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***//-//*0003Audio Diary entry #02258**///<
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Wiped clean, it's all gone again. This is how I live and this is how I survive. I must've hit a damn A7 Witness rating again...or lower, but if I'd been any lower my body would have been flayed into more sheets than the bible has pages. Not that I've even opened one for years to check the page count. No god would create that, shit, maybe it is a god, I don't know.
All I know is that it is there. I know it as a concept, as a horror, as extinction, that...what ever it is. Even this is enough to condemn one to death and the more I know of it, the more surely and swiftly that death will come to me. This is why I was wiped, the memories of anything relating to that being in detail was wrenched from my memory along with anything else in the near vicinity. As of the time I woke up I've discovered that I'm female, toast is my favorite food, and blue is my favorite fucking color. Was it before? Not too sure, but it is now.
I can also still taste it.
Or them.
Whatever.
I still have the barest, most minute perception of it, C3 Witness at the very least.
For us it starts with a sort of pressure in your mind. You get those shivers while walking through the woods or up a dark staircase at night without even trying to scare yourself. Every now and then a feeling of, "Is that prick over there with the Sunday paper and cold cup of coffee staring at me every time I turn back around from him?" when there's a complete lack of pricks with a sports page and stale mug of shit coffee there to give you that excuse. They bring you in and start throwing words at you, words and endless pictures: Black, long, child, darkness, father, pain, belt, chain, tree, ecstasy, annihilation, castration, man, blindness, pipe, net, death. the pressure in your mind starts to take form with the conclusion of each reel. When you start the program, you don't sleep, or drink, or eat 'cause the needles and tubes coming out of your arms and neck takes care of that, no problem.
Someone will come in and show you a picture. At first it's always hard to make out. It's always some kids playin' or a street at night, with a sort of dark shapeless...thing...hanging out in the shadows. Blue Testers never say anything. They let you stare at the photo for about five minutes and out the door they go. Red Testers are the same; they never talk, and you will never, ever see the same one twice before a wipe session. Reds' pictures are a little more defined and the first time you make S out and your mind can taste it, you want to vomit all over the photo...but you can't...because you vomit all over the window separating you from the Tester instead. After each puke session Fred comes in. It's always Fred, that is the one constant. He waltzes in like he's the king of the whole goddamn facility and gives you that stern look, like that of a father who just found out his child pissed their bed. Back up go those ridiculous sunglasses and out comes the mop and towel for cleaning the vomit off the window so the Green Testers can question you. I've seen Fred in the cafeteria before when they take me through the facility. He's always looking morose as shit and sitting there at that table by the vending machine. Probably scoping out the kinds of food on his tray and surmising that it's going to end up swirling around his mop bucket before too much longer.
I'm the empress though, this whole hollowed out of the ground fortress kingdom is mine, with all of its beige numbness and staccato echoes of worried haste in the hallways. Fred is mine, the testers are mine, and I am always, always in residence. Let my court sit separated in their royal quarters. They are unable to whisper to each other or co-conspire in opposition to the crown. It's not me they have to fear, but the unholy providence of that which has entitled me to my claim. Let that smug bastard have whatever satisfaction he gets wiping corn niblets off my chin.
The Greens want to know the feel of SM, but it's more like a taste. Like your goddamn brain grew a tongue and is licking a revolting reality covering film. The Greens just shrug it off as SM's synaptic psychic resonance image attributes. But that bullshit denies my experience; it denies the absolute absurdity and filthiness of sensing the SM's actual existence. It rolls around in your skull, a quiet marble of frozen and exacting intent. Calculating and cold it twists every memory it comes into contact with.
This makes you much easier to find.
They all taste different. I don't know if it's the same Slender Man in each incident or a separate Slender Man each time. Nobody is quite sure since It's never able to keep it's appearance straight for very long. In the distance - a little shadow, fog, maybe a bit dark - looks like a business exec got lost in the woods on his way home from the office. Passing side-long glance at close range, some pretty tall dude is probably going to get his suit dirtied eviscerating that soldier. Stare directly at it for a while and you wouldn't know where the dismembered corpse begins and its body ends if not for the black and white of its body. Its blank face pleads with you, trying to coax out of your perception a human-like expression. Eyes and teeth and mouths, and stuff that doesn't even belong on a face, fights over your comprehension? Just trying to get a hold of where Slender Man's tendrils are at any moment is an exercise in nausea and splitting headaches. Like meaty black smoke in a stale bar room with just a child's whisper of air to prompt it in any given direction, It'll move towards you...
and around you...
and then into you...
//END
***//-//*0003Audio Diary entry #02258**///<
//Start Feed//
Playback
Wiped clean, it's all gone again. This is how I live and this is how I survive. I must've hit a damn A7 Witness rating again...or lower, but if I'd been any lower my body would have been flayed into more sheets than the bible has pages. Not that I've even opened one for years to check the page count. No god would create that, shit, maybe it is a god, I don't know.
