I hate hospitals

I always have.

I don't suppose I had any particular reason for it, at least at the beginning. Childhood fears, I suppose. Later it did start to make more sense, when going to the hospital would essentially mean going to jail.

That, I had a very good reason to dislike.

But, when Em was injured, I knew I had to take her there. I had avoided the hospital once before, and it was the worst decision I have ever made. So, to the hospital we went. Which meant that I got to stand around an ugly lobby being asked about insurance cards and the reason for the gunshot while my granddaughter's life wavered.

I did not handle it well.

I... may have threatened a doctor. If you could call him a doctor. I saw the stick and the serpent on his robes and naturally prevented him from taking care of my daughter by pinning him against the wall.

The guy was rather sarcastic for someone I was very close to killing.

I know, that would have been an overreaction. But I don't like doctors. Oathbreakers even less. But I didn't kill him! The sassy bastard is alive and well.

He is how I got out of there with Em. Given some circumstances I would appreciate not going into, I had come into possession of one favor from the Oathbreakers. I used it in order to leave without incident.

This is the second time I have taken someone to a hospital and left with them in a wheelchair.

History needs to stop repeating.

My side of the story

I wasn't sure I was going to write this at all. I was kidnapped, you all know it, I don't really want to talk about it. I haven't even talked to Grandpa about it, really. I haven't really talked at all since Grandpa rescued me, except to answer the medically relevant questions of the doctors. And to quietly request that I be tested for any and all blood borne diseases. You can't be too careful in the aftermath of all of this.

For a while after the kidnapping, things were alright. She'd come in and threaten and act crazy at me, then she'd leave and Mr. Flint would clean up and talk to me for a while. Frustrating, yes, but not the horror I was expecting. That last week, though... it was bad. I think maybe she was getting impatient and the boredom made things worse? I'm not sure, I'm not an expert in criminal psychology. In any event, she started ranting and raging and hitting a lot more than before. Then she took a bite out of my cheek. I'll probably have a scar forever, it's a nasty wound.

After that... She made me lick up some of her blood (Which is where the concern about disease came from). She made me 'help' her tear one of her own people apart, then made me eat his heart. She came very, disturbingly close, to taking off a few fingers to 'sweeten her stew pot'. She wouldn't leave me alone. Every time I thought it couldn't get worse, it did. Until Grandpa showed up. You've already gotten the details of the rescue, I won't bore you with them again. I was a bit distracted for most of it, because Andre shot me pretty early on.

Getting shot is way worse than getting stabbed. Or maybe it's just that he hit my spine. The pain wasn't so bad, I've dealt with worse. But the weight of it, the entire lower half of my body immediately turning into so much dead weight. One minute I was running, the next moment I'll never run again. The pain from the shot wasn't as bad as I would have expected. The bone fragments that had just recently been my lower spine, though... Those hurt worse. Especially when Maggot had to move me out of harm's way. It's strong, and managed it without much trouble, but every tiny move hurt so badly I half hoped it would kill me.

For the first time in my life, I couldn't think. I couldn't focus, I couldn't speak except to scream in pain and fear. Some distant part of my brain noticed that my legs were numb and knew that was bad, but I didn't know why. I couldn't register what was wrong. Just that everything was, my whole body felt focused on the bursts of pain in my abdomen. I tried to curl up, but only my torso complied, my legs stubbornly refusing to bend up to protect my chest. It was only when I noticed that that my brain started back up. Legs not moving was bad. The shock that was creeping up was even worse. Grandpa was busy, I didn't know how long he would be and I couldn't risk the shock killing me before he could get me to a hospital.

 Not that there was much I could really do to prevent shock, but I was hoping if I could keep my brain moving, keep the thoughts coming, that I could stave it off. I don't know if it worked, but I didn't die so I'm counting it a victory. I don't really remember the ambulance ride or most of my hospital stay after that. They saved my life but couldn't save my legs. I counted myself mostly lucky to not lose Grandpa in the bargain. I'm still not sure why the hospital didn't ask more questions about an eight year old getting shot.

It's only once I got out of there that the reality of the situation sank in. Half of my body no longer provides any useful function. My legs might as well have been cut off. They're just useless hunks of meat now. Weighing me down, getting in the way instead of helping me move. Just meat. Like Jessica thought of me. She always called me veal, said I'd make an excellent stew.

