Post by Sibyl Doukas on Oct 30, 2010 16:59:03 GMT -6
ID Photo*:
Name: Sibyl Doukas
Age: 17
Height: 5'5''
Weight: 54.4 kg.
Eye Color: Slate Grey
Hair Color: Light brown.
Gender: Female
Date of Birth: October 17th, 1907
Place of Birth: Louros, Western Greece
Ethnicity: 75%Greek, 25% Polish
Kin: Greek Father (possibly dead), Polish Mother (possibly dead), Polish Aunt and Uncle (deceased), Greek Aunts and Uncles (Alive?)
Physical Description:
She was born with her father's eyes, but her mother's delicate, light brown hair, and fair skin. It normally reaches to just above her shoulders, but with the absence of any live barbers, it has grown past them. She is short for her ethnicity, and although she was teased by peers in both heritages for this, she relished in the ease with which she could escape them. Naturally nimble with her feet, she was once encouraged by her mother to take up dancing, but was much too shy to perform in front of anyone but her. At present, she is wearing a man's factory trousers and the remains of a dark green blouse. The trousers are somewhat large on her and the blouse is showing signs of wear and tear. She originally went barefoot, but tied some pieces of leather to her feet once the bombs came. Her Uncle on her Mother's side, once a soldier, showed her how to shoot a rifle once; although she could hold the weapon steady enough, she showed no real aptitude for guns. Once, as a child, she became so fed up with a boy who kept pulling her hair that she punched him. Although the boy suffered a broken nose and ran away, her hand hurt because she hadn't thrown the punch correctly. As a result, she's learned the proper way to do it, but hasn't practiced extensively. She is not particularly strong, though she has a death grip akin to a lobster's; if she doesn't want to let go, she will not, short of death. Because her hometown is near the coast, her parents gave her every opportunity to learn how to swim, and she did. In a cinch, she can keep her head above water. Despite this, she cannot hold her breath for very long.
Personality:
Prior to the outbreak, Sibyl was a very shy, but very warm girl. She did well at school, made friends easily and grew up curious about the world outside her native Greece, especially since her parents did their best to avoid talking about her "other" home in Poland. Despite her warmth, when faced with a bully, she was often caught between whether to run away from them, which she was good at, or to fight them. The one time that she retaliated, she had successfully broken the brute's nose, but mangled her right fist in the process. Instead of learning from this to never punch again, she tried to figure out how to punch someone without hurting herself as much, and learned it well. To date, she has only had to punch anyone once. Even though she knew she had a choice, Sibyl tried to avoid fighting back partially because she was afraid of becoming "like" the very people she avoided. This thought, of becoming a "bad" person by defending herself, both confused and perplexed her.
When the world ended, it would've been anyone's guess that she would die, either by succumbing to the undead, or by succumbing to fear. The undead had become to her the (un)living embodiment of what she feared most; a creature that drove the remainder of the human race into selfish, mindless machines driven purely by Id, uncaring for anything but their own interests. Or, perhaps worse, if a creature ever gained a hold of her, she would become one of them.
At first, Sibyl tried to avoid anyone she saw; this was fair enough, because the majority of them were already dead and walking. She did not know what was going on, did not understand why men and women, their bodies torn asunder by falling shrapnel and explosive payloads, continued to walk, and crawl, and at times, even run toward her. And furthermore, she did not want to find out what they wanted.
When that fateful moment came, however, a trait that Sibyl never knew she had showed itself, and just in time to cast the winning vote between fight and flight.
The desire to live.
Medical History:
Although she is relatively healthy for her age, she has a strange allergic reaction to sausage, in particular Polish ones. Her parents are baffled as to why. Since the outbreak, her body has grown leaner and her feet sore, due to a lack of any unspoiled food and no shoes. She has a cut on her left foot which has been hastily bandaged with a torn piece of cloth, and barely a few days ago hurled the contents of her stomach after ingesting canned sausage; the only sustenance she had found in three days. She has a couple bruises on her knees and elbows, as well as marks on her neck from when a looter attempted to strangle her. Her vision and hearing are decent enough to get by.
