[spoiler='cba tbh][align=center][div style="text-align: justify; width:520px;font-size:9.3pt; line-height:15px; color:black;"][spoiler=LIST OF TW]Possibly offence opinion of religion (Christianity)
Discussion of child abuse
Swearing
Violence/gore/murder mentions
Mentioning of prostitutes [nothing worse than PG13]
Smoking
Vomiting/being sick
Death [/spoiler]
Having been born a year or so after the power first went out, Dylan had never been forced to sit down in a Church to pray or listen to stories about deities in a religious classroom. It was a concept he knew little about, only the names of the major God's, and that people put all their faith into them in exchange for a peaceful (or horrific, depending on their actions) existence in the afterlife. It was...
strange to Dylan to let your whole life be controlled by an unknown being, and to have it shape the way you spoke, acted and lived. He was almost relieved his mother had been too lazy to teach him the ways of Catholic life, and even more relieved that God didn't look down at people like him now the power was gone. Or, at least, thats what he believed. God was gone. God had abandoned them all, shutting the power down across his own creation because humans had been so corrupt and dangerous. That's what his father had sneered jokingly across the dinner table at his mother, mocking her own words in such a twisted way it made Dylan's atheist mindset flare up in anger. Dylan did not care for religion or moral code, but he cared about letting people have their opinions, his spineless mother included. The twenty year old had even gotten a small finger tattoo of a rosemary bead necklace with its dangling Cross in a silent salute to his mother. Although she offered him and his sisters a stable home life, she had tried her best, and that was all that mattered. The finger tattoo had been haunting him lately however, putting a silent itch at the back of his mind like a tug that wouldn't pull through. Was it because he had never put his faith in God at all? Or because he wore a Cross on him so nonchalantly?
Despite not caring much for religious practices or beliefs, Dylan had visited the old Church in the old territory. The building had been bleached and faded from decades of sun exposure and half of the beautiful glass windows were smashed through; he hadn't minded, still finding the remaining glass strong enough to bask the pews in a colourful glow. He still remembered laying on a sleeping bag in that very Church as the coyote attack ravaged the poor city, his head resting against his AR-15 and his broken hand throbbing erratically. He remembered the screams and the blood splattering against his face as the coyotes broke through the door -- and as Dylan shot wildly at the desert-dwelling, rabid dogs, he decided Church's were nothing more than four walls and a roof, an empty building put on a pedestal above everywhere else.
That's why it made little sense for him to be approaching the new territory's Church. He was walking quickly with his hands stuffed in his favourite khaki hoodie's front pocket, his body lacking of any weapons for the first time in weeks and his wild hair somewhat controlled. He was alone, not an uncommon sight these days. Dylan preferred to go by his business alone and most people knew not to approach him anymore -- not since Flintlock, and most definitely not since he'd started to lose his mind more often than usual. The Underboss looked up at the Church in question, his hazel gaze studying the architecture and stability of it curiously. It was in a better shape than the old Church, and Dylan doubted he'd find dead coyotes and Badlanders slumped against the walls with bullets in their brains if he opened the door. Still, he was hesitant to enter the Church, mostly due to the negative thoughts he had previously about them. He had also killed
things in a Church, a room of God, one of the holiest places on earth. Did he even deserve to open the oak doors with hands covered in so many people's blood?
"My name's Dylan, but I guess you already knew that, right?" His hazel gaze glanced up quickly at the brass statue of Jesus on the Cross; there was a hidden sadness in the words, a guilt that ran so deep his facial expression reflected it.
"I'm not sure why I bothered doing this, but my Mother always told me that prayer was the best way for forgiveness from you, and I'm sick of people looking at me like I'm evil. I'm sick of always feeling so guilty." He moves slightly and shifts towards the ground, his heart pounding in his chest at the unfamiliar position of sitting cross-legged on the ground. Dylan's messy hair falls into his eyes and for once he doesn't move it, letting the bronze strands hide the statues relentless stare into his own.
