Cutters?

I thought I would add a bit to Sal's last post.


We have indeed been getting a large influx of runners lately.  I'm not sure what they're running from--like I've said, I'm not one to pry.  This is somewhat...odd, though.


Many of this influx are runners with lacerations--some severe, some not so severe, most if not all of which appear to have been self-inflicted.


I guess it would make sense that runners would cut...perhaps they're trying to exert some control over their lives or bodies?  Perhaps they need some way to relieve the pain of being chased?  I don't really know, I'm more of a romantic than I am a psychologist.  It's really not my place to diagnose something like this.


Still, though, it is odd.  Why so many at once?  I've not seen this many before--sure, someone who practices self-harm comes through, every once in a while, but not any more than there should be, statistically.


I am probably reading too much into all of this.  But that won't mean I won't be careful regardless.  In this sort of work, a certain amount of paranoia is the healthiest trait one might possess, after all.

Types of Runners

I've been operating this place for a number of years now and I've seen people come and go. I have a pretty stable group of employees now, but I tend to categorize people. It's a bad habit, I know, but I can't help it. So here are some types of runners I've seen (feel free to ignore):

• The hounded: runners from the Dog. Yes, this is a bad pun, but I don't care. These runners tend to be tight-lipped and quiet, flinching away at the sight of any canine (no matter the size). Occasionally, I would come across one that would simply confess all of their sins to me upon first meeting - apparently, in the belief that if everyone knew their secrets, they could stop running. It never worked, unfortunately.
• The hypochondriacs: runners from the Doctor. Most of the ones I saw were obsessively clean, wiping everything down multiple times. And god help them if they caught a cold - although I can't blame them for that, since I've seen what the Doctor can do with the common cold and it isn't pleasant.
• The herds: groups of runners, generally running from the Boy. Nobody wants to be alone when running from that cold little kid. They tend to go everywhere with someone else - which isn't a bad idea, until you just want to be alone for once. I haven't encountered many herds, they don't generally last that long.
• The hear-no-evils: runners from the Choir. Haven't met many, but the few I have seen tried to drown out all sound with some noise-cancelling headphones. Not sure if they worked, but they just wrote everything down and ignored whatever it was they were hearing.
• The lone wolves: okay, this doesn't start with the letter H. I do have another name for them, but I don't like using it, because it only encourages them: the heroes. What are they running from? They aren't. They are chasing. They are searching. They want to fight, usually for revenge of some sort. And they always travel alone. I let them stay, because they don't cause trouble when they're here, but they always leave quickly.

There's another reason I don't like lone wolves. When a normal runner decides to stop running - when he decides that it's enough, to just stay put, he may put up a fight. He may die or even get enough energy to keep going or perhaps the thing chasing them will ease up just enough to let them live for another day. But that's for a normal runner.

For a lone wolf, it's not like that. They don't fight, they war. And the things after them won't ease up or back down. And if they break? If they become a servant to the thing they hate? They become so much worse than a normal servant. So much worse.

At least, from what I've seen and heard. From the stories runners have told me. Don't know how much is accurate, but this isn't Wikipedia, so I don't really care.

In the past few days, we've been seeing a bit more of an influx from runners. But they aren't any type of runners I've seen before. In any case, though, business is business. I shouldn't complain.

Jackie and Jill

When I first started here, I thought my work would be restricted to salving burns, stitching closed cuts, treating minor infections and the latest epidemics, and perhaps mending the occasional bullet wound. Not trivial injuries, sure, but predictable ones.

I had failed to realize, I think, that some of these runners can't go to a hospital for any reason. Either they're afraid of the Serpent and Stick, or they're wanted for some crime that they've either been framed for committing, or actual had committed--in the line of escape or otherwise. I try not to ask. My place is to heal, not to judge.

I have done many things even in my short time here that had me scrambling for some of my old textbooks. I don't really consider myself trained in all of it, but I'm starting to get the hang of having such a diverse field.

This story is one such time when I was a bit perplexed by the task at hand. Honestly, if I didn't have corroboration from Sal or physical evidence, I might honestly think I was making this up, that I'd dreamed it after a night of over-exertion.

I was in my tiny clinic, taking a nap at my desk, when Sal came downstairs and asked me if I had ever separated a pair of conjoint twins.

I asked him to repeat what he had said, and he told me a pair of twins had arrived. He said that they were running from the circus, in more ways than one. He told me that they had been in a sideshow, and now that they had been on the road for a while, they had decided that the best way to run was to be separated.

I agreed to see the patients. They were an extremely pretty pair of young women only slightly younger than I, and the instant they met me they introduced themselves with bright smiles as Jacqueline and Jillian. They were very animated as the spoke, and gave grand gestures with every phrase, usually accompanied by physical contact. I was fairly certain that if my wallet had been on me, they would have lifted it. And I'm fairly certain, if they had given it back with a bright smile, I would have apologized for making such a fuss about it.

They were also joined at the mid back, the left side for Jackie and the right for Jill. According to them, they were almost separated at birth, but there were the potential for complications--namely, the twins were joined at such a location that, especially at such a young age, had the potential to seriously damage one or both of their spines.


Fortunately, they didn't share any major organs and, miraculously, despite the potential complications they had had as a child, their spines had not fused.. Unfortunately, two of each of their floating ribs had, but that was easy enough to fix. When they were informed of this, they laughed, and each listed favor after favor the other owed, and tried to bargain for which "owed" first pick of which rib to lose.

I told them as confidently as I could that I could indeed separate them, even though I had absolutely no experience on any sort of surgery of the kind before, and only the bare minimum of supplies and volunteer personnel. I think they instantly saw through the false confidence, but they were polite enough not to mention it. Or maybe they were desperate enough not to. I could see a hint of it, in their eyes, behind the nigh-impenetrable charm and charisma. I was their only chance. I think that's the first time it hit me--I'm the only chance many of these people have. Maybe the only chance they'll ever have.