Classification: Civilian
Sub-Class: Greek
Money: $62.15
Occupation: Student
Personal History:
When the Great War ended, Sibyl's parents were both relieved and disheartened; At the beginning of the war, on Sibyl's seventh birthday, Mr. and Mrs. Doukas made the fateful decision to, as much as possible, not give their daughter any reason to be interested in one-fourth of her non-Greek heritage. Although this was difficult at first for Mrs. Doukas, she agreed that, until the Great War ended, it would be for the best. Ironically, the apparent apathy with which the Doukas' treated Poland and all of Europe only made their daughter grow all the more curious, and they felt no right to stop her from learning about Europe on her own. This was exacerbated by the fact they never explained to Sibyl where her Polish uncle had went off to, other than that he "had gone off to do his job." Sibyl would often write letters to her beloved uncle, innocent of the fact that, although he was receiving the letters, they were most likely being sent to a ditch somewhere along the Polish border.
A few years passed since the Treaty of Versailles, and the Doukas, feeling that the whole of Europe was no longer in danger of annihilation, decided they would visit Mrs. Doukas' family for the first time in many years. Sibyl was ecstatic; her uncle had stopped responding to her letters for a year now, and she was quite anxious to meet him again after such awhile. Not to mention an entire fourth of her racial heritage that she had only known through geography and history books.
Her parents did not know how to tell her that Uncle had been killed in an unrelated shooting. She would figure it out eventually, they supposed, from one of the more loosely lipped family members they had at Warsaw. This thought troubled the two of them, and they determined to tell her themselves before she could learn from her Aunt.
It was an ordinary day in Poland, and Sibyl was left alone in the cottage for once; her mother had gone to the grocers two hours ago, and her father had left three hours ago to see her Aunt. It was only after the third and fourth hours respectively that Sibyl realized that something was wrong.
She sat at a window overlooking rows of similarly built cottages, sipping imported Earl Grey and daydreaming. As she did so, there came a rumbling unlike any she had heard before and she felt like she should recognize it... perhaps a train or locomotive? She continued to peer outside and imagined a large, house shaped train rumbling through the countryside, massive enough to contain a family of six, yet marvelous in its ability to take said family anywhere in the world...
A series of British P.32's flew overhead. Aeroplanes! The first of any kind that Sibyl had seen, outside of a textbook! She watched with envy as each flew over her cottage and... dropped something from their "bellies". But for what reason would they-
The shock of the first shells hitting ground catapulted Sibyl to the floor within seconds, her tea cup smashing onto the ground, her hands covering her ears and her eyes welded shut. She screamed into nothing as the window shattered, unheard among payload after payload of falling death.
The noise ended.
Sibyl, her body curled up into a very tight ball, trembled as she slowly released her hands from her ears, although they still rang. She slowly stood up, cutting her palm on a shard of glass as she tried to get her bearings. She stood slowly, and walked to her cottage door, opening it to survey the carnage. Houses everywhere were aflame, and those that weren't flattened soon ignited the buildings near them. She stared agape at what was once a pristine vista and could contemplate nothing else but "Why?"
Her concentration was only broken by what appeared to be an orange-yellowish humanoid, at first walking toward her, and then shambling as its legs slowly burned away. As her eyes focused on the humanoid, she realized it was a man... on fire.
She ran inside quickly, this time taking care to step over the broken glass and china, and fetched a pitcher of water. Hurrying outside, she went near the man and doused him, extinguishing the flame.
She was not ready for the sight she beheld. Much of it had already been burned away, and where there should have been eyeballs were gaping holes, the retinas and inner veins and flesh already burned away. The entire body was equally charred, although the person's midsection had somehow been disemboweled and wasn't completely burned through. The man's entrails hung out from it, still smoking.
Tears formed in Sibyl's eyes as she tried to force herself not to wretch in disgust.
The figure lurched forward, impossibly so, its legs still somewhat intact despite the burning. Its teeth had survived the fire, and were fully exposed because the skin around it had been burned away. They clacked together rhythmically, up and down. It raised its two "arms," which were now nothing more than two fleshy stubs, and pointed them toward the girl, as if trying to grasp her. It trudged on forward, but its right foot caught on a rock, snapping the remaining piece of tendon holding it together. The creature fell face downward, and tried vainly, almost pitifully, to crawl toward Sibyl with two hand-less arms and a broken leg.
This was the final straw, and if Sibyl had anything of worth to vomit at that point, she may have. She covered her mouth to hold back another scream, but found it no use; her arms were trembling too much. There was little she could do but to turn around and reenter her cottage and to hope that maybe, just maybe, she was still stuck in her daydream and had dozed off, and was in fact in a nightmare, not a dream. A very, very graphic nightmare which made her regret looking through those anatomy books the other day.
