The autumn winds gather, and flow, to the east and the north. They flow, and flow, striking many towns with their biting air and grim feel. Through Purbyville, New Chesnut, and Pittsburgh. They begin to flow towards the direction of good, ol' Canada, and stumble across a small town, where the cold already has already sunk in, and claimed the land as theirs. It is a chill deeper than anything nature can make; the wind flees in fear, for it knows that this is not a place for it, nor any creature or being.
This small town looks like any other, it has the mildly busy chatter of any other small town, yet all could feel something…..well wrong about it. It was in the air, the ground and the people. It was a feeling that all felt, for it touched and scratched the most basic of human senses. Fear. Not the fear that you might feel watching a scary movie, nor being alone in the dark. It was the fear that something was not right here, that the little shadow in the corner of your eye was not made by anything you have, the fear made when you reach for a light switch and yet another hand is there.
Amity Park, it's called, and that it is. Olive green and orange parks all round, with chirping birds and orange trees that are shedding with the coming of Jack Frost. Yet in the night, the trees twist and releases foul odors into the world that awaken the living dead. These trees grow and feast upon the rip in reality which this small town is sitting on, digging it's sharp roots right into the beginning of the endless void which summon lost souls from their fake afterlife. This void is death, destruction, salvation. For all those souls who wander listen to the pure silence it makes, and dream of going into it's peaceful depths, free of the noise and dullness of un-restful dead.
These souls bring endless frost and cold which affects only those with a beating heart and a thinking mess of neurons. They bring nightmares and frights which sink into the very depths of your mind and keep jabbing at you until a small piece of you is lost.
The people, if you can call them that, who live in this town, are oblivious to it. As children they wet the bed, slept with their parents and screamed in nightmares for they felt it. The frost, the pain, the impurity that hung heavy in their lives and bodies. They were told it was no big deal, simply the thinking of foolish, little children. As they grew, they dulled, their brain slowly chipping away. Some people though, they don't chip, and they're called mad, fools, idiots. Often though, the people begin to chip at away at them, not the air which does it most of the time.
A small, un-chipped boy sat, staring dimly at the figures on the board. They thought him weak, stupid. He could hear every little chatter around him, and the pure silence below. He could feel and smell the poison in the air. See the roaming dead, and touch them. He always could, really. He tried to ignore it, until the day when Death visited him, and reached a bony arm, only to tear off half his soul, and take it.
He was colder, frost in his veins, trinkling through, bright red at times, bright green at others. His breath was slower, heart not beating and brainwaves going at light speed. No one had had noticed, of course. Nor his parents nor his friends. No one really does.
His friends, a slightly chipped girl and a lot chipped boy, knew one thing about his feelings and cold and ache and near death.
It was 'cool'
He supposed it was. Of course it wasn't. He could change, yes, he could fight, yes, he could feel? No. That was not a cool part. It was a terribly, awful thing which he wouldn't wish on anyone. He could feel pain, emotions, touch. But he couldn't feel. He couldn't feel love in the air, not life nor kindness. It was a dull, well, brown, if you must call it that. A limbo of sorts, where he stepped on, he could feel no hum of the earth, only the creaking of the rip as it swayed the town, between real and nightmare. He could feel no warmth in one's heart. Only the rhythmic beating it made.
Confusing, ain't it?
So is he.
Stuck on the tightrope between dull life, and duller death, and yet, held on tightly to the single thread he stands on. He wakes up every morning, to a feeling of chaos, of imperfection, of wrongness that is so THICK that it makes him sick to the very pit of his acidic stomach.
When he vomits, it not brown and orange like all others. It's a thick, black slurry with chunks of god-knows-what in it that flow for hours. It tastes like salt and spice and cardboard when he's done, it sinks, sinks into the void from which it came from.
When he half died, he saw a bright green and purple place where monsters bred and evil spawned, where ridicules things can kill you and the people are not people anymore. That is not the void, that is Purgatory, the waiting ground. Some stay human, as much as they can, while others become the beasts that most see in their nightmares.
Heaven. Paradise. God.
He scoffs at these terms. Where is this 'heaven'? Where is this land where all is well and pain is gone? He'll tell you where. It's all in the puny minds of fantasizing humans, humans who seek more than is what around them.
God? That is a question that all of humanity at one time in their life asks. He is null, nil, zero. Would a god allows the vast beings of horror roam the Waiting Grounds and let them feast on lost souls? Would a god allow a child to feel and not feel? Would a god watch as every single person on the earth gets slowly eaten by frost, lies and sin?
Oh gosh, now he sounds like one of those people on T.V. Huh.
He blinks himself awake, just in time for a dead piece of pulverized wood to be smashed in his face.
A giant, red F greets him.
He sighs. Back to the dull vastness of life it is.
Below. Someone screams.
((What is this. Why am I here. I am back!? I am BACK. I SHALL BEGIN THE POSTING. AWAIT MY PRETTIES, FOR TOMARROW, COME THE. UPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDAAAAAAAAAAAAATTT TTTTTTTTTTTESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS. Kids. This is why you don't stay awake until 3:30. ))