Bleeding

Harry rinsed his arm in the water, flushing the open wound on his forearm of blood and anything else that might have slipped in between then and when he had been cut. It had been perhaps an hour, and he did not trust the wound in the slightest to be clean. He had already pulled the trash bin and a first aid kit beside the sink, and with his off hand was dropping the somewhat dirty, and very bloody cloth he had torn to make a wrapping into the trash. This wasn't the first time he had been wounded like this, nor the first time that he had tended to it himself. It was not likely to be the last.

It was for this reason that Harry had built himself the way he had. Years of training had produced muscles that made him look more like a wall than a man, and he had the endurance to run for five miles straight without need for alarm. He found himself frequently in the midst of fights; usually that he had no part in being involved with. Seeing people being beaten, in need of help, taken to their limits and pushed beyond them to the brink of death... He refused to stand by and watch.

The wound stung deeply as he wiped it with a disinfectant. He was fortunate that it had been made by a knife, and not a jagged piece of glass - while it was deep, it was not wide. That meant that sewing the wound shut would take much less effort, and therefore be much less painful. Though painless, it would not be.

He grimaced but did not cry out as he pulled the needle through his own flesh, back and forth, pulling a thin and sterilized thread with it to tighten the disconnected flesh. It helped that the nerves were somewhat deadened by the number of times he had done this. He occasionally paused his sewing to dab away the blood that was oozing and squirting out so that he could continue to see what he was doing. Only somewhat important.

He tied a knot at the end and snipped the line, making sure it was tight, then began to wrap it all with a new, clean bandage. Red spots appeared on it almost immediately. He wrapped the wound over and over, layering the white wrappings until no red spots seeped their way through. Eight time around his arm, pulled as tight as they could. With some medical glue, he sealed the wrapping, smoothing it out to ensure that he could still have as much mobility as possible.

He grabbed the whiskey on the other side of the sink and took a long swig of it. That was one wound done. Three to go.

Quiet

James found that he wasn't talking as much these days as he used to. He didn't feel sick, and he was still going to his job and doing his work, coming home to relax and spend time with his friends. He was going through all of the same motions that he had been taking for some time. He just didn't pipe up as much in conversation. He didn't have as many quips to throw out, and he didn't feel a need to hear his voice. He didn't feel down or angry, and he wasn't growing tired of the area or the people around him. He was just growing quiet. He didn't feel the need to make noise.

He could see that the people around him were growing concerned, though. He tried to assure them that things were fine, that he was just going through something and that he would be fine sooner or later. But his lips didn't quite reach as high as they used to when he smiled, and his eyes drooped with exhaustion, and he just couldn't hide very well that he was feeling a little off. He felt as though he needed to take a step back, and look at the world around him, and reevaluate the way he looked at himself. But it was difficult to do that with all of the obligations he had.

Night time seemed to be when he could really sit down with his thoughts and give them some credence. He was concerned that he was stagnating. That his friends were moving forward, finding better jobs and make big decisions in life, and that he was stuck in place. It wasn't a bad place to be stuck. He made good money, and his job afforded him time to spend with friends or at home relaxing. His girlfriend was wonderful and loving. He had the pleasure of living with her and being able to see her and hold her everyday. And yet he felt like there was something more he should be doing with his life, that the people around him were experiencing that he was missing out on. He just couldn't put a finger on what that was.

The thoughts were always at the back of his mind. Quietly nagging away at him, asking him to give them listen, or to tell the people around him about them. But he preferred to stay quiet. They didn't need to know about each and every one of his fears and thoughts. They didn't need to know of his little, petty jealousies. He knew that they would be there for him, and that was good enough. He didn't need to ask them to help shoulder each and every one of his problems.

So he grew quiet. Not out of fear. Not out of bitterness. But because he needed to think, and the words that came out of his mouth were often thoughtless, and while that made them pretty funny at times, it meant that when he was speaking, he wasn't thinking. And that was something he didn't feel like doing at the moment. So for the most part, he kept his mouth shut, so that later on down the line, it might open wider than it ever had before.

