A reverie.

I daydream about the day where I will get to your level. The day I can act how you act; look how you look; feel what you feel. The desire overwhelms me, covers every inch of me from top to bottom like the water I adjust to make my skin burn while I shower. I love the sensation of burning. Of pain. I would crack my bones and burn my skin all to look like you. To not feel this wave of envy I get whenever my mind decides to think of you; when my ears decide to only hear you; when my eyes decide to only see you.

A reverie.

I remember the days when I would walk free; to sing, to dance, to exist without the shadow of perfection looming like the companion I never wished for; like the sorrow I never wanted; like the envy I never took. Instead it took me, like an illness, like a drug, swallowing me whole and then some. All the air I breathe, all the food I eat, all the water I drink is infected with you.

You.

My worst nightmare, yet my best memory. The perfect imperfection I aspire to be in every way.

A reverie.

You know it, don't you? The feeling of the nights you would stay awake, your mind in a reverie of an alternate universe where you were them. You were the perfect imperfection; you were the envied; you were the best memory.

I know this.

I know this because I am you.

I would tell you about the stories in my eyes. I would tell you about my reveries. I would tell you about everything that has happened to me,

but I don't have to, do I?

A reverie.

I look into the mirror and my eyes land on me. My eyes and body fill with crimson, slowly dripping down from the scars I have created upon myself.

I long to be you. Long to act how you act; look how you look; feel what you feel. But there is a small part of me hidden deep inside my brain that knows I can never be you. The cells that encompass this place weep and weep and weep because of this horrifying truth.

I can be like you if I try hard enough!

But that thought too... is

A reverie.

Baby bird

How have you

Been standing alone?

When the wind

Blows your kin

Westside and home?

All the days

All the nights

That you’ve been weeping

Baby bird

What to do

When the flowers walk in?

Like the setting sun

Like the fading moon.

We all do penance,

and so have you.

Whether it’s the way you regarded

that reckless decision,

with regret or with a scoff,

for that got you even.

The way you move

The way you talk

The way you look

The way you walk.

The way you smell the flowers in the path

The way you cry for mistakes in the past.

Over and over,

Under and under,

All you do is fall into blunder.

The way you cry for mistakes in the past,

The way you get tangled in the wires of a trap.

Give me your tongue

Give me your teeth

Make me in a daze

Make me completely phased

Give me air for my lungs

Give me crops for my health

Move me in your way

Make me slowly sway

Give me something to be among

Give me something to be beneath

Make me forget all my imperfections

Maul me bare with your love

Make me

Make me

Make my mind let slip;

Make me

Make me

A victim of your poison

A wish

A well

A coin

A spell

The field reeks of dread.

Above

The air

Their body wared

Yet their name can never be said.

Forgotten

Remembered

Abandoned

December

The month that they had left.

No matter

Their tries

Their screams

Their cries

They cannot be remembered again.

Fallen Angel

Bright, unstable

How your wings spread wide.

Fallen angel

Your sins were fatal,

And now you can no longer fly.

The figure weeps

Day and night

For its sorrow is too much

How it dreams

That it is freed

From the misery of sorrow that blinds.

As if a hug

Its time has come

Even if it has been for much too long

All the peace

Back to back

The cries it had wept are now song.

I:

There once was a day

In which a group midday

Went on to hunt a spirit.

To their dismay

Four were slayed

And one was left to save them.

II:

On he went

To decays decent

Meeting a couple of “friends” with it

Forgotten, The Angel, Sorrow, Solace

Are all of their names listed.

Also found

Was a goblin named Bound

Tied to Sorrow, coexisting

III:

This goblin promised

Something pompous:

A magic ball with wishes.

One per person,

A heavy burden

From peace to freedom to riches.

With this ball

He would wish for them all

Turning the scars to stitches.

IV:

One more friend

That has to be said

Is a robot with a computer head.

Its eyes were pointed,

Its role appointed

As the hero’s new best friend.

With this friend,

He continued again,

Looking for the one

That will give him solace.

V:

Finally they came

No one maimed

To where the ball was constructed.

But to his dismay,

His partner had came,

Whispering into the ball

“Destruction.”

The place where dreams become reality

The place the ball resides

Make a wish and whisper to it

Only once, not twice.

Wish for anything from gold to riches

To being able to read minds

Make a wish and whisper to it

Only once, not twice.

Up on the podium the ball floats

Its humanity just one eye

He made a wish and whispered “Destruction”

Only once, not twice.

Reds, greens, blues and whites

The field spreads wide

Vibrant colors, dotted lines

Yet where the forgotten resides

Colors dull, sky black

Floating in the air

Hands enclosed, freedom lasts

Mourns its despair.

The man comes,

Spirit and all,

Moving over quite slowly.

I don’t know why,

But to my surprise,

He hands me a heart and says “for you only.”

Little did I know

That this man I know

Had said the same thing to all

As he gave them a heart

And then left them to rot

Their heart was not intact; they’d wrawl.

I thank him politely

As I do fortnightly

And ask “why did you give me this hope?”

He looks at me and smiles,

A mad twinkle in his eyes,

As he leans in and whispers “destruction.”

Drawing is for the heavy-minded

Sleep is for the weak.

Colors are for ones with wistful thinking

Hoping is for those who weep.

Over and over the cycle continues

Eat, sleep, repeat.

But oftentimes people wonder

“What if the cycle didn’t repeat?”

Destruction, destruction, and more would follow

Absent dream after dream.

Destruction will come regardless, though,

For that is the wish of Kennedy.

No matter if the child protests,

Crying with the weeping willows,

There is nothing she can do

To stop the screams and bellows

One by one,

All together,

The army charges

Towards the aether.

The woman comes,

Spirit and all,

Moving over quite slowly.

I don’t know why,

But to my surprise,

She hands me a daisy and says “for you only.”

Little did I know

That this woman I know

Had said the same thing to all

For people to feel special

And-how coincidental-

It seemed to work for all.

I thank her politely

As I do nightly

And ask “why did you give me this hope?”

She looks at me and smiles,

A twinkle in her eyes,

As she leans in and whispers “you looked hopeless.”

It was there.

Right there.

Right behind her.

