1
I don't think this can be called a happy story.
In fact, this is a rather frightening story. It's about a little boy named Frisk, who fell down a hole into a world of monsters.
Not the goat-people or fish-people or lizard-people, mind you. Those weren't really monsters. Not even the horned king, who hid in the shadows, waiting for children's souls to steal; he could be called many things, but compared to what I've seen, it would be wrong to call even him a "monster".
Not even the vicious spider-lady could be called a monster: she was just a businesswoman.
Not even the good doctor was a monster. He was a fine fellow, I think.
There were only three, true monsters in that magic underground:
1. A talking flower
2. A comic skeleton
3. Me
2
My body was buried three feet under a bed of sweet, golden flowers. The poor goats didn't know what to do with me: when one of theirs dies, the body skips the whole rotting part and turns straight to dust. Then they scatter the dust on the person's favorite thing, and that's their grave. But they didn't know what to do with me, when I died. I'm not one of their kind; I wouldn't turn to dust. My body was just lying there. They thought for sure I was asleep - in some magical, deep sleep - but my soul wasn't there anymore, and I was so cold, and then I started smelling.
It was pretty funny. I watched it all from overhead, a ghost, adrift like an empty plastic bag in the wind. I couldn't help but laugh. My body was just lying there and they couldn't figure out what to do with it.
Ha ha.
They tried embalming me, first. But they didn't realize it doesn't work perfectly on humans, and my face still kept rotting, until the eyes started melting and my mouth just kept widening into this big old smile, ha, ha. Like I was still laughing at them, ha, ha.
Goat-mom knew I loved those sweet, golden flowers. So she buried me under a whole bed of them. And my ghost was tired and cold and sad and angry and everything was wrong, so very wrong. Everything had gone so terribly, terribly wrong…I sank down into the flower bed and tried to remember what the petals felt like.
3
You scared yet?
You should be.
I know I am.
4
Alright, I'll admit, this story has a happy ending. But that doesn't make it a happy story. I don't think most stories are particularly happy, which is why we tell them. When things are happy, there's not much to say. One is too busy enjoying it.
I have a lot of stories to tell.
This one is about the boy called Frisk.
5
I had fallen asleep on the flower bed. I had been there for a long time. Being out of my body left me aching something terrible. Every inch of me began aching, as if hungry for rest, but I was already at rest. Aching for something. So I lay down in the flowers and tried to fall asleep, so that maybe I could gain some respite.
After a few years, I finally did. I went into a deep, deep slumber. Like from the fairy tales, ha, ha. A sleeping princess, ha, ha, waiting for her prince, ha, ha.
Well, I'll give myself a break; maybe something more useful than a princess: a sword in a stone, waiting for the rightful king to come and draw me out.
Or maybe a cursed artifact; you should just put it back where you found it.
6
There were other children before Frisk, but they didn't wake me; hence my clever sword analogy.
I remember feeling the faint thump of their bodies, falling from way up above, down through the magic hole into the magic underground, onto a magical bed of golden flowers that broke their fall. I would take a look at them and at the color of their soul, but then I would simply roll over and go back to sleep, because my ghostly bones would start aching again and I hated it.
There was a turquoise girl, with a ribbon in her hair and a toy knife, ha, ha. I knew it wasn't real by just looking at it. It was some dumb, plastic thing for little kids. Her soul smelled like wet rocks and young saplings in morning dew.
There was the orange souled boy, who was very proud of his boyishness, because he dressed like a little bruiser, ha, ha, with fighter gloves and a bandana around his forehead. His soul stank of bonfire smoke and barbecue.
There was the deep, water blue girl: she was elegant like a dancer. I would have liked her if she didn't have that dumb looking tutu on. I could hardly smell her soul: it was a subtle scent of sleeping snow under a perfectly blue sky. It reminded me of my few good days at home.
A purple boy, with dirty glasses and a notebook and looking all thoughtful and quiet. Soul smelled like used books and soap.
The green girl, whose skin smelled like meat and cooked eggs and spices, but whose soul smelled of mint leaves and hot tea. She was dressed up like a chef and carried a cast iron frying pan everywhere.
And the yellow boy who looked like he walked out of a Halloween party, ha, ha, 'cause he was dressed up like a cowboy: he had the whole getup, even a real gun. His soul smelled like metal and pungent saltwater.
And then there was Frisk.
Frisk's soul was the same color as mine.
7
He had a bandage and a stick. The bandage was on his left hand, and the stick was in his right. It was a thin branch from off a young tree: thin, tough, and kind of grubby; a lot like Frisk.
Frisk was probably about ten. He was a scrawny thing, in a button down shirt, covered with a blue and red-stripped sweater, and jeans, and white tennis shoes. It was all dirty and weather-beaten and smelled a little bit. As for Frisk, he had a weird head and face. It was a bit squashed and round, but still angular and bony. His mousy hair was long and shaggy, reaching down just past his jaw. His nose was flattish, and his eyes were large, wide, and clouded with milky white cataracts; so he had the habit of looking down at nothing, while he cocked his large, embarrassing ears and poked around himself with his stick.