Losing

I've always considered myself to be a loser. I guess that comes with the territory of being a nerd, which I definitely always have been. Hard not to be when one of your earliest memories is waking up Christmas morning and finding a PS1 under your tree, and even though you don't entirely know what that is or what it does, you just start to get excited. And when you see that it lets you control some of your favorite cartoon characters, and move them around on the screen, and making them do dumb and crazy things, well... That just kinda sticks with you for the rest of your life. And it kinda makes you a loser.

But it's almost funny how, even when you're a loser, you're afraid of losing. I have never been a gracious loser. Especially when I was younger, and I had a lot more anger management problems, I would lose in a game and literally physically assault the person who beat me. I never really saw a problem with that. It's amazing I had friends. Even more amazing that some of those friends I had back then are still around. But I learned how to play cheap, and win dirty, just so I wouldn't have to experience losing any more. But that just makes you lose out on opportunities to play.

When I got older, loss became more real. I started to lose some of the friends I made. I would tell myself that it was ok, that the friends I still had were the important ones, and that they meant more to me. And that's not really a lie. But I think I gave more credence to that line of thought than I really should have. While it made most people less important, it did make the ones who were important all the more so. Which makes losing those people far more terrifying.

Especially when you fall in love with one of them. I've been truly, madly in love twice in my life. One moreso than the other, granted, because that's kind of how it goes, but still. The first girl I loved, I loved for nearly six years. We had our problems, though. And with her, I felt what it was like to lose someone you love for the first time. And it was devastating. And then I lost her again. And then a third time. And it never got easier.

But after the third time, I found a second love. A stronger love. A love that pushed that first love aside, and made it less important, less vital to my existence. That second love consumed me, gave me purpose. But I had tasted the loss of love before, and the thought of losing this love became all the more terrifying.

So when the possibility of losing that love arrived on my doorstep again... I tried my hardest not to panic. "You've been through this before," I told myself. "You believe in love. If it wants to pull through, it will. It will stare down the hard times and the bad times, and it will come back stronger than ever." But the words didn't mean much. They weren't even much of a coping mechanism. They were just there to distract me.

It wasn't until I faced that possibility of loss head on... It hurt. I felt like I was being crushed. Pulled apart and crushed simultaneously, being dragged through a space that was too small for me until I arrived at a place that was too large for me to comprehend. But I had lost before. I had been at that massive space before. And I had tried to pretend that it wasn't there. Ignore it, as though that would help. But not this time. I faced that space, that cold and empty expanse. And as I faced it, scared and feeling as though I would be alone... I learned that it was perhaps not so bad. That if I persevered I could reach the other side of it. And that, perhaps there, the loss could be returned.

So I travel that space now. I face my fear. I will face loss, and I will do all that is in my power not to be consumed by it. And I can only believe now that I will overcome it. Because I know what will happen if I don't. And I'd rather not go down that path again.

Sequels

For a long time, I've been very hesitant to work anymore on my novel I wrote during Nano last November - mostly because I gave it a very rushed ending that I wasn't very happy with so that I could close out my last of the fifty thousand words. Since then, I've thought often about how to continue it, because I know that where it ended is not where the full story ends. There are still a number of plot points that I want to hit, and the climax of the story has yet to occur. And yet, the more that I think about it, the more apparent it becomes to me that where I ended the novel is in fact the end of the book - to finish the story, it would be best for me to write a sequel.

This is an idea that I've been opposed to. After all, while fifty thousand words may sound like a lot, most people would consider it more of a novella than a novel. It's just too short. And I have a feeling that, in editing the book, it will become shorter. My goal was to write a book, not a short story, and I'm afraid that that's what it's going to become. So I wanted the story to continue, and fulfill the rest of the plot.

But I've finally decided that there's nothing I can do about it. The rest of the story simply has to take place as a sequel to the first. Which kind of changes my focus about what the first book is about, which in turn means that there are places in the middle that I need to flesh out further. Hopefully this will give me the length and substance that I'm looking for. There was a lot of kind of empty space, and while not necessarily a huge time skip, a time skip nonetheless. I've recently decided that I want to explore section of the story more, which will add a darker tone to the story as a whole, but I think will also give more substance to the later events.

The question then is just what all I will put into the sequel. There are a few events that I know I want - the main character learning a way to fight, revealing more about the villain, and of course the fateful encounter. But that definitely isn't enough to constitute another entire book.

