROOD IN THE PINK MOON FALL UNTIL I CAME TO STAND AT PRICE CHOPPER'S STEP. THERE WAS ONE EMPLOYEE IN THE WORLD THAT EVENING, AND WE DID NOT SPEAK, BUT YES; WE DID CONVERSE|DICKS10]] (click: "THE SNOW-LIGHT OF JANUARY 20TH, AT 10.53PM AS THE BLIZZARD RUNS IN, THERE I STROOD IN THE PINK MOON FALL UNTIL I CAME TO STAND AT PRICE CHOPPER'S STEP. THERE WAS ONE EMPLOYEE IN THE WORLD THAT EVENING, AND WE DID NOT SPEAK, BUT YES; WE DID CONVERSE")[(set: $angel = $angel +2), (set: $demon = $demon +2)]
2: [[AND WITH A FLICKER THE BANGS OF THE THUNDERSTORM BECAME LOUDER STILL, DRONING ON THE ROOFTOPS AS EACH LAMP FAILED, AND THE STORE WAS BATHED IN DARK, THE ICE MELTING, THE LINES LINGERING|DICKS10]] (click: "AND WITH A FLICKER THE BANGS OF THE THUNDERSTORM BECAME LOUDER STILL, DRONING ON THE ROOFTOPS AS EACH LAMP FAILED, AND THE STORE WAS BATHED IN DARK, THE ICE MELTING, THE LINES LINGERING")[(set: $human = $human + 2), (set: $angel = $angel +1)]
3: [[AT NIGHT AS I WALK THE STREETLAMPS BOW BEFORE ME, FLASHING THEIR SICK-GLOW IN THE HOSPITAL PARKING LOT, AND I LIKE TO THINK THERE'S NO BETTER PLACE THAN TO BE GRAVELY INJURED THAN THE WELCOME MAT OF THAT GREEN-SMELLING PLACE|DICKS10]] (click: "AT NIGHT AS I WALK THE STREETLAMPS BOW BEFORE ME, FLASHING THEIR SICK-GLOW IN THE HOSPITAL PARKING LOT, AND I LIKE TO THINK THERE'S NO BETTER PLACE THAN TO BE GRAVELY INJURED THAN THE WELCOME MAT OF THAT GREEN-SMELLING PLACE")[(set: $demon = $demon + 2), (set: $human = $human +1)]
4: [[ANY HOME DEPOT|DICKS10]] (click: "ANY HOME DEPOT")[(set: $killjoy = $killjoy + 1)]
Q: HOGWARTS HOUSE
1: [[GRYFFINDOR|DICKS11]] (click: "GRYFFINDOR")[(set: $demon = $demon +1)]
2: [[HUFFLEPUFF|DICKS11]] (click: "HUFFLEPUFF")[(set: $human = $human + 2)]
3: [[RAVENCLAW|DICKS11]] (click: "RAVENCLAW")[(set: $angel = $angel + 1), (set: $demon = $demon +1)]
4: [[SLYTHERIN|DICKS11]] (click: "SLYTHERIN")[(set: $angel = $angel + 2)]
5: [[I DON'T REALLY GET THIS OBSESSION WITH HARRY POTTER AND THE HOUSE SYSTEM, WHICH SEEMS TO JUST CLASSIFY PEOPLE ON VERY BROAD STEREOTYPES (ONE OF WHICH APPEARS TO SIMPLY BE 'EVIL'). WHAT DOES IT MATTER OR MEAN, ANYWAY? ALL IT DOES IS SELL MERCHANDISE|LISTEN BUDDY]] (click: "I DON'T REALLY GET THIS OBSESSION WITH HARRY POTTER AND THE HOUSE SYSTEM, WHICH SEEMS TO JUST CLASSIFY PEOPLE ON VERY BROAD STEREOTYPES (ONE OF WHICH APPEARS TO SIMPLY BE 'EVIL'). WHAT DOES IT MATTER OR MEAN, ANYWAY? ALL IT DOES IS SELL MERCHANDISE")[(set: $killjoy = $killjoy + 1)]
Q: ULTIMATE BOP
1: [[MR. BRIGHTSIDE- THE KILLERS|DICKS6E]] (click: "MR. BRIGHTSIDE- THE KILLERS")[(set: $human = $human +2), (set: $angel = $angel +1)]
2: [[CAN'T TAKE MY EYES OFF YOU- BOYS TOWN GANG|DICKS6E]] (click: "CAN'T TAKE MY EYES OFF YOU- BOYS TOWN GANG")[(set: $angel = $angel + 2), (set: $demon = $demon +1)]
3: [[BUSY EARNIN'- JUNGLE|DICKS6E]] (click: "BUSY EARNIN'- JUNGLE")[(set: $demon = $demon + 2), (set: $human = $human +1)]
4: [[WORKING FOR THE COMPANY- WILLY MOON|DICKS6E]] (click: "WORKING FOR THE COMPANY- WILLY MOON")[(set: $demon = $demon + 2), (set: $human = $human +1)]
5: [[DOWN UNDER- MEN AT WORK|DICKS6E]] (click: "DOWN UNDER- MEN AT WORK")[(set: $human = $human + 2), (set: $angel = $angel +1)]
5: [[SAN FRANCISCO- THE MOWGLI'S|DICKS6E]] (click: "SAN FRANCISCO- THE MOWGLI'S")[(set: $demon = $demon + 2), (set: $angel = $angel +1)]