The forced entry of three others just like the burning man, albeit not on fire but still very much dead and walking, told her otherwise. They stepped on broken glass and shards of china barefooted and unfeeling. Their mouths were agape and a thick slime poured from it. Their arms were raised forward, very much like they wanted a hug. And Sibyl, who was no stranger to the realm of fiction and fantasy, came to accept what she would later consider a truth and an untruth, though at the time they both seemed true.
1) These were clearly monsters of some kind, and they intended to harm her, most likely in a very painful, very long lasting way.
2) She was going to die.
Perhaps this is why mother and father did not return. Had they become monsters as well? But more importantly, what would, or should, she do?
>Skills:
Classification Skill: Survivorwoman
Mastered Skills: Free Running
Superior Skills: Tinkering
Minor Skills: Martial Arts
>Abilities:
Classification Ability: Courage
Mastered Abilities: Speed
Superior Abilities: Ambition
Minor Abilities: Observation
>Equipment on Person:
- Khaki Factory Worker's Trousers.
- Dark Green Tattered Blouse
- (2x) Improvised sandals (leather)
- Improvised knapsack out of two leather purses, roughly sewn together.
- One pool cue, chipped on the head.
- One small kitchen knife.
- One crowbar.
>In Pack:
- 2 cans tuna fish.
- 3 dinner rolls
- 1/2 roll medical gauze
- 1 bottle semi-purified water
- 3 pieces torn cloth
>In Storage:
- None
>Primary Weapon:
Weapon: N/A
Caliber: N/A
Location on Body: N/A
Modifications: N/A
>Melee Weapon:
Weapon: Pool Cue
Location on Body: Always on hand.
Sample Post:
When I hit that boy in the face, many, many years ago, I felt really bad, because, in the end, all he did to me was pull my hair. And I, angry at him and a little desperate to get away, broke his nose and drew blood. In some ways I regreted what I had done, if not for his injury, but for my hurt hand; one of my fingers had been sprained, and my knuckles hurt. But also, when I thought about it, he didn't really mean to hurt me.
The large, blood and spittle covered man in front of me, however, was a different story.
“Ach, come naw lass, I jest want to haf a wee chat wid ye. Dinnae be afaid..”
We circled the odd, green table in the center of the room, my eyes darting constantly at the door. It was on his side of the room, and there was no way out. Behind me were racks of long sticks which were heavy at one end, and pointed at the other. I had no idea what they were for.
“Ye kno, I had a sweet lil pumpkin' like you once... 'afore the 'hole world went ta' sheet. Just'a wee child like you, lass. I watch 'er grew up... an' I laed her 'ta rest all the same.”
I honestly couldn't tell if the man was one of the dead, or a drunk person. Either way, I couldn't understand his speech, though some of it I recognized as English. For a moment, I wished I had paid better attention in my foreign language courses, but it was obvious that whatever the man wanted, it was nothing I would enjoy.
“'EY! Dinnae dingy me ya wee bint! C'meeer!”
He rushed to the side, and I ran as quickly as I could to the door. As I struggled to undo a bolt, the man pulled me by the hair and threw me on top of the strange green table. It felt soft to the touch, and the lamp above it, though weak, blinded me. He was on top of me now, grunting and licking his lips in a manner I had seen the dead do on occasion. But he was human. I realized there was one other thing he could do to me.
His hands worked quickly despite their calloused frames and he nearly tore my blouse in two. I struggled to writh out of his grasp as he worked on my trousers, and yelled for him to stop, but he answered with grunts which only became more animalistic, a predator delighting in his kill. He covered my mouth with one hand while the other loosened the last of my buckles. Powerless to shove him away, I looked for anything I could use to get him off of me, and my hand wandered to a pocket on the side of the table. Inside, I found a heavy, hard ball, the likes of which I haven't seen before. Just as I felt my trousers give way, I slammed the object as hard as I could muster into the side of the man's face.
The ball made a large red imprint on his face and as he opened his mouth to curse, I saw that his teeth were tainted red. Immediately, he released my mouth and my pants and wrapped them around my throat, his thumbs pressing so deep that I could feel his uncut nails break into my skin. I started losing my vision and I could no longer breathe, and in desperation, I slammed the ball into his face once again.
