Chapter 1. Static
A soul is composed of love, mercy, and compassion. It is unclear the nature of souls, as humans have proven their souls do not need these things to exist.
Static raced across the television. Black and white pixels scuttled across the dirty screen with no rhyme or rhythm. Its disjointed patterns were dizzying, and pictures flickered back for a brief moment when the tele's frame was struck. A tiny fist pounded on the surface attempting to make the machine function once more.
A cartoon appeared back on the screen as prompted. The images still ridden with static and the audio fading in and out, at least now the viewer had something to watch. Slumping back on the sofa, the small child squinted at their favorite show, noticing it was merely a re-run. With a small sigh, the young one rose once again.
Bare feet slapped the kitchen floor as the child approached the fridge. Before they had opened the door, a pink note had caught their eye. In large letters, they could see the word very clearly. "Frisk". The child peared closer to read the smaller letters. "There is leftovers for you in the fridge. I'm working late again tonight."
The small child huffed. Rolling up their long sleeves, they reached inside to see what was left for them. The young one brought the lone container out to inspect it, only to find it was yesterday's leftovers as well. "Spaghetti," the child whispered in disgust. Placing it back where it belonged, the small one crawled back onto the musty couch. They would rather just not eat tonight.
The child stared blankly at the flashing screen, its colors grossly saturated, and let their mind go numb. They have nothing better to do right now. Or later. Or ever.
Commercial break, as implied by a friendly announcer. Images advertizing tantalizing toys and scooters and cartoons went by. A commercial for a new episode of another cartoon came into view. The child liked this show as well, one that featured a boy and a girl befriending the grim reaper. A hilarious cartoon, the child thought, when their heart skipped a beat.
A painful clench in their stomach, the child found themselves feeling rather ill. An unusual feeling poured over them as they analyzed what had caused such trouble. Fear. Why were they feeling fear? Nothing had changed. Everything was the same.
And then they remembered. Just the night before, the innocent one had experienced quite a nightmare. Details fuzzy, they contemplated the sights and sounds from the night's previous terrors. Black and white. And a hint of blue. A creature with a sinister smile. A beast out to kill them. A monster determined to take their soul.
Nonsense. It was only a dream. It can't hurt anyone. Even still, the child found themselves breathing rapidly, heart heavy, staring at the TV, yet staring at nothing. They did not know why they felt this way. Why a silly nightmare would haunt them the way this one was. Perhaps it just felt too real. That was all.
The child was awoken by a sudden loud cry from the television. Startled, they picked up the remote and turned the sound low. They must have fallen asleep. Being lulled by the TV's hums was a soothing gateway to a nap.
Still, the young one couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss. It had felt like the world was against them, that their life was unfair. And it felt that perhaps there was someone, or something, out to make it worse. It always felt like this.
The child's thoughts were interrupted by a wave of static concealing the cartoons once again. The chaotic pixels swayed in every direction, and they picked up the remote in frustration, prepared to shut the machine off for the night.
The power button in hand did not work. They pressed it again and again, before they looked up at the screen in confusion. A white letter appeared on the fuzzy screen right over the racing pixels. "F". Curiously, the child leaned in to be sure if they were seeing the monitor correctly. More letters appeared sequentially, until it spelled a word. "FRISK".
Not tearing their eyes away from the sight of their own name, the child reached up their sleeve to pinch themselves, only to be sure that they were in fact dreaming. Frisk winced in surprise when their own nails had painfully dug into their skin.
Fear.
