The first thing I noticed when I opened my eyes was the intoxicating heat surrounding me as I stood outside on cold concrete, my gaze frozen on a brick house that looked completely opposite from what my childhood house actually was. The curtains fluttered wildly through open windows as air I didn't feel was pushed through to the inside of the house.
Every light was off except for the one on the porch, which wasn't needed anyway because of the dull sun glaring at the Earth from it high position in the sky. The streets were silent and void of all cars, no people walking on the sidewalks, except for myself, and no animal roaming across the perfect grass, not even a squirrel.
There were no birds flying around, caressing the world with their chirping songs of Spring, no. There weren't even the sounds of leaves blowing across lawns as a morning wind picked up. The only sound I really noticed was the quiet huff of my breathing, and when I walked, the soft steps of my shoes against smooth pavement.
Until I got here, I never realized how much noise was in the world I... once... lived in.
This was four days ago.
How did I get here?
I can't help much by explaining where I am because I don't even know. People wouldn't take it too well if I told them that what I do know is that one day I woke up in this place and never found out how I got here. There was no warning to wake up and pack from my missing parents, and no phone call from my friends. I just went to bed one night and opened my eyes the next morning in a different bed... in a different house, alone.
If I had people to tell, I would tell them, believe me.
This town is deserted as far as I can tell, has been for a while, but every now and then my hopes are falsely raised by a ghost of a voice dancing across the air to rush passed my ears in a delicate whisper. I've heard numerous voices in the few days I've been here, but they're all different. It's not just a voice of a man saying the weather's good, and it's not just a voice of a woman laughing. It's men and women, children, and sometimes I hear the barking of a dog.
The first time I heard these voices, I would run to try and find them. My voice would be the only thing blending into the silence as I would scream for them to help me, to tell me where I am. The women laughed and giggled, the man loudly talked of fishing and cars, but in the long run, their voices would fade easily into nothing like that was the way it was meant to be.
The telephones in the house I woke up in don't work, all of them plugged into the walls but not even uttering a buzzing sound when you pull them off the cradle. The television flicks on and off, and for a brief moment, you see flashes of a news resporter or a sitcom until they fade into nothing, as well.
The fridge was empty that first night, my stomach rumbling the only reason why I had checked in the first place. The cabinets were bare and free of anything except dust. My hunger had faded into a dull ache in the morning of the second day, my fear of leaving the quiet house settling over the hunger to make it the first priority. I had stared at the baige walls of my perfect house from about 5:00 that afternoon to about 3:00 in the morning, when sleep claimed me on the hard couch in what was supposed to be the living room.
All around the perfect house were empty picture frames hanging along every wall of every room. They were all black with a shiny finish, but no two were exactly the same size. I saw some frames that were poster size, up, and then I saw some that were wallet size, down. All sizes, no pictures.
The fear was replaced by dull numbness after the second night's sleep.
The third and fourth night were spent exploring the empty town, searching for any kinds of life except for the trees and the green, perfectly cut grass. Every blade seemed to be exactly one inch from the ground to the tip, not ranging very far from that size.
All the other houses were cold and dead to the outside world, and I was sure at the time as I'm sure now that they were dead on the inside, too.
A rocking chair four houses down from mine and across the street has a wooden rocking chair on the porch that always sways, creaking quietly with its movement. Sometimes I go sit by the chair and just listen to the sounds it makes. It's sad to think of a rocking chair as being loud, but...
... it's sound I needed to hear, and it's sound I got.
On the fifth day, I stood outside.
A red ball silently floated down the street in wide archs as it thumped against the perfect concrete. It continued on, thrown by some unfelt wind, to pass my position on the roadside curb. The journey was over as it slammed into a mailbox, rolling back towards me with agonizing slowness. I never would have thought of a childish toy appearing to be so menacing before, and I found myself next to it, my foot moving back for a swinging kick.
"My ball!"
The distance in those words triggered something in my mind. With a choked-off scream, I sent the ball flying down the street, my heart slamming and frustrated tears springing to my cloudy eyes.
Stuff like that happened a lot my first days here.
Where the Hell am I?
It's one question of many that I've asked myself, but I don't get closer to answering as time progresses. It's one question of many that I want answered, but now I don't find it necessary to get answered.
