tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7149705546129297822024-02-21T09:48:56.966-06:00The RefugeesPeter Barlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16946677927091566959noreply@blogger.comBlogger49125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-714970554612929782.post-12350050631685715742012-05-18T19:37:00.001-05:002012-05-18T19:37:21.231-05:00We're starting again on a new blogThis...isn't us anymore. This was for the seven of us.<br />
<br />
We're starting over. If you're in, come follow us again:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://intheabsenceoftruth.blogspot.co.uk/">http://intheabsenceoftruth.blogspot.co.uk/</a>Peter Barlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16946677927091566959noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-714970554612929782.post-58993543865245458122011-12-29T12:56:00.001-06:002011-12-29T12:56:00.704-06:00The Truth<div>I remember the masks most vividly.</div><div><br />
</div><div>We got into the town centre at about 7:15pm. The streets were fuller than I've ever seen them. Packed. "The Better Angels Of Our Nature" has been at knocking around the Times Bestsellers' list for months now. Marcus Stonehall has been on a whole bunch of tv shows. And this event had been VERY well-publicised, in spite - or perhaps even because - of Stonehall decrying the event as glamourising a murderous religious cult who killed his cousin. There were estimates of about fifteen hundred people there from out of town, and the locals had stepped up to the challenge. Every shop and restaurant was packed, every hotel book up months in advance. Our hotel is suddenly full, after two months of being "busy...for Kansas City". </div><div><br />
</div><div>I was walking around with Peter. If it went well, it was a date. If not, it was just going in with a friend. For a while, it was going well. We hung out, we even went around with</div><div><br />
</div><div>I keep needing to tell myself to keep going. Keep going. Keep going.</div><div><br />
</div><div>with Rachel and her girlfriend Fiona at one point, before Fiona's shift started. </div><div><br />
</div><div>And then, at 11:00pm, the parade began.</div><div><br />
</div><div>And all that discomfort I'd had around those masks since the beginning all welled up and overcame me as the masks and the lights came on and I felt sick, sick to my stomace. Post-traumatic stress disorder, I thought. I'm amazed we don't all have it. Like masked heads being cracked apart by heavy lead pipes, or stomped to mush. The next thing I knew Peter was supporting me, pulling me into a side road. "Christ, you're in a bad way," he murmured, as he placed me on a bench and sat down beside me. "I felt it too." I leaned over and rested my head on his shoulder. We sat there for a while, him stroking my hair, me just staring off into nothing, trying to block out the panic. The music was loud and we could see the lights and the crowds from here.</div><div><br />
</div><div>By the time we got up, the parade had gone, moved up the road to a clearing outside of the town where there'd be some gift-shop-pagan bonfire, up by some big old dead tree. We couldn't see them from where we were, so we walked up to where they were. It was a little past midnight, and the festivities had already started. The crowd was huge, and it took me a while to spot, on my left, Rachel, looking small without Fiona. They'd grown close quickly, and she was happier than I'd seen hers since - well, ever since I wasn't around for her anymore. On my right, Roland and Shannon...arm in arm. Huh. Really should have picked up on that happening.</div><div><br />
</div><div>In front of the roaring fire, on a high wooden stage, the Mayor was decked out in lavish robes as he intoned a speech about the history of the town, and of the Church of Faceless Angels. It was melodramatic and overwrought and the crowd ate it up. They gasped and laughed at all the right times, and a strange sense of vague, unseated discomfort settled. The mayor, for what it's worth, was an exceptional public speaker - he really sold it.</div><div><br />
</div><div>And then people in the crowd started pointing.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Behind the stage, around the old, dead tree, people in their medication hoods started to gather. </div><div><br />
</div><div>More and more.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Surrounding the entire crowd.</div><div><br />
</div><div>And suddenly I felt sick, even sicker than I had before. My eyes scanned around and took in every detail faster than I could process the whole thing and suddenly, forcefully, I realised that, clad in these "meditation hoods", I was staring at</div><div><br />
</div><div>Keep going. Keep going.</div><div><br />
</div><div>These masks were proxy masks.</div><div><br />
</div><div>And we realised that, in the light of the bonfire, that we're surrounded by proxies.</div><div><br />
</div><div>And, standing in the shadow of the tree, a tall, pale, bald figure in a suit, his arms open wide, as if to embrace us.</div><div><br />
</div><div>White-hot pain coursed through my head.</div><div><br />
</div><div>The next thing I knew, I'd grabbed Peter's hand and was pushing through the crowd to where Roland and Shannon were standing. They were much deeper into the crowd, but the tourists were confused by the display and didn't fight us. </div><div><br />
</div><div>A shot rang out.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Screaming from the crowd. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Roland's hand grasping my arm , pulling me towards him.</div><div><br />
</div><div>The next thing I know, more gunshots. Roland and Shannon had pulled their guns from their waistbands and fired. I momentarily go deaf, sound blocked out by the KRAK of gunfire.</div><div>Two proxies go down. More draw knives and crude weapons. Some even draw guns and return fire, their bullets lost somewhere in the mass of tourists.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Rachel's next to me. More proxies fall. We still have the advantage of human shields. Suddenly a gap forms.</div><div><br />
</div><div>We run. Months of running have made our muscles taut and powerful, and we're out of there, back in the deserted park before we even know it.</div><div><br />
</div><div>He was there.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Suddenly, at the end of the road, a woman. Probably in her mid twenties. Blue patterns on her mask, in the shape of flowers. A proxy. Roland raises his gun.</div><div><br />
</div><div>A scream of "NO!" </div><div><br />
</div><div>He hesitates.</div><div><br />
</div><div>There's a KRAK and Rachel goes limp next to me. Roland fires back and the figure is gone. More appear, firing. Shannon grabs Rachel. We run. Gunshots echo around us. They're civilians, not crack shots, but they're entirely willing to kill. We round a corner and Roland fires back. He IS a crack shot. He's willing to kill.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Rachel's bleeding. She's bleeding too much.</div><div><br />
</div><div>She murmurs "Fiona..." and then she's silent.</div><div><br />
</div><div>There's a splintering sound behind me as Roland breaks a door down. We move inside. Shannon settles Rachel in a corner, and rifles through her bag for her first aid kit. She's sobbing. I'm sobbing. We're all sobbing, we're aching</div><div><br />
