this world is not conclusion

Please note: This roleplay depicts the feelings of death and despair with allusions to violence. The events are completely fictional and any relation to real persons is purely coincidental. 

The lights on the horizon, a distant hope of salvation. You hold out your hand and hope for the best. 

It wasn’t the first.
Was it the last?

The rain begins to fall. You can feel your hair start to grow thick and heavy on the nape of your neck. The cold, once kept at bay by the safety of the vehicle, now slowly seeps in. 

Will they stop?

You wave your arm, leaning toward the road just enough so that you stand out. The lights are blinding, so if you can’t see them: they must see you right?

Right?

The lights are blinding.
They must see you.
Right?

The blinding light - and the screeching agony. You can barely hear the breaks and the tires skid to a halt through the screaming - that horrible screaming.

If only you could stop.
If the pain.
If only it would stop.

The blinding lights, the searing pain. And the headlights? Still there. Still calling your name. You can hear the car idling…

…through those blood-curdling shrieks. 

Will they stop?

No. They have places to go. People to see - more important matters at hand. The car turns, slowly at first, before pushing off into the night. The headlights become brake lights in the distance - the fading light of your salvation. 

You wonder where they had to go - and who they were. Or at least you try. If only you could stop that terrible noise coming from your face. It doesn’t matter.

To them, you were nothing.
…and nobody…

Just another Jane Doe.

Something calling. Something yearning. 

A whisper.
A beckon.
A pull.

“What is it that binds us to this world?” whispers a voice, “Is it our spirit? Or our pain? What leaves and what remains behind?”

A yearning, calling in the void. A face: your face? No: a murmur from beyond. Your vision? No - you cannot see but somehow, somewhere inside you can feel her coal black eyes bearing down like an endless abyss of nothing and nevermore.

A whisper.
A beckon.

“What if you shared the pain - would it go away? They say misery loves company.”

A pull, this time real - a hand clasping yours. You begin to stir. The feeling, that feeling when she is close. The missing piece - a Voice to the Voiceless. All at one time, you can feel it once again. The pain of the world - drowned out only by The Sound of Death.

The scene opens to the side of a road. 

Jane sits up, her mouth opening wide, a hollow shout that amounts for no more than a whisper in the dark. Like a wild animal, she immediately tenses and pulls herself at ready upon seeing another being so close. An alabaster hand reaches towards her face and she cautiously smells her wrist. The woman from her dreams, all in white, real and alive and right here. 

She tilts her head, further than should be allowed and stares.

“There’s something to be said of silence. Shh!’ she says, slowly cooing the skull-faced woman still beside her. Jane leans back, her head tilting in confusion, before giving in her embrace. “But there’s always something to be said. Words are merely an exercise and often an excuse. How often do we bluff and bluster our way through life and what happens when the curtain is pulled back?”

She gently caresses the hair away from the pale woman’s cloudy, yellow eyes. Jane’s face follows the fingers, her pupils dilating instinctively. 

“What about your flesh, Blake? What happens when it’s pulled back and what lies beneath? Jane? Jane reveals herself through the pain. And through the pain? She will show you the truth because the truth? Well, the truth lies beneath….”

Her nails sink into Jane’s skin. Blood oozes and coagulates around her fingers for but a moment, before she withdraws them. She holds her palm in front of Jane who sniffs her fingers once more and the tiny pebble she just plucked free.

“Sometimes you just have to dig.”

Jane presses her face against the woman’s hand. 

“There are two types of people in this world. The ones that run to the pain and ones who fear it. They may not say that, but it shows in their eyes - that tiny flinch, that little blink. We’re taught that the courageous are silent and it’s what’s inside that counts. Why is it then that we so often define ourselves and each other by how we look or what we say and not what we do?”

She turns to the almost animal-like woman beside her. As she begins to pat the matted mane of dirty blond hair back, her face grows soft.

“You see before you something broken, torn, mangled - an easy target. Easy prey. You would make short work of her and be on your way. But why? Because you see her as ugly and low? If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, yet justice is blind, then what does that mean, Mr. O’Reilly?”

She stares lovingly into the ghastly woman’s face.

“It means we must dig beneath. “

The Sound of Death turns back to the frame.

“Beneath the posturing and the posing and the pretending, where there is truth that only you can expel. Now, you came to wrestle and I wish you luck, but I will tell you what you knew all along: Jane isn’t coming to place you in a pin.” She allows herself to laugh. “She’s coming to make you pass out from the pain.”

As she fights to contain her laughter, Jane starts to tremble and grunt. The woman in white wraps her arm around her, cradling her close as she continues to shake and groan, incensed by thoughts of violence.

And of revenge.

“Dig as deep as you can, Mr. O’Reilly - go as far inside of yourself as you have to, but never turn back. Because she will always be there - ready to dig deeper. You would love for your experiences with wrist locks and drop toeholds to have prepared you for this moment and this time. You would see yourself standing tall and shouting to the world the tales of your triumph, but you will find that time never comes.  And in the end? You will sing her praises with the symphony of your screams.”

She closes her eyes and begins waving her hands as if conducting an orchestra in the distance. As she does, Jane begins to get worked up again. She cradles her head once more, whispering.

“Hold it in, or let it out, there’s something to be said of silence.”

She smiles.

“Especially when it speaks.”

Jane opens her mouth, the clouded eyes rolling into her head. The camera zooms in to see the faintest glimmer of a grin as the scene fades to black.