He released my throat. I lay on the table, gasping for air but never letting go of the ball. I heard the man yell, and as I cautiously leaned up to observe, I noticed that both of his hands were covering his left eye. My ball was crimson with blood and other matter.
“You... you fecking whore! Ma gud eye! You fist'd mah fecking gud eye!”
I got off the table and pulled my blouse together, all the while watching the display. In his thrashing, he knocked over a few bottles of some sort of tonic, the contents of which he then slipped on. He was still between myself and the door, so I did not know how I would escape.
I picked up one of the sticks behind me, and after retrieving my bag and rebuttoning my blouse, I slowly made my way to the door. I finished unlocking the bolt and was about to turn it when I felt the man grab my leg. He yelled inhumanly and pulled me down to my knees, and caught my face with his bloodied left hand. I threw the ball at him again, missed his face, and as he was about to throw another punch, I stabbed him in the face with the pointed part of the stick. It drew no blood, but confused him enough for me to take the heavy part of the stick with both hands and bring it down on his head with all the power I could muster.
I flinched when I heard something crack as the stick made contact. It was a sound very familiar to me, that I had the luck of only hearing once in my life.
The man lurched over. My ball was gone, I started feeling a welt rising on my right cheek, and my stick and hand were covered with blood. I did not know where I was, I was starving, my feet hurt from the constant travel, and all around me there was next to no one alive. No one but this man, who wanted to have his way with me.
I really, really wanted to cry.
I did.
I stood up slowly, checked to see that my clothes and bag were secure, and once again tried the door. As I did so, the man stirred, grumbling in some unknown, drunkard language that I could not understand. He shifted, and looked as if he would rise again, much like the walking dead I had seen before. But he was wheezing; he was still alive, I thought.
I raised the heavy part of the stick above my head, and faced his. I thought I saw his good eye look at me for a moment. I slammed it down, mashing it into his face as drops of blood dirtied my clothes. I did it again, and again, and again...
As I left the room and went up the stairs, I wanted to wash the blood and gore from my stick and my hands, but there were no puddles nearby, and the liquid below was stained red. I didn't cry that time. And a part of me felt that, unlike the last time I punched someone, I did not regret what I did.
Who am I?
*Courtesy of Klaudia: ponczkk.deviantart.com/
Name: Sibyl Doukas
Age: 17
Height: 5'5''
Weight: 54.4 kg.
Eye Color: Slate Grey
Hair Color: Light brown.
Gender: Female
Date of Birth: October 17th, 1907
Place of Birth: Louros, Western Greece
Ethnicity: 75%Greek, 25% Polish
Kin: Greek Father (possibly dead), Polish Mother (possibly dead), Polish Aunt and Uncle (deceased), Greek Aunts and Uncles (Alive?)
Physical Description:
She was born with her father's eyes, but her mother's delicate, light brown hair, and fair skin. It normally reaches to just above her shoulders, but with the absence of any live barbers, it has grown past them. She is short for her ethnicity, and although she was teased by peers in both heritages for this, she relished in the ease with which she could escape them. Naturally nimble with her feet, she was once encouraged by her mother to take up dancing, but was much too shy to perform in front of anyone but her. At present, she is wearing a man's factory trousers and the remains of a dark green blouse. The trousers are somewhat large on her and the blouse is showing signs of wear and tear. She originally went barefoot, but tied some pieces of leather to her feet once the bombs came. Her Uncle on her Mother's side, once a soldier, showed her how to shoot a rifle once; although she could hold the weapon steady enough, she showed no real aptitude for guns. Once, as a child, she became so fed up with a boy who kept pulling her hair that she punched him. Although the boy suffered a broken nose and ran away, her hand hurt because she hadn't thrown the punch correctly. As a result, she's learned the proper way to do it, but hasn't practiced extensively. She is not particularly strong, though she has a death grip akin to a lobster's; if she doesn't want to let go, she will not, short of death. Because her hometown is near the coast, her parents gave her every opportunity to learn how to swim, and she did. In a cinch, she can keep her head above water. Despite this, she cannot hold her breath for very long.