</div><div>Keep going. Keep going.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Rachel was already lost. I reach into Peter's bag and pull out our guns. My hands are shaking so much that I almost can't hold the zipper. Roland pokes his head out of the doorway. No gunshots. </div><div>He steps outside. "They're...they're walking. They're all walking into the town hall."</div><div><br />
</div><div>And the next thing I know, he and Shannon are walking outside. Peter too. They ignore me as I ask where they're going. They don't even look at Rachel.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I see what they mean. A crowd of people, numbering in the hundreds all in those masks, are filing into the town hall. Townsfolk and tourists alike. We follow them, but they don't even notice us. That, or don't care that we're there. Eventually the stream of people thins.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Suddenly we see a glimpse of a skinny young man in a mask. A familiar young man, in familiar clothes, and a mask. He's too skinny. No muscle on him. No stamina.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Stephen.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Roland charges for him. Shannon screams for him to wait, but he doesn't listen. How is he even here, from England? He just disappeared. I'm reminded of something Stephen mentioned once, that Proxies have a special way to get from place to place</div><div><br />
</div><div>Roland sprints through the door, Shannon and Peter after them. I'm where I was crouching before still, watching them disappear into the distance.</div><div><br />
</div><div>No. I can't leave them. I run up to the door.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I didn't see the smoke until I was through the door. </div><div><br />
</div><div>The proxies are writing in great piles of bodies, still living, as the room begins to catch light. They are muttering and singing and praising the "Faceless one". </div><div><br />
</div><div>We wondered why this place was safe from the Slender Man. It never was. This was simply a settlement at such an advanced stage of Slender Man establishment we didn't know what we were looking at.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Suddenly, in a room to my left, screaming. I burst through the doors. Instantly, pain. Enough to almost bring me to my knees. He's there, and so is Stephen. Peter is on the floor, doubled over, at His feet. Peter's arm is...warped. It's long, too long, and limp, a mass of muscle and blood and torn skin and jutting bone. The others we've seen him do this too have been clean, but for Peter, he's really being cruel. I raise my gun and fire, without thinking.</div><div><br />
</div><div>The proxy that I'm sure is Stephen falls. I feel His gaze shift to me. I sprint forward and grab Peter around his waist, before pulling him towards the door I came from. The pain in my head is so harsh I want to scream or cry but I don't have time. Peter isn't moving.</div><div><br />
</div><div>When the pain in my head clears, we're in Roland's car. Peter had the key. He murmured that Roland gave it to him before he lost consciousness.</div><div><br />
</div><div>*******</div><div><br />
</div><div>So that's it, folks. We've been driving and we've been surviving. Our friends are dead. We're shaken and wounded and terrified. We've been driven from anything we could call a home, and we're not headed anywhere in particular. New refuges, new places. Anything that keeps us alive.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Because we didn't escape. Not really. We got out of the town, and the sun rose, and nothing's happened since. But there's always another nightfall coming. And you need to be ready, because otherwise, that sun's never coming up again.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Natalie out.</div>Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05947545561959575220noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-714970554612929782.post-63915323341036177532011-12-25T18:52:00.000-06:002011-12-25T18:52:23.436-06:00Peter's breathing has stabilised. I've been disinfecting his wounds as much as possible. Hoping he'll stay stable<br />
<br />
We're in Roland's car. He's laid out in the back, his midsection covered in bandages and his arm...<br />
<br />
...I have no idea what I'm going to do with his arm. He needs a doctor, but we're never staying still enough to risk another hospital scene again.<br />
<br />
I'm never saying still again.<br />
<br />
I'm never trusting anywhere again.<br />
<br />
We spent our Christmas driving. He hasn't woken up.Peter Barlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16946677927091566959noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-714970554612929782.post-88568527909511717452011-12-24T09:17:00.001-06:002011-12-24T09:19:19.132-06:00Still collecting my thoughts. Every fiber of my being wants me to not relive what happened that night.<div><br /></div><div>Here's what the radio said about it, just to prepare you:</div><div><br /></div><div><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">"... In other news, we are getting reports of a massive fire in Avondale, Missouri. It seems that most of the city has been destroyed in the middle of a major parade. No word yet on the origins of the explosion or explosions..."<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">"...more now on the fire in Avondale, we can confirm that the fire is currently being fought, and rescue teams are at the scene from Kansas City, but have been unable to locate any survivors...I'm sorry, that's any bodies...what? David, can be get a check on that?..."<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">"...More information from the Avondale fire, it seems that, in spite of most of the town centre being in flames, including the floats and props for the parade, there's no-one in the town. No bodies, no survivors. If any survivors are listening, please contact emergency services to let us know that you're safe. The number is..."<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">"And once again, more reports of the<span> </span>Avondale fire, and you're going to want to send the children out of the room for this one. After fighting the blaze engulfing the city hall, firefighters have foung the entire building piled high with what looks like the bodies of the townsfolk. Estimates are counting in the hundreds. And...(oh my god)...it appears that their limbs have all been massively stretched. Every single one of them. More details as it unfolds."<o:p></o:p></span></p></div>Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05947545561959575220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-714970554612929782.post-82868858698048251212011-12-23T06:09:00.001-06:002011-12-23T06:10:56.387-06:00It's Natalie.<div><br /></div><div>Everything's gone to shit.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've got Peter with me. I don't know whether he's dead or alive. He could have died since I got him in the car.</div><div><br /></div><div>Update coming soon.</div>Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05947545561959575220noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-714970554612929782.post-16129337096589873002011-12-22T18:43:00.000-06:002011-12-22T18:43:57.204-06:00Parade!The parade's tonight! It all kicks off at midnight. One big public event, all based around an insane murderous cult and the spiritualist crap that's been tied into it. It's bought in plenty of tourists, with tourist money, to the town. The local shopkeepers are salivating. Rachel's...she's her girlfriend, it's pretty obvious...is going to be working pretty much all evening, in that pretty blue-flowered mask that she's been working on. Poor girl.<br />