Summer could feel it watching her, could even see it, yet she could do nothing. Panicked, she skidded through and around the hall, hoping that both anyone watching and the shadow hadn’t noticed her sudden departure. Feeling a little safer, she continued walking through the hall, still having her guard up for anything that might shoot at her. She glanced at the window to her right, draped with blinds, though she could still see the silhouette of the tree outside, and could still feel the faint sunlight getting past all the layers.

It felt nice, to feel the sun once more. She had felt it countless times, but every single one was not like the other. They were all different.

All new.

Like snowflakes.

Summer reached towards the window, wishing to uncover the blinds a bit and feel the true warmth, when she heard a scurrying behind her. She jerked around, hoping to find the cause of the noise, but there was nothing. Plain old hallway, as before.

It was here.

It was here and it was coming.

She backed herself into the window lightly so as to not harm the blinds, looking left and right frantically.

“Summer? Summer!”

She turned slowly at the sound.

“This way, silly!”

Who was this?

Who was this, and why could she not see them?

Her eyes darted around the area.

“Probably the shadow’s fault,” she mumbled, taking one step forward, but still on guard.

Woosh.

She quickly turned behind her, facing the window once more.

Just the wind, she thought, turning back. She said this with certainty, though her heart was racing and she was sweating a bit.

Woosh.

“SUMMER?!”

Summer jerked her head up.

She was still there.

Still at the beginning.

And now it all had to happen again.

“Summer! Finally! I thought something serious happened to you,” A girl next to her spoke, sighing with relief. The girl looked up to find Summer’s perplexed face.

“Summer-”

“Who are you?” Summer cut in, stepping back.

“It’s me..? Violet? Your friend? You know, I gotta talk to you about that. You’ve been acting strange. I don’t know when it happened, but you’ve been really jumpy and jittery…”

Violet continued to speak, but Summer wasn’t listening, more focused now on the giant shadow that was forming behind Violet. She took a few more steps back, placing her hands to her sides.

“…A therapist. Uh… Summer? What’s-”

Summer eyes widened.

The shadow had left.

It was there.

Right there.

Right behind her.

PROLOGUE

“Iris Kuolema was once an ordinary girl. She would sing, dance, and play with her friends, but most importantly, she would live her life. As she grew older, she discovered the other wonder of life: work. As simple as her job was, she despised it.

Heavily.

Therefore, she succumbed to the depths below. All she needed was a cigar, and her worries would vanish. All she needed was the pleasure smoking gave her, as well as the horrid smell of the smoke that she thought to be quite pleasing, and the world around her would dissolve. She continued to do this year-round, her brain rotting bit by bit and her skin turning a darkish green. She was no longer ‘Iris.’

“She was now a member of the Walking Dead. A lost soul in the moonlit abyss.”

CHAPTER 1: DUST AND DECAY

Calico stepped into the abandoned house, the smell of dust immediately hitting him like a train. Ignoring it, he continued to walk through the vast home, passing broken doors, tables, and even the reeking bones of a cat lying on its torn-up bed, who had seemingly taken no notice of the mass of zombies that had entered its home and killed its parents in the dead of night.

The mass of zombies that had entered Calico’s home and killed his parents in the dead of night.

There was no time to mourn, though, for he finally found what he was looking for- an old, small book with the words Sweet Dreams, Little Star written in bold letters on the middle of the cover.

Cautiously, Calico picked up the book, dusting it off and opening it.

The first page showed a living room. In it was a light pink sofa with small white dots. In front of the couch was a purple table with a blue and white mug. Next to the mug was a white plate with cookies on it.

The walls were painted purple, a lovely sight to see. One of the walls had a window that showed the night sky with little stars scattered about.

“In the large purple room

There was a mug

And a plate

And-”

Calico flipped to the next page, which showed three chocolate chip cookies on a white background. On the bottom of each cookie was a number. 1 for the cookie to the left, 2 for the middle one, and 3 for the cookie to the right.

“-cookies. Three cookies.

One, two, three.”

He flipped the page again, this time showing a dollhouse with a pink roof and white walls. The interior of the house had a bathroom, bedroom, kitchen, and elevator. There were two dolls, one cat, and three dogs.

“And two dolls.

And a pair of-”

BANG!

The sounds of pots breaking and pans falling filled the room, and somehow his soul as well.

Calico bent down, placing the book neatly back on the floor. He eyed the window a few feet in front of him as he slid his backpack off his back and into his arms. He opened it, taking out a large Kanabo-a bat with spikes-out. He gripped it, feeling the thick, polished wood in the palm of his hand.

In the distance, he heard the groan of a zombie creeping closer to the closeted room he was in.

He had no time to waste.

CHAPTER 2: EMPTY EYES

He whipped around to find himself standing face-to-face with one of the walking dead.

Iris.

All this time, and she still hadn’t been killed? He thought, bashing away at her like his life depended on it.

Which it did.

Calico knew a lot about Iris from stories he had heard back at Kameeraska, but then again a lot of rumors had been spread about him too. Some good, some bad, but mainly the fact that they were there stopped him from thinking that Iris was even real.

But here he was, face to face with the exact description that had been mentioned time and time again- from the black eyes to the long blonde hair.

Yet, there was something off about her. Of course, there’s something off about every zombie you come across, but something was different.

The faint smell of cigars was still on her, something that he thought would’ve been gone by now.

Is it possible she is still smoking to this day? That would mean that she still has humanity in her, something that-

“IRIS PLEASE!” Calico shouted without warning. It took him a moment before he processed what he said, and another before he continued:

“I know that you’re still there; please listen to me.”

Iris seemed to be paying no attention, continuing to counter his attacks fairly well.

“Iris, you’ve got to stop. Have you seen what you’ve done? Everything. All of it- the world is engulfed in smoke because of you! People are dying; Do you not see it?! You’ve subjected yourself to torture; please…”

Calico was losing strength. Like an hourglass, he was slowly sinking to the bottom, the depths of which he was sinking consisting of nothing but bones, smoke, and rot.

He knew he would not make it.

Iris was seemingly getting stronger by the moment. Her faint growls of hunger grew louder by the second; her body was drenched of her blood yet

she

did

not

stop.

Was there something specific that was causing her to be like this?

