Sometimes I wonder if this is all a bad dream. The red on the streets is just spilled paint. Clouds shadow the city for now, but soon they will drift away. And the crimson mist; it's not really there, just an illusion. Light reflecting off the surface of an object of a like color, that's all.
There isn't really blood staining the city. Those clouds aren't really permanent. That mist can't possibly be suffocating these people.
It's all just a bad dream. When I wake up, the sun will shine into my room, invited or not, through three windows. The door to our bedroom will creak open, and the Professor will enter, softly whispering to us that it was time to wake up. Time for school, time for breakfast.
Time to save the day.
I eagerly await my awakening. We've all had nightmares, but this one- this one beats them all. It's like nothing we could have ever imagined. Actually, I don't think we imagined it at all.
He did.
He's done this before; a few times, actually. Crept into our minds while we were unwitting, innocent, and venerable. Whispered sweet nothings and hollow promises to gain entry, his caress, for a time, soothing and comforting. It was almost impossible to feel the wolf's claws beneath the soft lamb's wool he would wear.
Almost.
When the wool fell away, the beast that was left snarled and reared it's terrifying head, and we would rise up to defeat it. To hunt the wolf that threatened our herd; although it feels odd calling it that, it's the best analogy I can offer.
But a wolf is relentless.
He always slithered back. Wore his wool- god knows where he skinned that lamb, and pray he never tells us- and a friendly crocodile's grin. Pretending to be so many things, just to play with us. But he always underestimated us; he would get cocky, forget just how powerful we really were. And that alone would be his downfall.
Wolves are smart animals. They learn from their mistakes. And in truth, he never made repeat performances. I guess we forgot just how many ways there were to skin a lamb.
/
It's dim down here. The only light that reaches us is red, casting the concrete walls a hellish hue. If that wasn't bad enough, they're filthy and reek of… I'm not even sure what. Probably better that I don't know, actually. You can see dust and dirt and other partials floating in the air; needless to say, it's pretty hard to breathe down here. Kind of surprising, it's actually an improvement from the air in the city. Less painful.
And less fatal.
Some people still manage to live up there, though, bless their souls. We're not sure how; no one really keeps contact between the Sewers and the City. Don't think we don't try to, though. We try very, very hard. But the people above ground are… more aggressive, to say the least.
I wish it wasn't so loud down here, though. Everything echoes. Every footstep, every breath, every sob or groan of agony. Maybe most people don't hear all of it, but we do. To us, those sounds are almost deafening.
Sometimes we hear screams from the City. We've stopped leaving the Sewer to try and help. It's not because we stopped caring- and don't ever let yourself think that- it's because there's some things we just can't help. The most harsh reality is something we, regrettably, have come to understand and accept.
You can't save someone from themselves. No matter how hard you try. You can hold them down, tell them truths or lies, discipline them and scold them and tell them what they're doing is wrong, but you can't save them unless they want to be saved. And even then, the line is thin and blurred. We can't be bothered with it.
But… please, know this.
We're so, so sorry. This is our fault. We let this happen to you, and we'll take full responsibility for that. One day, we'll right this wrong. Townsville will see the sun shining through the clouds again, the choking mist will fade away, and everyone will be happy.
We promise you this.
Even if it costs us our lives, we'll give you yours back.