Know My Name - a RDR2 Story

Torture At Its Finest

Let me tell you a story about a woman who fell into two crowds: the good and the bad.
Of course, there are pros and cons to each category, but I suppose it only depends on the way you look at it...

TW!: swearing, torture, mentions of physical harm, blood, rope burns

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Kam had been up all night. She couldn't sleep even if she wanted to. The mere thought of what could happen to the girl while she was unconscious made her knees want to quiver; she didn't trust the Van der Linde gang. She was raised by Colm and Colm alone. He had taught her how to be brave in the face of danger, that snitches get stitches. But Kam had her own idea of his teachings. Snitches may get stitches, but not snitching can open a whole new can of worms.

The majority of the first night Kam spent kidnapped by Colm's rival was spent sitting on the forest floor, watching the stars and the Van der Linde gang drink and party and sing. If her guard, Arthur, hadn't been there to keep an eye on her, she would've escaped hours ago. But it seemed that every time she glanced at him to see if he was awake, he stared back at her. A type of ghost that switched between staring and sleeping.
It was creepy.

The right-hand watched as careless buffoons drank the night away and sung until their voices cracked and creaked. What she would give for a drink right now.

Arthur hadn't spoken another word to the girl after he introduced her to Sadie Adler, and Dutch hadn't come to visit her either. They must be waiting until morning, which was strange in Kam's eyes. They had a hostage, the perfect opportunity to torture someone without people in broad daylight wondering what was happening, and they had motive. And yet, no one made a move towards her.
So, all Kam could do was wait until morning.

Sometime during the sunrise, Arthur had gotten up to go do whatever he does during the day. He could be looking for work, or speaking to Dutch, or doing chores, but it seemed like whatever he did, he wanted to be as far away from the O'Driscoll as he could. A grunt from the man with dirty blonde hair alerted the O'Driscoll, her eyes immediately flashing over to him, wondering if this is where her torture would start.

He grabbed his hat, pointed at her with a condescending finger, and spoke. "Don't move." was the only thing he said before strutting away, his hips swaying, and his back turned.
"Well, it ain't like I can follow you." Kam responded, a sarcastic tone grazing over her vocal cords.

Something had caught her eye as soon as she made her comment though. A leather book and pencil, the piece of wood and led parting the pages of Arthur's book. His diary. And it was within legs reach too.

Curiosity getting the best of the O'Driscoll, Kam looked around to make sure that no one was looking towards her and made her move. She began stretching out her legs as they were tied together, trying not to make too much noise as she shifted her body weight towards the book. So close. She was so close to her goal. Her feet pointed downwards, trying to push the book towards her as she stretched his back muscles trying to gain leverage.

Finally, she had achieved her goal, pulling the leather book towards her and relaxing her muscles to a peaceful and less straining position. Kam wished her hands were free so she could flip through the pages easier. But for now, she would have to settle for her feet as her hands, her bare feet making a rough sound as they caressed the pages. The first thing she noticed was the cover page that read "This book belongs to Arthur Morgan" which wasn't really interesting, but at least she got his full name.

His diary had good secrets. Really good secrets. His drawings told stories; it was stupid of him to label his sketched scenery. Kam read about a girl named Mary, and how she left him in the dust. She read about a job in Blackwater, but it was really vague on details. She scanned each page, learning all about the people around in camp, the places they've been on, the jobs they've done, even how much money was coming in and out of the camp. A ledger. What kind of a moron writes the gang's money in their diary?