Calico finally stabbed her in the gut, making her stumble back and clutch her torso in pain. This gave him just enough time to look behind him.

A small, green cigar box lay where the book had been, and Calico could make out the one cigarette it consisted of tucked away inside.

This is what is causing her to go feral. I can’t let her have it. Who knows what she’ll-

Without warning, something pushed Calico, causing him to fall and land on his hands. He turned, staring into the eyes of Iris once again.

He now came to notice that her eyes were definitely her most powerful weapons, intense and terrifying. No color, just a deep, bottomless, soulless hole.

Calico felt his heart skip a beat. Terrified, he scurried away, the Kanabo pointed towards Iris like a shield. His eyes darted around, trying to find something better equipped to fight the now overly-powered zombie slowly striding toward him.

He noticed his backpack, now kicked to the corner of the room in the intense battle and much too far for him to reach. He also noticed the cigarette box, untouched and lying by his side. He could now see the word “OROBLRAM” written in neat fine print on the base of the box.

Calcio remembered Oroblram.

Oroblram was the company that ruined his- and the world’s- life.

Oroblram was supposed to be a harmless piece of tobacco wrapped in paper, yet it became so much more than that. Little by little, the world’s population slowly succumbed to the cigarettes, rotting their brains and dopamine systems. They turned into mindless creatures of hell; the only thought in their mind was of this small cylinder. It ruined their lives, the world, everything you can imagine. Clouds now hung like wet blankets, dampening not only the world but the hundreds of souls it contained. Ash and bones now lay in jigsaw heaps. The world and people in it now bow down to the infinite misery the OROBLRAM company has put them in. The few hundred people still alive after the Oroblram Incident were the only people who were resilient, and are still resilient to this day.

Calico remembered Oroblram.

All too well.

CHAPTER 3: CRIMSON TEARS

Calico hesitated before grabbing the box in his hand, scurrying back a bit more- and hitting the wall painfully, as if he had finally reached the part of himself deep down that he had never confronted.

He let out a sharp cry, letting go of the cigarette box and clutching his head in pain.

In a flash Iris was by his side, trying desperately and succeeding to grab the box. She was now foaming at the mouth, her ice blue saliva dripping down onto Calico’s pants.

Aghast, he tried to scurry back, but there was nowhere to run to. Iris was now on top of his legs, trying relentlessly and failing multiple times to open the box. This short and slight pause of her movements was enough to get Calico back on track. He jerked his knee upward, hitting her in the stomach. He then pushed her back, standing up hurriedly and gripping the Kanabo in his hand, which he had not noticed he had in his panic.

It was time to finish this.

Calico held the Kanabo high, and, with a thrust that consumed the little bit of strength he had left, bashed Iris’s head in.

He slowly pulled back to reveal what he had done- the gash was deep. Crimson flowed from the wound in a steady pour. It would be over in seconds; for with every beat of his heart, more and more of her liquid essence erupted from him to pool on the floor at his feet.

Calico seemingly did not notice how powerful his hit was.

The air was still, his thoughts blank, and his Kanabo had now fallen to his side. He watched tiredly as the book slowly condensed in front of his eyes.

He had made it.

…But did he really?

PROLOGUE

In the world of Ethov, there lived a god. This god bore the name of Qhivian, and, with all her power and beauty, was bound to a plant. Together, they shared a soul. Whatever happened to the plant, whose name is Corylorsis, happened to the god, and whatever happened to the god happened to the plant. This is how it is for this god, as well as all the new reincarnations that become one every 200-300 years when the old god dies. If there is no plant, then there is no god either, and the world of Ethov will crumble and decay.

But Corylorsis is sick.

Ever since the year 1450, Corylorsis has had a disease that worsens more and more each year.

And there are only a few people that can save it.

PLANTers, employees in a facility dedicated to looking after plants, have been taking care of Corylorsis ever since the facility opened. But now, as Qhivian dies from old age and the plant’s disease intensifies, the saving of the plant-and of the world-narrows down to only two people.

CHAPTER 1: ZEPHYRUS

Zephyrus stood by the window of his spacious office, watching the orange flowers on the branches of the Eitheye tree sway gracefully with the wind like elegant dancers. On normal work days, he would have heaps of work at this hour, but surprisingly work had been slow those past few days.

He examined the orange flowers with a keen eye-taking in every speck of purple, every movement made, every crease and fold they had.

The faint creak of the door opening broke the peaceful silence that had enveloped the room for so long, pulling Zephyrus out of his thoughts.

A woman stepped in, followed by a young man.

“Ah… Mr. Fenn?” she asked, clasping her hands behind her back.

Zephyrus turned to face her.

“No need to be that serious with me, Vivian,” Zephyrus remarked, trying to ease the unwanted tension in the air.

“Oh. Yeah,” Vivian nodded, a small smile on her face.

“Well- I brought you the new hire.” Vivian stepped aside, allowing said hire to come forth.

CHAPTER 1

She stepped into the dark hallway that led to the airplane. It was about ten feet wide, with arches and slopes within it. She clutched her suitcase tightly as she took a few more steps.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Very slowly she started walking to the airplane’s door.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Someone rushed to the door, bumping her on the way and knocking her into the wall. She kept on walking.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

After a few moments, she reached the entrance. She stepped inside to reveal vast rows of seats and windows, with small compartments on top of each one. The seats were blue; they looked fuzzy in the yellow light of the windows. Outside the windows was a beautiful sunset. Olivia couldn’t wait to take pictures of it for her new journal.

She started walking to her seat.

A-7, A-7… Where’s A-7?

Finally, after five minutes of searching, she found it. She opened her orange suitcase

and started rummaging around. She found what she was looking for- a pair of shiny, blue headphones and her phone, turned to show her sparkly purple phone case. She closed the suitcase, put it on top of the small compartment, and sat down in her seat. She opened her phone and connected her headphones. Then she went to Spotify and

put on her best playlist: “Holy music.”

She looked around. There wasn’t anything special, but this was where she would spend five hours of her life, so she had to get used to it. She noticed that the seat next to her was empty. She assumed that someone else would come, but nobody did.

She was alone.

Again.

And not for the first time.