Personality:
Prior to the outbreak, Sibyl was a very shy, but very warm girl. She did well at school, made friends easily and grew up curious about the world outside her native Greece, especially since her parents did their best to avoid talking about her "other" home in Poland. Despite her warmth, when faced with a bully, she was often caught between whether to run away from them, which she was good at, or to fight them. The one time that she retaliated, she had successfully broken the brute's nose, but mangled her right fist in the process. Instead of learning from this to never punch again, she tried to figure out how to punch someone without hurting herself as much, and learned it well. To date, she has only had to punch anyone once. Even though she knew she had a choice, Sibyl tried to avoid fighting back partially because she was afraid of becoming "like" the very people she avoided. This thought, of becoming a "bad" person by defending herself, both confused and perplexed her.
When the world ended, it would've been anyone's guess that she would die, either by succumbing to the undead, or by succumbing to fear. The undead had become to her the (un)living embodiment of what she feared most; a creature that drove the remainder of the human race into selfish, mindless machines driven purely by Id, uncaring for anything but their own interests. Or, perhaps worse, if a creature ever gained a hold of her, she would become one of them.
At first, Sibyl tried to avoid anyone she saw; this was fair enough, because the majority of them were already dead and walking. She did not know what was going on, did not understand why men and women, their bodies torn asunder by falling shrapnel and explosive payloads, continued to walk, and crawl, and at times, even run toward her. And furthermore, she did not want to find out what they wanted.
When that fateful moment came, however, a trait that Sibyl never knew she had showed itself, and just in time to cast the winning vote between fight and flight.
The desire to live.
Medical History:
Although she is relatively healthy for her age, she has a strange allergic reaction to sausage, in particular Polish ones. Her parents are baffled as to why. Since the outbreak, her body has grown leaner and her feet sore, due to a lack of any unspoiled food and no shoes. She has a cut on her left foot which has been hastily bandaged with a torn piece of cloth, and barely a few days ago hurled the contents of her stomach after ingesting canned sausage; the only sustenance she had found in three days. She has a couple bruises on her knees and elbows, as well as marks on her neck from when a looter attempted to strangle her. Her vision and hearing are decent enough to get by.
Classification: Civilian
Sub-Class: Greek
Money: $62.15
Occupation: Student
Personal History:
When the Great War ended, Sibyl's parents were both relieved and disheartened; At the beginning of the war, on Sibyl's seventh birthday, Mr. and Mrs. Doukas made the fateful decision to, as much as possible, not give their daughter any reason to be interested in one-fourth of her non-Greek heritage. Although this was difficult at first for Mrs. Doukas, she agreed that, until the Great War ended, it would be for the best. Ironically, the apparent apathy with which the Doukas' treated Poland and all of Europe only made their daughter grow all the more curious, and they felt no right to stop her from learning about Europe on her own. This was exacerbated by the fact they never explained to Sibyl where her Polish uncle had went off to, other than that he "had gone off to do his job." Sibyl would often write letters to her beloved uncle, innocent of the fact that, although he was receiving the letters, they were most likely being sent to a ditch somewhere along the Polish border.
A few years passed since the Treaty of Versailles, and the Doukas, feeling that the whole of Europe was no longer in danger of annihilation, decided they would visit Mrs. Doukas' family for the first time in many years. Sibyl was ecstatic; her uncle had stopped responding to her letters for a year now, and she was quite anxious to meet him again after such awhile. Not to mention an entire fourth of her racial heritage that she had only known through geography and history books.
Her parents did not know how to tell her that Uncle had been killed in an unrelated shooting. She would figure it out eventually, they supposed, from one of the more loosely lipped family members they had at Warsaw. This thought troubled the two of them, and they determined to tell her themselves before she could learn from her Aunt.
It was an ordinary day in Poland, and Sibyl was left alone in the cottage for once; her mother had gone to the grocers two hours ago, and her father had left three hours ago to see her Aunt. It was only after the third and fourth hours respectively that Sibyl realized that something was wrong.
She sat at a window overlooking rows of similarly built cottages, sipping imported Earl Grey and daydreaming. As she did so, there came a rumbling unlike any she had heard before and she felt like she should recognize it... perhaps a train or locomotive? She continued to peer outside and imagined a large, house shaped train rumbling through the countryside, massive enough to contain a family of six, yet marvelous in its ability to take said family anywhere in the world...
A series of British P.32's flew overhead. Aeroplanes! The first of any kind that Sibyl had seen, outside of a textbook! She watched with envy as each flew over her cottage and... dropped something from their "bellies". But for what reason would they-
The shock of the first shells hitting ground catapulted Sibyl to the floor within seconds, her tea cup smashing onto the ground, her hands covering her ears and her eyes welded shut. She screamed into nothing as the window shattered, unheard among payload after payload of falling death.
