Visitor for Christmas

I should have posted this a few days ago, but I decided it was probably in my best interest to go dark for the holiday if I didn't want outside interference. As I've mentioned before, I'm a sucker for a good Christmas, even one in such a bizarre scenario as my host, myself, and Picasso.

Moth, you don't have to worry, she's been here the whole time. Sunday afternoon I was in the park in town, trying to raise money for when I leave Hope again and need to pay for my own food. I wasn't having much luck, everyone was a bit busy to want to head in to the park but I wasn't allowed on the main street because of local rules.

Out of nowhere, Picasso appeared, presumably popping out of the Path by the look of it, clutching a puppy and a broom handle. She looked like she'd been through a meat grinder or something, from how badly she was torn up. The puppy was in much better shape, and seemed pretty happy in her arms.

"Merry Christmas" She told me with a grin, holding out the dog for me to take.

I took the dog, staring at her. "You came here just to give me a Christmas present?"

She nodded and handed me the broom handle too. "I am Slendyclaws! Blood soaked tidings are here."

"You're really serious about this making friends thing, aren't you?" I asked, taking it and noticing she'd carved the word 'friend' into the wood.


"That's what I keep telling myself."

"Well, thank you, I guess. Where'd you get him?" I reached out to tentatively pet the puppy.

"Shelter," she told me, sitting down and pulling out a sewing kit. "He was gonna get the ax " She then started stitching herself up with a grimace

I paused for a long moment. "Do you want help with that?"

"Sure."

"What happened, and what can I do?"

"There are bleeding holes in me that must be closed" She handed me another needle, already threaded and ready.

I took it, swallowing hard. I know how to sew, I decided it couldn't be too different. As long as I could ignore the blood.


She waited a moment to see that I was doing alright, then continued. "Monsters in the Path... angry. They can hear the screaming. They use it to find me."

"I didn't realize there were monsters in there. I thought it was supposed to just fry your brain, not attack you."

"Different monsters. TWISTED FREAKS! Twisted shapes of man!"

 "Ugh. Why use it, then?"

 "Faster... Took me an hour to get here from florida."

"I dunno that fast travel is worth getting mauled."

"Not with that attitude it isn't"

I laughed a little. "I guess not."

We talked while we stitched her up, talking about a lot of things that don't really matter. She was in even worse shape than I'd first realized, and so I decided I wouldn't leave her alone. She couldn't survive the Path in her current shape, and I didn't like the thought of leaving her on the street after she'd come all this way just for me. So I took her back to Hope, where our host was a lot less irritated than I'd expected.

She's been here since, and it's surprisingly peaceful (So long as I keep her distracted from thinking about Duckie). I'm not sure when she's leaving, but I'll be glad for her company as long as she stays. Who says people can't change?

Anticlimax

Despite people fussing and ominous associations, the world didn't end, we're all still here, and nothing has really changed. Can we go back to worrying about things that actually matter?

Relocated

So it looks like I'm not going to be spending my holiday on the street after all, though whether or not this is an improvement is something I'm not clear on yet. For the moment, I've got a bed and solid meals for the first time in years. I'm half expecting to be murdered in my sleep, because it feels much too good to be true.

About a week and a half ago I was at the little cafe again, trying to catch up on blogs and maybe write a new post, when a very posh looking British man approached my table. He said we had 'things' in common, and that I should come with him, because he wanted to help me. I was not convinced, and not buying it-whether he was a pervert or a murderer or a proxy, I didn't want anything to do with him.

He ended up conveying some of his meaning by doodling one of those symbols on a napkin and telling me that he was on the side of the runners.

Fourty five minutes or so of heated discussion, none of which I can put up here for various reasons, I found myself in a car with him, going to what he claims is the remains of Hope. It's certainly fortified well enough, though it is perhaps suspiciously not destroyed.

My host is... apparently an old friend of the old owner of this place. He's asked me not to reveal what he claims his identity is, and for now I figure it's best to not cause problems. In any event, it's nice to have a bed.

Tis the Season

I used to love this time of year, before I hit the streets. Back when I had a family and a job and my education meant something. My dad went crazy with the decorating and the lights and the dinner that was so large it took a week to polish off the leftovers. We didn't always have a lot of money for presents when I was a kid, but he always made sure that the few I got really meant something. The rest of the family kept trying to win me over with dolls and pretty dresses and other 'girly' things, but Dad always knew better. Sometimes I did get a doll or a stuffed animal or a dress, but only when they were things I actually wanted. He never had to ask me either, he just knew.

I always made him something from scratch in return-handmade paper ornaments and cards as a little kid, then cookies or a painting or a handmade shirt when I got old enough to make useful things. He kept all of them, and those horrible ornaments coated in glitter still held a place of honor on the tree every year up until he died.

It's never really felt like Christmas since. But it's still nice to hear the music everywhere. I just wish this wasn't going to be another Christmas alone on the street.

Just Keep Running

I'm a little surprised at the sheer number of people I've found that are on the monster's side. I was under the impression that people like that who could blog were uncommon. It feels as though the opposite is true. I'm not sure if that's because runners have been weeded out, or if it's because they've abandoned blogging as too dangerous, like I almost did.

Either way, it's surprisingly lonely to only find such a few. I had hoped to find a grand community like the older bloggers had. In all my reading, it had appeared that runners had come together, had made this place their own, and were standing strong.

Imagine my disappointment to discover that one by one, they fell. The only hint of what came before is one solitary blogger left to remember and keep fighting, because it's all he can do now.

I have offered my help to a kid stuck in a tree, but the odds are high that we're too far apart for the offer to do any good. I probably shouldn't have, it's a big risk and likely to be a trap. I'm just tired of being alone.

I am back in a city for a while. There's plenty of tall buildings here (and lots of hills to help with the elevation), and it's warm enough to allow me to avoid shelters for the time being. I needed to replenish my funds anyway, this seems as good a place as any to do it.