CHAPTER 2

“Love Story” by “Indila” started playing from her playlist. She looked out the window silently as the plane started taking off into the sunset. She started thinking about random things.

I wonder how my brother is doing?

That guy is so close to me that I could touch him!

What if this plane crashes and we all die?

This sunset looks amazing!

I wish I had someone to talk to…

My mom told me I needed to call her when I got on the plane!

She turned off her music and called her mom.

Bring!

Bring!

Bring!

“Hello?” a frail voice asked. “Olivia?”

“Mom! Hi. Sorry, I… forgot to call you when I got here.”

“It’s okay darling. How is everything?

“Good, as you’d expect. We’re-” She checked the time on her phone.

“-an hour of the way there.

“Great. Call me when you get home. Love you.”

“Love you too, mom.”

She quickly hung up the phone. That was embarrassing! She thought.

For the next few hours, Olivia kept herself occupied with music, movies, and books. She dozed off a few times, but the sound of the engines and the occasional jolt of turbulence would always wake her up. Until “IT” happened.

She was looking out the window, listening to the melody of “Carnival Cat ‘' by “Quantum Dog” fill her head. They were only an hour till arrival, and Olivia was excited. She was thinking about what the arrival would be like. How the people would act, how the food is there, the normal things. Then she felt a slight tap on her shoulder. She jolted and looked behind her. A black figure was sitting in the empty seat next to her. Their eyes were fully white, staring right at her. It looked kind of like a… shadow? “Do not be worried. I will take you back sssafley… to my home… FIX WHAT IS MINE!” It said with a screech. Its voice sounded breathy and hoarse. I screamed as loud as I could. Everyone stared at me; I could feel their eyes on me.

Watching

My

every

Move.

CHAPTER 3

“Hello, this is your captain speaking. A shadowy figure with white eyes just broke the tail of the plane; everyone keep calm. We are going to land in a safe place near a lake, but we might not make it. Call your loved ones, hold on, and do whatever it takes to stay alive. Thank you.”

Screams

Scrams as far as the ear could hear

People

People getting up, hugging each other, as far as the eyes can see.

And then there was her.

Sitting alone.

Quietly,

Not panicking whatsoever.

Thinking about what the shadowy figure with white eyes had said to her, what it meant, and why he broke the tail of the plane.

Then, she realized.

It was taking her to his home.

But where?

The plane started going down. Down, down, down. Everyone was screaming and bawling their eyes out. While she was sitting comfortably, knowing she wouldn’t die. The shadowy figure was better than that. She saw it in his eyes. She suddenly felt a sense of ease with the shadow, despite his actions. She closed her eyes and braced for impact as the plane started going down.

Down.

Down.

Down.

CHAPTER 4

After a few moments, her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she realized the plane had crashed in the middle of a forest. She could hear the sound of rain hitting the metal of the plane. She tried to move her legs, but they were pinned under the seat before her. She grabbed her headphones, which were knocked a few inches in front of her. Then she reached for her seatbelt and unbuckled it before slowly crawling out from under the seat.

She stood up and wobbled; the plane was tilted a little to the left, making it hard for her to stand up. She opened the hatch above the airplane seat and grabbed her suitcase. She brought it to the floor with a thump and stuffed her headphones inside.

Clutching her suitcase tightly, she observed the area and what had happened. People were leaning against their seats, blood and glass was everywhere, splattering the floor in satisfying patterns. As she could tell, everyone was dead. It was very quiet; she felt that if she moved it would be too much noise. She looked for an exit and soon spotted a door that said “EXIT” In bright red colors. Or, at least, that’s what she thought it looked like, before the crash. Now it just said “EI,” the X and T not having any illumination whatsoever. She walked towards the door and heard something creak. It was the airplane. She realized that the airplane was creaking towards the lake. Soon it would fully immerse itself inside the lake, drowning everyone inside if they weren’t already dead. She rushed to the exit.

Creaaaak.

She got to the exit. There was about a foot gap from the airplane to the floor. She jumped.

CHAPTER 5

It was dark outside, a full moon showing. What a coincidence. She checked if everything was still with her. My suitcase? Got it. Phone? Yup. Headphones? We’re all good.

Creaaaaak.

She watched as the plane started sinking into the lake. It was about a meter or two wide on both sides and about one hundred feet deep. Thats deep.

CREEEAAAAAAK.

The airplane plunged into the water, making a loud SPLASH sound, and spreading water everywhere. Some got in her face, and she wiped it off with the sleeve of her brown hoodie. She started looking around the forest. There were ash trees as far as the eye could see. The grass was dark green in the moonlight, and she could see a path off into the distance. She started walking towards it, her suitcase making a bumping sound as it rolled on the coarse dirt and grass.

She heard a wooshing sound and started to run faster.

Ooooosh

Wooosh

“Do you like my home?” the shadow’s voice asked.

She started running.

“Dooooo yoooooou?”

NO! I don’t like your home! Leave me alone!

“NO? I’LL MAKE YOU LIKE IT!” The shadow’s voice screamed at the top of his lungs. She stopped

I

Can’t

Move!

She started floating, high up into the air. “aaaaAAAAAAAAAHHHH!” She screamed, clutching her luggage as it flew up with her. “LET ME GO! WHAT THE HELL?” The shadow’s voice started laughing in a thin, shrill voice that was annoying to hear. It sounded like a ringing in her ear, and she covered one, still clutching the suitcase.

Then the thing flinged her. She started gliding fast through the air.

Woosh

Woosh

WOOSH

THUNK

Her head bonked a tree, and she started falling.

Down,

Down,

Down.

There is a fate.

A fate for one single being in this world that can never be replicated or changed.

This being is named Desdemonde, born with hate from their parents, and, to them, the world around them as well. They were thrown into a lab for dreams, where said dreams were crushed in an instant. They were tortured to no man’s end, injected with things from the one worst being on this planet to extreme points, which gave them the conclusion “Everything despises me.” They always believed this, but it was never exactly proven until one fine day.

One

Fine

Day.

And that day is now. Now, and forever to come.

What happened on this day, you ask?

Read.

***

“Your eyes opened with a sudden jolt, pain taunting you like a near, buzzing bee. You looked around, wondering where you were.