<br />
I'm going with Natalie. She insisted that I take her, and I wasn't exactly unwilling. In my old life, a girl like her would never even look at me, but she...I dunno, sometimes, I feel like she genuinely likes me. It feels good. Accepting. And I'm hoping I'm past the whole "liking the idea of her, not her" part in that I've seen her covered in blood, we've travelled with one another for months, we've had a fistfight twice, and I'm pretty sure she's seen me pooping. I've always been terrible at telling whether someone likes me - to be honest, for a long time, I had the social ability of a sponge - but she's been fawned over by the prettiest preppy/jock types semi-urban Missouri has to offer, and she still gives me a hell of a vibe.<br />
<br />
I read once that attraction is about demonstration of value. I hope it's not true - it certainly takes the sweetness out of the whole thing - but she's seen me fight for my life and not come out the loser, she's seen me trek all day without having to take a break, and, while I'm still kinda awkward, I'm more confident, assertive...I'm not such a bad specimen. How many Hollister model quarterbacks can run across entire countries in fear for months on end, and survive to tell the tale? I mean, I am entirely aware that this is probably wishful thinking. But maybe, just maybe, this is somewhere I can live. A nice town, an amazing, fun, intelligent, gorgeous girlfriend, maybe some pocket money from Roland until I can get a job...<br />
<br />
Is it possible to have the Slender Man come after you and still, one day, have it all? After running for so long, facing death and terror so many times? Can we still come off okay?<br />
<br />
That was a rhetorical question. PLEASE don't feel the need to answer it.Peter Barlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16946677927091566959noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-714970554612929782.post-89836548825103095752011-12-19T20:07:00.001-06:002011-12-19T20:07:52.942-06:00ConversationsRachel here.<br />
<br />
I had two really weird conversations today. I appreciate that this used to be a fairly standard slenderblog, but that chapter of my life is over, and so fuck it, this is a personal blog now.<br />
<br />
The first one was with Natalie. We were wandering down the main road, where they're setting up for the parade - it's in a few days, on the evening of the 22nd, for the winter solstice. There's banners between the buildings, shops taking in stock. It's a good few days away, but already the hotels are pretty full. Fiona's having to serve to people she doesn't already know for the first time in her life - she gets incredibly nervous. On the night, she'll be working in her mask - she's decorated it by embroidering blue flowers onto it. Maybe it'll help, hiding behind something. She told me she thought so.<br />
<br />
Even without the very good reason to stay here that the five of us have<br />
<br />
Christ, I almost wrote seven there.<br />
<br />
Even without it, I'd stay for Fiona. She looks so incredibly cute when she laughs, and she holds my hand, and it feels so good when she does. Having someone in my life who isn't tied to me by a certain long-limbed necessity for the first time in a while is weird. I told her about the Slender Man incident, but only like some scary story, like an urban legend passed around bonfires deep in the woods. Since then, I've even had a few others try and tell me the story again, and I know Simon and Natalie have too. Word gets around fast here.<br />
<br />
So Natalie and I are walking down the road, looking at the store owners festooning their shops with decorations, and Natalie says "If you could have anywhere else be the one place we're safe, for whatever reason, where would it be?"<br />
<br />
I thought about home. I thought about my family, who I know are still scared for me at home, and about my friends, and I thought about Nona, and whether I could live with being fine while she had died, at home surrounded by my loved ones while hers still mourned. I don't think I could. Here's the only place I've been to in months that has had anything for me. I shook my head, and Natalie smiled.<br />
<br />
"My brother was killed by the Slender Man. My mother started drinking, and hasn't stopped. I don't want to go back there."<br />
<br />
The second was with Shannon. We were talking about the citizenship - Roland's been talking with his guys - and I made a joke about how she was basically the mum of the group. She fell very quiet.<br />
<br />
I asked what was wrong.<br />
<br />
It was never Richard and her who were the original targets.<br />
<br />
A long hospital corridor, and at one side, through a door, a tall, misshapen man standing over a crib, looking down at a new born baby, sound asleep.<br />
<br />
One of the few memories she has of her child. Too much exposure to the Slender Man has damaged her mind enough to get rid of most of them. I've only seen her with the headaches once, but they were worse than any I've ever seen. She's been doing this too long. She's lost more than any of us.<br />
<br />
Still, the festivities are coming up, and we're hoping to get out and about for them.<br />
<br />
Though the masks are still creeping me out. Old habits die hard, I guess.Peter Barlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16946677927091566959noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-714970554612929782.post-23428569881729819842011-12-11T19:34:00.000-06:002011-12-11T19:34:23.604-06:00Sanctuary of a different sortSo we hit up the local baptist church last night. It was the former Church of the Faceless Angels/Derosier residence, although we had to check in books at the library, because no-one seems to remember where it was. Not even people who were members for 20 years. (It's a pattern we've noticed. They remember the church, but they can't relate it to the town as it currently is. We try not to press them on this, for obvious reasons)<br />
<br />
Now, the church is fully operational and regularly used. The Derosier residence is pretty much boarded up. No-one's been in there since Caleb Derosier, the last head of the curch, was arrested back in 1987, following the slenderization of his wife and daughter.<br />
<br />
This said, we read an interesting tidbit in an old journal - that even before that, they'd already boarded up the basement, supposedly where the old, mad Lucas Derosier was locked away.<br />
<br />
Oh come on. We couldn't not break in.<br />
<br />
So we broke in.<br />
<br />