Confident or not, I performed the surgery as best I could. They still send me letters (to a PO box, naturally). Sometimes from the same city, sometimes from different cities, sometimes from different parts of the country entirely. They never tell me much, about what they've been doing, or what they're running from...but they never hesitate to tell me how grateful they are, how they've been staying safe and healthy and alive, and how much they can't wait to drop by and check up on me again.

They've never actually been back, but I hope they will, some day, and I'm glad to have met them...and made a difference for two someones on the front lines, for however long it lasts.

Guess I Should Also Introduce Myself...

“Now I'd like someone to tell me there is no drama in real life!”

Seeing as the others have done an intro, I guess I should too. I've never really done this before, so bear with me. The name's Albert, if you hadn't already worked that out. Though I guess calling me Al is fine too. What is a name anyway, if not a pack of lies and secrets created by man?

So what do I actually do? How did I get here? It's a long story, that doesn't really need telling. I've been at the hostel a bit over 2 years now. At least I think it’s been that long. I came across it one day on my travels. I call them travels, but it was mostly running my heels off, and finding the place out of the blue. I can't remember the exact details of how I ended up here. I found the place, and stuck about to help others begin to help themselves. That's the gist of it.

I do some of the odd jobs about the hostel to pay my way. Fix the wires; mend the pipes; guard the place if needed. Mostly the sort of stuff that needs doing, but nobody ever gets around to. I'm normally a night owl as well, keeping an eye on the people lodging here. My paranoid justification in doing so is just to make sure they're not sided with any of the Misery-Makers. They tend to stalk the night, and use it to their advantage. Mostly though, I just lend an ear to those that can't sleep, and listen to the stories they tell. Some times they ask me to remember their tales, and tell them to others. So I do. I remember for them, in case they ever forget.

It helps to distract me, and reminds me to live in the now, rather than the past. It fuels my reason for living, and reminds me why I'm still alive. That's all I have to say really.

Hello.

Hi... I'm John Wintrip. I was a runner who found his way to the hostel and elected to stay for a few days.

The place was comfortable and safe so a few days became a few weeks and then months and now I'm pretty much staying here permanently.

As such I've been volunteering to pay for my stay.

I worked in human resources before I went on the run so I mainly work keeping track of the people here.

Who arrives how long they plan to stay what if any special amenities they need.

Who leaves and unfortunately who dies.

Basic stuff like that.

Stories in Blood

That's how I hear most of them, anyway.  My name's Ivory.  I'm the closest this place has to a doctor on staff.


I've never been on the run from anything, before you wonder.  I've never even seen any of them.  I don't have to.  I can see it in these people's eyes.  In their wounds.  In their blood.


The other day, I saved a runner--a boy really, not even twenty.  Something had gotten into his body, and it started to eat him away, kill him slowly, from his fingers to his shoulder.  He said it taunted him in his head as it consumed him. Laughed at the pain he caused.  The boy cut his own arm off with a table saw, or so he says, and then cauterized it with his kitchen oven.  He almost died from shock and blood loss and infection, but he lived long enough to run, long enough for me to save his life.  It was a miracle.  That most of these people are still alive is a miracle.  I've seen some wounds that look like they came from some of the worst battlefields in history.  I guess they did--that's how some of the runners talk about it.  Talk about Them.


Even though I haven't seen these things, I've heard the stories about them.  I see them in the blood, in the scars, in the wounds. I have a difficult job--a much harder job than I could be having, had things gone differently.  I could be in my residency now.  My parents think I'm doing volunteer work.  Resume fodder, they would call it.  But I'm not, at least, not doing anything I could put on a resume.  I'm here helping people, fixing them practically for food and board.  I could be on my path to an actual medical practice.  But I'm not, and I wouldn't give this up for the world.


My name's Ivory.  I'm here to heal those who need it, and to tell the stories I read in their blood.

"...the house stood, and other men lived in it and were sheltered well in it."

What am I going to say here. I really don't have much to say. I should probably introduce myself, but I like making people wait. While they're waiting, I'm appreciating the time, how it ticks past one moment after the next, in a big long string of moments.

Okay, fine, I'm Sal. Welcome to the Raw Youth Hostel. (And if you mention those movies, I will kill you. Slowly.) We're in the city of None Of Your Business. It also goes by "Nunya."

What is the Raw Youth Hostel? Well, let me just quote Wikipedia here: "Hostels provide budget oriented, sociable accommodation where guests can rent a bed, usually a bunk bed, in a dormitory and share a bathroom, lounge and sometimes a kitchen. [...] Hostels are generally cheaper for both the operator and the occupants; many hostels have long-term residents whom they employ as desk clerks or housekeeping staff in exchange for free accommodation."

So, yeah, that's what this place is. Rooms are twenty-five dollars a night, less if you are actually going to work here during your stay. We do have a kitchen on the first floor and there are communal bathrooms on the second and third floor at the end of the hall.

We also tend to cater to a more unusual clientele. These people are usually on the run, not from the law, but rather from...unusual things. Eldritch things. You probably call them Fears.

We offer runners a discount, of course, and we even have someone on staff who has some medical background to help anyone who is injured and afraid of going to the hospital.

From what I've heard some runners say...they say that we're part of the underground, as if we're part of a resistance or something. We're just trying to help people, but we try to stay off the radar and we try to make sure things go smoothly (though it doesn't always work out like that). But, if they want to call us part of the underground, I guess that's okay. I guess we're part of the underground then.

Bully for us.