You were tied up to a chair, and in front of you was a stereotypical 1900s projector propped up on a little stool, projecting your best memories in front of you. You as a child, mostly, running around and doing who knows what.

And you loved these memories with all your heart.

You remembered all of these memories, and you held a special place in your heart for them.

And then the melody. Slow and melodic, matching the pace of both the memories and the room.

And you loved this too. Along with the memories, this melody was beautiful, and it too had a special place in your heart as well. So you stayed there, watching and smiling.

You wished the melody would never end, yet at this point, it was. You sighed, waiting for what would happen next.

Ping.

Ping.

Ping.

The melody ended. And along with it, your-

Creak.

Sccr.

SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING!

Crack-crack-BOOM!

In a moment, your body was cut into a million pieces, shredded, and the entire process all over again.

An unbearable pain. No being, whether human, god, or something that could withstand pain would be able to withstand this.

It was horrid. So horrid. It consumed you, the pain. Left and right, up and down, center, everywhere you could think.

It consumed you.

Your mind went black.

Darkness.

Death.

…

…

…

Or was it?

For even if you thought you would go to some other world, perhaps heaven or hell, perhaps somewhere else you go to,

You didn’t.

Your eyes fluttered open, and there you were.

Back in the room.

Again.

All of the memories you had forgotten swirled back. How many times you had done this. How many times you had seen all this good, all this blessing, and how much you suffered all that pain. So much pain. Unbearable pain.

There was no love anymore.

No love for anything. For, Desdemonde, you had your mind set. Set that everything hated you, from every inch of your irradicable, twisted body. The pain they wished for you to suffer was so immense that it could not be put into words.

And so was your hate.

Oh, your hate.

There was nothing that could word or act or say in any way how much hate you had for everything and everyone ever. Every word in the alphabet could not equal one googolplex of how much you hated everything. The humans, the non, the stars, planets, the galaxies and everything in them.

All of it.

You hated it ALL.

And you should!

How could any GOD OR MORTAL OR BEING EVER WISH FOR YOU TO SUFFER THIS MUCH WITHOUT DESERVING JUST A LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITLE BIT OF HATE? EVEN IF THAT “LITTLE” WAS SO UNBERABLY MUCH THAT IF IT COULD BE EXPRESSED INTO WORDS OR ACTIONS THEY WOULD SUFFER ONE BILLION GOOGOLPLEXES(probably MORE) MORE OF THE PAIN AND TORTURE YOU ARE(AND HAVE FOR MUCH TOO LONG) SUCCUMBED TO?

THEY DO.

THEY DESERVE ALL THAT HATE. ALL OF IT! HOW NOT?

If they thought-”

Henry laughed.

“If whoever did this thought they would put your fate as torture for the rest of time and afterwards, for death and life of every single being on the planet, forever and longer, even when the world and everything and I mean EVERYTHING around them has been destroyed, teared limb from limb until there is nothing left, not even color, and they expect to get out with not even an ounce of hatred on their shoulders then they were WRONG. SO, SO WRONG. IT IS FUNNY HOW WRONG THEY ARE. WHAT IS PLACED ON THEIR SHOULDERS NOW IS SO LARGE THAT IT CANNOT BE CONTAINED IN THIS LARGE SPACE THAT HAS BEEN CREATED FOR US. NO PLANET, NO GALAXY, NO MULTIVERSE AND HIGHER EVER, EVER COULD CONTAIN THIS THING. NOTHING COULD CONTAIN IT.

And what was this thing?

H a t e.

SHEER H A T E.

HATE FOR THEM. FOR WHOEVER HAD DONE THIS.

YOU HOPED THAT THEY FELT ALL THIS HATE. YOU, DESDEMONDE. YOU WISHED! YOU WISHED! YOU WISHED THAT THEY COULD FEEL ALL THIS NEGATIVE EMOTION YOU HAD FOR THEM. THAT THEY COULD FEEL BAD. SO BAD. SO BAD.

THAT THEY WOULD DIE.

DIE, AND PERHAPS FREE YOU.

FREE! OH, TO BE FREE! A DREAM THAT YOU ONCE HAD, LONG AGO. TO BE FREE. TO BE FREE AND LIVE ON. YOU WISHED TO DO NORMAL BEING THINGS. TO LIVE. TO BREATHE. BREATHE IN AIR.

BUT NOW ALL YOU BREATHED IN WAS HATE.

HATE, AND A PROMISE THAT YOU WOULD SURVIVE THIS TORTURE. SURVIVE AND THEN PUT WHOEVER DID THIS IN THE SAME FATE.

FATE.

Fate.

Fate.

Fate.

…

…

..

..

.

.

Fate.

This was all the work of fate.

Fate has brought you here. No man, no creature, no deity, nothing real. Nothing that could feel your hate. All of it.

This was all the work of fate.

Fate, the development of events beyond anything’s control. Destined to happen. Destined to turn out this way.

There was no being in charge of this hell, if hell was even a strong enough word(which it definitely was not).

It was fate.

Pure, sole, fate.

So what was there to do?

Happiness, watch, dread,

Fate.

All there was.

All there is.

And all there will ever be.”

There is a fate.

A fate for one single being in this world that can never be replicated or changed.

This being is named Desdemonde, born with hate from their parents, and, to them, the world around them as well. They were thrown into a lab for dreams, where said dreams were crushed in an instant. They were tortured to no man’s end, injected with things from the one worst being on this planet to extreme points, which gave them the conclusion “Everything despises me.” They always believed this, but it was never exactly proven until one fine day.

One

Fine

Day.

And that day is now. Now, and forever to come.

What happened on this day, you ask?

Read.

***

“Your eyes opened with a sudden jolt, pain taunting you like a near, buzzing bee. You looked around, wondering where you were.

You were tied up to a chair, and in front of you was a stereotypical 1900s projector propped up on a little stool, projecting your best memories in front of you. You as a child, mostly, running around and doing who knows what.

And you loved these memories with all your heart.

You remembered all of these memories, and you held a special place in your heart for them.

And then the melody. Slow and melodic, matching the pace of both the memories and the room.

And you loved this too. Along with the memories, this melody was beautiful, and it too had a special place in your heart as well. So you stayed there, watching and smiling.

