I know what you're thinking. "Why the Hell is she starting ANOTHER story?"
...because I can?
Please enjoy! This is just the prologue, though. The mian focus of the story isn't what this prologue is all about. Some people may call it supernatural, others a mental disease. Take it whatever way you want, because I won't tell you. Well, happy reading!
Dear Journal,
There are really three types of people in this world. The people who make things happen, people who watch things happen, and people who wonder what happened.
I've always wanted to know what kind of person I am. I've been bouncing back and forth for years, and it's confusing. Just trying to find out the answer. The funny thing is that no one seems to know. It's a hard question to answer, isn't it? Maybe you can be a combination of the three. But what does that leave you with? A messed up personality that goes every which way?
No. I want to find out who I am. And I won't stop searching until I do.
Then, it made me think... when did I start to get confused about who I am? When did I start questioning myself?
Shadows danced across the floor, glaring at him from the reflections of chipped paint and drying mold that lined cracks at the bottoms of the walls. A stingy, threadbare carpet met with the tarnished paint and spilled over the floor as pale moonlight showed where holes were worn in, shining brightly through the open window that let in fresh gusts of summer air.
A rickety side table sat in one corner, an old alarm clock that had half of the lights on it missing blinking drearily through the darkness. It's red eyes scanned over a narrow bed, illuminating the raggedy blanket. It was the palest of blues, and tiny puffs of clouds scattered across it's surface. White and blues practically blended together from the years of its use, however, except for the patches where moths had eaten away at the fabric.
A lump protruded from it slightly at the top, a quivering bundle moving constantly in the darkness. The fabric was stretched over it and strained beneath a shaking figure, who fought to dig its face further and further into the yellowing pillow. Tiny feet furled themselves under the blanket, pressing into the backs of his legs until a tight fetal position was formed. Chapped hands grasped at the bare mattress, nails digging in until patches of the linen began to come undone. Glints of rusty steel shown from where those hands had successfully tore full holes, the springs jutting out and sticking into his skin.
And the boy continued to shake.
Maybe it's God who decides what kind of person we are. Wow... it's so strange thinking about God. Especially when I spent so many years of my life believing that there was something much more powerful, much greater, then God Himself.
Sometimes... I still believe it exists. Every day, to be honest; I've thought of it every day.
But I won't let it stop me. Not again. Not ever again.
And there's only one way to stop it from happening. And that is to figure out... when it all began. Where it all began.
His messy brown hair splayed over tanned skin, clinging to the remains of dried tears that streaked down his cheeks. His brows were furrowed in concentration, hunched over eyes that were clenched shut as tightly as possible. Hollow sobs racked through his memories, cries that didn't even belong to him. Cries that he heard almost every day, growing louder and louder until he felt like his head would surely burst from the energy spent trying to keep in tears of his own.
But they came anyway. Seeping into his scrapes and cuts, soothing his bruised cheeks, straying over bloody fingerprints that stained his skin. Leaking from eyes that held a light the boy felt slowly dwindling away, leaving his heart forever. To never come back again.
A voice hushed him, speaking in a soothing voice that was in an incomprehensible language. The words brushed through his ears, soft and warm, nevertheless sending tingles racing down his spine. It scared him... scared him far worse then his parents ever had.
Did it come from under his bed? Should he risk calling his daddy to chase the monsters away? Or was it from the closet? Should his mommy come to turn on the lights, forcing the monsters back into their dark depths that seeped through every shadow in the house? Lurking in every corner? Fanning across the ceiling? Hiding behind the mounds of trash and dirty clothes, chairs and shelves?
But no. Because the seven-year-old couldn't figure out where the voice was coming from. But it was talking sweetly, gently, even if it was impossible to understand. Coming from nowhere and everywhere, echoing throughout the tiny room.
Surrounding him.
Suffocating him.
And Sora just curled up even tighter under the blankets, wishing for the voice to just leave him alone. To save it's kind words of pity for someone who deserved them.
He should just be left alone. All alone.
I suppose it started when I was seven. That was when I first heard it. Echoing in my head, driving me insane, never leaving me alone! It was always there, whether I wanted it or not. I usually didn't want it there, really, but eventually... I grew attached to it. I began to understand the garbled language it spoke in. The words weren't English, I know that.
But I understood. And the voice understood me. Something I could look forward to talking to every day, something that could never be stolen away from me. I loved it more then anything else. My own house could burn down and crumble around my feet and I wouldn't have cared.
Because the voice was always with me. And I felt that I could never love something so much in my life.
Little Sora's feet dangled in midair from the firm seat he's taken on the rubber swing, the heels of his scandals gently flapping against the soles of his feet as warm and wet gusts of wind blew at them. His shorts covered scabbed scrapes on his knees, and dirt was caked by his ankles, showing where he'd been playing in the sloppy mud. His old white t-shirt, one with a faded image of Batman on it, clung to his skin, as it was far too small for an eight-year-old boy.