"So I'm here to confess to everything, to apologize. Right from the start." Killing and stealing and being evil was all the twenty year old had known his entire life -- he had been brought up as hard as the bullet shells his own guns left behind, to fight mercy with merciless actions, to burn houses down and to kill children and to only help himself. The world was selfish, but Dylan Hearst had been more selfish.
"From the day I was born, my father liked to hurt me and my sisters. I always assumed it was something we did to upset him when we were born, but it turns out it was my Mother's fault. She was a w***e, apparently, even though I had no idea what that word meant until... Later, but I'll get to that." Dylan drummed his fingers against his knee nervously and kept his stare on the dusty carpet below him. It was a deep crimson colour, like the blood he had so carelessly spilled; he felt himself close his eyes and inhale a ragged, nervous breath.
"I hated my Father. I wanted to kill him since I could talk. He tormented us and beat us and turned us into things we didn't deserve to be; me and my sisters, we were just kids trying to grow up, but it was like he had an agenda against us. Like he wanted us to die before him, and if that meant he'd be the one pulling the trigger, so be it." A pause as he collected himself.
"So I had to stop him. When I was fourteen, a year after Anya left and two years after Genesis and Mom, I went downstairs to confront my Father. I had a black eye and a broken finger from past injuries, but I refused to be defeated. For the first time ever, I used a switchblade and a broken glass bottle against him, but it wasn't enough. So I stole as much gasoline as I could and burned our house down with him inside."
He is silent for what feels like years, his slim body hunched over in the cross-legged position, his knuckles white from clenching them so hard.
"But.. That's not what I'm sorry for. I still hate my father, but I'm here to apologize for not going after my sisters or Mother. They didn't deserve me, but I'm still sorry. They might be dead now when I could have protected them." Whether or not his remaining parent or sisters were still alive, he missed them dearly. He missed the summers mornings with syrup on stale-cornflakes and playing board games and chasing each other around the garden. He missed his Mothers gentle hands stroking his freckled cheeks, whispering that everything would be fine, that they'd find a big castle and run away from their Father. He had fed himself their lies that it would be okay because he had been foolish, caught up in a whirlwind of lies from an early age. But despite all the deceiving lies and half-hearted half-truths, Dylan cared deeply about his blonde-haired family members. He hoped the world was -- or had been -- good to them, that if they were dead their deaths had been quick and painless.
"So after I murdered my father, I traveled from our tiny town across what was once the American border. I was drifting with the only aim of finding New York, figuring that would be the easiest way to find somewhere safe to stay. I was deeply wrong." Dylan opened his eyes this time, staring back up at the statue to gaze into the brass eyes of the fake Jesus hanging from the Cross.
"I would like to apologize for being too weak to tell the gang leaders no when they pushed a semi-automatic gun into my hands. I would like to apologize for letting them train me into a fucking war machine when I was a child, and I'm sorry for not saving the women there... They were there for sex, that's it, they told me they were scared for their lives and I still left them. They were so nice to me and I had the chance to save them, but I didn't take it." He wipes at the corner of his eye at the last comment; the once hazel colour looks more green in the sunlight streaming in through the stain glass windows above the Underboss and the statue. Although his stay in New York had been a mere three weeks, he could still remember the leaders of the gang asserting every boy between the ages eleven and fiffteen, judging which ones would be cut loose or ranked up to snipers. He could still remember the smell of alcohol on the women's tongues as he shoved his way past them, their whispers telling him to
run, run, run and don't look back. For growing up in such a remote town with less than twenty families in the area, a full on gang in the middle of such a complex city had left him reeling with panic and delirium.
"I was just a kid. I'm sorry. I hope those poor women can forgive me for leaving them with those monsters."
But his mind was somewhere else, back to when he was freshly out of New York, clutching his AR-15 with dear life and focusing on what he had to do with it.
"I'm sorry for killing those innocent people for their supplies. I wish I could repay them all somehow."
"I still remember Tatiana's death. It was a long time ago, only me and Charlie remember her anymore but not a day goes by when I don't think about her." He flicked open the lighter now, his usually stone-cold, steady hands shaking with a hidden, heated anger. The spark of the lighter goes not once, not twice, but three times before the cigarette is completely lit. The Underboss relished in the tar-like taste that spread down his throat into his system and observed the smoke that spilled when he exhaled. Smoking, yet another habit he had never been able to completely kick, but only worsened since joining the Badlands. It was strange how a group so toxic and dangerous was so rewarding.