Do you know what makes veal? It's not just young cows, though that is a big part of it. Veal comes from calves who are kept in the dark and coddled all their short lives. Often, veal cows weren't even allowed to move, but were kept bound or suspended or merely locked in small pens, unable to do much other than eat sweet feed until they died. They were are kept perfect, fat, and tender, defenseless and sweet. That's what makes the meat such a delicacy.

I am not veal. I have been all over. I have stretched my mental and physical muscles. I have eaten awful things, starved a few times, and running keeps me lean and limber. Most of all, I am not defenseless. Grandpa, Ben, Mama, and a few others have all made sure I know how to fight back.

But in a world of fighters, of fast, strong, violent people like Jessica and Grandpa and my Mama, Sanna and Annalee and all the proxies floating around, I might as well be. Grandpa wanted to protect me, to let me grow up, to try to let me be a 'normal kid'. Whatever that means. I made a fuss and fought him on random bits, but overall I let him. I had learned to fight, but I hid behind him instead. Because I'm just a kid, and I'm not as good and I'm not as strong. I couldn't stand up to someone like them and I knew it, but instead of trying I hid and I read and I tried to make myself out to be some big damn grownup while hiding under the metaphorical covers.

I'm not going to do that anymore. Grandpa's probably not going to like it. He'll probably try to insist I  go back to what I was doing. But this whole ordeal has shown me that no matter how much I want to, no matter how much I want to, I cannot depend on anyone else to protect me. It's not that Grandpa can't, because he can. It's not that I don't want him to, because I do. But no one can be there every minute of every day, not even David Banks. And I don't want him to have to be. I'm going to start spending as much time working on my shooting as learning new languages or whatever. Just because I can't walk doesn't mean I can't fight-I don't need to stand up to shoot well and I was always a better shot than anything else anyway.

I've used my gun to defend myself before. I've even learned to kill with it if I have to. It's time to stop pretending I have the luxury of expecting anyone else to protect me.

I lost

Though not in the way I expected.

As unwilling as I was to go to an unknown location psychically sent to me in a dream by my literally monstrous ex boss, it was the only lead I had on Em. And stubborn as I am, I was not going to let my granddaughter suffer merely because I did not wish to do what He told me anymore. So I went where I was pointed.

I scouted the whole place out first, of course. Contrary to what most people believe, I am not an idiot. It was a warehouse. Which is pretty much the most typical thing ever, but Jess uses her imagination for other things.

Like, parties apparently.

She threw one. An actual, more or less for normal people, no cannibalism party. They weren't too great about filtering the guests, so I got inside pretty easy. The DJ played a lot of Kesha. So I went up to him and after some brief condolences asked him to play one more.

At the beginning of the first chorus, the wall exploded.

Another 'Gift' from the slender man was that Ryan has been remarkably lucid for the last few days. Him and Maggot proved a pretty decent distraction as I managed to get Em (not hard to find, Jessica's flair for the dramatic literally put her in plain sight) and untie her so she could run.

And then, it was just me and Jessica.

She ran, and I followed. Until we were somewhere private.

I had decided not to kill her.

Maybe that wasn't really a good idea, but there is a part of me that will always care for her. So I had come up with an alternative. I knew of a good psychiatric facility that wouldn't attract too much attention. Help her instead of worry about turning her into the police. And I showed the paperwork to Jess.

I guess I thought I could scare her. That if she saw I was still strong, just on a different path, she would leave all of us alone.

She didn't believe me.

And that's when I heard Em scream.

I had been too busy with Jess. Too busy trying to save both her and myself to worry about Em.

As always, a moment too late.

I ran back, to find Maggot taking care of Em. Jessica's bodyguard was on the ground, incapacitated with a gun in his hands.

I knew exactly what had happened.

And.... I didn't take it well.

I told Maggot to get Em to safety and Ryan to call the ambulance. So none of them saw it.

But I lost. right there. I let my monster out and I killed Andre.

I don't know how I feel right now. On one hand, I now have complete and totally proof that part of me will always be a psychopath.

On the other... I haven't strayed from my path either.