At 3:30, we crept over. It was the night before church, so everyone was in bed early to be up for service. The church is pretty well away from the residential part of town, so we didn't disturb anyone as we went. Most of the old boards had rotted away from the nails holding them in place and we just lifted them off. Just enough to be able to crawl in. We'd pulled out the old maglites for the first time in a couple of months, and they lit up the inside of the old house like floodlights. As Natalie, Shannon, Rachel and I all got through, we looked around. The room still had the family's mess out after almost twenty-five years, like ruins preserved under a magma flow. Old magazines and books, a sturdy mahogany dinner table, a sizable kitchen. This would have been a nice house, at the time, but now everything was grimy and covered in dust. It smelt wet and dank, like old sodden rot. The larder in that kitchen was probably full of the results of twenty five years of decomposition. The family died here. This isn't a home, I told myself.<br />
<br />
My torch found the stairs - one going to the first floor, one going down to the basement. We moved over to it quickly and headed down the stairs, but as I headed down I thought I caught a glimpse of crusted-over brown crimson on the floorboards, illuminated in the torchlight.<br />
<br />
I flash back to that night in the hospital, and all the blood and sickness and horror and death and<br />
<br />
I feel sick to my stomach.<br />
<br />
There's two doors in the basement. One is open, and appears to be a boiler room. The other has great thick planks of wood across the door frame, that once would have barred entry. But, like the boards outside, they had decomposed to the point where they could be pulled off very easily.<br />
<br />
Just a bedroom. Almost entirely bare. An empty wardrobe and chest of drawers. A bed frame with no mattress. The book made him seem like some mad prophet, some wizard. I half expected some massive charm to be scratched out on the floor, but nothing.<br />
<br />
Another dead end.<br />
<br />
What is it that makes this town so different?Peter Barlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16946677927091566959noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-714970554612929782.post-38942948031868729742011-12-08T07:57:00.001-06:002011-12-08T08:07:19.142-06:00SanctuarySo we've decided we're going to try and work out what they did here, in Avondale, that makes it safe. I'll be honest, we want you guys to stay away, as we don't want to fuck with this effect, but think about it. We may be able to find a way to make places safe from him. Plus, we're curious.<br />
<br />
You're welcome.<br />
<br />
Back to the library, I guess. If Buffy taught us one thing, it's that libraries are how you deal with any supernatural threats.Peter Barlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16946677927091566959noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-714970554612929782.post-87706863151557702692011-12-07T14:51:00.002-06:002011-12-07T16:46:59.776-06:00From refugees to asylum seekersA lot happened today.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>We're making decisions about staying here. The simple fact is, as long as we're here, we're safe. Anywhere else leads to us being hunted down by proxies or worse. We need to live here, or we'll die.</div><div><br />
</div><div>For that, we need permanent residence. Our Visas have a good few months on them, but we're all prepared to over-stay if need be. And need will almost certainly be. Permanent Residence takes an incredibly long time to go through by normal channels. Fortunately, we're hoping it'll be quicker for us. You see, the USA accepts 80,000 people a year in the Employment-Based categories 1 and 2. Both place high priority on people who are high up in the business world or have advanced degrees. Shannon has a Master's Degree in mathematics - something we didn't know - and Roland?</div><div><br />
</div><div>Well, we knew he had a military background, possibly even special forces, and that whatever he did, it paid very well. What we didn't know was exactly what. He can fight, he can survive on the run, and despite being more than twice my age, is a hundred times fitter than me. It turns out that he was one of the senior executives in a fairly major private military company. His job was "a desk job, but well paid. I was pushed into it when word was going around that I could be eligible to get moved up into the corporation that owns the company." And while he's on extended grief leave following the death of his wife and son, he's still very much employed there, in a very high-ranking position. And this PMC is currently in a million-dollar contract with the US Government to aid the reconstruction in Iraq.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Will they let five normal people take refuge in their great country? Maybe, maybe not. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Will they let a high-ranking executive in a corporation working for the US Government and his partner and adopted children stay, bringing all their British-earned money with them? Here's hoping.</div><div><br />
</div><div>So Roland's calling in all his favours, he's having people talk to people (Immigration is amalgamated into Homeland Security, and Homeland Security has a pretty high opinion of this PMC), and - hopefully - this can be taken care of pretty soon.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Then we can live here, safe and secure from a danger that's been plaguing us for longer than we can remember.</div>Peter Barlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16946677927091566959noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-714970554612929782.post-79519061864272038362011-11-28T11:07:00.000-06:002011-11-28T11:07:38.333-06:00RootsRachel, again.<br />
<br />
It seems like we're being left alone. I mean, as crazy as that sounds, it seems like we're not being chased anymore. We've been here longer than we've been able to stay anywhere else. We're getting to know the locals, we're growing comfortable in the landscape.<br />
<br />
If it really is safe here, I can sincerely see us living here. Certainly, we've started making friends locally. Natalie's tried hard to integrate the three of us young 'uns with some of the local popular clique - she's pretty, and confident, and she blends in just fine. By comparison, she's had a hard time getting Peter to do anything social. He's awkward, aloof, and apparently uninterested in meeting new people, generally clinging to Natalie. She actually called him out on this at one point, and he backed off, but then as soon as her new friends were gone she started freaking out that he was blanking her. I guess he's not great with social nuance.<br />
<br />
Separately to that, I've made a friend of my own, Fiona. She works at the diner we've been going to quite a bit - trashy food, but tasty - and we've been hanging out on our own. She's very sweet, and she makes me laugh. She's gotten herself a part in the parade on the Winter Solstice event; even though she considers it to be incredibly tasteless, it's paying very well. She's even making one of those meditation hoods, which she's been instructed to wear throughout the festivities. Made from a pillowcase, and deliberately mediocre, it reminded me of something that I couldn't shake the entire time. Sensory deprivation has always weirded me out, but more than that. The rough hole for her mouth seemed incredibly menacing, the lack of eye holes was alienating. And more, it made the rest of her seem oddly surreal, this gaping, predatory mask -<br />
<br />
Okay, I don't know why I'm saying this. It was just a pastel blue pillowcase sown to fit her head. But I can't get rid of this feeling that it was incredibly threatening.<br />