In the meantime, I have to think about some of the other ideas I've gotten in the meantime. Things like adding more perspectives to the story, eliminating the intro to the story, and rewriting the reasons for why certain things happen. I've talked before about how I don't mind cliches, but I feel like some of the ones that I have used in my story thus far are a bit much. Especially concerning why the magic I have in place exists, and how it is used by those who wield it.

I definitely still have work to do. But I'm getting more comfortable with stepping back into it.

Sun god

Edward sat in the audience, stuffed between dozens of other people, all murmuring quietly about the group that had gathered them all together. There were a lot of questions spreading around, wondering what they were there for, who exactly the people in this group were, and what they wanted. There hadn't been much information given to them. Everyone who was gathered there had merely been told to do so, and that they would in some way be rewarded for doing so. Some were hoping that that meant money or fame, while others were hoping for something a little more... personal. Edward tried not to think about those people. Or listen to the explicitly detailed descriptions that they were whispering about.

As the sun fell to the horizon, a group of people in dark red cloaks emerged from the alleyways, moving around the gathered group and proceeding before them. The murmuring died down almost immediately upon their arrival. There was a feeling in the air, flowing over the crowd like a thick fog rolling in in the early morning, that said that they should be silent and pay attention to these men. It was irresistible.

One cloaked man stepped forward to address the crowd. "You have all been gathered here today because it is believed that you all have potential," he called out. The crowd began to whisper once more, trying to decipher what he meant by that, but a swipe of his hand brought them to silence once more. "We are disciple of the sun gods, who gave their power onto us mankind, granting us peace and happiness in these times of brightness. But those gods grow fearful, as well. They fear that we may soon begin to misuse the gifts that they have bestowed upon us. And they consider taking their brightness away from us as punishment."

Their was a gasp of shock that shot through the crowd. Edward didn't entirely understand what was going on, but he felt a pang in his heart and a shiver run down his spine. Whatever these men were talking about, what ever it was they were trying to tell him, it scared him to his core. He wanted to run and hide, to curl up into a ball and wait for their threats to come and go. But he was frozen to his chair.

"But you all have potential. Potential to change the gods' minds. To show them that you are grateful. To humble yourselves before the gods and convince them to spare us. That is why you have been brought here today. What say you?"

Edward didn't fully understand. He was afraid. But he screamed and cheered with the rest of the crowd like a man possessed. Whatever it was they wanted. Whatever they asked him for. He would do.

Wild

Michael had gotten lost from his tour group out in the midst of the Amazon rainforests, having fallen off of their buggy when the tire slipped on a patch of unexpected mud. He knew he should have been wearing his seatbelt, but somehow he had decided it would be a good way of showing how manly and unafraid he was to Samantha by not doing so. Clearly it had not been his wisest decision. Not only did it surely not do anything of the sort, but now he was lost, covered in mud, and he thought his left ankle might be broken from how badly it hurt. He was afraid to take off his boot to check, however. He seemed to recall that it was best to leave a broken foot or ankle in the boot until it could be seen by medical experts, because the boot could be helping hold the break in place.

He wasn't sure how long it had been since he had fallen off the buggy. His wristwatch had broken in the fall as well, though it wouldn't have been that helpful anyway - he had no idea what time it had been when he'd fallen off. He just knew that the tour itself had started at noon. And he didn't know if the hunger he felt was because it had been so long since lunch, or if it was just because of the trauma. Either way, his stomach had started audibly growling some time prior, and it was only getting louder. Every time it roared, it nearly scared the literal crap out of him. He had been lucky enough not to run into any wild animals yet, but he knew they were there. And he could only imagine what they might do to him.

It was only when the sun began to set that the panic truly began to set in. The green forest was beginning to take a distinctly orange and yellow hue to it, and he was beginning to fear that they had forgone searching for him. And only as the panic took hold of his heart did he finally hear the low, grumbling growl of a wild beast coming up behind him.

He slowly turned his head to see a jaguar stalking towards him, head low to the ground, eyes piercing him as if already seeing the meat that he was to become. He couldn't so much as speak, afraid that any noise he might make would only cause the animal to leap upon him and start its feast sooner. He didn't want to die. Though he may not have been consciously thinking it, anything he might do to prolong his life...