6: [[DREAM A DREAM- CAPTAIN JACK|DICKS6E]] (click: "DREAM A DREAM- CAPTAIN JACK")[(set: $angel = $angel + 2), (set: $demon = $demon +1)]
7: [[AFRICA- TOTO|DICKS6E]] (click: "AFRICA- TOTO")[(set: $human = $human + 2), (set: $demon = $demon +1)]
8: [[NONE OF THE ABOVE, I GUESS?|DICKS6E]] (click: "NONE OF THE ABOVE, I GUESS?")[(set: $human = $human + 2)]
9: [[YOUR SUGGESTIONS SUCK|DICKS6O]] (click: "YOUR SUGGESTIONS SUCK")[(set: $killjoy = $killjoy + 2)]
Hey buddy, I get it, no need to be such a dick.
Here, you know what might help? Think of it based on morality instead of just 'brave/smart/loyal/cunning(/evil)'
Gryffindors are about the greater good. They are chaotic good, really, willing or wanting to stand up for any moral injustices they face. Fairness and objectivity are key! And it's brave to want to protect everyone, and they are bound to stand strong on a cause or ideal that matters to them. They dream of changing the system to most benefit everyone, or else their ideals, rather than what supports them specifically.
Hufflepuffs are good, but more acknowledging of the difficulties of the system. They believe in good things, often, but are more keen about holding onto what they can rather than standing up and changing things. They wish everyone could simply be honest, nice, and loyal, and may be more dreamers in that regard. They may be loyal to loved ones, but they may prioritize ideas at times.
Slytherins are lawful, but perhaps neutral. While they may wish to stand up for injustice, or change the system, they more openly acknowledge their own powerless- or else seek to rise in power so that they may have control. Their loyality is ultimately to whatever they value most- loved ones over a cause. They may not care about things that don't affect them, even if they are bad- simply because realistically there is little they can do to change it.
Ravenclaws are the least morally charged. They are strong on intelligence and creativity, and do not quite care for morality in anything more than a situational sense. If something strikes them as wrong, they may do something, but otherwise may be too involved in other pursuits to notice. Ravenclaws often have a strong passion or interest they are devoted to rather than just being booksmart.
In short:
Gryffindor: It is important to do what is right and stand up for it, and I will do all I can to speak up/act out/express my thoughts
Hufflepuff: It would be best if everything was good but I am not sure what to think, and will stay with what I know
Slytherin: There are bad things, and what matters most is to protect what affects me more than worry about everyone else, and I will seek a path to ensure my own/my loved ones safety over the greater good
Ravenclaw: What matters most are facts, knowledge, and my own pursuits- whether they are good or bad, and I will continue to live my life as is rather than take any specific stance
[[Neat]]
[[Why did you try to make me read this]]
Cool! You're ready!
Q: HOGWARTS HOUSE
1: [[GRYFFINDOR|DICKS11]] (click: "GRYFFINDOR")[(set: $demon = $demon +2)]
2: [[HUFFLEPUFF|DICKS11]] (click: "HUFFLEPUFF")[(set: $human = $human + 2)]
3: [[RAVENCLAW|DICKS11]] (click: "RAVENCLAW")[(set: $angel = $angel + 1), (set: $demon = $demon +1)]
4: [[SLYTHERIN|DICKS11]] (click: "SLYTHERIN")[(set: $angel = $angel + 2)]
Well aren't you just a barrel of fun.