<br />
It wasn't like the assailant at all, but it felt similar.<br />
<br />
I guess that masks are going to have that effect from now on. We've all been through a lot.<br />
<br />
With this in mind, I told her about a story I read once, about a faceless killer and the masked people who served him, a story I heard long before finding out about the Faceless Angels. She was very quiet when I stopped talking.Peter Barlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16946677927091566959noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-714970554612929782.post-60890252385455915872011-11-22T16:37:00.000-06:002011-11-22T16:37:30.775-06:00I think they're rightHe's not showing up. We've been here for ages. We're basically settled down.<br />
<br />
I KNOW it's tempting fate, but this is something that's never happened before. It's extraordinary. Some of us have been running for years, but we've never been left alone like this. It's entirely unlike our experience of this ordeal so far.<br />
<br />
So we're staying. We're all going to apply for VISAs, or we're just going to go off the grid. Integrate ourselves into the town. We're already making friends, adjusting to life around here. The whole cult things is kind of taking a back burner to our attempts to make a new life for ourselves.<br />
<br />
I don't know if it's even neccesary to keep this up, but hey, it's a useful dumping ground.Peter Barlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16946677927091566959noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-714970554612929782.post-47428478673528123532011-11-12T18:41:00.000-06:002011-11-12T18:41:39.741-06:00In A Hotel Room In Kansas City IIRachel here.<br />
<br />
It's been over a week since we got here. We've not been in any once place since I joined for this long, and it only took a few days for signs that someone was following us, or even just the heavy unease of paranoia.<br />
<br />
And here, there's none of that. It's like this whole thing never happened.<br />
<br />
Peter's more paranoid than ever. And since there's nothing for him to be paranoid about, it's just making him more insecure - thus, making him more paranoid. It's a vicious cycle.<br />
<br />
Natalie's amazing. She's being amazing, I mean. She's already getting along with the locals. She's so outgoing and confident and resourceful. Her and Peter have been going off to train with the guns Roland bought for us all a lot, and combat training besides that. They've been inseparable, even though their outlooks on this situation could not be more different. Peter's sure there's something coming around the corner, but Natalie is damn near setting down roots to start a new life here. When she told me that, she looked at Peter. I felt like shit. We were really close just a few weeks ago, but now that we're here, she's getting closer and closer to Peter, and it feels like shit. I just feel really excluded.<br />
<br />
I know that Peter will read this. It's not your fault. I'm just...She wants to spend time with you more than she does with me right now.<br />
<br />
Ugh. I just needed to get that off my chest.<br />
<br />
I'd imagine Peter will be posting about the findings in the library soon. You've got that to look forward to, at least.Peter Barlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16946677927091566959noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-714970554612929782.post-19943279707460286602011-11-03T21:13:00.037-05:002011-11-04T09:24:06.886-05:00In A Hotel Room In Kansas CityUgh. We ate at some diner - big, greasy burgers and fries that take as much of your life as cigarettes. Gloriously unhealthy, but I am so stuffed I'm pretty sure that beef is going to start filling my sinuses. We're all back at the hotel, reading or checking up on their loved ones over Facebook and the like. There's something soothing about getting lost in a TVTropes binge or spending an irreverent few hours on Tumblr.<br />
<br />
That said, almost as unnerving as the presence of our assailant is the absence. We've all spent months, if not years, with the constant paranoia of attack, and yet nothing whets that paranoia's edge like...nothing. We're surrounded by an epicentre of his activity, and yet there's not a trace of the tension in the air. It's like we've been out in a vicious storm, gale-force winds pushing us this way and that, and suddenly the storm subsides and we're no longer moved by some invisible force. It's calm.<br />
<br />
We're prepared to uproot if needs be, but if this is the end...<br />
<br />
Everyone's feeling it. They're mellowing, opening back up. Rachel seems more vivacious, more animated. She'd retreated so far inside herself after all that death that to see her re-emerge...it's good to have her back. Shannon and Roland have gotten easier-going as well, cracking jokes and having a much more carefree attitude about them. Natalie's still coping the best of all of us - I've never seen her so optimistic. Exactly what she thinks has happened to deter the aggressor, she has yet to share, but she seems halfway convinced that, as we are now, we aren't under threat.<br />
<br />
I'm the most restless one of the lot of us. Whenever things get better, they always come back worse than ever. That's what's happened so far. Every day, I practice with my knife a little more. I'm planning on practising with the guns Roland has on order. I don't trust this lull.<br />
<br />
Rule 1. It's never over. There's always another nightfall coming. Always.<br />
<br />
Right?Peter Barlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16946677927091566959noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-714970554612929782.post-85755873109169990022011-11-03T07:07:00.000-05:002011-11-03T07:07:40.579-05:00Avondale: Kinda Not What We ExpectedSo, in the days since we've been here, we've been exploring the town. If anyone asks, we're staff and kids from a UK foster home - nothing invites less questions than parental abandonment. Talking to people, playing the tourist.<br />
<br />
We decided we could be kinda open about the book - it's for sale everywhere here, and has been bringing tourists to town ever since it came out. It turns out, the church disbanded almost 25 years ago, after the Derosier insanity got to the at-the time minister Caleb, who killed his family and later immolated himself in an insane asylum. Everyone north of thirty-five years old has a story to tell. Most books, TV, modern music - anything they felt could bring in the inherently sinful culture of the outside world was banned. Most people couldn't work within the city limits, so they had to go outside, but the general agreement was that no-one under 18 should do so, leading to generations of children who grew up never seeing anything but a fraction of a square mile of Missouri. Church gatherings were held daily, though they were largely social events.<br />
<br />
Most bizarre are the masks. One of Lucas Derosier's adapted mad scribblings was an emphasis on, of all things, sensory deprivation and meditation. Every few days, it was encouraged that everyone place these individually decorated cloth masks over their heads. They were little more than cloth sacks, but the children would scrawl and paint the masks with all kinds of designs, as long as they were minimalist in nature. And they would place them over their heads, and a black inner lining would block out light and muffle sound, and entire families would sit together in their front rooms and get lost in their own meditation. One store-owner showed us a photograph he had of one such family, sitting at the dinner table in their Sunday Bests, their heads covered in white hoods, staring at nothing in particular. <br />
