John Isely- Hunter: The Reckoning LARP character

I was playing a Martyr crossover character in a troupe 1940's Vampire game.  Because I hate vampires.  One of the players, Haley, really wanted to play with me.  So, we collaborated in a concept, and decided that he'd been a part of a shared background element of the game, the Concordacis.  It was basically a shared dream/experience that a number of characters had.  My character shared time in an Asylum in Victorian England, called Bethlam Royal, with a few other characters, giving me a nice background tie.

Part One

It wasn’t the beatings that were the worst part.  Those were simply physical pain.  A man can endure physical agony.  A man can go to a quiet place in his mind where the blows echo dully and the slaps are muffled and the blood flows slower.  A place not of peace, but numbness, like the blanket that muddles sounds and light. 

No, the worst part was the gaps.  The knowledge that the things he knew were only a small fraction of his existence.  The emptiness greeted him if he probed his memory and tried to retrace his steps.  And the absence grew with each day.  More and more of the man faded. 

Every morning, he woke, knowing that he’d forgotten something else.  Parents’ names.   Date of birth.  First kiss.  His favorite book.  His life.  Every morning he would check his nametag.

John Doe.

And, yet, two things remained.  One, he knew that his name was John.  That part of his label was correct.  The second thing he knew beyond a doubt was that he was not crazy.  Amnesiac, maybe.  Insane, no.

And so the days passed. 

He was young, and he was fit, so three times a week, he’d be shuffled off with a few other of the Damned to work in the town’s factory.  It was dull, mind-numbing work.  The only pleasure he derived from the trips was the few moments during each workday when he was able to work on their project.  Every other day, an orderly from the Asylum named Turk brought him a few pieces of scrap in secret.  He’d glue and snap and bend and shape and mold the pieces into form.  He wasn’t sure what he was creating, and he didn’t know if his partner knew, either.  But, when he work was done, he’d give the budding creation to Turk, who would sneak it to John’s partner, a fellow inmate named Starling.

Then, it would be returned, a few more pieces added.  Slowly, exhilaratingly, it began to take a shape that he knew was familiar to him.  A shape that existed in the gaps.

John never spoke with Starling; he only knew what she looked like.  He wasn’t even sure how the project had started.  All he could remember was that one day Turk brought him a few pieces of wood and string.  All the man would tell John was that it was his turn.

“Your turn, John,” he had whispered in that thick accent of his. 

“My turn to what?” John had asked.

“She said ‘mind the gap.’”

“Who?”

“Your turn,” Turk repeated, then, with guilty glances, quickly walked away.

It wasn’t until a few weeks later that John discovered it was Starling. It was actually her absence that revealed his partner’s nature.  She’d taken ill for a few days, and was unable to come to the factory.  While she was gone, he received no visits from Turk, no visits bearing their nascent masterpiece.  It didn’t take long for him to connect the dots.

When she returned, their secret partnership continued, thanks to the tireless efforts of Turk.

Turk.

John didn’t have any friends at the Asylum, so to speak, but the closest thing to a friend that he had was Turk.  The man was good.  The kind of good that existed deep down in the innermost part of a man’s being.  The kind of good that asked for no payment or recognition.  Good. 

He did what he could to ease the suffering of the patients.  He was only one man in a diseased house of malice, but what he could do, he did.  He protected the weak from the other bullies, particularly Gundle and Garp- the vilest of the vile.  He snuck food to those who were malnourished, dispensed what medicine he could, offered encouragement to the Damned.  He was their saint.  And to John, he offered a listening ear. 

And, finally, there was Wallace.  He lived (if such a word can be used when describing the Damned) in the cell next across from John.  A scant five feet separated them, but John felt as if only five inches lay between their rooms.

The man hated John.  A deep, abiding, cold, hate.  Hated him like nature abhors a vacuum.  Every day, he hurled abuse at John.  Traitor, he called him.  Coward.  Collaborator, Betrayer.  Despised.  For hours, until his voice was ragged and bloody flecks flew from his mouth, the man screamed at John, accusing him of treason, aiding the enemy, defecting, betraying.  He told John that he would burn forever. 

“Traitors burn, John the Betrayer!  You will scream forever in the fires of hell!  Judgment falls upon your head!  The axe sharpens for your neck!  TRAITOR!  TREASON!  YOU GIVE SUCCOR TO THE ENEMY!  BURN!  YOU WILL NOT BE FORGIVEN!  TRAITOR! TRAITOR!”

So proceeded life in the Bethlam Royal Asylum.