One x One abandon hope, all ye who enter here . . . [cs / lore]

[heartstringss]

Hannah’s mother died when she was thirteen, at which point her father fell into a deep depression and lost his job when he stopped showing up for work. The family home had already been cluttered to begin with, but as her father’s depression worsened so too did his environment around him. Chores were more and more often left unfinished, and soon enough the house fell into major disrepair. It was around this same time that a hoarding problem became more present, as entire rooms were quickly becoming overwhelmed with a wide assortment of collected memorabilia to remind her father of a better time—a time when his wife, god rest her soul, had still been alive and well.

Hannah’s brother entered adulthood soon after and joined the military as a means to get out of the home, unfortunately leaving Hannah to fend for herself amongst the chaos that had devolved out of her father’s newly worsened state. It was a few more years before she was eventually able to get out from under the thumb of the house herself, long after she had graduated high school and her father had begun to work again. She went straight into the workforce instead of pursuing college, an option that frankly never seemed obtainable regardless of the chaos. Save for those first 13 years of promise before her mother's death, it would seem Hannah's entire life had now led up to this:

At present, Hannah is 26 years old and has just received news that her father passed away. With still no word from her brother, it would appear she has inherited all her family’s problems to herself; problems which consisted of several thousand dollars of her parents shared medical debt, a whole slew of angry family, friends, and neighbors who had loaned her father money and then never been repaid, and a home which still remained a danger to itself.

Before her life began to spiral out of control with her mother’s death, Hannah lived a mostly “normal” childhood… or at least it felt more normal by her standards in that she remembers going to school and mostly coming home with good grades, had both parents and her brother still alive to tell her that they loved her and share dinner every night, and she didn’t wake up half the time covered in sweat with no explanation why her hands were shaking or her eyes were crying like she so often seemed to now.

Once upon a time, she’d even had a few good friends—people she could knowingly trust and lean on when the going in her life had just started to get tough. By Hannah’s recollection, all that promise in her life shriveled up with the events that unfolded shortly after the time of her mother’s sudden death, but in reality… In reality, it was actually a number of years beforehand that the strangeness in her life began.

When she returns back to her childhood home to sort out all her father’s mess, Hannah is prepared to deal with sadness—hell, maybe even just a little bit of anger—but not the other feelings, memories and chaos that come flooding to the surface... especially the new chaos that comes flooding to the surface when she uncovers a strange suitcase tucked into the back of the closet in her old bedroom and the odd assortment of objects that it holds inside. Digging deep into a past that's been long forgotten, who knows exactly what she might uncover on the way?

 

[heartstringss]

Hannah Marian Keaton​

Hannah suffers from an overactive imagination and terrible restlessness leading to insomnia (a medical diagnosis all wrapped up and tied together with a pretty bow of ‘occasional bouts of sleep paralysis’ and ‘extremely vivid nightmares.’)

Still smokes ol’ fashioned Pall Malls like some kind of hardened veteran. Don’t even fucking try to warn her what that shit is doing to her lungs.

Wardrobe consists of mostly hi-top Converse (thoroughly beat to shit, of course), the occasional pair of nicer Doc’s, a wide assortment of brown corduroy jackets, loads of plain tees, and a well-worn, typically loose-fitting collection of blue denim. She gets a lot of her clothes from thrifting secondhand shops, usually whatever she can find that’s cheapest on the racks. Fashion clearly is not her strong suit and even if she were wanting to impress someone, she likely wouldn't try too hard.

Eyes are always hidden beneath the brim of some hat, oftentimes a dusty ol’ baseball cap with threading so worn and frayed around the edges that it’s hard to make out exactly who or what she’s sporting.

Chronic nail biter. She’s basically got nubs for fingers, her cuticles so red and irritated they’re practically torn to shreds.

She lives in a shitty little one-bedroom apartment hardly worth its weight in rent. One cat but no other roommates.

Though her apartment is nowhere near the level of mess and hoarding that her father kept and maintained, Hannah has also been known to be a packrat and, admittedly, a slob. Lots of stale coffee mugs, half-opened cartons of cigarettes with littered butts overflowing out of ashtrays, and trash and dirty dishes lay scattered across nearly every surface of her kitchen. The same can be said for other areas of the apartment too, where clearly, she does not often pick up after herself anymore. Not a lot of people come to visit her apartment, but the little company she does have on occasion isn’t normally invited over until it’s so dark and late at night that they can’t tell what they’re even walking into until the next morning when they go to leave.

She doesn’t date much but has been known to pursue the occasional hook-up when the need arises. Leans primarily towards women but identifies as pan.

She has an estranged older brother with an entire family that she's only seen in pictures (online) and never actually met in person. The two don't keep in contact and have little to no remaining influence over each other at all.

Works as a server at a truck stop restaurant, primarily on the night shift.

Essentially a 90’s kid trapped in whatever passes for the soul of the current generation.

 

[bad wolf]

Rem -- A Prelude

All eyes but hers, fixed ahead. Golden hair. The smell of champagne. It bubbled and brewed and put a bounce in his step. Silver streamers, white table cloths, sweet and savory canapés. Marble and ball gowns, the speaker's voice so cheerful as they held a crystal reward aloft.

