#but he is also good with just talking things trough with Vy

[izayoichan]

Arlo: I never meant to hurt him. Vy: I know. But you did. Arlo: I can never forgive myself for what I did. Vy: But you can make things better for the two of you. What you did, what happened to the both of you will never go away, even if you go away when it's too much for you to handle... But, you can work to make things happier for the two of you that one day, you'll be able to cry together over everything without either of you being hurt by its ghost.

Arlo just looked wide eyed at Vy, and then broke into a deep sobbing cry that made his body shake. Vy sighed, sitting next to Arlo, wrapping his arms around him just letting him cry. It was slowly becoming clear to him that this Arlo, like River had said, was something new, and it needed to mend. They both did.

They eventually got Arlo to calm down enough to eat, but the light crying only ended when he had managed to cry himself to sleep next to his beloved angel. Vy sitting there watching the two, feeling Hayden’s hand on his shoulder.

Hayden: As much as I want to hate that boy… I can’t. I can hate what he did, I can hate what he put our little star through, but I can’t hate what he is now… Vy: He reminds you of yourself doesn’t he? Hayden: In some ways yes, the self hate, the desire to… stop being…

Beginning - Previous - Next

[thefanficmonster]

An Angel Through Time

David Milton (The Dark Pictures Anthology: Little Hope) x Reader (Female)

Warnings: Mentions of death and a near death scene

Genre: Angst, Romance

Summary: The unthinkable miracle of getting a second chance at love centuries after the first one slipped through his fingers is exactly what happens to David Milton when John’s students are taken back trough time and save him from certain death.

Requested by my dear friend @artlovingbre​ . Hello! I’m sorry to be posting your request so late, I hope it makes up for the wait. David is really an underrated character and I can’t thank you enough for giving me the opportunity to write for him. Please enjoy the read! Love, Vy ❤

Y/D/N - Your double’s name (same first letter as your name)

I feel someone’s grip on my forearm, encouraging me to open my tightly shut eyes. When I do so, I’m met with a terrifying scene. That evil priest is here, along with that little girl and two other men - one of which is a spitting image of Daniel. The priest is saying something but I’m too busy exchanging confused and fearful looks with Daniel and Andrew who have been dragged into this mess with me.

“What do we do?“ I ask, turning around just in time to see the other man push Daniel’s double over the ledge.

“NO!“ The scream leaves both me and Daniel but while I remain frozen in place he rushes to save the innocent man from the certain death awaiting him.

Luckily, he manages to grab onto him, I don’t know how he made it, I’m just glad he did. However, he’s struggling to pull him up to safety, having his double dangle above his faith.  Seeing the man who pushed him pull out a knife and begin to approach the ledge shakes me out of my trance and I rush over to help him myself, grabbing onto the rope that binds his wrists. Thankfully, with joined forces and a little help from Andrew who took a bit longer to snap out of his confusion, we pull the double back inside the belfry. We each lose our balance, falling to the ground, letting go of the rope that has cut through the skin of out palms.

I hiss at the irritating pain spreading through my hands, squeezing my eyes shut. If I had any doubt that this was actually happening, I don’t have it anymore. The pain is real. That scene was real. That man was real. This is all real and I really need to put myself together because otherwise, I’m not making it out of this place alive.

Oh God, the image I saw when I rushed to the ledge - below was a spiked fence this innocent man would’ve inevitably impaled himself on had Daniel not caught him when he did. My heart sinks just thinking of that happening.

“Hey, it’s over now. You can open your eyes.“ Andrew’s comforting voice reaches me through the fog of distress clouding my brain. I feel his gentle grip on my shoulder as if trying to ground me to the present, reminding me we left that behind.

Maybe not completely though. The first face I see is Daniel’s, thing is - a quick look to the left shows Daniel standing aside talking to Taylor. The person I’m looking at is his double. In the present. Here, with us, now. 

I look at Andrew who’s offering me a helping hand to get me off the ground. He understands all the bafflement from that simple eye-contact and I can tell he feels the same.

John and Angela ask us for explanations but how are we supposed to explain something even we don’t understand? 

                                                            *  *  *

How can this be? It’s them, it’s really them. Maybe it’s their souls looming over me as to shield me from harm. Maybe I have been compromised by the Devil himself. I have no answers, no way to understand what is right in front of me.

The late sister of mine - Tabitha and my deceased lover, Y/D/N. 