"I don't like to blame things that are out of my control, but I wish I had paid attention to my Mother when she patched me up. Maybe some of that medical knowledge could have saved her life." Sliding over his one and only friend's blood had made him vomit later that night, his mind wrapped up in such dark thoughts he had been terrified of himself. His anger back then had made him stupid, but little did he know that anger would only grow ... Grow into something much more uncontrollable and ugly, something that really deserved to be feared.
"But now my confessions get recent. I was pulled into a stupid, dangerous raid plan. I suffered a lot at the expense of my reputation and what I was told to do, not what I believed. I'd like to personally apologize to the following people--" He cleared his throat and sighed deeply, fighting off a look of utter guilt as he gazed up at the statue once again.
"Firstly, Brendan, for attempting to kill him. To Greer, for putting a gun in her face when she was a kid herself. To Gilbert, who I later shot at when he angered me by telling me the truth's I was trying to avoid. To Johannes, for using whatever I could to get out of his grasp, and to the rest of Flintlock Lodge. I'm sorry for terrorizing your children when I was locked in the basement." Unaware of the heat growing outside, the Underboss let the shivers of horror and realization wreck his body. Goosebumps were all over his arms, hiding deep under the baggy fabric of his hoodie, but still present. He was as horrified as anyone at the words coming out of his mouth -- of the things
he has done ever so recently, and until now, never apologized for.
"That includes trying to hurt my friend, Sheogorath. He has done a lot of bad things, God, but I think you could reconsider everything. He told me he would teach me to swim, maybe even help me read. Sheogorath is a loyal friend. I'm sorry I tried to hurt him when he told me what he'd done to the Lodge. I'm--"
Someone yawns loudly over his shoulder.
"B-oring, I've heard all this shit before." Dylan's blood runs cold at the sound ringing his ears, and ever so slowly, he turned around to face the man before him. The cigarette fell to the ground beside his odd sneakers, and his hands curled into instant fists, clenched tightly with fear and disbelief. A man, sat on the pew nearest the doors, wearing nothing but black and the ugliest smile alive, waves with his fingers over at the Underboss.
"Hello, dearest Son of mine." The man's face is almost completely ruined, destroyed by vicious scarring of painful burns, all netting together to form one web of pain and misery across his cheeks and forehead. The burns are years old but still permant, Dylan knows that much, and that's why he stumbled back a step.
"Something wrong?"
"I killed you." Dylan gasped, his mind whirling with memories of that July night.
"I listened to your screams but I... You're dead."
"I should be, but I'm not. There is such thing as a window or a back door, you foolish boy. Did you forget to lock all the other exits when you tried to burn me alive, you merciless, heartless, selfish--"
"Have some respect when you speak to me." Dylan replied fiercely, his hazel gaze flashing with an intensity of heat he had never witnessed before. He towers over the other man, his
Father in an eerie fashion; he no longer soft spoken and innocent. There is more blood on his hands than his father realizes, and for a few precious seconds the Underboss relished in the look of sudden fear on his fathers burned face. He was scared of his son for the first time in forever, he finally knows
this is not a boy, but a man. A lot of people in the Badlands underestimated the twenty year old for his ruthlessness or quick-minded nature, but not anymore, he was prepared to stand up to the man he had cowered in front of his entire childhood.
"Yes, I heard through the grapevine that you had quite a nice position here. Something to do with the leader of this little rag-tag Mafia, huh? Good on you, I suppose. I hope he won't miss you much." His father taps his chin thoughtfully with an equally scarred finger,
"Or perhaps that blonde boy would miss you much more, no?" Dylan's heart dropped from his chest. He could feel his pulse quickening at the mention of Ambrose, someone he had kept his history from, someone who had only seen Dylan at his angriest point and not his merciless. Dylan didn't know how he felt about the Italian solider until very recently, but coming here and confessing everything he'd done left it in black and white.