<br />
Marcus Stonehall's accusations that the "angel"'s murders were committed by church members wearing the masks is something that makes the townspeople very angry. While they do blame the Derosiers, or rather the Derosiers' insanity, most are either ex-members of the church or the children of ex-members, and the idea that their loved ones can be implicated in the murders is defamation in their eyes.<br />
<br />
The townspeople have, until recently, viewed their personal connections with the church with some embarrassment - the churches in the area even skew more liberal than the in similar town simply to distance themselves from the extremism of the Faceless Angels. However, in light of the tourism it's bringing in, they're rather warming to it - an imprompteu museum was set up collecting old stuff that most people had lying in the backs of wardrobes and in attics, and most people are aware that talking on the subject will bring in money. They are rather taking liberties though, tying it all into paganism rather than christianity. They're even going so far as to claim that the patterns on the mask were pagan symbols and the like.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, the library was, even before all this, full of documentation about the church. We're gonna go trawl through there, looking for information. We're hoping to stick around for a while. On the 22nd, they're putting on a big tourist drive, getting dressed up and the like. Everyone's making their own sensory deprivation masks, putting on a whole-city event for out-of-towners off work and school for Christmas.<br />
<br />
And it's pretty plausible that we can stick around. It's odd, but since we've been here, we've had complete peace. No sign of any proxies. No sign of him. Bizarre. We're all the more on our guard, after what happened to Steven when we stuck around in one place for a long time. But there's...an odd sense of optimism.Peter Barlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16946677927091566959noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-714970554612929782.post-68518377604976621842011-10-31T17:42:00.000-05:002011-10-31T12:43:21.347-05:00AvondaleWe've arrived. And Avondale is kinda what we expected.<br />
<br />
It is, to be blunt, a hick town. Less that 600 people living here, not too hard-up - a lower-than average number of people below the poverty line - but still strangely stuck in time. Barely five minutes from the comparatively built-up Kansas City, where we'll be staying at first, but at the same time, it has that distinctly middle-of-nowhere feel. In all the cities I've been to, five miles outside the city would still be heavily-populated suburb, what with the British population density and the far less sparsely populated New England towns. We saw these little smatterings of settlements all the way here, but never with any realisation that that's what passes for a city here. The space here in the "flyover states" is unlike anything back home.<br />
<br />
There's a road here called Antioch Road. It's long and stretches up to Gladstone, a much larger suburb, the dividing point of which I am utterly unable to ascertain. It reminds me of a book a friend of mine showed me which talked about an ancient religious sect based around a philosopher called Antiochus, and "The Books Of Terror And Longing." I always wondered whether or not it was real, but in light of what we're here to find out about, this little thought rather springs out at me.<br />
<br />
Even in little details, I find myself wondering about the Church of the Faceless Angels.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Roland and Rachel are feeling much better. Patience and Paracetemol (or acetaminophren, or Tylenol - we spent about a half-hour looking for it before we thought to check if it's sold under a different name here) eventually made the pain go away, as they always do. The tears and thrashing stopped pretty soon after we loaded them into the car (The cars here are bleedin' huge, so luckily they didn't want for space.)<br />
<br />
But everyone's on edge here. The fact that she's one of very few ethnic minorities here is making Shannon very uncomfortable - though you'd assume a black woman with an Irish background would be more accustomed to this kind of ethnic alienation - but I guess that's only to be expected when our knowledge of the American heartland being mostly "It's got racists, fundamentalists and zealous nationalists", even though, to be honest, this isn't that far south.<br />
<br />
We're gonna go exploring tomorrow - right now, we're staying in a pretty nice hotel in Kansas City itself. If something is going down in that town, we want to be at least a little bit away from it.Peter Barlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16946677927091566959noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-714970554612929782.post-48652023310542945152011-10-29T17:09:00.000-05:002011-10-29T17:09:45.286-05:00We just found Roland and Rachel in the other room, screaming and writhing on the floor, clutching their heads. Roland had almost torn his scalp open with his nails.<br />
<br />
The headaches are getting worse. And what's more, he's here. He's close, and he's being much more aggressive.<br />
<br />
We're moving now.Peter Barlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16946677927091566959noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-714970554612929782.post-82184067924172929132011-10-25T17:05:00.001-05:002012-03-18T20:54:59.095-05:00SurvivalismWe're going to Avondale.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>That's the town in Missouri this whole "Faceless Angels" thing started up in. We've just been driving around for the last couple of weeks, from urban settlement to urban settlement. Without a real direction, we've not gone far - we're currently in upstate New York. I will admit, in my ignorance, that I did not know there was a state outside of NYC itself until I was actually in it.</div><div><br />
</div><div>We've been here for just over a month now. It's getting chilly in the northeast regions, but to be honest I doubt we'll get anything better as we head south. Movement patterns the same as back home - travel for a few days, rest for a few days, rinse, repeat - but the scale of this country is so unlike anything we've ever come across that we've spent this whole month having gone to a small portion of the north-east tip of the country. I mean, our entire home country is the size of a modest state - more densely populated, but nowhere near as huge as most of them. It literally stretches from one side of a continent to the other - I can't think of many countries which do the same.</div><div><br />
</div><div>For the first time, we're not just fleeing from something, but going towards a goal; looking for answers in this small town in the middle of a flyover state. Everyone feels like they have a renewed sense of purpose right now. We're not aimlessly wandering anymore.</div><div><br />