My eyes may deceive me or an evil force is using me as its plaything. I can not be sure of anything anymore. So help me God, I am miraculously alive. Or I maybe aren’t. This may be my soul reuniting with the souls of my condemned love ones. One was accused of witchcraft by our own kin - our sister Mary, and the other, my dear Y/D/N was a victim of reverend Carver’s sinful, poisoned with malice heart.

We were to be married, the joy of calling her my wife so close within my reach. I remember the night I asked her to marry me: the tears glistening in her eyes, the warmth of her embrace. The happiness that inhabited our home.

And how suddenly it was taken from us.

Y/D/N warned me of Carver’s advances and intentions towards her. I told her not to fear, that I would first throw myself in the arms of damnation rather than let any harm be done to her. I will never forgive myself for not doing more to save her from the horrible fate Carver decided for her when she refused his advances and stayed true to me and our love. She let out her final breath right in front of me, looking me straight in the eye.

Her final words shall forever haunt my mind and memories.

David, my soul will love you beyond death’s grip

This is her fulfilling her last words. She rescued me from inevitable demise. 

Like a guardian angel, using her love for me to keep me out of evil’s reach.

“Are you ok?“ She approaches me cautiously, almost fearfully. “That was a close call back there.“

“My eyes deceive me, no? Y/D/N, is it really you?“ I reach out towards her, fearing she is nothing but an illusion. Fearing I’ll never see her again the second my hand touches hers.

Her hand takes firm hold of mine as reassurance that I haven’t gone mad. “I’m sorry but I’m not. My name’s Y/N. I understand that you are having a tough time understanding this and believe me - we’re in the same boat there. Just trust us, we’ll....figure everything out, ok?”

Her voice - her voice opens the wound on my heart Y/D/N’s death inflicted on me. I hear the echo of the purest words I’ve ever heard spoken.

I most certainly do not feel safe nor do I understand what trickery was done to me for my soul to be sent amongst these people, but I believe they mean no harm. I have seen the face of evil - and it doesn’t look like them.

                                                              *  *  *

Daniel’s double, who I now know is named David, is coping with this surprisingly well. The confusion is still clouding his brain but he’s not nearly as freaked out as I would’ve been in his position. He hasn’t asked many questions, I think he’s still in shock. Regardless, he’s calm and...well, alive and that’s what matters. Every now and then I catch him looking at me with this sorrowful sadness in his gaze. I feel my heart sink a little every time I see it. He has mentioned another lady, Y/D/N I think he called her. I don’t know what relation he has to her, but he mistook me for her so I can only assume she’s my double. I’m honestly afraid to ask, I don’t believe I can handle what he’ll tell me. At least not yet.

We approach an old house. That’s a pretty generic description, considering all the houses in this ghost-town are old. This one, however, sticks out. It has clearly been shielded from the cruelty of time by many renovations. It simultaneously looks firm as a fort but also like it could crumble at any moment. It’s hard to explain, you’d have to see it to understand. Through one of the windows we see a faint flickering light, presumably from a lit candle.

“This is our house. What in God’s name has happened to it? Why is it so filthy?“ David looks the house from top to bottom with fear and hurt in his eyes. I see the tears threatening to roll down his cheeks and my heart cracks much like the foundation of the house.

“It may have been your hose back then. It’s no one’s now.“ John tries to explain to him, as delicately and carefully as one could, “It’s our only good lead, given there’s light in there.“

David shakes his head, “I refuse to step foot beyond that doorstep.” His statement is firm, not that we would’ve tried to change his mind regardless.

I look at the group who are exchanging puzzled gazes. I raise my voice to say: “I’ll wait outside with David, you guys can go in and do a sweep. If you find anything useful just holler, I doubt I won’t hear you.“

They slowly nod in agreement before entering the house. I watch as they disappear into the darkness of the hallway, paying close attention to the creaking of the floorboards that bend under the weight of their footsteps - giving me some indication of where they are in case I need to go in and find them.

There is a half-rotted bench in front of the house. It looks far from stable or useable but I decide to take my chances. I sit down and brace for impact with the ground but when that doesn’t happen I wave David over to sit down as well. He does so, though reluctantly - never taking his gaze of the house, the look in his eyes remaining as painful as when he first saw it.