"Ambrose is strong. Don't you dare discredit him of that, I won't let you."
"Strong like that old leader who died? I heard she went down quite peacefully, almost next to no fight. I wonder... I wonder if you will be as easy, huh? I'd love to test it." The grin on his face was mechanical, twisted with hatred and amusement and his eyes not just meeting the excitement. His movements were fluent and fast for a man of such an old age and with so many injuries, but Dylan was quicker. He matched his father just in time, lifting an arm to avoid the blow of a punch landing on his collarbone. The Underboss threw the older man off with all his strength, until the two of them stumbled into a nearby pew, causing the next few to shift out of the way.
Such a pretty room to be destroying thought the Underboss with a heavy heart as his father punched at him again. This time the attack hit, sending his head snapping back against his spine. Dylan cried out in pain as blood began to gush freely from his nose, but instead of being dazed and surprised, he flung himself into the fight.
Dylan slammed into his father at the waist and threw the pair of them onto the floor. His father, yanking harshly at his green hoodie with so much livid hate he might rip it, still struggled to move the furious twenty year old. Dylan pinned the older man down and raised his fist, slamming it down on the other male's face with every spat out word that stumbled from his mouth.
"I - hate - you - so - much." Even the crunch of the other mans broken nose wasn't enough to satisfy the Underboss, so blinded by his own ignorance and fury that it left him shaken and oblivious.
"You - ruined - everything - from - the - very - start." From beneath him, a gruggled laugh bubbled from his fathers throat, and suddenly, there was pain. Dylan stopped punching and felt his hands fly to his lower stomach in such a rush he winded himself. Pain, stabbing darts of agony, ripping through his system like a wildfire.
A machete was sticking out of him, dug so deep only the handle was showing.
"I..." He clutched the crimson stain in his hoodie like he was holding on for dear life. Oh, he'd been stabbed and slashed before, but never
fatally stabbed. Shock hid a lot of the initial pain as he stumbled backwards from his fathers sprawled out body, and he struggled to make focus of anything around him. The alabaster white pews seemed to be leaking blood and the chandelier above creaking with a haunting giggle. He could feel the life ebbing out his bones and his skin, disappearing into the silent air around them. Dylan almost doesn't register the machete being pulled from his stomach as his father's twisted smirk turns into a smug look of bitter look of satisfaction. The machete with his blood on it made him light-headed and the twenty year old stumbled back a step; he had never been drunk in this entire life, mostly due to the man standing in front of him, but the way he tried to walk and failed made him feel it. His body had lost control. He was weak, defeated.
"Any last words?" His fathers voice was only slight hindered, but still as joyful as ever, filled to the brim with delight and excitement. He was wielding the bloodied machete with such ease it reminded Dylan of himself as he crept towards unsuspecting innocents.
Dylan hissed through clenched teeth. He was gritting his teeth so hard he felt like his jaw would pop out of place, but instead he relaxed his body enough to let out two hate filled, snarled mumbles.
"Fuck you." Like watching a television that had only ever been blank his entire life, the brown-haired boy fell to the ground. His head collided with the edge of the bottom step of the altar and he felt the life crackle dangerously low --
this is it, he realized as his head rested on the ground and faced the doorway of the Church. Sunlight was spilling in from outside, and he could smell the sea salt on his tongue, he could hear the shouts and laughter of his fellow Badlanders outside. He had never noticed
how much this group meant to him, how he valued every person to keep him as grounded as possible and as his best self. All they knew was Dylan Hearst, the soft, good-hearted boy with the weapons. Dylan Hearst, the Underboss with little experience. Dylan Hearst, a member of the Badlands. He had watched this group rise itself from the ashes and expand into the empire it was turning out to be, just how he had always envisioned it. And although Dylan didn't do a lot to help it in terms of gaining supplies and numbers, he had tried his best to keep morale high, and that had to count for something.
The pews and the silhouette of the sunlight coming in through the doors was growing hazy. His eyes were heavy, almost like someone was holding them shut and telling him to let go.
But its not my time, he begged the metaphorical figure pinning him to the ground, taking his bones captive and stealing his consciousness.
