III. Companions
Feb 16, 2021 22:47:54 GMT -6
Punished Von Brandt, Remy Nakamura, and 1 more like this
Post by Robbie Hope on Feb 16, 2021 22:47:54 GMT -6
I had forgotten their names. I know they arrived to me with identities, but I stripped them of those identities, leaving them without a purpose beyond servitude. Beyond sacrifice. I wanted them to have ultimate dependence upon me. Of course, they were given more responsibilities than just absorbing torture, or following my commands. I needed them for reasons beyond ensuring I win matches. On a night like this, where the world faces an immense set of challenges far beyond our experiences, I look at my Pets and I am gracious for their companionship.
Today is Fat Tuesday.
I wish I was back in New Orleans right now, celebrating it. I wish I could hear all of the soaring sounds of trumpets and guitars and French horns and drum-kits. Watching the crowds of people all coalesce into a tapestry of bright colors and uplifting energy, a spirituality and sensation unlike any other. A true moment that people can look beyond their differences and care for one another.
That’s the ideal.
That’s the memory.
But that’s the false pretense.
That’s the fairy tale.
The truth is that the pandemic left us in devastation long ago. The very first, that initial shutdown changed everything. And now, after 300,000 deaths, we find ourselves right back where we began: oblivious, and scared, and overwhelmed. Locked in our bathroom-sized apartments. But now, we have an added complication. We have been blanketed in a once-in-a-generation snow storm. Not only is the city of Las Vegas keeping us within it’s borders, but we have to worry about infectious disease, and now? Freezing to death.
Alone.
But I’m not.
Not yet.
The Pet places a log on the fire, poking at it with metal rod. He watches the wood splinter, little bolts of fire dancing with the air. He watches cold breath escape from the nose and mouth of Onyx, the colorful pigment in her face becoming more and more ghost-like and translucent by the second. The heat starts to swarm, spreading throughout the small room and engulfing Onyx, who has resisted covering herself in winter clothes.
She looks behind her and finds her Other Pet pouring glasses of bourbon, neat. That would certainly warm her insides. He moves towards Onyx, who has already taken a seat by the fire next to Pet. His eyes seek reassurance. “You can sit,” Onyx says softly. The two of them sit on either end of Onyx, and she hooks each of their arms into her own, taking a sip of her drink and enjoying the warmth of the fire.
“Thank you for protecting me,” Onyx says, and the Pets simply nod their head, graciously and with a sense of pride. After enduring so much torment and ridicule, she was finally showing that she appreciated them.
“I want to take a walk.”
I blame the Viking-cosplaying neckbeards. I think they’re the ones who brought this winter apocalypse. There’s really no other explanation. We have the scorching summers and the brutalizing winters. Three months ago, I couldn’t step outside without melting. Today? I can’t step outside with seeing my breath.
Onyx walks with her hands behind her back, gripping the hoop of the shackle. It’s attached to the Pets wrists as they follow along, the three walking down the deserted side street near the Las Vegas strip. They can see the lights, but the streets are otherwise empty. It’s complete silence… even on Fat Tuesday.
It’s easy to feel empty, and to feel alone. I mean, look around us. This is supposed to be a place of celebration. A place of joy and laughter, success and freedom. But it’s no place for a hero. It’s no palace for a king.
They are now standing in front of the front entrance of the Ceasar’s Palace. Much to everyone’s surprise, it appears completely deserted. Onyx leads her two beasts to either side of her. Still manacled, they sideeye Onyx, still maintaining their desire for her approval. Even when she’s acting so sweetly, they have a feeling that they should know better. That this is a manipulation tactic. The worst thing they would want is to ascribe to Stockholm Syndrome, where they are continually abused but still seek the approval of their abuser. At least, in another life -- but this is this life.
“Alex…” Onyx said, softly. “And Yuri…” she continued, drawing looks of surprise on their faces. “I’m sorry for everything. I really have to do this. I feel like we’ve gone too long. I’ve put you both through too much,” she says. “As much as it pains me to do this… I release you. I love you, but I don’t need you anymore.”
Onyx slides the key into the shackle and unhooks her men, Alex and Yuri, from their manacles. Like wounded animals being released into the wild, Onyx watches them walk off, slowly and carefully, disappearing into the street. She wipes a tear from her eye, knowing that she has to go at it alone.