You wished the melody would never end, yet at this point, it was. You sighed, waiting for what would happen next.

Ping.

Ping.

Ping.

The melody ended. And along with it, your-

Creak.

Sccr.

SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING!

Crack-crack-BOOM!

In a moment, your body was cut into a million pieces, shredded, and the entire process all over again.

An unbearable pain. No being, whether human, god, or something that could withstand pain would be able to withstand this.

It was horrid. So horrid. It consumed you, the pain. Left and right, up and down, center, everywhere you could think.

It consumed you.

Your mind went black.

Darkness.

Death.

…

…

…

Or was it?

For even if you thought you would go to some other world, perhaps heaven or hell, perhaps somewhere else you go to,

You didn’t.

Your eyes fluttered open, and there you were.

Back in the room.

Again.

All of the memories you had forgotten swirled back. How many times you had done this. How many times you had seen all this good, all this blessing, and how much you suffered all that pain. So much pain. Unbearable pain.

There was no love anymore.

No love for anything. For, Desdemonde, you had your mind set. Set that everything hated you, from every inch of your irradicable, twisted body. The pain they wished for you to suffer was so immense that it could not be put into words.

And so was your hate.

Oh, your hate.

There was nothing that could word or act or say in any way how much hate you had for everything and everyone ever. Every word in the alphabet could not equal one googolplex of how much you hated everything. The humans, the non, the stars, planets, the galaxies and everything in them.

All of it.

You hated it ALL.

And you should!

How could any GOD OR MORTAL OR BEING EVER WISH FOR YOU TO SUFFER THIS MUCH WITHOUT DESERVING JUST A LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITLE BIT OF HATE? EVEN IF THAT “LITTLE” WAS SO UNBERABLY MUCH THAT IF IT COULD BE EXPRESSED INTO WORDS OR ACTIONS THEY WOULD SUFFER ONE BILLION GOOGOLPLEXES(probably MORE) MORE OF THE PAIN AND TORTURE YOU ARE(AND HAVE FOR MUCH TOO LONG) SUCCUMBED TO?

THEY DO.

THEY DESERVE ALL THAT HATE. ALL OF IT! HOW NOT?

If they thought-”

Henry laughed.

“If whoever did this thought they would put your fate as torture for the rest of time and afterwards, for death and life of every single being on the planet, forever and longer, even when the world and everything and I mean EVERYTHING around them has been destroyed, teared limb from limb until there is nothing left, not even color, and they expect to get out with not even an ounce of hatred on their shoulders then they were WRONG. SO, SO WRONG. IT IS FUNNY HOW WRONG THEY ARE. WHAT IS PLACED ON THEIR SHOULDERS NOW IS SO LARGE THAT IT CANNOT BE CONTAINED IN THIS LARGE SPACE THAT HAS BEEN CREATED FOR US. NO PLANET, NO GALAXY, NO MULTIVERSE AND HIGHER EVER, EVER COULD CONTAIN THIS THING. NOTHING COULD CONTAIN IT.

And what was this thing?

H a t e.

SHEER H A T E.

HATE FOR THEM. FOR WHOEVER HAD DONE THIS.

YOU HOPED THAT THEY FELT ALL THIS HATE. YOU, DESDEMONDE. YOU WISHED! YOU WISHED! YOU WISHED THAT THEY COULD FEEL ALL THIS NEGATIVE EMOTION YOU HAD FOR THEM. THAT THEY COULD FEEL BAD. SO BAD. SO BAD.

THAT THEY WOULD DIE.

DIE, AND PERHAPS FREE YOU.

FREE! OH, TO BE FREE! A DREAM THAT YOU ONCE HAD, LONG AGO. TO BE FREE. TO BE FREE AND LIVE ON. YOU WISHED TO DO NORMAL BEING THINGS. TO LIVE. TO BREATHE. BREATHE IN AIR.

BUT NOW ALL YOU BREATHED IN WAS HATE.

HATE, AND A PROMISE THAT YOU WOULD SURVIVE THIS TORTURE. SURVIVE AND THEN PUT WHOEVER DID THIS IN THE SAME FATE.

FATE.

OH, FATE.

HOW YOU HATED THE WORD.

THIS WAS NOT YOUR FATE. NONE OF THIS WAS. IT WAS ALL THE WORK OF SOMETHING ELSE.

So, as promised, you would get your revenge.

You would get

Your

REVENGE.”

Sometimes, when the moon and the sun overlap and all comes to darkness for those few, blissful moments, all you can do is fight in the hopes that your fate will be saved one day. Sometimes, when you know you’ll be gone forever, all you can do is wait. But sometimes, as the boss’ music ends and you win the battle, so many possibilities are granted to you. You may sing with the birds and animals of the forest your soul is encompassed in, you may dance with the swaying of the palm trees as you feel the girthy sand beneath your feet and hear the water of the ocean make its slow way over to where you stand about a mile away, you may, you may. You may write about the glorious adventure you have had all this way and will continue to have as long as your soul shall exist and thrive in the body that is yours, you may read about the adventures others have had that they survived through even when their soul corrupted and their light was no longer, you may, you may. You may do one, you may do multiple, you may do all, you may, you may.

Or you may not.

Or you may sit there doing nothing at all. Perhaps there are a million thoughts running through your exquisite mind, perhaps, perhaps. Perhaps there is nothing at all in there, and instead you are taking in the glorious moment of your victory, perhaps, perhaps.

Maybe this victory was something astonishing, from defeating an enemy to surviving a harsh condition to succeeding in a hard activity, maybe, maybe. Maybe this achievement wasn’t all that big, maybe you just took a shower for the first time in weeks, or walked a few steps more than what you usually did, maybe, maybe. Or maybe you think your achievement was nothing at all; just an ordinary day with your ordinary schedule and routine that happens in a cycle.

But nothing is ever ordinary, is it?

Nothing is never the same, whether you do it once or twice or three times or even more. Nothing is the same, so if you do think that it was just an ordinary day for you, be glad you got through it. So much happened on that day of yours, whether you believe it or not. On that day perhaps you went to work or went to school, had a test or had an interview, ate something or took a shower, perhaps, perhaps.