Whatever, man. I get it, I suppose.[[Let's just move on.|DICKS11]](click:"Let's just move on.")[(set: $killjoy = $killjoy +1)]
Q:
#HELL YEAH!!!! WHAT A JAM
1: [[YEAH!!!!|DICKS6]]
2: [[BOI!!!!|DICKS6]]
3: [[I KNOW!!!!|DICKS6]]
4: [[WOW!!!!|DICKS6]]
[[Well, no need to be so rude about it.|DICKS6]]
(set: $killjoy = $killjoy +1)
You are walking up the road, in places people do not usually tread. On the left is a farm, then forest, then a house, then more woods. You are single-file wihtin the thin white barrier between the guardrail and road, trying not to cough at every pickup truck that kicks dust into your face.
Your friend is behind you. You are still thinking about how your hips move with every step, and if he is watching your hips move and thinking how weird they are. There's dirt in the air and sweat under your armpits, and a mosquito lands on your arm.
You slap it a second too late, and smear blood along your skin.
You [[continue]] forward.
You've never heard him whisper before. It's comforting in some way. He is careful, impossible to be meek but for once nearly human.
[[♠♠♠|"Want to go swimming?"]]
The entrance to your swimming hole is hidden by trees, but always indicated by at least one parked car. You've never seen it empty, never been here alone. There's a gap in the gaurdrails and two clear paths down to the riverside.
As you turn to look at your friend again, there's a mosquito between his eyes.
[[Tell him.]]
[[Don't]]
"There's a bug on your face," you say, poiting a little.
He looks up, crossing his eyes, and stares for a moment. "She's not causing me any harm."
[[The mosquito remains.]]
(set: $bug to 1)
You watch it sit there, filling with his blood, a mark on his forehead like someone's drawn a thin black asterisk.
It stays there for quite a while, too long for you to notice it leave. Perhaps his blood tastes better than yours.
[[The mosquito remains.]]
(set: $bug to 2)
Ahead of you, the path forks into two thin, steep paths down the hill. They are well worn from all their years of service, built from stubborn roots and jagged stones. Both lead down to the river, where you can hear children yelling with delight.
Once, many years ago, you found a large, dead turtle on the path here, in the middle of the woods.
[[Take the left path.]]
[[Take the right path.]]
You skid and skip down the snaking hill, clinging onto thin trees to slow your descent. Your friend follows, but you do not hear him speed.
The swimming hole is wide, a hidden bounty off the side of the road. The carsong fades instantly as you step forward, replaced by soft rapids and bird calls. There is a small, sand and pebble beach here, dotted with dogs and boulders. A family is taking up one place, a mother laying back with a book while her daughters play. Another boulder is owned by teenagers, decorated in their towels.
You do not have a towel, anyway.
The time is now to take off your clothes, but it's weird with other people around, weirder [[with your friend.]]
The right path- you stumble towards it, but see another family climbing up.
This is not a dance you are going to tango to.
[[♠|The mosquito remains.]]
Speaking of, he has paused, taking baby steps forward towards the divide in the beach. At a certain point the sand turns to a carpet of rounded river stones, and he walks his barefoot feet across, his hair in the breeze, his fingers into fists.
When he stands in the water, a ways from you, you think to say: "Do you know how to swim?"
Now that you think of it, you don't remember him being barefoot, but there he is, shoeless. Now that you think of it, you don't remember him having skin either, but there it is, burning in the summer sun.
"No," he says, [[standing]].
You pull off your sneakers without bothering to untie them, and throw down your trousers, and toss off your shirt. You are not someone who wears interesting things, and you might even look like you're wearing a swim suit, at least from afar.
The sand is gentle on your skin, each sinking step soft, begging for you to lie down and drown in it. There's a soft bustle to the rustle of the breeze, and the wind slinks around your calves like gentle, paperweight cats.
When you leave the sand, you're also leaving the shade. You step onto the rounded pebble path and immediatly nearly fall. Your toenails hit a rock and feel like they're going to crack from the pain.
[[Your friend, the angel]], is still up to his ankles.
He looks at you when walk up to him, his eyes like yours now, dark and boring. It's a hot day out, but the water is cold, and your leg hair prickles at the sensation.
