Campaign of the Month: October 2017

Blood and Bourbon

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Story Three, Emmett IV

“I don’t wanna die. I don’t wanna die.”
—Courtney


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Day ? Month ? Year?

GM: Pain. It surges through bone and blood—and beyond.

The darkness looms.

Licks its lips.

Spits.

Or maybe it just shits.

The smell stabbing up Em’s nostrils is revolting. Like rotted food, soiled diapers, and sweat-drenched clothes. His surroundings clink and crinkle as he moves.

Emmett: “Hello?” he croaks. “Please.” His defiance is gone, wasted on whatever sick fever dream that was.

“Water?” he rasps. Asking would mean thinking; thinking doesn’t enter into it. He does not ask, or want, or need. He is just thirst, and pounding head, and regret.

GM: No one answers Emmett. No one he can hear. If he can still hear. No one he can see. If he can still see. There is only smell. And sensation.

Thirst. Hunger. Hangover. Vomit. Cuts. Bruises. Lacerations. Aches. Trying to describe them all is futile at this point. He just hurts.

Everywhere.

Inside and out.

Everywhere but his legs.

Emmett: No. I’m going to do so much worse. No.

Em slides his hand below his waist.

GM: Em feels a ragged, wet, crusted-over mass of ravaged quivering meat underneath his hand. Each moment of touch sends further shivers of pain up his arm. Where his thighs should be.

Past that is nothing.

Emmett: Em’s back arches, and he gasps for breath. If he has the water to spare, his eyes burn with tears. He’ll only realize later that he’s laughing, though it sounds much the same as a scream.

GM: The manic noise echoes and rattles like he’s trapped inside his own skull. There’s a sound in the distance. Thump. Thump. Closer. Not thumps. Softer. A sharp tap, from above Emmett’s head.

Emmett: Mom…

“…my?”

GM: Pain. It floods Emmett’s eyes, blasting his vision into a bright hellscape. Absolute dark is supplanted by absolute white.

“What the-”

A pause.

“OH SWEET JESU-”

Light recedes back into pitch black. Something wet hits something hard.

Emmett: Em doesn’t know much, anymore. He’s past thinking. Past wanting, even, except for the want of the last day to vanish, to drown like an abort in a toilet, to sink and flush and die. But he feels the fainting spell coming, sure enough.

“Wait—”


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