First Person: I have samples from Exitvoid,Ruby City, and Lovestruck. I'M REAPPING SO... YEAH. Stuff I did when I was actually in the game.
Third Person: Waking up in a cold sweat was never pleasant. Everyone knows that. Be it from sickness, nightmares, or something else, they were all equally bad. In Rufus' case, it was a nightmare. He slowly sat up, trying to clear the grogginess from his head just for the moment. What had he been dreaming about? What was so terrifying?
And then he remembered: his father. Ever since that hostage incident, Rufus had been plagued by awful nightmares involving his father. In the dreams, the scene would relive itself, but with differences each time. Every time he had to shoot down his father, another bullet hole would be in his head, mocking him, screaming insults. Every time, the same awful feeling.
Once more, Rufus shook his head in an attempt to clear such awful thoughts and try to calm himself. For the most part, it worked. But mostly because his stomach grumbled just then, breaking that awkward moment. “Guess'm hankerin' for some grub...” he mumbled.
After a moment's sigh, he climbed out of bed and trudged towards the kitchen. He knew why these dreams kept happening. He was guilty. He killed his father. He killed the sole provider in his life, and he felt guilty. His stomach felt uneasy, his head felt cloudy, and it made him want to throw up. It was an awful feeling. That same feeling that had swept over him on that fateful day had never truly left him. There was always a sickening feeling which would only get worse when he thought about it.
Hands fumbled on the wall, trying to find the lightswitch. Once he finally managed to find the darn thing, he couldn't help but smirk. That's how things always felt; like he was fumbling his way along, There was no light in his life. Not yet, at least. But, as usual, he'd grin and bear it. After all, everyone had a cross to bear, didn't they?
The coolness of the tiles on his bare feet felt soothing. Sure, he woke up in a cold sweat, but this coolness was relieving, almost like a cold shower to clear his mind. But less wet, of course. As he trudged towards the fridge, he recalled what had happened up until now. He shot his father, which in a sense, killed his old life and shoved him into a new one. Then he left town in an effort to discover who he was. He worked a few odd jobs along the way, but ended up at this cheap motel he stayed at for most of this month.
And he finally arrived at the fridge. Eagerly, he swung it open, only to remember that it was mostly empty. “Jus' like m'own life. Well, at this moment, anywho.” There wasn't any rotten food – he was careful that way, since “one bad apple and you'll poison th'whole darned barrel!”
Even so, he kept browsing for food, and eventually stumbled on a half-eaten burrito. He wasn't about to waste good food. That would be silly. And although it was cold, he pulled it out of the fridge and took a bite. Old and cold, but delicious. Each bite was satisfying.
Once he finished, he closed the fridge and turned to the cabinet. They looked a bit dirty, but this was a cheap motel, after all. He grabbed a glass, filled it with water, and drank two cups.
Water, to him, was something strange to Rufus. It was so clean, so pure. He was never really used to wholesome purity while growing up, since his father made things difficult most of the time. Still, it was refreshing and satisfying.
He placed the glass down on the counter with a tiny clink, then began to head back to bed. The lights went off, he climbed into bed, and closed his eyes. “Here's t'hopin there ain't no more nightmares...”
[OC] Rufus Townsen | Not Reserved | 2/2
First Person: I have samples from Exitvoid, Ruby City, and Lovestruck.
I'M REAPPING SO... YEAH. Stuff I did when I was actually in the game.
Third Person: Waking up in a cold sweat was never pleasant. Everyone knows that. Be it from sickness, nightmares, or something else, they were all equally bad. In Rufus' case, it was a nightmare. He slowly sat up, trying to clear the grogginess from his head just for the moment. What had he been dreaming about? What was so terrifying?
And then he remembered: his father. Ever since that hostage incident, Rufus had been plagued by awful nightmares involving his father. In the dreams, the scene would relive itself, but with differences each time. Every time he had to shoot down his father, another bullet hole would be in his head, mocking him, screaming insults. Every time, the same awful feeling.
Once more, Rufus shook his head in an attempt to clear such awful thoughts and try to calm himself. For the most part, it worked. But mostly because his stomach grumbled just then, breaking that awkward moment. “Guess'm hankerin' for some grub...” he mumbled.
After a moment's sigh, he climbed out of bed and trudged towards the kitchen. He knew why these dreams kept happening. He was guilty. He killed his father. He killed the sole provider in his life, and he felt guilty. His stomach felt uneasy, his head felt cloudy, and it made him want to throw up. It was an awful feeling. That same feeling that had swept over him on that fateful day had never truly left him. There was always a sickening feeling which would only get worse when he thought about it.
Hands fumbled on the wall, trying to find the lightswitch. Once he finally managed to find the darn thing, he couldn't help but smirk. That's how things always felt; like he was fumbling his way along, There was no light in his life. Not yet, at least. But, as usual, he'd grin and bear it. After all, everyone had a cross to bear, didn't they?
The coolness of the tiles on his bare feet felt soothing. Sure, he woke up in a cold sweat, but this coolness was relieving, almost like a cold shower to clear his mind. But less wet, of course. As he trudged towards the fridge, he recalled what had happened up until now. He shot his father, which in a sense, killed his old life and shoved him into a new one. Then he left town in an effort to discover who he was. He worked a few odd jobs along the way, but ended up at this cheap motel he stayed at for most of this month.
And he finally arrived at the fridge. Eagerly, he swung it open, only to remember that it was mostly empty. “Jus' like m'own life. Well, at this moment, anywho.” There wasn't any rotten food – he was careful that way, since “one bad apple and you'll poison th'whole darned barrel!”
Even so, he kept browsing for food, and eventually stumbled on a half-eaten burrito. He wasn't about to waste good food. That would be silly. And although it was cold, he pulled it out of the fridge and took a bite. Old and cold, but delicious. Each bite was satisfying.
Once he finished, he closed the fridge and turned to the cabinet. They looked a bit dirty, but this was a cheap motel, after all. He grabbed a glass, filled it with water, and drank two cups.
Water, to him, was something strange to Rufus. It was so clean, so pure. He was never really used to wholesome purity while growing up, since his father made things difficult most of the time. Still, it was refreshing and satisfying.
He placed the glass down on the counter with a tiny clink, then began to head back to bed. The lights went off, he climbed into bed, and closed his eyes. “Here's t'hopin there ain't no more nightmares...”