I don't know. Maybe David Banks can find a way to do some good anyway.

I had a dream last night

and not an average dream.

I don't know where I was. I'm not sure I really paid attention as to where I was. It didn't matter. Except for the tree. The tree was large and sprawling, its branches reaching as far as I could see.

And in the tree was Lily.

I don't talk about Lily often. I don't suppose many of you even knew I had a daughter. I did. She died. That is as far as I want to go into it for the moment.

She was in her favorite dress, a small pink thing that I had blindly picked out but thankfully worked for her. A plastic teacup in her hands, drinking as if there was actually something in it.

"It's happening again." she said.

"It's not. I'm going to get Em back. Nothing's going to happen to her."

She laughed. But it didn't sound like her. Didn't even sound human.

"How long were you with me Banks?"

and that was when I realized I wasn't talking to Lily.

"Twenty Years."

"A long Moment. I was beginning to learn your name. But you. You have learned the only thing about me a human can know."

"That I don't know anything?"

There was no answer, which was an answer itself.

"You lost my child."

"She isn't yours to have."

"You are all mine to have. When I want them. But for now, I want her with you."

And the tree began to move. The branches flexed and bobbed until they became massive claws. One of them picked Lily up, and she giggled, gently holding onto the thumb as she stood on the palm.  It closed in on her, and as the tree balled into a fist I saw my own face instead of Lily's stare back at me.

I woke up, knowing where they were.

The Last Straw

Not to speak ill of the dead, but this is Nightscream's fault. You let one person get away with kidnapping, and they walk all over you.

So, some of you may know already that Jessica kidnapped Em. For those who didn't, I'm pretty sure that sums it up.

What only those who know me would know is just how much this pisses me off.

I admit, I have not taken a vow to not kill people. I think that this has been assumed, but it's inaccurate. In fact, the longer I go on the more I think that my light is eternally stained. So it stands to reason that if someone really has to be killed, it's better that I do it than let someone else ruin theirs.

The reason I haven't removed Jessica's kidneys and choked her with them has been mostly pride. I didn't want to prove her right. Didn't want to be the monster.

But how many people are going to suffer because I was afraid to stain myself a little?

So Jessica, it's my turn.

Run.

I did it again

Because it's not like I'm in mortal danger or anything.

No, I just have an overly obsessive cannibal after me. And a vengeful eldritch abomination who hasn't quite decided whether to break me emotionally physically or mentally. And a reporter who has episodes of homicidal rage.

Do you know what my life needs right now? Another tagalong.

Her name is Maggot. Or that's what people call her. I don't suppose that's her legal name. She is a proxy, because I hadn't reached enough of a suicidal threshold yet.

Still, she's a child. I'm not going to just leave a child sleeping in the streets.

But that's my problem isn't it? If I had just killed Ryan, or Jess, or anyone who actually mattered rather than the faceless parade of victims that I did murder, I wouldn't be in this mess.

Hell, if it wasn't for this sentimental side of me my husband might still be alive.

I don't usually go for might have beens, but this is something to think about. Perhaps my problem isn't that I was a monster, but that I wasn't enough of one.

Just some food for thought.

Bits and Bobs

Before I get into the meat of this post, it occurs to me that I have something I should've said before. Grandpa and I were in disguise mostly because he was trying to hide, but now that he's come out with who he really is, I feel like I should be doing the same. I don't know that Grandpa would approve, but for the moment he's left me in charge of the blog and so I'm the one who has to make these sorts of decisions.

Some of you who are clever have probably figured out my identity, much like how many of you figured out who Grandpa was before he outed himself. Fracture made a note that I was last known to be with Grandpa almost a year ago. You all know Elizabeth is a pseudonym, one that I'm not overly fond of. I would have preferred to call myself Susan, after the Doctor's granddaughter who adventured with him for the first season or so of the First Doctor's run. There's no accounting for other people's proclivities, however, and I ended up with Elizabeth as a false name, and I admit to be a bit relieved to drop it and go back to Emily, my real name.  Back to business, however. I doubt any of you really care that much about who I really am. I doubt anyone even reads the old blogs to know who I am, beyond being David's adopted granddaughter.

