Setting In a Hanimu
If I woke up next to you
[TW: Suicide Attempt]
STATUS: Closed
Memories
It had been a week since Jesse’s life stopped making sense.
Ha. That was putting it lightly, as if he just went through a divorce, or got laid off of his dream job.
No, it was much worse: He came home.
Sherwood was preserved in time. The washed-up brick stores and the hand-painted signs were exactly where he left them fifteen years ago. He passed familiar faces -- perhaps more wrinkled and weathered than he remembered -- but there they were, strolling around the town square, chasing after noisy children who looked just like them. None stopped to greet him -- only gave him weary side-eyed looks reserved for outsiders.
Outsiders. Huh. He supposed he was no longer one of them now.
Jesse continued on to the outskirts of the town, through unmarked dirt roads and tall wheat fields, stopping only once he found himself face to face with the charming, blue house at the edge of the woods. He knocked on the door.
‘Hey, dad,’ he would say to his old man. ‘Sorry it took me so long.’ His dad would nod. He would try tp keep his voice from breaking. They would enjoy a bottle of whiskey as they sat in the front porch.
That was the plan, wasn’t it?
The door opened. He was instead greeted by an unfamiliar old woman.
‘Oh, hello.’
‘Hello, young man. How can I help you?’
‘Does Jude Warren live here?’
‘Oh, Jude?’ The woman’s gaze fell to the ground. Her sweet smile did nothing for his nerves. ‘He … I’m sorry to say, honey, but he passed away ten years ago.’
So much for the plan.
He spent the rest of the day with his back against a moss-laden tombstone, relishing in the sensation of Jack Daniel’s burning down his throat. No use wasting perfectly good alcohol, right?
As the sun bid its farewell, he stood up, knees wobbling, finally getting bored of his own pity party. A step or two later, he lost his balance, crashing onto grave next to his father’s. He nursed his throbbing head, blinking slowly as his eyes struggled to correct his double vision. The tombstone in front of him looked just as decrepit as his father’s, though it wasn’t too hard to read the inscription etched upon the granite.
Morning came sooner than he liked. The contents of the half-finished liquor bottle had spilled unto the ground. The stench of his own breath made him want to throw up. The words on the tombstone didn’t change no matter how many times he blinked.
He spent the next few days dialling numbers, and rifling through newspaper archives. The boy named Jesse Warren ran away at fourteen, trading the humble country life for the allure of the big city. Within six months, he was in deep with one of the local gangs, but Jesse didn’t need The Lochburn Herald to tell him all that.
What he didn’t remember was the fallout; the sting operation that led to his friends’ arrest, to their deaths. He didn't, couldn't, remember the survivor’s guilt that consumed every waking moment of the boy named Jesse Warren. There was no recollection of the inevitable end he met as he crashed down the slab of concrete outside his old apartment. Apparently, his old man had even identified his broken remains, had buried his own son.
It didn’t make sense. His life didn’t make sense. Not anymore.
And so Jesse Warren simply continued his unplanned pilgrimage, retracing the steps of a self he didn't remember. Sherfield was done. Lochburn was next.
His old apartment had since become condemned by the city, abandoned ever since faulty wiring burned the first three storeys five years ago. Nevertheless, Jesse easily found his way to the rooftop through the fire escape.
Remember, remember, the twelfth of November...
He looked over the edge, down at the empty streets of the dreary city, savouring a long drag from his cigarette.
One step. Simple enough. It wasn’t like anyone would notice, right? For all intents and purposes, he was already dead.
Just one step. Jesse closed his eyes.
Something pulled him back, tackling him to the ground.
You were on top of him, seizing his shoulders, keeping him under your hold, in case he tried to resist. He never did -- only stared at you for at least a second too long, torn between thanking you, and telling you to fuck off. The lit cigarette had rolled off to your side. What a waste of a perfectly good smoke.
‘Jesse,’ he said, forcing his lips to quirk up. ‘What’s your name?’
You fell silent for a moment, and that was when it hit you: You had no idea. Your name, your age, your memories: Nothing came up but blank spaces.
Your life, too, made the least bit of sense.
EXPECTATIONS
STATUS: Closed
Memories
It had been a week since Jesse’s life stopped making sense.
Ha. That was putting it lightly, as if he just went through a divorce, or got laid off of his dream job.
No, it was much worse: He came home.
Sherwood was preserved in time. The washed-up brick stores and the hand-painted signs were exactly where he left them fifteen years ago. He passed familiar faces -- perhaps more wrinkled and weathered than he remembered -- but there they were, strolling around the town square, chasing after noisy children who looked just like them. None stopped to greet him -- only gave him weary side-eyed looks reserved for outsiders.
Outsiders. Huh. He supposed he was no longer one of them now.