On that fifth day, I went to the place where I had been getting all my food: the gas station six blocks away from my house.
Every light was off except for the one on the porch, which wasn't needed anyway because of the dull sun glaring at the Earth from it high position in the sky. The streets were silent and void of all cars, no people walking on the sidewalks, except for myself, and no animal roaming across the perfect grass, not even a squirrel.
There were no birds flying around, caressing the world with their chirping songs of Spring, no. There weren't even the sounds of leaves blowing across lawns as a morning wind picked up. The only sound I really noticed was the quiet huff of my breathing, and when I walked, the soft steps of my shoes against smooth pavement.
Until I got here, I never realized how much noise was in the world I... once... lived in.
This was four days ago.
How did I get here?
I can't help much by explaining where I am because I don't even know. People wouldn't take it too well if I told them that what I do know is that one day I woke up in this place and never found out how I got here. There was no warning to wake up and pack from my missing parents, and no phone call from my friends. I just went to bed one night and opened my eyes the next morning in a different bed... in a different house, alone.
If I had people to tell, I would tell them, believe me.
This town is deserted as far as I can tell, has been for a while, but every now and then my hopes are falsely raised by a ghost of a voice dancing across the air to rush passed my ears in a delicate whisper. I've heard numerous voices in the few days I've been here, but they're all different. It's not just a voice of a man saying the weather's good, and it's not just a voice of a woman laughing. It's men and women, children, and sometimes I hear the barking of a dog.
The first time I heard these voices, I would run to try and find them. My voice would be the only thing blending into the silence as I would scream for them to help me, to tell me where I am. The women laughed and giggled, the man loudly talked of fishing and cars, but in the long run, their voices would fade easily into nothing like that was the way it was meant to be.
The telephones in the house I woke up in don't work, all of them plugged into the walls but not even uttering a buzzing sound when you pull them off the cradle. The television flicks on and off, and for a brief moment, you see flashes of a news resporter or a sitcom until they fade into nothing, as well.
The fridge was empty that first night, my stomach rumbling the only reason why I had checked in the first place. The cabinets were bare and free of anything except dust. My hunger had faded into a dull ache in the morning of the second day, my fear of leaving the quiet house settling over the hunger to make it the first priority. I had stared at the baige walls of my perfect house from about 5:00 that afternoon to about 3:00 in the morning, when sleep claimed me on the hard couch in what was supposed to be the living room.
All around the perfect house were empty picture frames hanging along every wall of every room. They were all black with a shiny finish, but no two were exactly the same size. I saw some frames that were poster size, up, and then I saw some that were wallet size, down. All sizes, no pictures.
The fear was replaced by dull numbness after the second night's sleep.
The third and fourth night were spent exploring the empty town, searching for any kinds of life except for the trees and the green, perfectly cut grass. Every blade seemed to be exactly one inch from the ground to the tip, not ranging very far from that size.
All the other houses were cold and dead to the outside world, and I was sure at the time as I'm sure now that they were dead on the inside, too.
A rocking chair four houses down from mine and across the street has a wooden rocking chair on the porch that always sways, creaking quietly with its movement. Sometimes I go sit by the chair and just listen to the sounds it makes. It's sad to think of a rocking chair as being loud, but...
... it's sound I needed to hear, and it's sound I got.
On the fifth day, I stood outside.
A red ball silently floated down the street in wide archs as it thumped against the perfect concrete. It continued on, thrown by some unfelt wind, to pass my position on the roadside curb. The journey was over as it slammed into a mailbox, rolling back towards me with agonizing slowness. I never would have thought of a childish toy appearing to be so menacing before, and I found myself next to it, my foot moving back for a swinging kick.
"My ball!"
The distance in those words triggered something in my mind. With a choked-off scream, I sent the ball flying down the street, my heart slamming and frustrated tears springing to my cloudy eyes.
Stuff like that happened a lot my first days here.
Where the Hell am I?
It's one question of many that I've asked myself, but I don't get closer to answering as time progresses. It's one question of many that I want answered, but now I don't find it necessary to get answered.
On that fifth day, I went to the place where I had been getting all my food: the gas station six blocks away from my house.
