Don't be afraid dear,

Come inside yourself,

Into the you that you wouldn't know,

The you that you wouldn't want to know.

Welcome my dear,

These are your haunts,

Memories here that you wouldn't know,

The memories that you wanted forgotten.

Why my dear,

Why are you crying?

There's nothing to be afraid of here,

You shouldn't be afraid, except that you scare yourself.

I was packing my bags when I heard a loud thump from the room upstairs: Gran had finally drunk herself asleep. 'Packing your bags?', questioned a vindictive little voice somewhere near my left earlobe, 'Why, you have but a pillowcase filled with silly thoughts and torn clothes. Why entertain the fancy that you have more than nothing?' I bristled at the voice, knowing full well who it was, for the terrible being taunted my every living moment, in an unending cycle of infinite and perpetual loathing. "I have plenty of good clothes, and my books are anything but silly, you foolish thing."

Don't be afraid dear,

I won't hurt you,

These memories you've hidden won't bite.

Let the world know, let the world see.

With that, I stood up and threw my pillowcase over my shoulder, and stalked out of the room. As I closed the door into another chapter of my life, I enjoyed a brief sense of relief. Oh, the joy to be gone from this evil pit of writhing guilt and despair that claws at my soul, the pride at being able to leave of my own design. I controlled my own self now, no one could feign to be any part of me. My decisions were mine! Nothing could empty these victorious thoughts from my head, nothing as part of this world was going to drown my spirits as Drink to my Gran, not nearly. Then it started to rain.

You know dear,

Know that you are nothing,

As the nothing you are bleeds from your wounds,

Ah, my dear, you are considering me, aren't you?

"Be quiet, beast, I have me, I have myself, and though I may not be good enough for the world, I am good enough for my own purposes." Why am I even talking to this creature? Why am I trying to reason with empty air? It's all in your head, Neville, talking to yourself won't get you anywhere, walking will.

For the next hour, I trudged uneventfully through the dark streets of London, hoping to find no one, for my journey would be made alone. Grasping at the mist that rolled across the cobblestones, I found some shred of evidence, some faint idea, left hanging in the air. The ghosts of past were loitering, hovering in the otherwise innocent, fair night air. I could feel it, a presence, as if something were about to appear, but for a good while, nothing did.

My dear wonders,

Does he not wonder,

Why this voice he doesn't know is taunting him,

I'll always be with you, quiet, calculating your pain.

I'll admit I was scared, there's no denying that. When you are shivering on a warm summer evening, alone on an empty street, and trying to hold your breath, there's no escaping the fact that if you heard a noise, you'd run like a little schoolgirl. But why was I scared? Nothing in the mystery-shrouded mists was going to whisper me the answer, so on I walked.

Keep searching dearest,

For you know that you won't find me,

You know that no matter how hard you try,

You'll never stamp me out, not that you want to.

Come on Neville, there's nothing there to be afraid of. Just keep on walking now, there's a long way to go. That's when I realized that I didn't know where I was going, didn't have a clue. What had I planned on doing before I left? Did I even think if I had anywhere to go? I don't, I can't go to the family for help, they'll just give me back to Gran. I felt ready to break down there on the road. No! If I was going to get anywhere, then I had to do it on my, crying about it wasn't going to get me there faster.

I'm your connection,

I'm the high that you get,

That high you achieve from the blade of a knife,

I make you feel more alive than you actually are.

I dredged through more puddles, more muck on my way to Nowhere. The streets weren't so inviting anymore, hell, the world wasn't inviting anymore. Before, living-if you could call it that- with Gran, I had had nothing to see, so I had made myself blind. Here in the real world, things were wetter, meaner, wicked. In my lifetime, I had nothing really to live for, so I bound my heart and soul in the growths of a garden, one that I now knew would turn dark with the season, dark with the weight of the next year's snow. I had nowhere to go, so I wasn't trying to get there in a rush. There wasn't much for me to think about, so I thought about life along the way.

I'm your reality dear,

There's nothing you can do,

You wouldn't betray your own temptations,

You don't even try to deny that I'm here anymore.

Early on in this dead, disgusting walk of realizations, I had decided that the world was an evil place, now it seemed worse. I splashed through puddles filled with blood, dead people, filled with knives, bullets, and disease littered the curbside. Their ghostly pale faces assured that their lives had never been pleasant or comfortable. Many of them had never known the touch of a compassionate hand, only the slums of the great city London.

You know it dear,

You know that no one cares,

That no one is going to save you now,

You've been pulled in too deep to wriggle out of this one.

I stopped, realizing that I was near the edge of the city. I need to find someplace to sleep. I slowly walked over to one random alley, and scoped out the contents. Trash, a dumpster filled to the brim with who-knows-what, and what I presumed to be a sleeping vagrant sprawled on the ground at the foot of a chain-link fence. I presumed because I didn't want to think about the reality of death, grotesquely splayed again before my eyes.

There wasn't anything special about this alley; it was just another hovel for the rot and filth of the city. Layers of grime amassed over many years, hid the red brick, lain there by the founders of the city long ago. There were roots to this city, magic from better periods, when Gods weren't criticized for their actions, when underlings like humans never rose above themselves, stayed below the level that only evil ones wanted to reach. When magic ran rampant and unchecked, and there were more miracles than disasters, when the magicians were many and humble, not believing themselves better. Everyone was on an even level, everyone was happy.

Well, not everyone.