His eyes shown bright with interest as he watched the other children at the opposite end of the playground play, dark rings under his eyes seeming to grow darker as the sun began to set. One little boy was holding up a thin wooden stick and swinging it haphazardly at the 'dragon' (a mound of sand from the sandbox), with two smaller boys at his heels, apparently backing him up. A small girl was squealing with delight as her brave rescuers tried and tried again to rescue her, unable to keep in her laugher as one of the boys tripped and fell face first into their enemy.
Chipped G-I-Joe play toys lay at his feet, toy's he'd gotten a while ago when his parents still gave him Christmas and birthday presents. But over the years, his parents always came home wobbly on Christmas Eve, and slept all day next day. They unwisely left Sora to his own devices, and the boy has a long scar on the bottom of his left arm where he'd tripped and fell on the open over door in an attempt to bake his own Christmas cookies.
And his birthday? Today was his birthday. Sora thought, perhaps prayed, that they might remember. Just this once. And prove to the boy that he was still loved.
But only one thing heard his cries. And that thing was softly whispering into his ear that both his mommy and daddy were too busy yelling at each other. Sora's ears, which were abnormally keen, could pick up the trace of distant crashes in the Autumn winds. And screams.
They wouldn't be remembering anything tonight. And if Sora was lucky, they'd forget he existed today. Because Sora didn't want them to hurt him. Not on his birthday.
He kicked miserably at the fallen toys on the ground, ones he'd been playing with himself in a last ditch effort to remove his attention from those laughing children. Kids he couldn't play with. Sora wasn't completely stupid; he could see those disturbed glances they threw at him.
What were they thinking?
Dirty?
Filthy?
Weird?
Sora's eyes clenched together once again, blocking out the rest of the world for as long as he could. Keeping out the gazes of his peers, the blood red sunset, the sight of adults bearing warm smiles coming to sweep their children away into warm homes for dinner.
Which reminded Sora of the large gurgling noise in his stomach. He hadn't eaten anything all day, choosing instead to spend it outside in the nippy autumn air and avoid his parents' wrath. The brunet decided to stay outside for just a little while longer, though. He didn't want to lock himself up inside of a house that he may be unable to leave for days on end. Even if it meant going hungry for a few more hours.
The voice was speaking to him again. Cryptic words entwined with a beauty Sora could only see with his eyes closed, hear when the wind gusted against his skin. A haunted lullaby that kept him awake long enough to make it through the day, and drift him off to sleep at night when the screaming got too loud, or his wounds bled too much.
Gently opening his eyes and blinking a few times, Sora clenched them shut again, but not in time to stop a small trickle of hot tears from escaping. He had to concentrate hard... if he didn't, he couldn't feel it. The voice had to be stronger. It had to be with him.
Because little Sora had nothing else left.
And then, all at once, he could feel fingers thread softly through his hair, accompanying the gentle words of sweet comfort. A hand rubbed at his back, stroked his wet cheeks, and cradled his shoulders in a tight embrace that blocked out everything else around him.
And through his tears, Sora gave a watery smile.
Now that I think about it, that voice made me do a lot of crazy things. Things I didn't even think twice about before I did them! Lately, I couldn't even remember. So much has been going on that I couldn't just stop and think about what happened, and all the things I did.
Until a few weeks ago. When I found an old book. My old diary.
Wait, diary? I didn't mean to say diary! Journal! It's a journal! I have to remember to cross that part out later.
CRASH
A vase full of dirty water and long-since dead roses shattered against the wall, showering the quivering boy that lay hunched over on the floor with shards of glass and splashes of water, thorns stems implanting themselves in his hair as he clutched at his arm. It was bent at an awkward ankle at the wrist and a sickly stub of bone protruded from it slightly.
More screams. Another crash, this one meeting its mark and thudding into the area between his shoulder blades. The porcelain salt shaker was small, but when hurtled from the hands of a drunken woman it sent waves of aching pains through his body before rolling off and shattering on the wooden floor. The salt poured out, darkening to crimson as it mingled with a puddle of blood that continued to grow with every breath Sora took.
The lights were off except for the old, tarnished lamp that sat behind a mildew-soaked curtain that illuminating the thin glass window, sending shadows of dim light scattering across the walls with each passing car. Every now and then it pooled over a small boy's trembling body, offering a light that he could no longer feel in his heart.
But Sora didn't care. Because he had so much better. And he reminded himself of this with every blow dealt to him.