All I know is that it is there. I know it as a concept, as a horror, as extinction, that...what ever it is. Even this is enough to condemn one to death and the more I know of it, the more surely and swiftly that death will come to me. This is why I was wiped, the memories of anything relating to that being in detail was wrenched from my memory along with anything else in the near vicinity. As of the time I woke up I've discovered that I'm female, toast is my favorite food, and blue is my favorite fucking color. Was it before? Not too sure, but it is now.
I can also still taste it.
Or them.
Whatever.
I still have the barest, most minute perception of it, C3 Witness at the very least.
For us it starts with a sort of pressure in your mind. You get those shivers while walking through the woods or up a dark staircase at night without even trying to scare yourself. Every now and then a feeling of, "Is that prick over there with the Sunday paper and cold cup of coffee staring at me every time I turn back around from him?" when there's a complete lack of pricks with a sports page and stale mug of shit coffee there to give you that excuse. They bring you in and start throwing words at you, words and endless pictures: Black, long, child, darkness, father, pain, belt, chain, tree, ecstasy, annihilation, castration, man, blindness, pipe, net, death. the pressure in your mind starts to take form with the conclusion of each reel. When you start the program, you don't sleep, or drink, or eat 'cause the needles and tubes coming out of your arms and neck takes care of that, no problem.
Someone will come in and show you a picture. At first it's always hard to make out. It's always some kids playin' or a street at night, with a sort of dark shapeless...thing...hanging out in the shadows. Blue Testers never say anything. They let you stare at the photo for about five minutes and out the door they go. Red Testers are the same; they never talk, and you will never, ever see the same one twice before a wipe session. Reds' pictures are a little more defined and the first time you make S out and your mind can taste it, you want to vomit all over the photo...but you can't...because you vomit all over the window separating you from the Tester instead. After each puke session Fred comes in. It's always Fred, that is the one constant. He waltzes in like he's the king of the whole goddamn facility and gives you that stern look, like that of a father who just found out his child pissed their bed. Back up go those ridiculous sunglasses and out comes the mop and towel for cleaning the vomit off the window so the Green Testers can question you. I've seen Fred in the cafeteria before when they take me through the facility. He's always looking morose as shit and sitting there at that table by the vending machine. Probably scoping out the kinds of food on his tray and surmising that it's going to end up swirling around his mop bucket before too much longer.
I'm the empress though, this whole hollowed out of the ground fortress kingdom is mine, with all of its beige numbness and staccato echoes of worried haste in the hallways. Fred is mine, the testers are mine, and I am always, always in residence. Let my court sit separated in their royal quarters. They are unable to whisper to each other or co-conspire in opposition to the crown. It's not me they have to fear, but the unholy providence of that which has entitled me to my claim. Let that smug bastard have whatever satisfaction he gets wiping corn niblets off my chin.
The Greens want to know the feel of SM, but it's more like a taste. Like your goddamn brain grew a tongue and is licking a revolting reality covering film. The Greens just shrug it off as SM's synaptic psychic resonance image attributes. But that bullshit denies my experience; it denies the absolute absurdity and filthiness of sensing the SM's actual existence. It rolls around in your skull, a quiet marble of frozen and exacting intent. Calculating and cold it twists every memory it comes into contact with.
This makes you much easier to find.
They all taste different. I don't know if it's the same Slender Man in each incident or a separate Slender Man each time. Nobody is quite sure since It's never able to keep it's appearance straight for very long. In the distance - a little shadow, fog, maybe a bit dark - looks like a business exec got lost in the woods on his way home from the office. Passing side-long glance at close range, some pretty tall dude is probably going to get his suit dirtied eviscerating that soldier. Stare directly at it for a while and you wouldn't know where the dismembered corpse begins and its body ends if not for the black and white of its body. Its blank face pleads with you, trying to coax out of your perception a human-like expression. Eyes and teeth and mouths, and stuff that doesn't even belong on a face, fights over your comprehension? Just trying to get a hold of where Slender Man's tendrils are at any moment is an exercise in nausea and splitting headaches. Like meaty black smoke in a stale bar room with just a child's whisper of air to prompt it in any given direction, It'll move towards you...
and around you...
and then into you...
//END
***//-//*0003Audio Diary entry #02258**///<
Image size
900x726px 541.69 KB
Make
NIKON CORPORATION
Model
NIKON D3
Shutter Speed
2/1 second
Aperture
F/11.0
Focal Length
18 mm
ISO Speed
200
Date Taken
Jan 13, 2009, 5:49:37 PM
Mature
Comments22
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Wow. So that's what it's like to have the Slender Man in your head.
I might have my work cut out for me for what I have planned. I'm not sure how to replicate that.
I might have my work cut out for me for what I have planned. I'm not sure how to replicate that.
