« Reply #2 on: December 05, 2020, 09:50:55 AM »
5th of December
If I had the choice, would I still be born as des Ayvelles?
The life I had was safe. Comfortable. There were no expectations on my shoulders, nobody to please, and the emptiness of my existence was strangely… comforting. There is no shame in mediocrity - just look at the good society of Dementlieu. So many of them were elevated where they are solely thanks to their connections, nothing more than a parade of fools… What would happen if all of it was suddenly taken away?
I can tell you what - they would be devoured. Lambs fattened by blood and sweat, now left alone among the wolves. Who would I be in this scenario? A lamb? Or perhaps… perhaps one of the wolves. In the past life I would be more assured in my answer, but these days I can barely even recognize myself.
Is that what adulthood is?
All of this could be blamed on Adrian. Poor old Adrian, with his honor and duty, shame and regrets. Strangely enough, I look to this man up more than to my own father. Can you imagine? Admiring a highwayman more than a respectable knight! Ridiculous... yet all Donatien des Ayvelles taught me was contempt and anger. Now his teachings are holding me back, and I desire to be free of them... Free of everything.
Last night nightmares woke me up again - it’s a miracle the owner won’t kick me out, considering the number of times I disturbed other guests by screaming. This time it wasn’t just a pair of hands trying to squeeze the life out of me - it was thousands of hands, tugging at my limbs, tearing into my flesh. I was being pulled apart and I had no idea why.
Why, why, why?
Why can’t I sleep? Why is my mind so hellbent on punishing me? Have I not suffered enough, with all the filth running in my veins? What does it want me to do?
I considered suicide countless times already, and every sleepless night pushes me more towards it. Only the thought of the wrongs I need to right is what keeps the rope away from my neck. If not for that… I don't know. Do I even have it in me to die?
The time I spent in Barovia was brief, but it came to an end. The hounds are hot on my heels, I can feel it. Too many people saw me already, too many remember my face.
I’m sorry, Adrian.
Sickness of mind is the rot that toils the soul.
- Augustus Bataille, Poèmes Recueillis.
« Last Edit: December 05, 2020, 07:59:34 PM by GothicProtagonist »
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