“Y/D/N, she was the light of this home. Tabitha was to be wedded as well. She didn’t live to see that day. I couldn’t protect either of them.“ He rests his elbows on his knees, hiding his face in the palms of his hands. “I should’ve fought till the last undeserved breath for theirs. I should’ve done more.“

With minor hesitation, I place my hand on his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him though I know my presence is fueling his sorrow. I’m an image of someone meaningful he lost, how can he even bare to look at me? “Who was she? Y/D/N?“

His hand reaches up, taking hold of mine and removing it from his shoulder. He straightens his posture, gently holding my hand with both of his. “My late wife to be. She was cruelly sent away from this world by the town reverend. He wanted to rid me of my life shortly after Y/D/N, but...” his attention travels to my eyes, “you saved me. I would now be nothing but a lifeless body if you hadn’t done what you did. I will forever be in your debt.” He squeezes my hand in an act of endearment that makes my heart flutter. “Though it pains me to look at you or the other woman,” he tilts his head towards the house, presumably referring to Taylor, “I can not take my eyes off you. This mustn’t be a coincidence. You are either her, or an angel sent by her. I am grateful to you regardless.” His hands uncover mine and he brings it to his lips, placing a gentle kiss on my knuckles.

I feel this overwhelming need to protect him, to always be by his side and never leave him. I have known him for less than two hours; he’s been a part of this time for just as long and yet I still feel so close and so attached to him.

“Don’t worry, David. My life isn’t getting stripped away and neither is yours. I can promise you that.“ I say reassuringly, nodding to put extra emphasis to my words.

                                                             *  *  *

The way she puts such faith on her words, on her promise, makes me recall how Y/D/N’s voice danced in the air when she’d tell me what our future looked like through her eyes. Every letter leaving her lips carried its own meaning, none less valuable than another. All so certain and concrete. A force to be reckoned with. A force to gain all my trust in a matter of seconds.

“Thank you, Y/N“

I shall put my life in these people’s hands and my heart in the hands of this angel that survived through the walls of time. This strong woman who risked her life to save my own. 

There’s no longer a doubt in my mind that she’s my second chance at love disguised as an angel. One Y/D/N’s soul sent me from the heavens where she’s looking down upon me from. I shall fulfill her wish - I shall love again.

[52murders]

31 - Three Windows

It’s just a story.

Was, anyway. A small item in the court records, Sammy Jacobs, pleading not guilty but then asking for the death sentence. You wanted to know what sort of person did that. You thought there was an article in it, a think piece as it’s known in the biz, perhaps for the Sunday colour supplement. There’s nothing more poignant than Death Row. You knew at least three editors who would buy it sight unseen. Easy money.

You stand behind the curtain, in one of three chambers, waiting for the show to start.

Three chambers. The first for the press, the second for the victim’s family and the third for the defendant’s witnesses. Ordinarily, you would be in the first of those rooms, but Sammy asked you to be here, so you sit in the third, all by yourself, so you can watch him die.

He’s a character. That was your first impression, what with the long whiskers and the stutter and the tourettish conflagrated thoughts. You couldn’t believe your luck as you listened to him talk, grateful that you invested in that handheld recorder, the good one, so you could go back over every um and ah, every chuckle and mutter in pristine digital quality. You wondered if maybe you could use them for a podcast. That seemed to be where things were going these days.

That was the first visit, the first of many. How long did it take, how many visits was it, before you realised Sammy wasn’t a character. He was a person. So obvious, but so often forgotten in our desire to make everything a narrative, with a three act structure, twists and turns, peaks and troughs, all heading to a redemptive climax.

That’s not how it worked, though. Talking to Sammy, you came to believe that he was innocent of the crime for which he had been committed and knew there was no evidence that would clear him. You spoke to lawyers about finding some sort of technicality that might excuse him from death, but they all said that without his consent, they wouldn’t be empowered to act. You asked him, bullied him, begged him, but he wouldn’t listen. Wouldn’t do what you wanted, what you needed, in order to fix this.

And you never understood why. Why would someone ask for death when they knew they hadn’t committed the crime?

Everyone had a theory. Sammy was lying, Sammy was suicidal, Sammy was a martyr, Sammy was flat out dumb. All of them made sense and none of them were the truth and so none of them were what you wanted.

That’s what it was supposed to be about, wasn’t it? The truth. That’s why you became a journalist and that’s why you went to places few others did and looked at things that nobody else wanted to - because that’s where the truth lay. Not in books with gilt-edged pages or in the balance sheets of a company ledger. Not even in the black and white print of the newspaper you work for.

No, the truth lay motionless in a hotel room, like the one they found Caprice Hennessey. Twenty one and already looking older than her years would ever allow, she had been raped and pistol whipped to death. A bad way to go, perhaps almost inevitable if she were a character in a James Ellroy novel, or perhaps something even more lurid that didn’t have any notion of being literature. But she wasn’t a character. She was a person. Was, because people stop being people when they stop breathing. You believe that, even though you perpetuate them through your words. All you’re doing is making ghosts, creating phantoms with the thin images created to a deadline.