Across the river is a wide, tall rock where the teenagers like to jump. One is there now; she is climbing up on all fours, and then at the very top, stands with the breeze in her hair. Then she runs and she jumps, while her friends all cheer.
"Come on," you say. "We should jump."
[["I Can't."]]
"We should, though," you say again, because jumping is what you do when you come to the river, and if your friend won't jump, what will he do? When you were younger, you used to take the plunge yourself, never from the very top: it is safe, you know, as you are alive right now.
He should do it. You take a slow, half step into the deeper into the river. He can do it. The water is icy, brisk, like a supermarket freezer on exposed ankles.
He has to do it. If he won't swim, if he can't swim, what are you going to do today?
[[Take your friend's hand, lead him forward.]]
[[Do not take his hand.]]
You grip his hand, feeling his pointed nails dig into your skin. You've never held hands before and it feels like the feeling one gets when holding hands: there is your hand, and there is yours, and they are held together.
You wonder if anyone else is seeing this, and you pull him forward, desperate for the rapids to be your excuse.
He looks at you, you hope, and you are not looking at him: you are feeling his grasp, even when the water makes it cold.
[[So...]]
"Come on," you say. You take a few cold, gentle steps deeper into the river. The smooth rocks are slippery, coated in a thin layer of something slippery, and with every step you are at risk of falling. Across the river, another teenager takes the plunge, and to the right a golden retriver is crossing the rapids.
You look back and see your friend is beginning to follow you, cauciously, into the water. He keeps his head at a strange angle, looking right into the sun, and you remember too late he's an angel.
Well, every living thing must need water. Even if he prefers the light.
[[You wade up to your hips.]]
There's the beginning of a current here, weakened by the increasing depth. Your whole body quivers and shivers, but your feet are already used to the sensation. Upriver, it is shallower and rockier, and the currents are fast and hard. When you were younger, you used to play in them, laying on your back and bumping your way downstream, coming home with bruises the colors of the river rocks.
You once drowned down here.
[[Start to swim.]]
Your friend is dog like, adament to keep his head above water, swimming a feeble paddle forward. He drifts with the current like an off-season maple leaf, fallen from the tree line above. The deep end does not cease, but you reach the steep, rocky shore and cling on.
A ways down, your friend crawls onto the shore, holding himself on all fours. He looks like a coyote with mange, dripping wet and heaved over. He suddenly turns to stare at you, and it's like his eyes are coyote-like too.
Maybe you shouldn't have done this.
[["Come on," you say, still adamant.]]
Your friend crawls forward, following you up the rocky face of the cliff. It's an odd place here, in the middle of the woods. As you ascend you can start to hear the highway chimes, but here on the other side of the river it seems a mile away. The stone is hot from the sun, and air prickling your wet skin like a bed of nails.
"I Like It Up Here," your friends says unexpectedly. He has sat down, at the top of the cliff, and gazes down on the water below. "It's Higher Than It Looks."
[["We should jump. Then we can come up here again."]]
[[Sit with him a while.]]
You take the plunge first, looking into his eyes for a moment and wishing for nothing more than for you to have a place in them.
The stone is hard on your feet, you used to have thick callusses, used to be proud at the pain you felt every summer, the little rocks making you stronger, but you've grown soft, you've shaved them down, and now a particularly soft one has caught your heel and made it bleed.
You step forward, dragging blood across the hot grey stones, looking down on the river below. The rapids that feed and then burrow, the lost teenagers and children below.
Your foot hurts. Another loose, sharp stone; or not, a shard of glass. A small piece of green from a beer bottle, the scent marker of the cooler kids.
Your foot hurts.
[[Jump]]
[[Fall]]
You learn to bask with him. He used to eat sparks, desire the sunlight, but you still think that out in the real world he has become something strange. Something flesh-like, something human: you have gazed upon him from so long from the beaks of birds and the darkness of dreams that the small, tired angel before you lacks divinity in comparison.
Your skin bristles and dries. Nearby, the teenagers continue their cycle: climb, leap, cheer, climb.
"Do you want to go somewhere else next?" You say, watching him watch you. "Sorry. You don't really like swimming, do you."
[["It's okay. It's something, I guess,"]] he says.
"There's not much else to do in town anyway."
"Yeah. We could go bowling maybe."
"I'm a bit tired."
"Me too."
"I don't really want to get in the water again."
"We need our clothes."
"Yeah."