But you did it.

And doing things like you did on that day is something that not all people can achieve for different reasons of their own. So be thankful that you did it.

You really did.

But there is something else.

In every person’s life comes a time in which you will conquer something big. Something like no other.

And today you will conquer that.

This is your story, your big moment, whether you believe it or not. And I’ll take you through it. You’ll be in a brand new place with brand new feelings, and together we will conquer this.

We will conquer it together. And you will feel the way people do when they conquer something. You will pay attention to your surroundings more and of what you accomplished. I hope to give this to you in this story.

Call me SOUL.

England, UK, 1856.

Sometimes, when the moon and the sun overlap and all comes to darkness for those few, blissful moments, all you can do is fight in the hopes that your fate will be saved one day.

Something is wrong with Big Ben.

You can see it- every night, at around three in the morning, something odd occurs. The clock glows, a pale blue that shimmers faintly in the moonlight and disappears when the sun rises above the horizon. You don’t know why this is happening, you don’t know when it first happened either, but all you know is that it’s something majorly wrong. Every time you spied that pale blue coming from inside the Big Ben on your nightly walks when you could never sleep peacefully, every night when you looked out your window of the messy apartment you happened to own to see why there was so much light in your room, every night, every night. You tried telling others- friends, family, anybody you saw walking on that late hour, but nobody ever seemed to notice it.

Which is why you decided that you had to check what was inside the day the large clock glowed as bright as the moon.

You packed a few things just in case, for you knew the long minutes of climbing each of the 334 steps might- no, would be exhausting if not for a few things to keep you stable. You owned a small, dark green backpack- just good enough to pack maybe a few snacks and some water. You knew people climbed up these steps without pain on the tours people take up and down the Big Ben, but you had to prepare. Just in case.

Just in case.

You didn’t know how long you’d be up, so you packed rationally- two apples, trail mix, a juice box, and a small extendable water bottle to keep you hydrated.

And from that, you began your ascent.

The walk to the Big Ben itself didn’t take all that long, for you lived close to it. The walk up, though, did take longer compared to the walk to the Big Ben. You guesstimated about thirty minutes when you reached the top, which felt extremely long compared to how many steps there were. As you were walking, though, the steps seemed to increase- just as you thought you were at the top, that the door was another curve away, you’d find out that there was another flight.

And another.

And another.

But what mattered is that you finally made it up. Sure, the walk was long, tiring, and extremely boring, but you had done it. You made it up.

You conquered it.

But that wasn’t the only thing you had to conquer. There was something much bigger that awaited you: The reason for the pale blue light.

You haven’t gotten there yet. But you will.

Soon.

When you reached the top, you swung open the door, leaning on it a bit as you eyed the heaps of mechanisms working away.

And it was beautiful.

Sure, it wasn’t the same as you’d think but it was stunning. People- robotic people with defined edges and hues of golds, whites, and greys running to work one mechanism and then another. Sure, they looked nothing like humans, but their “bodily” structure was molded into one that resembled a human body and their clothes-mechanical structures that looked stunning and were stuck to their bodies like how purity tries to cling to you-gave them a sort of human appeal. The sounds of clanks and gears turning, as well as the words of the mechanical people that have different tones and edges and words compared to the English language filled the hollow room. One of the robotic people, one who seemed to be a male but nobody could really tell for sure, was in charge of making the hands move, while a few others, both men and women in that mix, made sure the Big Ben was going to run smoothly for its next big ring. Some others, their genders unable to be pinpointed, were running frantically from wall to wall, pushing levers and hitting buttons. They all worked in harmony, if not a bit distraughtly, and they seemed to be caught up in their work enough to not notice the person standing in the middle of the doorway, astonished.

After a few moments of watching the work in stunned silence, a voice louder than all the voices inside the room rang out, the only words distinguishable being “hey,” “human,” and “how.” You turned to the sound to be face-to-yard-away-face with the man that was turning the clock’s hands. You now could see that he had an eye- a large eye that covered his entire face save for his mouth, which was almost unnoticeable from the head. In a panic, as well as a fear that these mechanical beings were of higher power compared to you, you raised your hands, backing into the door you had closed behind you when you entered the room. You could see everybody still working, but their eyes were all on you, clearly wondering what a human was doing in this clearly mechanism-encompassed space. Silence rang throughout the room, the only sounds being the ticking of the clock as the man turned it and the grinding of gears mixed in with the frantic footsteps of the others running from place to place.

The mechanized man then spoke.

“Human… How did you come? This realm is unavailable to ordinary humans such as yourself.”

Your hands fall to your sides, tilting your head in a curious manner.

“We are the real… ‘people’ behind this large clock. You are not supposed to see us and we are not supposed to see you.”

Was this for real?

Yes, sure, mechanised people that can actually speak (and from the looks of it, have feelings) have never been created in the early year of 1856, but that doesn’t mean that maybe these mechanisms were not for real. Hearing that you weren’t supposed to see them, though, was rather shocking. This was what you were created for. To see why Big Ben had a pale blue glow. Of course, you weren’t actually made for this, but right now, in this dull and extremely boring life you have had consisting of work and work and more work, this was your ultimate goal.

Were they going to kill you for seeing them?

Meanwhile, the mechanized man looked rather confused, his hands still moving the hands on the giant clock as if they were programmed to do it.

“How can you see us, human?”

You tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come out for some reason. It was as if your vocal chords had dissipated, as if your lips were glued shut, like your jaw couldn’t move anymore. You stayed frozen there, not knowing what to do, until finally you just shrugged. This movement made the man seem more curious, raising a nonexistent eyebrow.

“Hm. A person who does not know how? That is new. We have had multiple humans come up here, whether wishing to see how the Big Ben functioned illegally or how us mechanists would work to function it. Sometimes they would drink a potion, get a tip from a witch, or maybe even create the fantasy themselves. The point is that they all believed. Yet you say you have no idea how you came-”

“LIAR!” one of the other mechanized people exclaimed, a tall woman with a burly physique that was with the group of others making sure the bell would ring well. She stopped what she was doing and crossed her arms while facing you, making the group run even faster and more frantically than before.