Not all ghosts have died, however. As you approach the glass in front of you, looking to the left reveals the reflection of Maurice Patterson, Caprice’s father. He stares out at you and given the translucency of his image, you have to remind yourself that he’s there in the flesh, standing in the chamber next to yours, waiting to see what society has deemed to be justice. You suppose that if you can see him, he can probably see you, but the look in his eyes suggests that what he’s seeing is another place, another time, hopefully far away from here and with some kind of joy associated with it. You assume that he’s thinking about Caprice - Monica, as was, because nobody names their daughter Caprice Hennessey unless they actually want her to be a stripper.

You remember trying to interview him, standing on his porch and trying to tell him that you weren’t like all the others, you wanted to find the truth. He didn’t buy it for one moment, and when he learned that you had talked to Sammy and were trying to fight for his freedom you got a concentrated dose of disgust, the likes of which you had rarely experienced in such unmetered form. His manners didn’t fail, but he told you very clearly that you should leave or he would not be held accountable for his actions. You didn’t have to ask press him any further, nor did you want to, not because of any kind of principles, but because sympathy for him and his dead daughter would cloud your story. Because that’s all it was, then. A story.

If Mr Patterson remembers you or recognises you, he doesn’t show it. You are the least of his concerns at this present time. He’s not a character, either, but for convenience’s sake you’re willing to let him remain as something incidental. Empathy, it turns out, is a finite resource and your stocks are dry, perhaps because there is no-one in your world that replenishes you. If you were a cliche, you would have an ex that you could call, someone that you could tell that they were executing Sammy and despite all that you had been through together, they could say sorry and ask how you are. But there’s no-one.

All this is distraction, though, and idle speculation falls away as the door opens and Sammy is led in by the guards. His eyes scan across the room and I’ve that the glass you assumed was one way is just glass and he can see everyone assembled to watch him die. You said your final goodbyes yesterday, but you wonder what happened between then and now for Sammy to look so different. Perhaps it’s just the light in the room or maybe it’s a night spent knowing that you are definitely going to die tomorrow. You can only imagine what that does to someone. You tell yourself that you’ve been vying with this reality for a long time now, but that’s a lie you tell yourself to turn this into a story and to turn yourself into a character. You don’t know what it’s like to wait to die. At least, no more than any of us do.

You want him to see you, to concentrate on you, but that was never going to happen. Instead, Sammy’s eyes go straight to Mr Patterson, as you suppose they would and maybe should, if Sammy had actually done what he was accused of. The reflection means that you can see both of them at once and you catch a moment where their eyes lock. Mr Patterson then looks at the floor and as far as you know doesn’t look at Sammy again throughout the whole process.

It’s then that Sammy makes eye contact with you. At first he looked in the press box and seems gratified that you are in the box for his witnesses rather than journalists. This is the only thing you could do for him, one last sign that perhaps he wasn’t as alone as he thought and a final confirmation of the fact that you have absolutely no objectivity left when it comes to this case.

Case. There’s another piece of obfuscation for you. Lawyers and luggage makers can talk about cases. Everyone else just sounds like an idiot.

The guards are horrifically well rehearsed as they firmly push Sammy into the chair and fasten the restraints on his arms and legs. You can’t look away as they do this to him, even though the urge is strong. He needs to believe that he is not alone at this moment. You want him to believe it, even though you don’t. No one in the world is more alone than he is at this very moment. You don’t smile, don’t nod, don’t try and assure him that everything will be ok because you’re not in a position to lie to him in these last moments. Truth should be basic courtesy, a fundamental precept for all human interaction, yet it’s the most difficult thing to come by, the most precious resource you know of and the thing you hold most dear. At this moment, though, what you wouldn’t give in order to be able to lie, just with a gesture or a glance. But you don’t, because Sammy is a person and he deserves the best, even when everything is at its worst. So you just look at him, show him that you are here and he is there and even though nothing can change what’s about to happen, you are in some small measure there for him.

As they strap him into the chair, the warden steps forward and begins reading the sentence. It is as you knew, that he has been found guilty of the crime of murder and in accordance with the laws of the state, he shall now be put to death.

“Do you have any last words?”

Sammy takes a breath, looks at Mr Patterson and then right back at the warden.

“I didn’t kill anyone. The only murder I’ve seen is the one happening here today.”