</div><div>That's not to say the trauma has faded. The deaths of Stephen and Lianne still aches terribly, and I'm not sure, but...Rachel has what seems like panic attacks at particularly loud percussive noises. Sometimes I think she's zoning out, reliving...something. Post-traumatic stress disorder, I think it's called. I read a book about it once. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Natalie, however, is flourishing, as of late. She really took charge in the period where the shock of the deaths unbalanced Shannon - it was her idea to come to America - and since, she's been incredibly headstrong and assertive. She's been doing her best to keep an eye on Rachel, who seems to prefer her company - I guess having another girl of a similar age about, and such a strong person too, makes her the obvious choice.</div><div><br />
</div><div>In the meantime, Roland and Shannon have retreated inside their roles in the group. They've detatched emotionally from the group a great deal; I know Roland and Lianne were close, and Shannon having two of "her" people die must hurt hugely. I don't blame them for trying to stay aloof. Shannon was always distant - after Richard, I guess - but it's intensified massively. I guess they feel like they can't take another loss like this.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Still, we're all getting by in our own ways. And as is, we are, for the most part, feeling better than we were. That's something.</div><div><br />
</div><div>It'll get better. That's what we need to keep telling ourselves. </div>Peter Barlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16946677927091566959noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-714970554612929782.post-37631485848207741342011-10-24T10:56:00.000-05:002011-10-24T10:56:48.752-05:00The book so farIn 1905, in a small town in Missouri, a man named Lucas Derosier confessed in church that, the night before, an angel came to him in his bedroom. He claimed that it watched over him as he slept - a tall, thin bald man, dressed in clothes of a fine material and cut - and that its blank face "horrified and comforted" him with its unchanging serenity.<br />
<br />
He was considered a lunatic at the time, but three weeks later, a girl in a nearby town, a girl whose family was of Jewish extraction, was found murdered, her corpse in a disturbing state. Witnesses described a man in the vicinity of her house, fitting the description of the "angel" Lucas Derosier described. He began to preach for himself, describing the angel as God's judgement upon humanity, impartial and unchanged by mortal motivations.<br />
<br />
Within two years every other christian denomination in the town was essentially amalgamated into Derosier's new church. They never really tried to expand out from their town, but rather cut it off, discoraging outsiders with their emphasis on moral purity - or rather the moral purity of a group of particularly zealous baptists.<br />
<br />
Then, Lucas Derosier stopped appearing in public. His son, Jason, took over congregations using notes which appeared to have been scribbled freshly by Lucas himself, but his own absence from the public eye drew suspicion. Eventually some teenagers broke into the house on a dare and uncovered Lucas - entirely withdrawn from the outside world, his hair and beard long and unkempt, his clothes soiled and worn, scrawling wildly in one of a number of diaries scattered around the room. By the next morning, the word was out that the mighty Mr. Derosier was insane.<br />
<br />
The mood in the town was hard to ascertain, but letters from the time describe many people leaving altogether - mostly older citizens who hadn't spent most of their lives being told that the outside was sinners' land. Then, one of the boys who discovered Lucas Derosier died. He was found bludgeoned to death against a house, mutilated in a similar state to that of the Jewish girl and other, more recent deaths of a similar nature. Police notes from the time notice a series of descepancies between this death and the others, but the investigation was eventually dropped - as many of these investigations would be over the decades to follow.<br />
<br />
The fear this death inspired ultimately renewed faith in the Derosier's "Church of the Faceless Angels", with the townsfolk insisting upon Lucas' status as a prophet, justifying his madness. All evidence suggests that, in the meantime, his insane scribblings were genuinely preached by Jason; the Derosier's believed what they said.<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
That's as far as I've gotten. Stonehall was very thorough in his research, as he'd probably have to be; the idea of an entire town sucumbing to the mad dictums of a lunatic is alarming to say the least.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, we're on our way to Avondale, Missouri to see this town for ourselves.<br />
<br />
I'll have more at a later date.Peter Barlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16946677927091566959noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-714970554612929782.post-91547167904298398962011-10-10T12:37:00.000-05:002011-10-10T12:37:00.160-05:00I did not post either of those italicised quotes.Google tells me they're from an old short story anthology called The King In Yellow. Never heard of it before.<br />
<br />
If whoever posted that is reading, they should know that I've changed the password, and that they can suck it.Peter Barlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16946677927091566959noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-714970554612929782.post-50937065197506733602011-10-10T11:19:00.001-05:002011-10-10T11:19:44.564-05:00<em>"It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God!"</em>Peter Barlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16946677927091566959noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-714970554612929782.post-30011376042058511742011-10-10T10:17:00.002-05:002011-10-10T10:17:21.837-05:00<em>CAMILLA: You, sir, should unmask.<br />
STRANGER: Indeed?<br />
CASSILDA: Indeed it's time. We all have laid aside disguise but you.<br />
STRANGER: I wear no mask.<br />
CAMILLA: (Terrified, aside to Cassilda.) No mask? No mask!</em>Peter Barlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16946677927091566959noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-714970554612929782.post-32742775873509775012011-10-07T10:55:00.003-05:002012-03-18T20:50:33.607-05:00Weeks.Rachel again.<br />
<br />
This book is terrifying me. To be honest, I've always been scared by religion. All of it. The subconscious act of abandoning reason, abandoning skepticism, to some man in a pulpit talking about a sky-man who created the world. To attribute the words of a man, or of men, or of a two-thousand year old book, with infallable correctness seems ridiculous to me, but then I remember that billions of people the world over live with that as their worldview. I'm experiencing it more and more now that we're in America - more where we were, but still here in Salem, what with the bloody hand of zealotry still remembered here.<br />
<br />
There was no scarier sight than me, for a long time, than seeing people coming out of a church and knowing that they were no longer rational people like me, but slaves to the words of a book written by genocidal shepards, and the men who tell them what it says. There was no scarier thought than the thought of the bus I was riding on being destroyed by a bomber <em>inspired</em> by his religion, <em>vindicated</em> by his religion. Convinced, as he gazed upon the faces of the people he was about to incinerate, people with families and loves and dreams, that he was righteous. The IRA, the Taliban. People like that.<br />
