ryslig inbox

[deadbydawn]

WELCOME TO YOUR PRIVATE CHANNEL, ASH WILLIAMS. FOR SECURE COMMUNICATION, USE 05.22.09.12 *** ASH WILLIAMS has joined 05.22.09.12 <boomstick69> you've reached the private inbox of the king himself, ashley j. williams ;) <boomstick69> state your name and business and i'll see if i decide to get back to you

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[6am]

[He wants to scream. Scream like Ash is. He wants to shout in anguish about how terrible this place is for the first time since he's arrived here.

But the moment the thought crosses his mind, he holds head in horror. He can't be horrified by this place. As terrible as it is, he didn't want to prefer going home over staying here. He can't want to go home. Even with all the horrors, he can't want to stay in a never ending hell over this.

Phil lets out a muted sob and looks back to the man they just killed.]

God, I... I didn't want to starve to death or lose control but...

[What fucking right did he have to say that he deserved to live more than this stranger, this man who had a life of his own. Why didn't he just ask Mukuro to kill him when he was starting to feel himself lose control. He could come back if he died, he could resume life after a few days.

But this man will never come back and it was his fault. If he wasn't just so selfish he would still be okay.]

Dear god I am a monster.

[deadbydawn]

Yeah? So am I. So is everyone else. That's what we got signed up for when we got dragged here, remember?

[His voice is ragged as he drags himself up onto his knees, struggling to remain solid enough to crawl out of the ground. Ash's body fills with an angry static, a constant droning buzz filling his ears.]

I just want to go home, man. To a normal life, where I'm not forced to--forced to kill people just to survive. I need a goddamn vacation! I wanted to go to Jacksonville with my girlfriend before comin' here, did you know that? And then everything went to shit, and everything's been shit ever since then.

[There's an uncomfortable silence that follows his words. He can't just stay still, he needs to move. Ash draws himself up onto his feet, pacing back and forth. At least, he thinks he's pacing--in reality, he's just drifting to and fro, his feet drifting a few inches above the ground. His thoughts buzz like a hive of agitated wasps, constantly bombarding his brain with insults and laments.

He stops, suddenly, staring down at the man on the boardwalk. The static quiets. The silence isn't any more bearable than the noise.]

We need to move this guy.