Somewhere on the far side of town, a wall cracked and leaked. A sickening mixture of water, saliva, and "paint" dripped on to the squeaky floorboards. How that wall came to be was an unsolved mystery. And what lie behind it was an enigma all its own. The scary thing was that whatever entity lived behind that wall had already been freed once. No one had ever seen it before, minus those who've died by its... tentacle-hand-things. The only survivor and the only one who knew what made it tick was caught in a life-or-death situation at the time of its surfacing. And when he was dying, that creature rendered itself. And when he was dead, it wreaked havoc upon the living. Well, those living in that house. And when Heaven and Hell banished him back to Earth, the monster was resealed. How? Fuck if anyone knows.

It was 3:27 in the morning and I had finally finished my painting. The new publishing company I worked for, BluePrint Publishing, had asked me to do a small piece for some frilly magazine. I had to paint a puppy playing with an empty bottle in some random alleyway. God, it pissed me off! I was never one to paint happy or cutesy things, but I was fortunate enough to be allowed to put my own spin on most of my pieces. Then they threw it in my face that this magazine had a certain image they wanted to maintain and they just wanted a normal picture. Normal.

I wanted to rip my hair out at the ugliness before me. It looked like a puppy. That was a clear, empty bottle. That alleyway looked totally legit. The picture itself was fine. But it needed some darkness. It needed to have some sort of twist on it to make it something real. The color scheme would have been gorgeous with some dark blues, purples, and blacks. Maybe even some grey. I wasn't allowed to make this my own and that's probably what's ticking me off the most. It looked too... too much like every other fake-ass piece of art I see. No puppy is that happy with a bottle. Hell, I've never seen a puppy play with a bottle. And those kids at the end of the alley staring at it? They should be running at it and trying to tie it up and set it on fire. That's what the kids here do. What kind of make-believe world is this?

But I suppose everything always goes back to Sickness. Whenever she fucks with my head, I get more irritable. I curse more, I get irked by the smallest things, and I stress out over stupid shit. I propped up my painting and grumbled and groaned to myself as I kicked my shoes off and crawled in to bed. I would only get to sleep for like two and half hours before I had to get up and go to work. I would walk in, drop off my finished project, and get my next assignment. I suppose that was something to look forward to. Hopefully this next one will be something I'm more accustomed to.

And after my alarm went off, I rolled back out of bed to see what awaited me. I never looked forward to going out, but I knew this was inevitable. I grabbed my painting and slipped my shoes back on while pulling my hair back and grabbing my coat. I felt around in my coat pockets, making sure I had my keys, before I made it outside of my apartment complex. When I found them, I unlocked my beaten-up car and got inside. It smelled musty and rather horrible and I looked around to find the source of the smell to be a two week old, half-eaten box of noodles.

"Tenna."

Throwing the box out, I left my windows rolled down to air out my car as I was driving. It was only a few blocks to work, but I didn't feel up to walking anywhere today. So I fired up my car and backed out, almost hitting this old lady behind me. She cursed at me, told me to watch where I was going, and hit the back of my car with her cane. Like it actually made a difference or something.

I took off down the road and pulled in to the parking lot. I shuffled my things around and grabbed my painting and stormed off inside. This trip had better be worth it. I got in the elevator, headed up three flights, and then talked to the receptionist. She told me to go right on in to Mr. Wright's office. So I brushed past her and opened the door.

Mr. Wright was sitting at his desk, shuffling papers around and looking hopelessly displeased. He glanced up when he heard me open the door and waved me in to take a seat. This whole scene always reminded me of my days at Nerve. Especially the day I quit. The good news was that Mr. Wright wasn't nearly as crazy as my old boss; he was just ten times harder to please. Luckily our clients liked my work or he would have rejected every single one of my pieces. Bastard.

"Do you have something for me?"

I uncovered my painting and handed it to him. He took one look at it and cringed in disgust. Although part of me thought it was because of what the painting actually was, but I knew that he would always hate my work. He coughed and set it next to some other artworks and then printed out my next assignment.

"You'll be doing a piece for a critics review on a brand new baking company. He said the place was terrible, so paint some terrible baked goods or something."

I took the slip of paper and stood up to leave. Not that it really matters, but I don't think I've actually spoken to Mr. Wright since my job interview. I guess I've just never been in a situation where it was necessary for me to speak. But it didn't really matter or bother me in the slightest, so I headed out the door and to the parking lot. The paper said my piece was due in four days, but since all I had to paint were some nasty cupcakes, I thought it was pretty manageable.

When I got back out to my car, I saw an oddly familiar mop of black hair walking down the sidewalk. His hair was disheveled, he wore a black and white, short-sleeved shirt, and some dark jeans. His shoes were a plain tan color, matching his backpack, and there was an old teddy-bear sticking out of it... Oh.

"It's Todd."

I don't know why I said anything out loud, but the kid must've heard me, because he looked in my direction, smiled, and waved at me. I pathetically waved back, not sure what else to do, but before I could get in my car and leave, he waltzed on over and started talking to me.

"Good morning. It's nice to see you again."

"Uh, yeah."

"What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

"I walk this way to school every morning."

Oh, yeah, it was Thursday. That explains the flock of kids out and about.

I didn't really know what else to say to the kid, so I opened my car door and sat inside. I could feel his eyes on me again, and turned to look at him. I tried really hard not to glare, 'cause for some reason, I just really feel like this kid doesn't deserve that. I tried waiting a few seconds to see if he'd say anything, but he didn't.

"What are you looking at?"

I kind of hoped I didn't sound as harsh as I think I did, but I also kind of didn't care anymore.

"Oh, I'm sorry. It's just... well... I suppose I have no right to say things like that."

"Say things like what?"

"I was just thinking how rare it is to see someone else that Nny knew that he didn't kill. I don't think he realized it, but I saw a lot of people go into his house, but only a few came back out. I remember seeing you run away."

I was pretty taken aback by that. He's right, he shouldn't go saying things like that. He could stir up some painful memories for some poor shmuck.

"Yeah, that was me."

I was pretty agitated at that point. He might not have been a bad kid, but he did a pretty good job of shaking me up for the morning. Those kind of memories still haunt people like me. I sure as Hell didn't need him to remind me of what happened. So not wanting to snap on the kid, I shut my door and started my car. He took a few steps back, politely getting out of my way, and smiled a small, sad smile at me. And as I was driving away, I faintly heard him say something to me.

"I'm sorry. I'm glad you made it, though."

What. Was. That. Supposed. To. Mean?

"A/N: Let the waiting begin! I told you guys I'm terrible at updating. From this point on, it's pretty typical to have at least a two week waiting period for the next chapter. Don't be surprised or angry if you see me writing and posting other things on my profile. Just because I'm working on this, doesn't mean I can't write other stories. If I have the urge to write, but not for this, then I won't write for this. I promise that you don't want me to keep adding chapters to this unless I'm in the mood for it. When I write without wanting to, well... this would be a terrible story. I write on a whim, whenever I get the inspiration to. Not because I feel obligated to. Besides, everything else that I write from now until the end will be a one-shot. So fear not - this will be done. I hope you'll keep reading."