But then there was another figure behind it. He tried to focus his eyes on it instead, hoping it would somehow be better than the jaguar in front of him. And he found himself staring at the form of a woman with long, messy brown hair that extended all the way down her back, and a lean and muscular form completely uninhibited by clothing. She had a look in her eyes that said she was watching him, both in curiosity, and in much the same way the leopard was. He didn't know how to respond to her. He felt embarrassed, staring at this beautiful and wild naked woman, and yet he couldn't take his eyes away from her. She could either be his doom or his saving grace.

With the leopard only a dozen feet away, easily within pouncing distance, she suddenly clicked her tongue and let out a low growl. Immediately, like a trained dog, the leopard came to a halt, stood up tall, and sat on its haunches. Michael could barely believe his eyes. He must have been dreaming. This must all be a mad dream. The woman approached him, moving silently across the muddy ground, face inches away. He could smell her, she was so close. Though he didn't want to. She had clearly not bathed in a very long time. If ever.

"Who are you?" she asked, her voice low and gravelly. "Why are you here?" Her english, while correct, sounded almost broken, and untrained.

"I... I'm Michael," he responded, feeling weak. "I fell off of my tour buggy. I think I broke my ankle. I'm lost. I don't know where or what to do." Realizing the truth in his words, just how terribly doomed he was, his legs began to wobble and he fell to his knees. The girl looked him up and down, as if judging him.

"You with other man?" she asked. He had to take a moment to comprehend her question. Another man? Had she found someone else? But the way she asked it, and the way she looked, it was clearly after thinking about it that she meant other humans.

"Y-yes. Or, I was. I'm alone now."

She hummed, thinking, and looked at his ankle. Even still in the boot, it was clearly not quite right. Even she could recognize that.

"I take you back," she said, decisively. "But you never tell about me."

The moment she agreed to help him, nothing else mattered. "Never," he muttered. Then she was lifting him in her arms and throwing him over his shoulder, and then it was black.

Achievements

I never used to be much of one for collecting achievements or trophies in games. That just seemed like one of those impossible feats that some people out there like to do because it makes them feel better about themselves or something. Hell, the first game I ever got a platinum trophy on (which you get by gaining every other trophy the game has to offer), I did so on accident, just by trying to play the game as it was and unlock everything in it. It was really easy, especially compared to the difficulty of platinuming some other games.

I think it was the second game that I platinumed that really pushed me over the edge. Because that game happened to be Bloodborne, which is a stupidly difficult game to begin with, and the last few trophies I acquired took that difficulty and ramped it up to the extremes - as well as adding in some monotony in the meantime. But I thoroughly loved that game, and seeing that - at least for the most part - I could get the last few trophies just by playing the game over again in new and different ways made me excited. There was just something about the fast and fluid combat that was engaging, and while I don't normally like dark atmospheres, the darkness in Bloodborne wasn't there to harm or punish. It was merely a set-piece that permitted for the kinds of monsters and insanity that you would bear witness to throughout the game.

After that platinum, I started to look at the next few games I wanted to play a little differently. I started to think about how plausible it would be to platinum them, as well. I played games that I would have played otherwise, not letting the trophies make the decision for me, but there were instances where I normally would have skipped over parts of the game as I grew weary of playing it so that I could finish and move on to the next. But I stuck through because I knew that if I could just finish that one extra thing, I could get a platinum.

It's worth noting that these platinum trophies, and trophies in general, realistically do nothing. They provide no bonuses, rewards, or extra content. They just look nice on the stats page of your profile. And yet there are people who actively hunt them out, as though they are life giving sustenance. They play games they otherwise may not have, simply because they know it will be an easy platinum. Or they may play all the way through a game they otherwise do not enjoy, just for that trophy.

But the interesting part is whether or not this is necessarily a bad thing. After all, if you are playing the game more, and experiencing more of it, are you not getting more bang for your buck? And while some may argue that your time could be better spent elsewhere, that is almost always true. But time is best spent making you happy. And if collecting platinum trophies does that, well... Who am I to argue?