Nobody says anything to this. You glance at the glass to check Mr Patterson’s reaction, but he’s still staring at his feet.

“Y’all are murdering me.”

Whether Sammy had more to say or not, the Warden decides that’s enough and nods to the guards to get on with it. You glance around to see if anyone is actually noting it down, but that question is gone as the rest of the procedure continues. The hood is drawn over Sammy’s head and it’s this, more than anything, that confirms to him the reality of his impending. With the hood on, he is alone in dark, struggling to breathe through the black mask and given only the subtlest of clues as to when his life will be over. He can’t see you, but you don’t look away What would be the point of being here if you did? You’re a witness - his witness - not just to an execution, but also to a crime. It’s your job to record every detail, ever nuance, for the record.

And as you think that, the warden says “Roll on one” and somewhere behind a curtain a switch is thrown.

The lights don’t dim, not like in the movies, but it’s true that you can feel the charge in the air. Sammy tenses against his restraints and shudders with a power greater than any flesh was meant to bear. He spasms and twitches on one unified direction, away from the electrical current which is killing him. There is no refuge, however, so his efforts are for nothing. Whether they are a conscious attempt to escape or a simple bioelectrical reflex is something you’ll wonder about later, but for the moment, all you can do is watch and keep watching as Sammy has the life burned out of him by his government.

For this, Mr Patterson raises his head. No longer staring at his shoes, he makes himself watch Sammy die, because this is the man convicted of killing his daughter and we as a society do this largely for the benefit of Mr Patterson and others like him. You want to know if it makes him feel better and you wonder if, perhaps, that might be some sort of consolation. Maybe in a story it would be, but in the real world, the truth is that nothing brings back a dead child.

You don’t know how long they run current through Sammy’s body. Your initial research says the initial shock is eight seconds, which is supposed to kill the brain almost immediately. then another twenty seconds and then another eight. Thirty six seconds to take a life. It doesn’t hurt, not if it’s done right. You hope it was done right.

The current stops and there is a moment of horrible expectation as the doctor checks Sammy’s pulse. You’ve heard stories about people surviving and the process having to be repeated, but that’s not the case here. The doctor confirms the time of death.

They close the curtain, as if it was the end of a play. No applause, though. Mr Patterson has already turned away, heading straight for the exit. He’s seen what he came here to see and has no reason to linger. If you were here in an official capacity, you might hang around to talk to some other people. The arresting officer is probably here, maybe a lawyer or two. The wardens sometimes like to talk, a fact that you found distasteful even before you had any personal investment and which now seems positively ghoulish. But then, you don’t know what it’s like to be a prison warden and so who are you to judge?

Some sense of duty tells you that you should stick around, but they’re not going to let you see the body (even if you wanted to), so you get out of that small room with its overlooked air. There are gates and turnstiles and buzzers to negotiate, registers to sign and bags to be checked until finally, finally, you get back out into the open air, where you can lean against your car door and just take a moment to process.

There’s a momentary craving for a cigarette, just for something to do, until you remember the small and consistency of ash and it turns your stomach. You don’t want to throw up, not here in the car park, not anywhere on the premises for that matter, and a few gulps of air mean that you’re able to get your gut in check, at least for the time being.

A door opens and closes and another figure emerges from the same door you exited from. As he draws closer, you recognise it as Miller from The Times. He recognises you and comes over to say hello.

“Didn’t see you in there,” he says, as he lights a cigarette. The bastard.

You tell him that you were in the third room and he nods.

“Got close to this one, right?”

Does he know that from personal experience, you wonder, or has he just read other people’s work? You’re not sure you can compare notes at this point, whether from a professional or personal standpoint, so you just nod dumbly.

“Try not to dwell on it too much,” he says. “It’s over now.”

He flicks his cigarette away, all three-quarters of it, and you watch it as it lands five metres away, still burning.

Miller says goodbye and you say the same but don’t look up from his cigarette. If he drove away quickly enough, could you go and pick up the cigarette and take a drag? And if does that, will you? Probably not, but it’s better than looking at Miller or his company car and waving as he pulls out in front of you. It’s better than looking back at the building that Sammy died in and it’s better than looking in the backseat of your Honda, where a bulging cardboard box full of papers contains everything you ever wrote, found or copied about Sammy.

If this was a story, you would take that to the dump, or the recycling centre or to a burning ashcan in your back yard and you would dispose of it all in one symbolic purging. You can see it in your mind’s eye, page after page being subsumed until there was nothing left.

That would be an ending, of sorts.

If this were a story.