Wide eyes look around, searching out one person. Where is she? The screams and yelling are deafening, only shadows in comparison to the ringing in her ears, to the explosions and gunfire.
A voice, then, calling out her name! But there's the tent! Cassandra.. Need to get to...
Olivia opens her eyes, offering a few blinks. The ruined building she had been sleeping in offers a lone creak, likely the aged wood settling in.
Coming to her feet, she opens the door, hardly on it's hinges at this point.
Soon enough... She's on her lonesome, again, only paper and pen for company.
These feelings of doubt... Reverberating around me like heavy metal. As if I'm stuck inside of a cage, doomed to be here for all of eternity.
I fantasize about leaving, sometimes. Fantasize about taking my own life, fantasize about atoning. The things we've done... No, the things I've done... Are they too much to come back from?
I'm unsure if I'm 'Whisper,' or Olivia, at this point. I should know these things. I should. I shouldIshouldIshouldIshould. Hospitals empty. Buildings empty. Snow. Cold. Coldcoldcold.
If I can't be 'Whisper,' and I can't be Olivia... I will be Mercy. Vengeance and reckoning. A bullet to the head is all the mercy I've seen given. Perhaps I should take notes?
I hardly remember her face, the way it was. Brunette hair, soft, supple cheeks... That single freckle.
Lithe arms turned the rifle, hazel eye peering through the scope. The rock face itself that she laid upon crumbled slightly, a few kicks and stones coming crashing down. Keeping the rifle in a deployed position, courtesy of the bi-pod underneath, Olivia withdraws the journal from her pack, setting it under her. It takes her a few, long moments of eternity to decide on her emotions and thoughts.
I suppose... Perhaps it was always going to come to this. We... No, I couldn't continue living for a better tomorrow. No. Now... Now I'm here and alive and surviving for another today. Yes, another today. Another day of living. Cowardice
God forgive me, forgive us, your children. Take my
Started with 50... Then 37... Twenty... Need more.
Strange how the rifle feels more at-home in my hands than any kind of surgical tool ever did. Even stranger how I'm actually good at it. Papa... Thank you. Gave me the tools to survive without even knowing. The resolve. The confidence.
The entry is left unsigned and ended, shortly after. Shaky hands close it up, putting it away. And in that moment... Was she 'Whisper,' operator, killer and researcher? Or was she Olivia, doctor, friend, lover, daughter?
The daily routine took its course once more, new to body and mind. Wake up, eyes to the ceiling, dim light shining in through the windows. Or was that the light above her? The shirt goes on first, pale, pink scars needing to be concealed from any prying eyes. Then the denim jeans, ripped fabric stretching evenly across her skin yet still crinkling in some areas. Soon enough, the rest are on, including the wrist-tablet. It chimes diligently, ready to do it's job at the flick of a finger. Out and onto the battlements and the woman is sitting on a low wall, legs dangling dangerously over the water and the rocks below. The pocket recorder clicks on, the voice coming through sounding unsure and as if she's sounding every bit as pained and confused. Harsh, snapping croaks, closer to a whisper than anything else.
"Oli-... I'm here, again. Another day and night has passed and I am... I am still alive."
"Unsure of what's happening, of who I am, anymore. Is this my truest self? My best self? I always thought that what I was, what I STILL am, WAS the best that I could become. Perhaps it still holds up. Perhaps I'm doomed to look through an eternity of this life. Whether that's with my own eyes, or through the sight of a loaded weapon... I am unsure. I wonder if my father felt this way, in the war, doomed to follow orders and shoot on command, much as I am. Perhaps I'll ask Murmur if he feels this way as well."
"Whisper... For a better tomorrow."
The click in the otherwise still air signifies the end of one ritual, and the beginning of another. The clinking of the plastic in her vest pouch and the overwhelming NEED to taste joy at long last. Within a second's notice, the vest is nearly destroyed in pursuit of this happiness. Twist, pull... Life enters her mouth in the color of white. One memory... Two memories... Three, four... A sigh escapes her as she retraces her steps, heading off to explore the day.
