Log from June 1st:
This is the first log I’ve received from the Mistress in a month. All of the following was delivered to me by Scarlet-marked. It seems as though more have flocked to [REDACTED] without even my notice. Some of them appear to be American tourists; others came from [REDACTED] and speak French, for the most part.
None of them have any word on where the Mistress is now. They disgust me, with how focused they are on praising her that none of them seem invested in her safety.
Perhaps they did not understand the point of the story. The one written on paper and given to me by the child.
The vessel ‘Red’ is important. ‘Red’ is a ‘magnet’. The Mistress values her vessel, more than she even values us all.
The past few days are a complete blur, and I think I was plagued by nightmares. I have so many fucked-up images rattling around in my head that it’s becoming really difficult to tell whether or not I’m still sane. You know, if I ever was.
Maybe the Grotesque is still weighing on me. Maybe my subconscious is just trying to quit. Perhaps it’s fed up with my life of hunting down proxies and goading Fears with my blatant attempts to murder their li’l helpers.
The basic rundown of my dreams, as of late, involves a lot of mutilation, a church, being shoved down – the last part seems rather innocuous, but it was genuinely frightening. In contrast, I think I spent another good chunk of my fugue state in a pleasure-coma.
Shame I don’t remember that part, so much.
They were so much more…achingly realistic, this time around, though. If I weren’t currently sitting in my car with Jack reading his rhymes and Razzie barking like an idiot in the backseat, I’d wonder if it was all real life.
I was stopped in the street, today – a big crowd of Scarlet-marked, who practically swarmed me, just trying to touch me. Have you ever tried to get a crowd of like, twenty people into a single-file line just for them to touch you? No? It’s difficult. Just for your future reference.
If you have, then dude, you’re clearly a celebrity and we should spend some time together. You can hook me up with Hollywood. Unless there was a Scarlet-marked on set – in which case, assume all your props will get covered in blood – I think I’d fit in just fine.
A few of them were crying, murmuring about how they think I’m the ‘heart of the Red Cap’ and ‘the most precious’ and ‘like, oh my god, Mistress, will you sign my ass?’
Seriously, a few of them almost showed off things Jack is not ready to see. Luckily, he was busy trying to keep Razzie from flipping his shit and going attack-dog on them.
Only a few of the marked from yesterday have moved on. They’ve actually been following my car around. Hitching rides, jumping on busses – I saw one of them being kicked off by one of those [REDACTED] bus-guards for not paying the three-fifty fare. It was pretty hilarious.
More of them have showed up. This means that shit’s getting crowded and kind of ridiculous. On the plus side, a bunch of them seem to be pooling their resources and might even get us into a hotel for a few days, at least. On the other plus side, they’re planning something big for tomorrow night. Like, mass-cult-ritual big.
If it means another one of those orgasmic power surges, I am so fucking there.
I think I’ve been knocked out for days. Nice hotel room, though.
I’ve nearly taken apart five Scarlet-marked who seem to know where Jack is, but won’t fucking tell me. He’s been missing since this morning and, not gonna lie, I’m in a bit of a panic. Razzie is with me – he doesn’t even have the dog for protection.
I know what happens to little kids in this area of [REDACTED]. Sick things.
If anyone knows where he is, and happens to read this, come to me and let me know. Fuck it, actually – I don’t care what information is out here, anymore, it’s nothing that a skilled stalker couldn’t track down, anyway. My number is [REDACTED]. Call me with any information regarding his whereabouts.
And if you’ve touched a hair on his head, I will fucking murder you.
This is exactly why I hate cell phones.
Took a few days off the search. The first day was to recover. My Scarlet-marked helped out, with that.
The other two days, I blacked out for.
I don’t remember anything since Friday. What the fuck?
Jack is still missing. I can’t believe that he hasn’t been even glimpsed, with every Scarlet-marked on the look out.
At least, it had better be every fucking Scarlet-marked.
I was proven wrong. Not every marked is looking for him. Needless to say, I’m not too fucking pleased.
Half of the ones who had been throwing themselves at me a couple weeks ago have apparently gone rogue, or something. Now they’re following around some other woman and fawning over her, instead. The odd part is, I know I recognize that chick. Wasn’t she part of the ‘You’re so great, have my babies, Red’ fan club? She had droned on about how I was the ‘true vessel’.
Now, when she looks at me, she has this knowing smirk on her face. It makes something in my chest feel…odd. Like I’m singing, but at the same time, trying to deafen her or drown her out using the screaming under my ribcage like a weapon.
She feels like she’s me. I don’t understand it. At this point, I don’t care or want to.
…Weird, I also have this dim dream-like recollection of having sex with her.
We found Jack. He’s fine.
Once I finish reaming him out for running off, he won’t be. I’ll be lucky if he talks to me again in a few days, and I’m only halfway through the lecture process.
Man, and parents go through shit like this on purpose? They actually plan and want this kind of stress? Insanity.
The following rhyme was not dated. I am not sure where it fits, chronologically.
THE DYING MAN BEDTIME STORY
They reek of decay
They’re always half-dead
If they self-destruct
Then they may turn red
He splits into pieces
And lives in your head
And when you see Grey
He’ll put you to bed