His expression was one of cosmic indifference. This may have just been because his eyes didn't work, though. I figured he fell down the hole by accident, ha, ha.
That's when I realized: I wasn't aching anymore.
Every other child had gained nothing from me but a silent, bleary eyed glare for disturbing my slumber and bringing back the pain.
But this one…
Our souls are both a deep, bright red, the color of fresh, pure blood. And they both smell like cooked apricots and hot iron: sweet and tangy and harsh and bitter. It's a cycle between those four tastes; I had never appreciated the dynamic to my own soul's smell until Frisk crashed onto my bed of flowers and stank up the whole place. And that smell…it cleared out my ghost blood like mint clears the sinuses. It fed my nonexistent stomach with water and bread and a bit of chocolate. It lent me a bit more form, a bit more weight, a bit more life. A bit more determination.
8
While he was brushing himself off and rubbing his bruises, I spoke for the first time in many years:
"Greetings," I said, a little facetiously. Nevertheless, the boy was extremely startled, jumping a little into the air and swinging the stick around like a baseball bat. It would have smacked me full in the face if I weren't an insubstantial ghost.
"I can hear you," he complained. "I hear your breathing. And I can smell you."
Oh? Now that was interesting. "Sorry to frighten you," I said. "You just woke me up from a very deep slumber, so I was a little startled, too."
I silently stuck my hand out to see if he'd shake it. He didn't: I had an advantage.
Meanwhile, despite his eye's lack of emotion, the rest of his face became very guarded. "Don't assume I was startled," he said.
"But you were," I replied.
"Yeah, but don't assume it," he insisted. "I'll let you know if I was startled, not you. Where are you?"
"Didn't you say you could hear my breathing?" I asked.
"Yeah, yeah…that's right. I was testing you."
"No you weren't. You were bluffing."
He made a deep frown for a moment, but then returned to indifference and shrugged. "Fine. Be that way. And I'll be off this way."
There was a certain thoughtful intelligence to his voice, something that clashed with his youthful appearance. I had the distinct impression that he was actively deliberating with every moment to act older than he was. This had me all the more intrigued, even attracted.
"Hold up," I said, my ghost drifting past him. "I haven't even introduced myself yet, or told you where you are, for that matter."
"I know exactly where I am."
"I really don't think you do."
"I told you, I'll be the judge of that. Now just leave me alone."
I let my arms sag despondently in the air as I watched him tap, tap, tap his way around the little cavern we were in. Bored, I gazed about myself: it was about the same as I remembered. The moss and fungi had shifted, but otherwise, it was still like a hollowed out pumpkin turned to stone, the walls covered with mosses, the floor planted with strange grasses and the yellow flowers. From above, there shown a beam of nearly blinding light, filled with faerie dust mites that wove their way back and forth across it. It reached down from a mysterious hole in the cavern ceiling. That hole was how I got down to the underground. It was how anything ever got down here. But it would never be, could ever be, the means for anything to get out of here.
I had half a mind to just go back to sleep, but the fact remained, however foreign to my experience thus far, that this particular child was apparently responsible for the complete cessation of my eternal pain. The smell of hot iron…the smell of apricots…such a strange and distinct combination I had only ever gotten from myself when I paid enough attention.
This was quite interesting. It had to be understood.
"How long are you going to tap around before you ask for help?" I asked.
He didn't answer: he was ignoring me. I drifted over to him and tried sticking my arm through the back of his head, to see if he could feel it. He perked up a little, like a poked raccoon, but said nothing.
"Hi," I said in his ear. I swear he leapt three feet in the air, ha, ha.
"How'd you get right there?!" he demanded.
"I have my ways."
He frowned deeply again. "You don't make any sound at all."
"Not a peep."
"Not even breathing, when you're an inch from my ear?"
"You want my help, or not?"
He cocked his head towards the ground in thought.
"Here, I'll give you a sample," I offered. "You are in a cavern right now. You had quite a fall."
"A cavern?" he said, perking up again. "With grass and flowers?"
"It's a magical cavern."
"Hmph," he mumbled. "And how do you get out of this magical cavern?"
A capitulation. I was winning, and I grinned. "Not the way you came, that's for sure."
He blew a stray strand of hair from his face. His white eyes happened to lock with mine for a moment or two as he did so. "So there's another way?" he asked.
"Sure enough. Just follow my voice: I'll lead you."
9
"You have a name?" I asked him.
"Frisk," he said, almost immediately, and rather defiantly.
"Is that your real name?"
"As far as I'm concerned. Is yours any better?"
I'll admit, I hesitated. This was a strategic moment.
"Chara," I answered.
To this day, I still don't know why I told the truth.
Maybe by the end of this story, we'll know together.