Whoo, guys.

My inbox is just totally filled with review alerts.

*sarcasm*

(Except for BloodLily. She's been around at times.)


TRIGGER WARNING/WARNING FOR THOSE FAINT OF HEART:

This is a very dark chapter, for the post part. There are references to drugs (slightly), depression (which was cover a LOT in the first story in this series, so this probably isn't a problem), self-harm, and a large reference to attempts/thoughts of suicide.

I, for one, do not believe that these themes should be in any way glamorized or "sugar-coated", so to speak, and wish to not do so in this chapter. I do intended to keep everything Rated-T, though. These are very serious topics and should not be taken lightly.

If you or a loved one is using drugs, depressed, thinking or committing self-harm to yourself/theirself, or even thinking of or attempting suicide, please talk to someone.


Read at your own risk.


Chapter Fifty Two- The Man with the Rope Necklace

He stood on the hill, wearing his nicest dress shoes, his nicest black dress pants, and his finest, yet most simple white dress shirt. It was a sunny, mild June morning in Kansas. It was the early 20th century. The world had not yet seen its true glory days- the inventions of the car, commercial airlines, TV, and the world wide web; as well as its days of sorrow that were in the 90-or-so years to come before the 21st century came in- World War II, The Great Depression, the assassination of President Kennedy, and The Holocaust. The man smiled at the simpleness of it all. They were still young. All their past battle scars had healed, or ones they kept on talking about, like their revolution against Great Britain. But that man knew what would come. Wars. Terrorism. Assassinations. Corrupted governments. Nations tearing themselves apart from the inside. The world collapsing in on itself, it's people filled with either anger, greed, and corruption; or despair, fear, and sadness.

In the words of those who believed in such as thing during the time- that human beings could feel such a way, and would go to such lengths- they'd probably refer to it as 'going to meet the Lord', or 'about to go talk to Jesus'.

He walked along the dirt road, not passing a single person on the way. It was mostly fields and faroff farms at that point, so he didn't expect to see anyone anyway, but to his luck- it was a Sunday. Some might have still been at church, or simply just not working on their holy day. He had dark stubble along his face and around his mouth- a mouth that had smelled like alcohol for the past fifteen years of his life. His eyes were normal, but in those past years had been turned pink from his various playdates with substances. So many substances, in fact- he couldn't name all of them anymore. The color was dull and lifeless, and his eyes merely just looked forward. His expression was dejected, and far-off. He had spent the past eight -or had it been nine? No, it had been ten. Definately ten.- years of his life isolated, usually staying in the same old place, but if he ever did travel, he was always the outcast. The creep. The shut-in. The one children told scary stories about. In the fairytale that was existence, he was the monster. But in this fairytale, the monster was not defeated by some glorious night in shining armour.

The kept walking along the path, not even breaking a sweat in the morning June air, which only got warmer and warmer as the sun rose higher in the sky. For having such a body as him, it was shocking he hadn't dropped dead already. If one looked closely, his ribs could be seen from inside his white shirt. Dark circles curved around his eyes. His legs were unthinkably long and spindly, his arms and fingers the exact same way. He was a sickly specimen no matter how one looked at him. But still, he walked along. Once he was at the top of the largest hill he had conquered so far, he found the perfect spot. A few yards down the hill, right on the side of the downward-sloping road of dirt and dust, stood a large, sturdy tree. On the other side that didn't face the road, it overlooked another edge of the hill, looking over amber waves of grain. He stopped. He had found the place. The most perfect place in the world for it.

He walked over to the tree, sitting down next to it, only to lay against it, pulling something out of the pocket of his pants. It was a small sack, made out of the fabric akin to that of an old potato sack, and it closed with a slim piece of old leather. He opened it, pulling out the first item. The first item was a pocketwatch. He felt its ticks, countlessly counting the minutes of reality- and his life. He had owned that watch for pretty much his entire life. He didn't open it, merely rubbing a thumb over the circular engravings on it, and kissed it gently, only to reveal a necklace chain on it, and put it on around his neck. He then pulled the last two items out of his sack.

A long piece of rope, and as a final solution- a pistol. Loaded with one single bullet. This was it. There was no going back now. The man began to work with the long section of rope, tying a circular hole at one end, measuring around his neck, like it was a necklace of rope for him to cut off, and wear as he went on his merry way. He made sure it was fastened to the tree, and prepared himself.

And there he stood, standing on a large uprooted root of the old tree that stood up out of the ground a good ten inches or so at its highest point- putting his head into the necklace he had made.


Six or more reviews or no new chapter for a while.

That is final.