Onyx awoke, her skin stuck to the bedsheets from perspiration and tears. She looked at the alarm clock, which was sitting next to an open window. Standing up and moving to the curtain, she looked outside, expecting to see the white snow covering the ground.
This was Vegas.
It’s 50 degrees.
There was no snow.
Instead, the locals were celebrating Fat Tuesday.
And in the cots behind her, her Pets rested in slumber.
Once again, she couldn’t remember their names.
Today is Fat Tuesday.
I wish I was back in New Orleans right now, celebrating it. I wish I could hear all of the soaring sounds of trumpets and guitars and French horns and drum-kits. Watching the crowds of people all coalesce into a tapestry of bright colors and uplifting energy, a spirituality and sensation unlike any other. A true moment that people can look beyond their differences and care for one another.
That’s the ideal.
That’s the memory.
But that’s the false pretense.
That’s the fairy tale.
The truth is that the pandemic left us in devastation long ago. The very first, that initial shutdown changed everything. And now, after 300,000 deaths, we find ourselves right back where we began: oblivious, and scared, and overwhelmed. Locked in our bathroom-sized apartments. But now, we have an added complication. We have been blanketed in a once-in-a-generation snow storm. Not only is the city of Las Vegas keeping us within it’s borders, but we have to worry about infectious disease, and now? Freezing to death.
Alone.
But I’m not.
Not yet.
The Pet places a log on the fire, poking at it with metal rod. He watches the wood splinter, little bolts of fire dancing with the air. He watches cold breath escape from the nose and mouth of Onyx, the colorful pigment in her face becoming more and more ghost-like and translucent by the second. The heat starts to swarm, spreading throughout the small room and engulfing Onyx, who has resisted covering herself in winter clothes.
She looks behind her and finds her Other Pet pouring glasses of bourbon, neat. That would certainly warm her insides. He moves towards Onyx, who has already taken a seat by the fire next to Pet. His eyes seek reassurance. “You can sit,” Onyx says softly. The two of them sit on either end of Onyx, and she hooks each of their arms into her own, taking a sip of her drink and enjoying the warmth of the fire.
“Thank you for protecting me,” Onyx says, and the Pets simply nod their head, graciously and with a sense of pride. After enduring so much torment and ridicule, she was finally showing that she appreciated them.
“I want to take a walk.”
I blame the Viking-cosplaying neckbeards. I think they’re the ones who brought this winter apocalypse. There’s really no other explanation. We have the scorching summers and the brutalizing winters. Three months ago, I couldn’t step outside without melting. Today? I can’t step outside with seeing my breath.
Onyx walks with her hands behind her back, gripping the hoop of the shackle. It’s attached to the Pets wrists as they follow along, the three walking down the deserted side street near the Las Vegas strip. They can see the lights, but the streets are otherwise empty. It’s complete silence… even on Fat Tuesday.
It’s easy to feel empty, and to feel alone. I mean, look around us. This is supposed to be a place of celebration. A place of joy and laughter, success and freedom. But it’s no place for a hero. It’s no palace for a king.
They are now standing in front of the front entrance of the Ceasar’s Palace. Much to everyone’s surprise, it appears completely deserted. Onyx leads her two beasts to either side of her. Still manacled, they sideeye Onyx, still maintaining their desire for her approval. Even when she’s acting so sweetly, they have a feeling that they should know better. That this is a manipulation tactic. The worst thing they would want is to ascribe to Stockholm Syndrome, where they are continually abused but still seek the approval of their abuser. At least, in another life -- but this is this life.
“Alex…” Onyx said, softly. “And Yuri…” she continued, drawing looks of surprise on their faces. “I’m sorry for everything. I really have to do this. I feel like we’ve gone too long. I’ve put you both through too much,” she says. “As much as it pains me to do this… I release you. I love you, but I don’t need you anymore.”
Onyx slides the key into the shackle and unhooks her men, Alex and Yuri, from their manacles. Like wounded animals being released into the wild, Onyx watches them walk off, slowly and carefully, disappearing into the street. She wipes a tear from her eye, knowing that she has to go at it alone.
Onyx awoke, her skin stuck to the bedsheets from perspiration and tears. She looked at the alarm clock, which was sitting next to an open window. Standing up and moving to the curtain, she looked outside, expecting to see the white snow covering the ground.
This was Vegas.
It’s 50 degrees.
There was no snow.
Instead, the locals were celebrating Fat Tuesday.
And in the cots behind her, her Pets rested in slumber.
Once again, she couldn’t remember their names.