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Writing Stolen Memories [M - L, Mild SV]


Kitty
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[color=#006aaf][SIZE=1]I dunno why I wrote this, but I did. I bet it's really confusing, but if I get any replies, I'll continue. It clears itself up bit by bit throughout the chapters. This was inspired by [B]Sin City Volume 1[/B], which I bought and read yesterday. Won't be nearly as bloody, but there is violence and plenty of cursing. And I seem to have developed the habit of writing a lot about Hell. o_O Well, enjoy anyway. ^_^;;[/SIZE][/color]

[center][size=2][b]Chapter 1 - Hell and All It's Splender[/b][/size]

- - -[/center]

[i]"I can't remember a lot. It's mostly recent things I forget. It would be nice to forget some of the old stuff, though. Life for me used to be hell. Before they took me in, I was blind. Somehow, they found me. They told me some looney promise, but I believed 'em. I would believe anything that meant getting out of that shithole where I was beaten and raped nearly everyday. So they took me with them into some car.

"It was nice. The seats were an exotic leather. I remember the feel of it.

"They experimented on me. It hurt. Mainly a while afterwards. The soreness made me want to claw my new eyes out, but I kept to screaming instead. To waste all that effort would be a shame. When they finally took the bandages off, I remember what I saw. It was a gun resting on a table in front of me. The walls were graffitied, and behind me were bars. I was in a cage. I guess they thought the pain would be too much for a twelve year old to handle. Maybe I should've just shot myself. It would've been easier that way.

"So much easier.

"I had too much spirit, I guess, or something. Something made me ignore the gun. Or maybe it wasn't that. Maybe I was more afraid of death than I was of pain. Whatever it was, I didn't use the gun, and I took all that pain. When my eye sockets finally stopped bleeding, they took it as a good sign.

"I remember something else. I wasn't the only one. There was one other, who was in the cell beside mine. They were always in the shadows, so even when I could see without my eyes hurting, I couldn't tell who it was. Maybe if I find them, they can tell me what's wrong. Maybe they're dealing with the same things I am. And maybe.. Maybe they can help me get back my memories. The important ones. The good ones. Only lost a couple of those so far, though, since I only have about a dozen.

"Well, you look like you've heard enough. See you next time, then."[/i]

And then, it was silent.

[CENTER]- - -[/CENTER]

Mornings are Hell in the City of Dis. And no, that's the real name of the city. Well, it had a longer name, but nobody can remember it anymore. But Dis isn't Hell. That's an exaggeration. Nobody but young Jack Ailes knew what Hell really was, and he wasn't looking forward to going there.

Everyone imagines Hell to be a large cave that spans for eternity resting menacingly beneath the crust of the Earth somewhere. It is decorated with molten rock and hidious monsters, and haunted by the screams of the victims stuck there until the end of time. The noise and vivid colors of blood and flowing lava.. That's all bullshit.

If Hell is anything, it's silent. It's cold. It's torture. You are placed in an endless black space to do [i]nothing[/i]. You are driven insane by the silence, and the fear, and the cold, and the overwhelming guilt that you inevitably feel after thinking "Why me?" for the past seventeen millenia. Yes, why you? Poor, poor you? It's because [i]you[/i] weren't good enough for Heaven, where everyone sits around in their robes drinking tea with their legs crossed like the faggots they are, chatting casually about the 'poor chaps' stuck down in Hell. They probably laugh, too.

And, oh God, the laughter. The laughter's the worst part of Hell. It [i]is[/i] Hell.

You hear it maybe eight times in your entire stay there, and the entire time you've been desperately trying to kill yourself all over again. Streams of tears have poured down your face, bloody claw marks stain your filthy neck, and that horrible feeling in the pit of your stomach just won't leave you alone as all the pain reminds you of where you are. "Look at you," something screams. "Just [i]look[/i] at you. Pitiful, pitiful you." And the laughter, even after it ends, it echoes. In the big black nothingness, it somehow manages to bounce back and attack you over and over again until it settles just to come back again, each time worse than the last. And again you will ask yourself, and again the guilt will tear at you when the laughter, and the silence, and the fear, and the cold are not.

"Why me?"

A splash of cold water ends the lengthy thought that had just been flowing around in Jack's head.

"Because nobody likes you, Jack. Nobody upstairs, and nobody downstairs. But nobody downstairs has to like you. You get the same treatment as all of their favorite pets," he spat into the medium sized mirror that also hid his medicine and a razor or two. It was dirty. Very dirty. Cleaning, he had decided, wasn't his thing. He grabbed his towel and shoved his face in it.

The smooth, comfort of the fabric was a rarity in this day and age, even with all of the technical shit. Nobody in this part of town could afford the up to date stuff. It was just crappy five-year old, worn out second-name brand stuff that would be thrown away the moment the same product released a year later was available. But his landlord was the cheap bastard that liked the slums, and wanted to keep them that way. He draped it back on its perch above the toilet and took one last glance into the mirror.

He grimaced.

Jack took a few steps out of the bathroom, paused to look around, and was immediately replused. He did this quite often, actually. He would measure how bad the condition of his apartment was, just for kicks. At the moment, it was probably a seven on a scale of one to ten, one being the cleanest, and ten being the nastiest. Despite this, he walked over and plopped down onto his rotting sofa, grabbing the remote that rested in the middle of the floor in front of him.

He didn't have to bend down. One of the sofa's legs fell off a while back, and, too impatient to wait for the others to do the same, he borrowed Nancy's saw and cut the legs to mere stubs.

Nancy was his neighbor. Damn fine girl she was. A year younger than he was, but three times as smart. She also knew how to handle tools, and was a pretty good shot with a pistol, too. How did Jack know? He had spent a lot of time with her. They'd known each other for a long time, as a matter of fact. How long, he forgets. Doesn't matter, though.

He clicked the 'Power' button, and immediately the television sprang to life. It was an old model. It picked up decent satellite, though. Nancy had helped him set up the reciever. Sure, it was stealing, but nobody would care. They were so rich now that the fractions of a penny they were loosing to a loser stuck in Hell's slums would get nothing more than a brief chuckle of attention.

Nobody cares about Jack Ailes. Not even Jack Ailes anymore. His mother and sister are both dead, and he was born after her mother was raped but refused to tell anyone, so he [i]hoped[/i] that his father was dead. That left Jack all alone, with no one but Nancy, her boyfriend, and the television. If he could take 'her boyfriend' off the list, Jack would be happy.

"Oh well. Can't do anything about 'her boyfriend'," he sighed, pulling his feet up on the couch and stretching out. He turned so that he was on his side, facing the screen that showed him scenes from decades ago.

He'd always thought of TV as a teleporter of sorts. It could take you anywhere, to anytime, to see anyone whenever you wanted. It was incredible, and all the power in that little rectangle gripped firmly in your hand. It wasn't just a treat, it was a responsibility. Some people wasted it. They would leave the TV alone, to entertain the shadows it created on the walls so they could eat, fuck, or whatever the hell it was they thought they had to do. And even though Jack, too, left the TV at times, he never left it alone.

He sometimes wondered if it was growing sick of him.

He thought he saw the lights dim. [i]'No, wait. I just blinked too long,'[/i] he thought to himself. His eyelids fluttered to a close once more, and soon, he was asleep, leaving the teleporter nothing but an unconcious lump to play for.

Why the hell he slept in the mornings, he didn't know. His sleep cycle had been fucked up for years. He woke up for dinner and stayed awake until dawn. Still, he called mornings mornings and evenings evenings. It's a good thing to know he doesn't get himself mixed up.
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