After the visit I detailed in my last post, Jessica got a little more creative. Her assistant's post mentions that she's started leaving body parts scattered about, starting very dramatically with a spine left on the doorstep along with a note that looked like it was finger painted with blood that read 'Since you lost yours'. I guess she thought she was being clever or something? It wasn't clever, nor was it particularly potent as an insult. When Grandpa found it, he was mostly just bemused. We moved around a few times, but at this point it hardly seems worth the trouble if she's just going to find us and leave more kidneys or eyeballs or testes on our doorstep. At one point she left an entire head, on which she'd placed a hat that seemed to be made of intestines, but that was about the highlight of the corpse bits.

Unfortunately, her other idea was a bit less comic and a bit more effective. Well, I say effective in the sense that Grandpa was frustrated, less so in trying to actually get him to do what she wanted him to do. She showed up with a boombox blaring Kesha songs one night, probably because she knew that music is always an very effective way of getting Grandpa's attention. Grandpa went out to speak to her, and I listened from the window, since he doesn't like me going out and talking to her. Apparently it was the anniversary of a very important date for the two of them, from back when Grandpa was working for the Mob and still spent time with Jessica. Eighteen years ago that day, they'd

Ugh. I don't like thinking about it, he's my Grandpa. And she's just gross. But in the interest of honest reporting, apparently eighteen years ago Grandpa had been trying really hard to sleep with her. Jess didn't want to, though whether because she wasn't interested, because she wanted to mess with his head, or because it was a Tuesday, I'm not sure. In any event, apparently Jess was the one person in the world he didn't want to rape at the time, so he agreed to give her a kidney for her to eat in exchange for sex. You read that right. He gave up one of his own kidneys because he wanted it that badly.

Despite the dubiousness of that choice, it happened. And Jess reminded him quite gleefully of the anniversary, then told him that if he could stop her from taking the other one by force, she would let him sleep with her again. Grandpa was not interested, presumably because his taste in partners has improved a bit to not include psychotic cannibals. She attacked him anyway, and I was surprised by how good a fighter she was. Grandpa still won, of course, but she did manage to slice him up a fair bit. He refused to sleep with her and told her to just go away, which she actually did after only a bit more protesting.

Afterward, we manged to get him patched up and packed up to leave again. Grandpa's trying to rest up and recover for the moment, and mostly we're just hoping to avoid any further body parts for a while.

Quiet Spell

They say that no news is good news, and I wish I could tell you that it's true. On the one hand, Grandpa and I are just fine. Ryan is... well, he's still about the same. None of us have been injured in any substantial way. But that doesn't  mean things have gone smoothly. Far from it, actually.

 It all started almost two months ago, with a simple knock on the door. Grandpa had ordered Chinese, so neither of us were particularly suspicious when he opened it. I was in the other room, in fact, and I didn't even know there was anything strange going on until it had been a few minutes and he hadn't come back with the food.

When I approached, I was very confused. Instead of Grandpa talking to a delivery person, he was having a heated discussion with a ragged looking blonde woman. She looked homeless, honestly, but by the sound of it she definitely knew Grandpa. She was asking him to 'come back', to 'let David Banks out to play'. Grandpa introduced her as Jessica, and I now know her to be the woman from this blog. You probably won't be surprised to find out she's just as irrational in person. Annoyingly she insisted on calling me 'veal', presumably as an extension of her loud obsession with cannibalism. Grandpa was not exactly pleased that I came out to talk to her, but didn't try to get me to go back inside right away.

I got to hear her rambling, Grandpa's frustration and confusion, and the almost sitcommish ridiculosity of the situation. They were once close, Grandpa admitted to me sheepishly. Closer than I'd like to think about my Grandpa being with anyone. She made all kinds of ridiculous threats and suggestions, Grandpa countered all of them wearily, and it went on like that for a while, with me mostly just watching. At some point, though, Jessica got a bit too curious about me, and Grandpa made me go back inside. I got busy packing, so I don't know what happened next, but I know that when Grandpa came in a few minutes later we left almost immediately afterward.

Things have only gotten crazier since.

This feels better

I've never been one for hiding, to be honest. Deception is something that has never sat well with me. But I supposed that if I really was going to live a new life, I was going to need a new name. So I went as Azrael, and David became something of a shameful secret. Which is odd, to be honest. I'm not one for shame. It's a tool used to keep people in line.

