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FieldNotes

(Literature and some Art) Wilson's Journal

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Warden    125

Interesting. I was a bit confused at first when Wilson called Willow Wendy since they are two different characters in the game, but I see you were trying to create a bit of a backstory for Willow. Pretty good way to start off Willow's introduction.

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FieldNotes    61

Thank you! This is going on the backburner for at least another week, though, as I have important things to do. But come 24th July, at least, I'll be working hard on the next post!

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FieldNotes    61

BirchandWillow_zps262b84e0.png


 


~~~


It's back! \o/ All kinds of lovelies in Chapter Two. How many of you are still reading this, I wonder?


 


I guess we'll find out soon enough!


Edited by FieldNotes
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FieldNotes    61

DAYS OF RECOVERY

 

Looking back, it's been over a month since I was tossed into this new land and left to fend for myself.

 

Me and Willow, we got along 'well' - in the sense that she did not eviscerate me in my sleep and I quickly learnt the rules of her camp-site. You see, I believe Willow has been alone...for quite a while. The concept of talking to other people had long slipped from her mind as a pointless task and, watching her behaviour, I am nothing but immensely glad that I chose to write in this journal for a method of retaining my sanity. I don't even know if my step-daughter is still in that hollow shell of a girl, but I know that her consciousness is rubbing shoulders with a demon, a beast of unimaginable cruelty and violence.

 

In the weeks that led to my slow and eventual recovery, I was bed-ridden (Willow deemed it necessary after the second night to bind me using long, thick stands of leather around my wrists and ankles. After the third, I stopped trying to escape, for she threatened to rip the sinewy muscle from my calves so that she was certain I did not move.) and well looked after (Willow did not let me die, at least, but after a particularly vicious argument she did toss me outside of the camp-site and at the edge of the spider-infested woods. I deemed it necessary to loudly express my apologies by that point.) and, at least, had a person to speak to aside from my Journal. I learnt her rules fairly quickly, and adapted appropriately.

 

Her first rule, was to remain within the boundaries of the camp-site. This was a rule that she frequently broke, so I believe that it only applies to 'guests' such as myself.

 

Her second rule was to avoid talking about anything that upsets her; a difficult rule to adhere to, but the punishment merely happened to be a long period of silence in which she wouldn't talk to me until she slept her bad mood away. Sometimes, she 'forgets' to feed me. For some reason I am far less upset about this notion than I would've been in my...flat? Cabin in the woods?

 

My memories are fading, journal. I forget the people in my life, albeit I had very few after the Incident, and the places I have visited. I forget the smells and the sounds first, I have forgotten the tune to my most favourite song and the smell and taste of an English breakfast. It's as if these lands are eating my thoughts, devouring them slowly and hungrily until I become nothing more than...than Willow, over there.

 

Despite the cool hostility that permeated the fire-lit dome that was the camp-site during the impossibly dark nights, I voiced concerns to Willow, talked about my thoughts and feelings with her. She usually had nowhere to run when it came to these 'evening chats' and, secretly, I believe she enjoyed the fact her hostage was kind enough to communicate with her.

 

"The memories go first,"​ she would tell me rhythmically. It was soothing to hear her voice, for she had matured vocal chords that purred and twittered, each word full of emotion and colour, the tone and pitch changing pleasingly with every syllable. Was this the effect of having no external accent to learn upon? Hearing the own sound of your voice for eight, long, years until eventually it transcends human standards and she speaks like the angels in her mind. "And then the common sense. That starts to fade, you become...suicidal, violent." 

 

"And I can tell, now, you want to know how I got through that part? I can see it in your eyes, Wilson. You have a knack of narrowing them slightly when something piques your curiosity." Another strange habit of hers - she picks up on body-language incredibly quickly. It seems to interest her, and with no surprise; she has, after all, been on her own for a while. She's mapping out my tiny little reactions in her head, knowing which strings to pull to get me to speak. Knowing what to say to keep me interested, to stop me from wanting to leave. "Well, it's the talking. It's the seeing. Feeling. Smelling. Hearing." she would say, as she crawled over to me and pressed my shoulder with her fingertip. Her hollow, sunken eyes would brighten like two little silver coins, and I would see my step-daughter sitting before me, so tired and scared and sick, getting eaten by a demon named Willow.

 