"Do you want to jump?"
"No."
"I guess I won't either. I'm always afraid of hitting the rocks."
"Yeah."
[[Yeah.]]
So you get climb down the rocks and you swim back to the shore, and you're soaking wet, which sucks. You don't have a towel, so you stand in the hot sand and drip dry until eventually you get bored of waiting and get dressed anyway.
You climb up the little path, the right side this time for variety's sake, and begin your journey back across the pavement. Your shoes feel like they might boil, and by the time you're at The Retreat's border, you are dry besides sweat.
You say goodbye to your friend, and head back [[home]].
Til next time, maybe, but you're both very busy, and your friend's leaving soon, maybe so soon you won't have a chance to hang again, but that's cool. You'll keep in touch.
It happens.
Yeah.
#=END=
You leap, and in the air you don't feel anything: your foot is bleeding, but in the air there is no blood. Your mouth is dry, but the sun is not hot above the river banks, and you are not a person in the few seconds before you hit the cold, hard water below.
Water rushes into ever concave you own, squeezing your skin, and here is another feeling: in the water, you feel everything. The rocks at the bottom of the riverbed, round and hard, the way the cut on your foot cries when the sand presses against it. In the water, you are cold, the rapids like a three, five, but no more than seven slippery lampreys against your shoulders.
And you push, and you surface, and you are in [[between]] worlds again.
You turn on your unhurt heel so you can see your friend, his eyes closed in the light, his lips slightly parted like a recently fed venus fly trap. Your back is at an angle, and you are a skin boomerang into the water, wondering if he heard your splash and knew something was wrong.
Into the darkness, but you do not drown, and when he's gone, and when you're nearly gone yourself, you realize something:
You are alone when it happens, as you have been lately. And you're not lonely, but you're drinking on your own, and you finally realize: it's not that good, and it stopped being fun a while ago, but you keep buying that wine because you want someone to notice the bottles, piling up.
#=END
And you climb, and you dig, and you watch, and you wait: your friend doesn't want to jump for a long time, but you do, you feel that purgatory inbetween more than you feel your heartbeat these days.
And leap, and fall, you are caught in the air and under the water, one after the other, never wanting to stop.
But you do, when he finally joins you, when his warm skin finally gets wet and the hot summer day no longer seems quite so fun.
#=END=
...You cross the river. When the water becomes too deep to walk, you paddle slowly, the rapids sending you drifting. Your bra is wet, it's not really a swimsuit so it probably looks weird, but then again, his is too.
You step up to the rocks on the other side, eyeing the teenagers up above with wary eyes. Teenagers are never good, and they have a solid foothold on the jumping rocks.
[[So maybe you won't jump?]]
You brought him here to jump, but the other kids scare you. They are twelve, thirteen- younger than you, but surely full of bloodlust, and you hide in the shadows of the jumping rocks. There's a large, smooth stone near here, and below the water there's a steep slide into the river depths. A small tidepool of sand and pretty stones is where you rest your feet.
You are no longer holding hands.
"They'll probably leave at some point," you say, "you know, I don't want to deal with tweens."
[[He's quiet.]]
"Do you like, like me?"
"Like-like? What are we, ten?" (nervous chuckle, scary laughter, frightened guffaw, etc)
"I don't know man."
"No. No, I don't. I'm not even into Men." (You are not into Men)
"Oh. I mean, it's okay."
"Yeah? But no, I don't. You're my friend." (He is your friend!)
"Yeah, I just thought-"
[["No."]] (No.)
No.
Why would he bring that up now? So that's what you're thinking, does he like you, does he like girls like you, does he like beings who look like you, who act like you, who drag him across rivers and don't even make him jump-
(like you)
Oh, well. You'll wait in the tides then, that cord solved. He'll leave you eventually anyways, and you'll leave him, and you'll date someone someday (you're not even that old, and plenty of people don't date til later, so that's okay)
Yeah. It's okay!
[[You are okay.]]
Yeah.
Huh.
Across the river bank are families, a weird old man with chest hair and sunglasses bathes in the sun, and kids run on the half beach, and one time you almost drowned here.
You tell it to the angel: "one time when I was little I was swimming here and I got caught up in the currents and I almost drowned, I was coughing in the water and couldn't keep up, I was drifting away from the beach and I lost one of my plastic clogs. And a man grabbed me and took me to shore."
"but I nearly died."
#=END=