And as such, there's a bit of a relief for finally mentioning who I am, what I've done. Which is quite a lot for those who do not instantly recognize my name. I'll probably go into it eventually.

I did think there would be more of a reaction, though. I was pretty well hated, for good reason. I have killed and raped and tortured myself quite a few enemies. And yet the whole situation was... pretty accepting. I don't know if that's because you all are charitable or idiotic.


Or maybe the world's just gotten so dark nowadays that it doesn't matter. Those who survive have done terrible things, and perhaps absolving me absolves themselves. I don't know if it works quite that way, but I think this is something we need to work on.

Let's leave the darkness for the bad guys, all right?

One of the most diabolical weapons in the world is the illusion that there is no choice.

There's always a choice. I think we should start making some.

I have temper issues

I've been much better lately. I've been trying for Elizabeth, really. But sometimes things happen.

And today, what has happened is that a lovely commenter by the name of Artsyom came onto to my blog, threatened my granddaughter, threatened someone I'm fairly fond of, and attempted to prove just how much cooler he was than me. Which naturally hit me in my ego.

I've missed my ego. I haven't really had it since my husband died.  It was a strange way to get it back, I suppose. But that is life sometimes.

I haven't lied on this blog. In fact I've been so transparent I'm surprised that everyone who reads this hasn't figured it out. But the longer it goes on, the more it feels like a deception. The more I realize I'm hiding from myself.

I admit, I like having people support me for once. It was a good run. But I could change every single aspect of myself, and I would still be me. So I need to stop running from it.

My name is David Banks.

The Loneliest Time of the Year

Grandpa has the mopes again. I don't blame him. I'm not even old enough to date, really, but this time of year still sucks. There's plenty of people I miss, so I can't even imagine what poor Grandpa must be going through. Or anyone else that's lost a spouse or a girlfriend or a boyfriend or whatever.

Valentines day sucks. Even super cheap candy isn't really enough to redeem it. Grandpa's miserable, Ryan's still checked out, and I can't really do much to fix any of this. Hugs from your granddaughter can only fix so much. Screw the stupid hallmark holiday for making people feel bad for not having someone.

Recovering

We're all still alive, more or less. Ryan is still... well, not exactly all here, but we're all still breathing. Grandpa and I are working together to deal with him, he's not actively hostile, just kind of hard to work with. He'll react to simple commands and do things like feeding himself and going to the bathroom, but most of the time anything more than that is completely beyond him. Grandpa's taking it hard, and neither one of us have been particularly in the mood to talk to people, much less tell the world exactly how poorly we're doing. I wish there were more to report, but honestly the whole thing is both depressing and dull, and other than whatever Grandpa gets up to in his spare time, I think the most exciting thing happening here is my learning French, which should give you an excellent idea of just how dull things are.

Apparently having a proxy name him a sage was enough to stir us both up. I know he said he doesn't think he's sage material, but he's a lot smarter than he gives himself credit for, and I'm pretty sure he could contribute some useful knowledge. He doesn't know everything, or even most things, but he probably knows a lot more than most runners, and he's pretty good at figuring stuff out. Plus, he has me around to help, which doesn't hurt either.

So apparently I'm a sage now

Because a proxy is a credible source.

It's rather irritating, actually. I was dealing with my problems one lousy step at a time until I started getting notifications about how Fracture started commenting all over my blog. I don't even know how that happened. I think Elizabeth might have set it up. And then he made that post. And now I am going to have people debating about whether or not I'm Sage material for who knows how long.

I'm not, by the way. In case anybody was suffering from any delusions.

And here I am back writing. Which is irritating, because I've discovered that it is very difficult to have a blog and not descend into diary mode. And I am really not interested in that. Though I imagine you all are.

You know, I've heard some people talk of writing as a compulsion. As some sort of side effect of His hold on you. But I don't believe that is it. People are social creatures. It is what they do. And when something terrifying and unique happens, they seek out ways to find that they are not alone. And that is what the blogs do. The Compulsion is nothing mystical. The Compulsion is other people.

And it seems that even I am not immune to it.