<br />
The scariest thing I ever listened to was an audio recording of the Jamestown suicides.<br />
<br />
I once tried to imagine how my perception of the world would change if, just for a second, I put aside my reason and tried to believe in the Christian God. And up until my life was changed for the worse, I'd never been more scared. Above me, a constant critic, scrutinizing humanity from up high, condemning anyone who doesn't live up to his standards to...Hell. I'd never lived with that fear before, so actually thinking about endless, unrelenting suffering as a plausible thing was beyond any stretch of terror I'd ever experienced. A prison created to punish His own traitorous right-hand man, and there's a spot there for you too.<br />
<br />
This is a long-standing fear of mine, but eventually it was replaced with the fear of our assailant and his followers. <br />
<br />
But imagine seeing Him - the slender man - and feeling unmitigated adoration. Or worse, imagine everyone around you smiling, laughing, maybe even shedding a tear or two, as you watch, realising that these people aren't seeing what you're seeing.<br />
<br />
I can barely put it into words. When the proxies do it, we call it madness. This isn't madness. This is faith. And that scares me so much, because it could happen to anyone.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Dealing with the deaths is beginning to get easier. We're getting past that. It's confronting the fact that they probably won't be the last that's killing us.Peter Barlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16946677927091566959noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-714970554612929782.post-85885736023145960742011-10-07T07:04:00.000-05:002011-10-07T09:58:53.205-05:00Salem, and a bookSo we're in Salem, MA right now. It's kind of a depressing town - entirely given over to new-age quacks simply because a few poor women were killed for having mild medical knowledge. And we were walking down a street when, passing a bookstore, Natalie looked the the side, lept backwards into Roland, and let out a shriek. Everyone whirled around on their heels. <br />
<br />
HE was right there, in the bookstore window, inches from our faces, looking out over the display of books.<br />
<br />
Just standing there.<br />
<br />
Not moving.<br />
<br />
And <em>way</em> too small.<br />
<br />
It was a cardboard cut-out. At the bottom of a stand, was a big red title. "The Better Angels of Our Nature" and the compulsory post-colon "The True Story of a Cult of Death and Angels on Earth". A furious look on her face, Shannon shoved me aside and barged into the store. We followed suit.<br />
<br />
Inside, we found a display case, almost empty, devoted entirely to this book. A large hardback, with a photograph on the cover, of a number of adults and children posing for a group photograph. They all have what looks like a small pillowcase in their hands, except for one woman, who stands at the centre of the group, with this cloth object pulled over her head as a mask, hiding her expression. Despite the obvious connection, it seemed more reminiscent of this: <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEeSpmdGpoSTR-sY5sDXx4LxpgdWElJsZC6exzZEP3n1ibw4m7oCB0QwvtbVf3hs_9rh03JBD3tyusdHsKepIvRpYY78aD3tcsAFn6dO_8FV8OcTqCKC7QKLh8JLReS6MNQNkQ3y_7oVI/s1600/Rene%252BMagritte%252B-%252BThe%252BLovers%252B.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="290px" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEeSpmdGpoSTR-sY5sDXx4LxpgdWElJsZC6exzZEP3n1ibw4m7oCB0QwvtbVf3hs_9rh03JBD3tyusdHsKepIvRpYY78aD3tcsAFn6dO_8FV8OcTqCKC7QKLh8JLReS6MNQNkQ3y_7oVI/s400/Rene%252BMagritte%252B-%252BThe%252BLovers%252B.JPG" width="400px" /></a></div>(Magritte's <em>The Lovers</em>)<br />
<br />
The cutout in the window, however, was pretty unquestionably him, however. I walked over to the bookshop's assistant and asked what this whole thing was about.<br />
<br />
"That's a new book by a local author, a Marcus Stonehall. It's about this cult in the town he grew up in, a totally insane Christian sect. Supposedly they'd put on those masks and kill people, including his cousin. I got an advance copy a few months ago, couldn't put it down."<br />
<br />
"And who's the tall guy?"<br />
<br />
"He's what they thought angels looked like. They'd put on masks to become like them, and kill people in a meditative state of religious ecstacy."<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
So we bought a copy each and are reading them now. I'll keep you updated.Peter Barlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16946677927091566959noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-714970554612929782.post-9969419252498032652011-09-25T18:58:00.000-05:002011-09-25T18:58:39.453-05:00EaglelandThis morning, we saw a guy who was carrying a gun in a shopping mall get arrested - because he didn't have a <i>permit</i> to have a gun in a shopping mall - and he spent the whole time basically yelling that the constitution protects his right to not be arrested for anything ever.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>While I wouldn't claim to be able to deem this the area we're in right now in microcosm, it's certainly my experience with it.</div><div><br />
</div><div>We landed here a few days ago, off the back of a ten-hour flight. We had to buy them based on what was free - and five tickets bought on the desk was a big ask. Unfortunately, all they had to spare were five business class seats. Roland seemed to have enough to cover it, but I guessed that we don't really spend too much, so maybe he just has enough in the way of savings.<br />
<br />
Except when we got here, he replaced all our phones with ones that'll work here. And the weapons we had to leave behind. And a laptop, because we could stand to keep up with any other runners while we're out here.<br />
<br />
And then he bought a car.<br />
<br />
I know that Rachel's just as confused as I am, but the others are kinda taking it in stride. I guess I'm going to have to have a word with Roland one of these days.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, aside from the fact that we've finally found somewhere with Wi-Fi - a restaurant we're sitting outside - the main reason I've not updated is that, to be honest, we're still mired in a sick, delirious sorrow over the deaths of Steve and Lianne. There's not a night where I don't lie awake, replaying that awful moment where her laboured breathing ceased, or that empty hallway where Steve should have been. Or the corpse of the doctor, barely recognisable. Or the staring eye of the proxy, his skull broken open like glass, his mask moving just enough for his face to slip into view, just an inch or so too much.<br />
<br />
Or the others who never saw the end of this nightmare.<br />
<br />
It's been almost two weeks since the last post, over two weeks since Lianne. It's still too much.<br />
<br />
I don't know when it's going to stop hurting. Or if at all.<br />
<br />
More news of the new scenery to come.</div>Peter Barlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16946677927091566959noreply@blogger.com1