“That human is just here to get us again! We need to KILL IT!” she exclaimed, making a shiver run down your spine. This was exactly what you worried about. You didn’t want to live, but you also really, really didn’t want to die.

Your eyes widened, and you quickly shook your head, your arms coming to raise above your head once more. The man moving the hands on the clock glared at the burly woman with her arms crossed, shaking his head.

“Nothing of the sort is going to happen, Neptune,” the man spoke, gritting his teeth. “We will deal with this predicament in a serious and appropriate manner. Remember what we have learned, ma’am. War is a last resort.”

“It’s not war if it’s for a good cause and the other party dies immediately!” the woman, who’s name was seen to be Neptune, contradicted, pounding her fist on her hand for good measure. The man rolled his eyes, crossing his arms.

“It is. And plus, you are not going to do anything I do not permit you to do. Centurion put me in charge for the time being and with that responsibility you will be under my control and my power. And I say that you may not wage war on the poor human who clearly looks petrified by your antics at the moment.”

The woman’s blank face came to face yours, her cheeks tilting up at the sight of your terror. Her hands fell by her sides, though, a clear sign that she was almost surrendering.

Almost.

“Listen here, you little brat,” Neptune began, stepping closer to you, “if you dare hurt any of my people I will not hesitate to punch you-”

“UNTIL YOUR BLOOD RUNS COLD AND THE MEMORIES OF WHAT YOU ONCE WERE AND OF WHAT YOU CAN BE HAVE TURNED INTO NOTHING BUT THE PERIL OF WHAT YOU ARE NOW!” another one of the mechanized people making sure the bell would ring well exclaimed, their gender not able to be pinpointed.

“Zero, please-”

“WE WILL REMOVE YOU OF LIFE UNTIL THE PRUDENT BODY OF YOURS THAT YOU HAVE TENDED TO SINCE THE BEGINNING OF YOUR LIFE HAS COME TO A RATHER ABRUPT END!” the mechanized person, now known to be Zero, cut off, walking towards you as well in a rather elegant fashion.

To the North ᯓ★

COME NO FURTHER.

Striving for superiority is crucial. Nonetheless, it remains beyond many people's reach. You have lost touch with the experience of being disregarded. Your presence is excessively irritating. It is imperative that you depart, for I will be left with no alternative but to eliminate you and obliterate your presence from this reality we refer to as existence. This situation is quite unfortunate. Your unwavering determination is commendable, yet it complicates matters unnecessarily. Your actions diminish HIS significance. It would be wise to reconsider your stance for your own good. My concern for your well-being is sincere. You contribute to the truth of this dream, aiding its transformation into reality. However, you are obstructing the end of it. I pose a single question. 

Do you yield?

Chapter 1: ELUDE ˳·˖✶𓆩𓁺𓆪✶˖·˳

It seems that you have not understood the complications of the matter I had addressed to you not moments before. In this case, I shall refer to  article CCLVII of the NARRATE (Narrator's Authority and Responsibilities Resource for Articulation, Teaching, and Engagement) tome.

“Should the narrator encounter a reader of designation [XXX], and should said reader, in defiance, refuse to heed both the narrator’s and HIS exalted [wishes]… the narrator retains the sovereign right to expunge the reader from existence through the process of ELIMINATION (refer to Article CLXXVIII for further elucidation on this matter).”

Knowing what I am about to do to you with this power that has been bestowed upon me, I formally advise you to speak your last words and think your final thoughts. I shall wait.

…

Ah. It seems, in fact, that you may elude from death. I have found a method that allows me to preserve you for a while longer, according to the same article.

“...should the reader of designation [XXX] persist in their insistence upon the notion of [life]... narrator reserves the prerogative to craft a narrative wherein the cessation of their existence would bear profound consequence. In such a case, it is most advisable to impart to the reader the significance of HIM, as this may prove the most efficacious course of action.”

Since I believe myself to be a benevolent narrator, and since I also believe death is quite a harsh thing for a human such as yourself, I will refer to the method shown above instead and attempt to create an immersive story for you on the concept of HIM and HIS power. It seems that there are a few “sample novels” I am able to take if I do not wish to create one. Allow me to examine them.

Ah, what sorrow! They do mention HIS whereabouts at the right time, but the writing... Well, it is quite dreadful. “Once upon a time” would have been a deal breaker on its own, yet a staggering 124 of them start with just that!

Oh, what sorrow. I suppose I will have the void as a reference when I produce this meaningful story for you. I do not believe I will have to try hard to make one better than the 456 that had been listed to me.

Let us begin, shall we?

Chapter 2: MR. ALFARO ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

This story starts where many things do: in the back of an old cave, hidden to the ones who do not need it. Here is where a man by the name of Aurelius lay, spending most his days hunting or collecting wood for the hearty fire he cooked his food upon. On occasion he would begin a mission, from something as small as collecting fifteen fish from the nearby river to creating an entire new piece of furniture to decorate his home. When the day came that he finished one, he would always come up with a new one, for these challenges is what kept him occupied most of the hour. Once a month he would take a stroll through the neighboring village of the forest he resided in, gathering equipment and supplies he would need for the rest of the month.

That was where he was, strolling through the vast market, when it happened.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

“Why hello, mister Alfaro. Back for more, I see?” a woman, whose name was Cordelia, asked, leaning against her fruit stall decorated with varieties of apples, oranges, and mangoes, as well as many others.

Aurelius scoffed, paying more attention to the fruits than to the woman in front of him.

“May I have fourteen oranges and six papayas, as well as four bundles of strawberries and blueberries?” he asked, completely disregarding her comment. Cordelia frowned, crossing her arms at this.

“My my, Aurelius. When shall you ever learn the good that kindness can bring you? I was going to give you a few grapes on the house, but I suppose not.”

Oh, yeah. Grapes. I forgot about those.

“Ah, yes. And grapes, too. I shall take two bundles,” Aurelius nodded.

Cordelia sighed.

“That’s Aurelius for you,” she spoke, beginning to place the fruits in bundles of cloth. As Cordelia was doing this, Aurelius turned, watching as a man came speeding straight towards him. He tilted his head, noticing the features of the other man- his dark hair, his distressed look---

 ---and the color of his eyes when he ran straight into him.