What a treat, a spectacle. The stage set and ready for play. Rem clasped his hands together and rocked back and forth on his feet, toe to heel, heel to toe.

She squeezed a man's hand, reached up and whispered something in his ear before kissing him on the cheek. Rem watched with his head cocked, his fingers interlinked. Her dress swept the floor, a whirlwind of confetti tailing her across the room. She parted the crowd with a gentle hand and made her way to the balcony. Rem followed more slowly, the crowd not as gracious towards that which they could not see.

"I remember," she professed, Rem's footsteps tapping so softly behind. "The smell of shoeshine and something sweet." She trembled as he ghosted a hand over her shoulder and circled around to the front of her, his head still cocked to the side, listening. "I knew it was too good to be true. That I'd never see you again," she laughed, something short and spiteful on her tongue. He took her hands into his, so careful and light, the slightest resistance enough for her to pull away.

"I have two girls now, ten and three," She finally met the place where his eyes should be. "They're so young, so fragile. They need me," she breathed. Rem looked down at their hands, placed one on his shoulder before holding the other out and to the side. He stepped once and she followed.

So young and so fragile, his life had barely begun. He longed to slit the bandages over his mouth, lean forward and whisper to her, "I need you." Would that give her some solace, some crystal reward she could hold aloft and praise before the world. Did she even deserve such a thing? Rem smiled without smiling.

She shook, her stride faltering some as they moved across the balcony. Lifting one hand, Rem twirled her around, tears like silver streamers. Ducking her to the side, he cradled an arm behind her back.

Beethoven's Symphony Number Nine. A little on the nose but a classic. He remembers his first performance, a masterpiece, something alive in the music. If he could hum its pretty little tune into her ear, he'd give them something to dance to.

Rem swept her feet up into his arms and spun her around. Golden hair, wet and silver streamers, her dress fluttering to the side, caught by the wind. She was so beautiful.

"Wait," she was desperate, clutching his shoulder and upper back. "Wait!" The crowd roared behind them, a chorus of warm welcomes and hearty laughter. Rem stepped once, stepped twice, the balcony's edge creeping closer. Time to leave the nest, little bird. Using the momentum of his last turn, he threw her over, watched her dress open like a pair of wings, his suit tearing against her grasp. Surely, she'd fly this time. He had mothered her long enough, fed her worms and berries, grew her big and strong. Something in his chest soared with her--up, up, and down fifty stories.

Rem pushed back from the ledge, turning on one heel, hugging himself around the torso as her screams faded into the night air. He applauded her performance, giddy with excitement. She did so well. Breathing heavy, he bent over, still holding his sides as he caught some phantom breath. Rem wished he had his own pair of silver streamers for her, glistening gold in the ballroom's glow. Regardless, he straightened up and brushed a hand over his bandaged cheeks, patting them softly as if to dry them, making pretend just for her.

A hand squeezed his shoulder too tight, punching holes through fabric, flesh, and bone.

He was going to need a new jacket.

Hauling Rem around, a tall and dark figure loomed over him, eyes empty and black. It seized his chin, pressing its fingers hard into his mouth, tearing through and wrenching his mouth open too wide.

Tweed he thought, with patches on the elbows. A handkerchief for his breast pocket.

In poured rot, his pound of flesh for delivering to his master. It was enough to make Rem choke and stumble back as the figure finally released him. Rem slapped a hand over his mouth, holding his pieces together even as it trickled between his fingers, a sappy red-green filled with gooey white. Though he never looked for it, the figure was nowhere to be seen, as quickly gone as it had come. Leaning heavily on the ledge behind him, he pulled a loose wrap of bandages from the pocket of his trousers, securing his face only partially, his hand still doing most of the work.

The canapés... Rem wanted to try the canapés before he left.

 

[bad wolf]

Rem

A culmination of bad luck and red, there is a special place in Hell for Rem, one he's not especially keen to return to, a nightmare of his own making, one definitely without shoe polish and desert. He is the heart of every terrible misfortune, every ill-omen and broken promise. He is Melas Oneiros, a rotten night's sleep, the shadow standing at the foot of your bed. As a lesser demon, he was once a man, poisoned and made mad. He serves angels, fallen from grace, feeding them the souls of the living, his own sitting in the belly of some great beast.

He remembers very little, catching glimpses of what was and holding tight to what is. Stuck here, put away like some old toy, he has only his anger--some blazing, tired thing sitting heavy, like stones on his chest. No direction, no focus, it could burn anything and everything, consume him whole. No rhyme, no reason, he's not sure he'd care after all this time. But that girl with the perfect little family and perfect little life... He wonders how a presence as sick as his has made them. Looming over their heads, a dog with no bone, hungry in their dreams.

Rem relishes it.

It has been years since he took full form, his tweed suit dusty and precious shoes full of cobwebs. His skin and meat sloughs, his bone is as brittle as chalk, the bandages in this case snapping when stretched too taught. He feels like a puddle, hands desperately scrapping and clutching, pulling himself together bit by bit, hoping that he might save himself from a wrath long awaited.

He's mocked it too often, smiling with no smile.

Pour him a glass of decay. Feed him some festering, maggot ridden platter. Grow him bigger, stronger, angrier. He's waited too long and slept too sweetly. It is time he ate up his fill of the world, no mercy shown to the fool who opens his case.