"But does this mean you've been into contact with other humans?" I would ask ritually, because this conversation has become so incredibly ingrained into our minds that it became an anchor to our lives, something where we did not feel cold and angry and bitter. Where we enjoyed each other's presence. And infuriatingly, she'd smile and remain silent. That was the end of our little chat, usually.

 

Sometimes, during the day, I would try to talk to her. But I never see my step-daughter then, just a beast. She would regard me haughtily because I was the one bound on the bed, but the best time to speak to her would be when she picked me up and lead me around the camp-site eighteen times for my daily exercise. I would be met with brief, snappish responses and barely any progress.

 

One day, I had enough. Digging my heels into the ground, Willow lurched forward as I stopped suddenly. She instantly glanced up at my face, for I was 'as easy to read as the diary I keep', but clearly she had not seen me look this angry for she was thrown off-guard and did not beat me down where I stood. I took the chance, and started shouting.

 

"You keep me bound like an animal!" I roared. "You barely speak to me, disappear on hunting trips and return with a very small amount of food - don't give me that look, Willow, you know I am smart enough to not underestimate your prowess and a handful of Percies are child's play in your mind - and you sit there and play 'lets repeat something over and over again because it cheers me up' with me each and every BLOODY night!"

 

Willow stepped back. I continued. "Well I'm sick of it, 'Willow'. If you don't want me as a step-father then fine. You're a big girl now, look at you." A part of my mind told me to stop now. I leant in maliciously. "All grown up without anyone else to help you, hiding behind a funny little name, changing the colour of your hair, all this fear behind going back...all this cowardice about-"

 

"Stop."


"Stop, what did you just say right there?"

 

I can't describe Willow right now. It's impossible to put into words the look on her face, all I know is that she stood there like a barrier whilst some sort of beast erupted from my mouth and tried to beat her down. I wasn't being myself. I snarled, throatily, "What's the matter, Willow? Do I scare you?" as Willow stood there, quite still.

 

The next thing I knew, she advanced, and I tried to step back worriedly for I feared she would actually kill me. All of a sudden her arms were around mine, claws digging into my back, ready to pull out my shoulder-blades and make me feel pai-...she was hugging me. I stood there and took it, my wrists bound, my expression slackened. The beast I felt within me shuddered under Willow's warmth and shied away, hiding itself. "Never say the word 'Cowardice' ever again." she said, and I was dumbfounded by the authority in her voice. I wanted to ask why, but I instinctively knew that was a 'forbidden' question, and kept my mouth shut. Willow must've seen it, so she shook her head at me and "I'll tell you when it makes more sense to" was her reply.

 

When she bound me again, I noticed that she tied the knots incredibly tight for the next few days.

 

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MenaAthena    10,300

Is it wrong that I find reading about Wilson going through hell entertaining? It is? Oh no I'm a terrible person! D:

Eh, I don't care. *grabs a bag of popcorn*

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FieldNotes    61

Is it wrong that I find reading about Wilson going through hell entertaining? It is? Oh no I'm a terrible person! D:

Eh, I don't care. *grabs a bag of popcorn*

 

Not really. If I didn't find it entertaining, I wouldn't write about it!

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Did wilson run out of pages? Or ink? Maybe you could just send some more through to him, so he could keep writing about his progress.... I'll even pay for it, if you need!

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Wephisto    101

They are just incredible. I'm even reading them in a deep british voice in my head.

Needless to say I'm looking forward for more.

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Rewatch    0

Is this a weird enquiry?... hm.

I had a similar idea to Wilson's Journal (hence my finding this), and I was interested in turning the idea into a short(ish) web-series of videos.

It'd be a really fun project to work on, I'm just asking for your permission to use the general background, story, and maybe, occasionally, some of the stuff you've written. You'd be credited fully.

Thank, my good man/woman/beefalo. Goodnight. 

 

-Rewashing Machine

 

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Rewatch    0

Hmm. The guys hasn't been online for over a year now. Would it be completely out of line to use it without his full permission? (still crediting him, obviously, and taking it down if he does come back.)

 

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