The noise ended.
Sibyl, her body curled up into a very tight ball, trembled as she slowly released her hands from her ears, although they still rang. She slowly stood up, cutting her palm on a shard of glass as she tried to get her bearings. She stood slowly, and walked to her cottage door, opening it to survey the carnage. Houses everywhere were aflame, and those that weren't flattened soon ignited the buildings near them. She stared agape at what was once a pristine vista and could contemplate nothing else but "Why?"
Her concentration was only broken by what appeared to be an orange-yellowish humanoid, at first walking toward her, and then shambling as its legs slowly burned away. As her eyes focused on the humanoid, she realized it was a man... on fire.
She ran inside quickly, this time taking care to step over the broken glass and china, and fetched a pitcher of water. Hurrying outside, she went near the man and doused him, extinguishing the flame.
She was not ready for the sight she beheld. Much of it had already been burned away, and where there should have been eyeballs were gaping holes, the retinas and inner veins and flesh already burned away. The entire body was equally charred, although the person's midsection had somehow been disemboweled and wasn't completely burned through. The man's entrails hung out from it, still smoking.
Tears formed in Sibyl's eyes as she tried to force herself not to wretch in disgust.
The figure lurched forward, impossibly so, its legs still somewhat intact despite the burning. Its teeth had survived the fire, and were fully exposed because the skin around it had been burned away. They clacked together rhythmically, up and down. It raised its two "arms," which were now nothing more than two fleshy stubs, and pointed them toward the girl, as if trying to grasp her. It trudged on forward, but its right foot caught on a rock, snapping the remaining piece of tendon holding it together. The creature fell face downward, and tried vainly, almost pitifully, to crawl toward Sibyl with two hand-less arms and a broken leg.
This was the final straw, and if Sibyl had anything of worth to vomit at that point, she may have. She covered her mouth to hold back another scream, but found it no use; her arms were trembling too much. There was little she could do but to turn around and reenter her cottage and to hope that maybe, just maybe, she was still stuck in her daydream and had dozed off, and was in fact in a nightmare, not a dream. A very, very graphic nightmare which made her regret looking through those anatomy books the other day.
The forced entry of three others just like the burning man, albeit not on fire but still very much dead and walking, told her otherwise. They stepped on broken glass and shards of china barefooted and unfeeling. Their mouths were agape and a thick slime poured from it. Their arms were raised forward, very much like they wanted a hug. And Sibyl, who was no stranger to the realm of fiction and fantasy, came to accept what she would later consider a truth and an untruth, though at the time they both seemed true.
1) These were clearly monsters of some kind, and they intended to harm her, most likely in a very painful, very long lasting way.
2) She was going to die.
Perhaps this is why mother and father did not return. Had they become monsters as well? But more importantly, what would, or should, she do?
>Skills:
Classification Skill: Survivorwoman
Mastered Skills: Free Running
Superior Skills: Tinkering
Minor Skills: Martial Arts
>Abilities:
Classification Ability: Courage
Mastered Abilities: Speed
Superior Abilities: Ambition
Minor Abilities: Observation
>Equipment on Person:
- Khaki Factory Worker's Trousers.
- Dark Green Tattered Blouse
- (2x) Improvised sandals (leather)
- Improvised knapsack out of two leather purses, roughly sewn together.
- One pool cue, chipped on the head.
- One small kitchen knife.
- One crowbar.
>In Pack:
- 2 cans tuna fish.
- 3 dinner rolls
- 1/2 roll medical gauze
- 1 bottle semi-purified water
- 3 pieces torn cloth
>In Storage:
- None
>Primary Weapon:
Weapon: N/A
Caliber: N/A
Location on Body: N/A
Modifications: N/A
>Melee Weapon:
Weapon: Pool Cue
Location on Body: Always on hand.
Sample Post:
When I hit that boy in the face, many, many years ago, I felt really bad, because, in the end, all he did to me was pull my hair. And I, angry at him and a little desperate to get away, broke his nose and drew blood. In some ways I regreted what I had done, if not for his injury, but for my hurt hand; one of my fingers had been sprained, and my knuckles hurt. But also, when I thought about it, he didn't really mean to hurt me.
The large, blood and spittle covered man in front of me, however, was a different story.
