(C) Andrew Hussie.
Cover Photo by piyorii on tumblr, I believe.
Prologue: Corporal
The first thing you sense when you wake is that you are solid. It feels strange; familiar yet also new and foreign.
You exist, you're corporal.
Your consciousness is very distant at present, as if it were off in the misty periphery of your existence. What you feel, even though it is very faint, is a tight, musty closeness thinly surrounding an iceberg like mass. You are that mass. As the numbing fuzziness begins to fade more advanced cognition kick-starts in your brain.
Where are you? What are you?
The closeness about you grows ever thicker as you begin to recall memories; facts about yourself . Just wait a while, you'll remember who you are, that cool and hellaciously peculiar guy who was a rapping God. Hell yes. Check it. Check all of it. Check the fecal matter out of it.
Oh hey, the fog that is your awareness is getting clearer. Only moments before (was it seconds, or minutes? Hours maybe? You can't tell, which you remember being very strange for you) you were feeling so far off, so vast, so numb, but now...
...You feel inescapably smothered.
Its too tight; so very overwhelming and cramped. You almost feel like one of those Jack-in-the-box toys that kids were supposed to be entertained by but they really only got scared.
You would think you used to know someone who would actually have been entertained by one of those creepy things; he was a respectable but incredibly awkward douchenugget. However your situation at hand keeps this tangent thought from really crossing your mind.
Your inner monologue runs dry as you begin to panic. Your surroundings are hard but flimsy at the same time, almost moldy, but also velvet and plush in other parts. All of it, however, is painfully close and confining; a tinny little box. Its restricting and you can't handle it.
You feel bad for all those untouched Jack-in-the-boxes. If they felt like this you'd have played with each any every God damn one of them.
Well if you are a Jack-in-the-box its time to bust the fuck out. So you do.
You begin struggling and thrashing in your confines, pounding against the wood, feeling panicked and in a mental frenzy even though your limbs and movements are sluggish in the most contradictory fashion, as if they weren't connected to your emotions at all. They're betraying your vital need to get out. Why wont the walls move, holy shit why, why, why just give already, the wood is weak why can't it just give already you need to get out get me out of here get me out get me out getmeoutLETMEOUT-
Suddenly you're buried in dirt.
Shit. You aren't any less panicked, you can't breathe why won't you breathe. Work lungs work c'mon. Dig out dig out dig out, your nails are soon caked with dirt and they're starting to sting they're probably bleeding but God fucking damn it you don't care, you need to get out, wheres that stereotypical heart-beat pounding in your head its too quite but you still don't care you need to breathe someone HELP-
The sting of dirt and bleeding fingers is drowned and washed away by the sensation of foreign oxygen invading you. Oh sweet Lord in Heaven hell fucking yes-
You inhale, but you don't need it.
There's no heartbeat.
...
You scream.
Ello everyone c: This is something I thought over a while, and I'm finally out to publish a bit of it. Lets see if you like it enough? For now this is only the Prologue, so it is slightly vague. Based on the response maybe I'll keep it going! I have about 15 pages pre-written already. So if it is wanted there will be more.
-K