His mommy didn't know. She was too busy pointing at the scattered papers that spilled from pure white envelopes, which were stamped with official looking insignias, before raising her hand to tightly clutch at his shoulder, yanking him up to his feet only to deliver a hit that sent the small child sailing back onto the ground, small frame slumping against the wall before crumpling into a boneless heap.
His daddy didn't know as he focused on the flickering picture from the TV screen, a bottle of acidic-smelling amber liquid sloshing around a dusty bottle that he clutched in a thick hand. His head was too busy lolling drunkenly on his shoulders, thick masses of dirty brown hair curling over his head and into unfocused eyes to let his gaze wonder over to where his son was whimpering on the floor, close to unconsciousness.
Their neighbors were fixated on homemade meals as they sat around furnished tables, passing around delicate porcelain dishes of delicious foods that Sora only saw in his dreams, and passing around tales of their days. Complaints were traded and agreed on, meaningless to someone such as the boy who was slowly sliding down the wall, bruises forming on his skin and outlined in rich blood. The sounds of their laughter echoed dully from the outsides of their homes, drowning out any cries Sora was brave enough to make.
But Sora had a secret. A secret that let him slip into the realm of dreams with only a fresh wave of tears and a tiny smile. Because all the while, Sora was being gently embraced by that sweet voice and enclosed in its warmth, words of reassurance kissing his ears as more hand gently soothed him, rubbing circles into his back and hugging him tightly.
Sora was safe. As long as the voice was here, Sora would be okay.
Anyway, I read my old journal and I was kind of surprised. I seemed so messed up. It makes me wonder how they brought me back.
Back to what? Normal? I don't think so. Because I'm not so sure I was ever 'normal', and I don't really want to be.
I'm Sora... just Sora. But so was that kid in the past. Have I really changed that much? Am I still watching my life go by from the sidelines without doing anything to stop it?
Am I going to stand around, wondering what the Hell happened?
No. I'm going to find my answers. Even if they ultimately hurt me even more in the end.
So, then, back to the beginning. Where it all began...
The day was implanted in his skull, a day he could count the hours to if he really wanted. He'd known of the day since he was around seven and could properly learn the names on each month, and how many days were in each.
And Sora knew that today was the last day of the month, the last day of March. The days the bills were mailed to his house and slipped into that rusty black mailbox attached to their front door, igniting a wick that slowly led to an explosion in the house, one that would occur later on in the day. As soon as Sora got home.
Because it was always Sora's fault they were so in debt. Always his fault that they were poor.
Always, always, always, always.
But I'm still here for you...
The ten-year-old looked at the pale face of the clock on the wall. His fellow students were chattering away happily, each story Sora heard stretching farther and farther from the truth in an annoyingly repetitive exaggeration. The brunet felt no need to join in any of the useless conversations.
Especially when he had his own friend in his mind, one he didn't have to share. One that would never stretch the truth. A friend in which no secrets were kept from.
That's right, Sora. No one can appreciate you like I can...
From what seemed like hundreds of miles away, the afternoon bell rang, signaling the end of their last class period. A loud scuffling of sneakers and clogs against the tiled floors erupted, echoing dully in a silence that only Sora could achieve. A silence that he liked.
Because he was having the time of his life, in his own mind.
The movements he made were mechanical, well-practiced, a silly smile that was as real as plastic slapped onto his face as he eagerly followed the rush of kids out the double doors and onto the concrete sidewalks, some people spilling out onto the grass. A stream of colors, forming into a mass of giggling and squirming children, galloped for the yellow buses. Tiny feet scampered up the steps and stampeded into the rubber seats, eager to get the window seat before anyone else could claim it. Racing for the back of the bus, the best part so that they could feel every bump in the road and bounce up and down in their seats. Pressing their faces to the glass and making funny faces at the other kids, at the aids who frowned in a disapproving manner.
Little Sora was jogging past them all, giving small waves of his hands and plastering fake smiles on his faces for the people who acknowledged him with either a grin of their own or a simple wave of the hand.
Eight years ago, something snuck into my head. It may be supernatural, or a disease, or even a mental problem.
But to me, the voice was real. And the only thing I had. Is it truly gone? I don't know. Do others have the same voice? I have no clue.
But maybe my journal can help me understand.
Are you all right?
Just nervous, Sora thought silently.
Don't be, Sora. Remember. I'm right here. I'll always be right here.
And Sora smiled. A true, happy one, however small it was.
Why are you crying, dear one?
These are my journals. My diaries.
I don't know, Sora thought, blinking past his blurry vision. The outline of his house drew itself before his eyes, dank colors blurring before his eyes with or without the tears.
And slowly, he ascended the steps.
I'm always right here, Sora.
Another tear escaped.
I know.
The diaries of a suicide.
End
Tell me what you all think! I'd like to have some opinions! And I know it seemse cliche, but later on in the story it'll get better.