“Ach, come naw lass, I jest want to haf a wee chat wid ye. Dinnae be afaid..”
We circled the odd, green table in the center of the room, my eyes darting constantly at the door. It was on his side of the room, and there was no way out. Behind me were racks of long sticks which were heavy at one end, and pointed at the other. I had no idea what they were for.
“Ye kno, I had a sweet lil pumpkin' like you once... 'afore the 'hole world went ta' sheet. Just'a wee child like you, lass. I watch 'er grew up... an' I laed her 'ta rest all the same.”
I honestly couldn't tell if the man was one of the dead, or a drunk person. Either way, I couldn't understand his speech, though some of it I recognized as English. For a moment, I wished I had paid better attention in my foreign language courses, but it was obvious that whatever the man wanted, it was nothing I would enjoy.
“'EY! Dinnae dingy me ya wee bint! C'meeer!”
He rushed to the side, and I ran as quickly as I could to the door. As I struggled to undo a bolt, the man pulled me by the hair and threw me on top of the strange green table. It felt soft to the touch, and the lamp above it, though weak, blinded me. He was on top of me now, grunting and licking his lips in a manner I had seen the dead do on occasion. But he was human. I realized there was one other thing he could do to me.
His hands worked quickly despite their calloused frames and he nearly tore my blouse in two. I struggled to writh out of his grasp as he worked on my trousers, and yelled for him to stop, but he answered with grunts which only became more animalistic, a predator delighting in his kill. He covered my mouth with one hand while the other loosened the last of my buckles. Powerless to shove him away, I looked for anything I could use to get him off of me, and my hand wandered to a pocket on the side of the table. Inside, I found a heavy, hard ball, the likes of which I haven't seen before. Just as I felt my trousers give way, I slammed the object as hard as I could muster into the side of the man's face.
The ball made a large red imprint on his face and as he opened his mouth to curse, I saw that his teeth were tainted red. Immediately, he released my mouth and my pants and wrapped them around my throat, his thumbs pressing so deep that I could feel his uncut nails break into my skin. I started losing my vision and I could no longer breathe, and in desperation, I slammed the ball into his face once again.
He released my throat. I lay on the table, gasping for air but never letting go of the ball. I heard the man yell, and as I cautiously leaned up to observe, I noticed that both of his hands were covering his left eye. My ball was crimson with blood and other matter.
“You... you fecking whore! Ma gud eye! You fist'd mah fecking gud eye!”
I got off the table and pulled my blouse together, all the while watching the display. In his thrashing, he knocked over a few bottles of some sort of tonic, the contents of which he then slipped on. He was still between myself and the door, so I did not know how I would escape.
I picked up one of the sticks behind me, and after retrieving my bag and rebuttoning my blouse, I slowly made my way to the door. I finished unlocking the bolt and was about to turn it when I felt the man grab my leg. He yelled inhumanly and pulled me down to my knees, and caught my face with his bloodied left hand. I threw the ball at him again, missed his face, and as he was about to throw another punch, I stabbed him in the face with the pointed part of the stick. It drew no blood, but confused him enough for me to take the heavy part of the stick with both hands and bring it down on his head with all the power I could muster.
I flinched when I heard something crack as the stick made contact. It was a sound very familiar to me, that I had the luck of only hearing once in my life.
The man lurched over. My ball was gone, I started feeling a welt rising on my right cheek, and my stick and hand were covered with blood. I did not know where I was, I was starving, my feet hurt from the constant travel, and all around me there was next to no one alive. No one but this man, who wanted to have his way with me.
I really, really wanted to cry.
I did.
I stood up slowly, checked to see that my clothes and bag were secure, and once again tried the door. As I did so, the man stirred, grumbling in some unknown, drunkard language that I could not understand. He shifted, and looked as if he would rise again, much like the walking dead I had seen before. But he was wheezing; he was still alive, I thought.
I raised the heavy part of the stick above my head, and faced his. I thought I saw his good eye look at me for a moment. I slammed it down, mashing it into his face as drops of blood dirtied my clothes. I did it again, and again, and again...
As I left the room and went up the stairs, I wanted to wash the blood and gore from my stick and my hands, but there were no puddles nearby, and the liquid below was stained red. I didn't cry that time. And a part of me felt that, unlike the last time I punched someone, I did not regret what I did.
Who am I?
*Courtesy of Klaudia: ponczkk.deviantart.com/