I have so much to do. He had to tell Ambrose he loved him, to thank Charlie for believing in him and Sheogorath for being his friend. He had to see the foamy waves of the ocean one last time and feel the kick of one of his guns in his hands. He wanted to smoke a cigarette on a car roof, let the wind run through his messy hair, laugh alongside his friends. He wanted to play games or pool or cards or talk about useless shit. Anything, he'd do anything, anything but this.
It's not fair, please let me... Stay. He was not one to beg -- he hadn't begged his father to stop, he hadn't begged for travelers supplies, he hadn't begged anyone in the Badlands. Begging was something Dylan did not do, but he was desperate. Desperate, dying and scared. He was like a cat with nine lives, and it was as if death had finally come knocking on this door.
He had never seen someone die slowly. He had grown up watching people die the minute a bullet collided with their skin; everyone he remembered died on contact, gone before they hit the ground. But here he was, curled up on the floor of a Church in a ball, clutching his stomach with all his energy, trying not to close his eyes for the final time. His eyes were only green in the sunlight or when full of tears, and now they were as bright as emerald stones -- he blinked, eyelids heavy, and watched with a sinking heart as his Father's familiar figure strode down the isle towards the doors. The machete he had used to stab his son with was laying in the bloodied puddle that had formed around the twenty year old. Dylan had survived so long believing he had defeated his biggest demon, using that guilt and repression and anger to turn into a silent rebellion against him. Now, six years later, it was discovered he had been living this whole time as a lie?
Dylan refused to let his final moments revolve around that horrible man. Instead he closed his green eyes for the last time and let his body relax into his favourite khaki hoodie, now ripped and bloodied crimson at the stomach. He thought of Ambrose's body hugging him, of Tatiana's knowing smirk, of Charlie's satisfied nod of approval, of Sheogorath's many stories and facts, of the casino at night-time with all the gas-lights shining. He thought of his sisters and mother, how he was to be reunited with them soon. He thought of seeing the ocean for the first time, and how he found beauty in the foamy, dark waves that were yet to be explored. He let the faces of his friends flash behind his eyes, filling his brain with so many sounds, thoughts and feelings he could do nothing but smile. The very movement left him fuzzy and disorientated, and before he knew it, he was gone as peaceful as a subtle breeze. Outside, a bird chirped to the rest of its group, a joyful melody filling the air around the Church. The warm air from inside was settling across the Church's pews now, casting everything in a blazed glow. Spring was on its way, and to Dylan Hearst, that would have meant a lot of things.
[spoiler=SUMMARY AND NOTE]
QUICK SUMMARY: Dylan went to a Church in the territory to tell God his confessions, including stuff from his childhood until now. After he was done, his father (who he thought he had killed until this day) arrived in the Church and after fighting for a bit, Dylan was stabbed in the stomach. Dylan bled out on the ground and died, but his Father was gone quickly after the murder happened!!
OOC: First of all, I'd like to apologize, mostly to Beatles and everyone who actively RP's here. I know this is so random and unexpected, but over the weekend it hit me that I spend almost all my free time on this website when I need to be studying for these exams I have coming up late Spring. These exams will make or break me for the rest of my education/life, so I
literally nEED to do good?? It's a lot of stress and I'm not handling it well by spending so much time here. I originally planned on having Dylan step down or disappear but I know myself, and I know I'd still be spending so much time here that it put my grades in danger. It's highly likely I'll be back in the summer, but until now I guess this is goodbye??
But thank you all so much. I started RPing Dylan 10 months ago and never did I expect to keep him running this long. He is my favourite character I've ever had on any site and writing his ending made me so sad! Thank you to the roleplayers in the Badlands for making these 10 months so enjoyable -- whether you joined months ago, last week or today, thank you. I have enjoyed plotting and chatting with you all.
Fun fact, I spent the entire post trying to think of a way to include his first ever introduction thread here 10 months ago, and in the last few sentences I managed it. [url=http://www.bearbonesrp.com/index.php?topic=1468.msg36047#msg36047]"Spring was on its way. To Dylan Hearst, that meant a number of things."
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