Jesse continued on to the outskirts of the town, through unmarked dirt roads and tall wheat fields, stopping only once he found himself face to face with the charming, blue house at the edge of the woods. He knocked on the door.
‘Hey, dad,’ he would say to his old man. ‘Sorry it took me so long.’ His dad would nod. He would try tp keep his voice from breaking. They would enjoy a bottle of whiskey as they sat in the front porch.
That was the plan, wasn’t it?
The door opened. He was instead greeted by an unfamiliar old woman.
‘Oh, hello.’
‘Hello, young man. How can I help you?’
‘Does Jude Warren live here?’
‘Oh, Jude?’ The woman’s gaze fell to the ground. Her sweet smile did nothing for his nerves. ‘He … I’m sorry to say, honey, but he passed away ten years ago.’
So much for the plan.
He spent the rest of the day with his back against a moss-laden tombstone, relishing in the sensation of Jack Daniel’s burning down his throat. No use wasting perfectly good alcohol, right?
As the sun bid its farewell, he stood up, knees wobbling, finally getting bored of his own pity party. A step or two later, he lost his balance, crashing onto grave next to his father’s. He nursed his throbbing head, blinking slowly as his eyes struggled to correct his double vision. The tombstone in front of him looked just as decrepit as his father’s, though it wasn’t too hard to read the inscription etched upon the granite.
In Loving Memory
Jesse Slade Warren
8 January 1987 - 12 November 2002
Beloved Son of Jude and Lily
It was probably the whiskey. It must have been. In his drunken stupor, Jesse only closed his eyes, hoping that by the time sunrise pried them back open, the writing would make more sense.Jesse Slade Warren
8 January 1987 - 12 November 2002
Beloved Son of Jude and Lily
Morning came sooner than he liked. The contents of the half-finished liquor bottle had spilled unto the ground. The stench of his own breath made him want to throw up. The words on the tombstone didn’t change no matter how many times he blinked.
He spent the next few days dialling numbers, and rifling through newspaper archives. The boy named Jesse Warren ran away at fourteen, trading the humble country life for the allure of the big city. Within six months, he was in deep with one of the local gangs, but Jesse didn’t need The Lochburn Herald to tell him all that.
What he didn’t remember was the fallout; the sting operation that led to his friends’ arrest, to their deaths. He didn't, couldn't, remember the survivor’s guilt that consumed every waking moment of the boy named Jesse Warren. There was no recollection of the inevitable end he met as he crashed down the slab of concrete outside his old apartment. Apparently, his old man had even identified his broken remains, had buried his own son.
It didn’t make sense. His life didn’t make sense. Not anymore.
And so Jesse Warren simply continued his unplanned pilgrimage, retracing the steps of a self he didn't remember. Sherfield was done. Lochburn was next.
His old apartment had since become condemned by the city, abandoned ever since faulty wiring burned the first three storeys five years ago. Nevertheless, Jesse easily found his way to the rooftop through the fire escape.
Remember, remember, the twelfth of November...
He looked over the edge, down at the empty streets of the dreary city, savouring a long drag from his cigarette.
One step. Simple enough. It wasn’t like anyone would notice, right? For all intents and purposes, he was already dead.
Just one step. Jesse closed his eyes.
Something pulled him back, tackling him to the ground.
You were on top of him, seizing his shoulders, keeping him under your hold, in case he tried to resist. He never did -- only stared at you for at least a second too long, torn between thanking you, and telling you to fuck off. The lit cigarette had rolled off to your side. What a waste of a perfectly good smoke.
‘Jesse,’ he said, forcing his lips to quirk up. ‘What’s your name?’
You fell silent for a moment, and that was when it hit you: You had no idea. Your name, your age, your memories: Nothing came up but blank spaces.
Your life, too, made the least bit of sense.
EXPECTATIONS
- ACTIVITY: Once a week would be great. Let me know if you’ll be away. I’ll provide the same courtesy.
- WORD COUNT: None required. Just give me something to work with. As you can see above, my posts are typically on the lengthier side. I don’t expect you to mirror.
- PM or Thread only. You can add me on Discord for OOC if you want.
- CHARACTER SHEETS: Hate them. Sorry. Just … no.
- ROMANCE: Not required. Slow burn better than instant sexy times.
- DARK/MATURE THEMES: Drugs/alcohol/violence/mental health issues okay. Must fade-to-black (as per site rules). If you have any triggers, let me know in advance.
- OOC: Love it, but like, we don’t have to be baking each other pies or something all the time (just Tuesdays are fine). No pressure there. I love to plot, or just shoot the shit or whatever.
- DOUBLING: Not required. If you don’t want to play side characters/contribute to world-building, that’s fine. It’s not for everyone. Just let me know in advance, so I know how much control I should exert over the plot.
- Please don’t make OP characters. I can’t stress this enough. They make me very, very sad. Please don’t make me sad.
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