A flash of black, ebony hair crosses her sleep-filled vision. Warmth, happiness, as the woman turns away towards the window, musical laughter escaping in a quiet exhale as lithe arms wrap around her from behind. A mutual sharing of closed eyes, of lips against her cheek. Her eyes creep open to the grey, twisted and mangled fleshy mass that she had been pressing a kiss to. Strands of brunette hair cross her vision yet again, though this time laying in what seems like an eternity of crimson darkness. And the eyes turning back to look at her, skin loosely secured between gnashing teeth? Her own. And just like that, Olivia awakes in a cold, shaking sweat, heavy breaths falling from her like landslides.
A cassette tape, worn and near-entirely covered in duct tape, falls free from the pages of the Doctor's memoirs, wherever they may be found. A woman's voice, likely Olivia's based on the accent, cuts in. A few, wretched, sobs can be heard.
"I can't... I can-... FUCK! My Cassandra, my... My poor, poor love... And... No. Okayokayokay... It'll be fine, Olivia, just a dream."
A sound of pain, anguish and torment can be heard as Olivia lets out a wild scream, likely waking the rest of the camp and whatever patients there may be.
"I failed you. I failed them all. I can't... I don't think I can do this. Not alone. Not without you. Not without my father, not without my friends... Not without the pills. The city is empty. Perhaps they all are. Perhaps these are the last ones? Just need... One more... To feel better. Headaches, yes. Headaches. Aches and pains and torments and the demons that come for me in my dreams. I'll be purified. Cassandra will understand. John will understand. Mum? Papa? I'm sorry."
Something overtook her, then, ebony hair fading into the darkness of pain, of sleep that worsened the hope of seeing the next day. A small, hand-drawn picture could be seen on the bottom of the empty page, where the cassette had been stored.
I "Zelith" (Olivia Watson) agree that while I am playing in the Potius Cras group CP, I waive my right to report anyone for KOS or attempted KOS on me under any circumstances. All kills on my character will be valid so long as my character is in the Potius Cras CP no matter how the character death came about. So long as I am playing a Potius Cras character that is working for / with the organization, or my forum name is on the group CP on the forums, I waive my right to report any KOS or attempted KOS on my character.(edited)
Olivia made another pass through the makeshift hospice, filling in minor and major details on a clipboard. A quirked eyebrow here, or a false smile there kept her almost normal to most people. Fear could be hidden. Quite easily, really. Heading back inside her own tent, she let out a sigh, crimson-stained hands running through blonde locks, staining them with a day's work. Soon enough, her journal comes out.
I suppose... I never said sorry. Not really, at the very least. Then again, I feel as if I'm stuck in space and time, doomed to repeat this life over and over, again.
What we're doing here... It reminds me of home. Of Cassandra. Of John. How we used to fly, all of us. I wonder if I'd even be recognized after all of these years.
'Leave it in the past, the future is all we have,' they'd tell me during the meetings. I'm still unsure of how one should be able to get the images out of their head, the memories and the hurt. Is it bad to just want to feel good for, at the very least, a single day? Perhaps I just don't want to let go, or don't know how. Perhaps I'm yet another 'good,' person who has succumbed to the evils and demons of this world. Though... I've come to realize that the demons are not the dead, no, but my own fears. My own, personal, needs and wants. Sometimes I think I can even understand them.
The pills are beginning to get harder and harder to find... Might have to try something else. Anything else, to get the pain to go away. The patients need it. Morphine for the good-bye call, sending them away to rest. Valium to come back down, to calm the senses. Oxy to...
My love... To this day, I still want to imagine you the way you were, before all of this. Young, intelligent, the lines across your eyes and in your soul nonexistent and erasable. The way you filled my heart to the brim, ready to spill out. Not... Not the way they left you.
Fingering the near-tattered paramedic clothing she was accustomed to, she stared down at the pages, not being able to make much sense of her own ramblings at the very second. Was she, indeed, beginning to go a bit insane? Perhaps her separating of herself from others had had something to do with it. Almost as if in some form of holy answer, a shot rang out, then two, outside the walls. The guards seemed to be calling orders. Pen clattering on the small desk, followed by the pages of the journal, she stormed out from the tent.