Sunfruits Avenue (Unfinished)

The music pulsated and roared violently throughout the thick crowd of dancing people. The violet and crimson lights shone down and danced with them. The night was deep with darkness but the party was still livid. People were screaming and laughing and dancing, like feral animals; at the heart pounding techno music; they were careless of the reality around them. I watched them from afar, leaning on the wooden doorway with a plastic red cup clenched in my hand imbibed with a caramel brown liquid. It was not my drink: I was holding it for a friend, who was screaming in the wilds of the crowd.

She was more of the party goer than I was. The extrovert. She was the one who invited me - well, when I write “invited”, I mean “forced me to go.” She always loved it whenever I came with her, like I was some little pet she needed to have around at such occasions. She would debunk me, claiming that I was that friend to stop her from doing anything too reckless. I knew that I was someone to stand beside her and make her look cooler. Either way, I never complained. I just went with what she said.

On rare occasions I would have fun at parties; sometimes coming across someone who was just as awkward as I was, in a similar situation that I was in or I would find a quiet spot to step back from reality, walk up into the attic of my mind and wander about until dawn grew and the party grew dim. During that party, with the pulsating music, the feral humans, and the dancing lights, I met someone who would change my life.

I was simply watching them, subtly nodding my head to that bass that ran through your chest, vaguely entranced in my own little world where sound was absolute, then, suddenly, I was greeted by a gentle tap on my shoulder. The little world shattered, and I glanced towards the tap. The first articles of interesting I noticed was a smile that said “trust me” and a pair of soft silver eyes gleaming in the crimson lights. They belonged to a tall, olive skinned, dark haired man clad in a leather jacket and slicked back hair with an air of coolness around him. I was never enthralled by guys; but I was curious about him: he held something else in his air.

“Lame party, right?” he asked me; his silvers fluttering down onto me.

“Yeah,” said I; quickly glancing back at the party to see if my friend was doing fine. She was still very lively and bouncy, very much happy and unaware.

“It’s just people trying to forget about their troubles,” he leaned next to me on the door, folding his arms and finger-combing his hair back. “To them, this is what life's all about. A meaningless series of sounds and movements that they congeal together, hoping that it will lead them to the pointless form of sex; and then they’ll just go back to their boring lives as boring people.” He sighed and gave a few moments of silence as we looked back at them once more. He swiveled his neck and he looked at me with a kindness in his eyes. “But you’re different. You see something else in living. You see something deeper.” He glanced downwards at my friend’s plastic cup. “And yet you are trapped, coming to these pointless parties.” His mouth curled into a smirk. “Why don’t we talk? There’s somewhere quiet up on the roof where you can keep your head clear and your thoughts precise.”

I stammered, trying to think of a polite way of telling him to back off. I backed away from him, raising my hands up to my face; but he grabbed his wrist, with the flicker of a smile, and he took me to the supposed place he talked about. It was like a ghostly force was at work, aiding him in his cause, because I did not resist nor fight back. I simply let him commit to his proposition. I wanted to fight back; but I did nothing to discontinue him.

We walked up an old set of rusted steel stairs, past a rather intoxicated couple who were in the midst of a sloppy lip locking, and through an opening where we stood together, him still clasping my wrist, on an old oak railing. We gazed over at the inky black sky, and we looked up at the many cluster of stars that looked like spilt milk. The sight of stars always make my heart race. I always think about another species of people gazing up at the same stars, countless light years away, wondering if there is any life outside of their world; and how I will never be able to touch hands with them.

The music had faded away as if it were miles away and we were stranded together on a lone island, looking up at the night sky.

He gave a pearly white smile up at the stars, then he looked back at me “Isn’t it beautiful?” he said.

I did not respond. I simply stared up at the wonderment of the twinkling lights and the fantastical plane of the universe that was merely too far for me to touch. It was all captivating.

He then released my wrist and he cleared his throat. “Safire.”

I glared back at him, tearing myself from the stars.

How does he know my name?

He then placed his hands on my shoulders, and I thought he was going to kiss me. I tried to back away from the disgusting swine; but the same unnatural force prompted me to pucker out my lips and accept the unwanted kiss. Our lips met in a soft, fleshy embrace - I closed my eyes and I tried to picture myself somewhere else, but I was pulled to reality like a kit being pulled by a little child. I tried to delve deeper and deeper into my mind, trying my best to transpose myself elsewhere.

Then, he grabbed me forth and threw me across the railing and I landed on the ground with a terrible thud, and I shattered into a million pieces and I fell into an abyss of nothing. Then I fell awake, drenched in a sticky sweat and in a room that was not my own.

The room was pale and small; there was only a metallic sink in a corner, with a mirror overtop of it, a steel door across from myself, and the bed slab on which I lay. It looked more like a prison than a bedroom, but there was a little voice that was telling me home.

I stood up onto the pale floor, which pierced my feet coldly and sharply. I felt a few droplets of water dripping from the ceiling. The water was chilling and unkind, and it made me jump each time it touched me. I looked around in dismay at the foreign environment; and quickly I ran towards the mirror to see if I was myself.

I still held my sharp and slender features, the freckles across my nose and cheekbones, and my amber coloured eyes; but the style of my gingery hair was different - instead of being a long and braided, it was short and one side was shaved off; and it was fringed with a pale blue. It was a strange sight to see myself so similar yet different. I would never dye my hair nor have it done like that. It was an oddity to see. Then I heard pounding against my door, causing me to jump in a sudden fright.

“Hey, Safire!” a chirpy voice cried from the other side of the door. “Are you up? You said you would be up by now! Come on!”

“Okay, Jade!” The words seeped from my mouth as if it were an automatic reflex. I did not know that the chirpy voice was someone called Jade; but it was the little voice who told me her name.

I quickly strode up to the metal door - which swung open as I stood in front of it - and I saw a wiry woman with short lemon blonde hair, ocean blue eyes, and a heart shaped face; wearing a pale hoodie and pale pants. She sketched a wide smile across her face and there was a pleasness woven into her eyes.

“Come on!” she began to walk down and usher me with her.

I stepped out from the metal door to see a lengthy corridor that was formed with glass and a world of water surrounded it as if there were a grand aquarium around us. There were schools of vastly coloured and shaped fish that swam around us, going about their business.

I stood bedazzled by the majesty of the dark, mysterious submerged world that stood outside, weighing down upon us, only to be prevented by a thin piece of glass. It seemed completely alien to me, and it was like I was closer to the stars than ever before.

As I continued to look out more shapes began to appear as if it were a fantastic work of art painting itself. I saw shadowed, looming buildings that stood out in the depths like ancient seafaring guardians; I saw people float about in large bubbles; and there were many tunnel-like formations that were connection each and every building, conglomerating it all like one giant hive. It was a spectacular sight to see, and I was only pulled from it when I heard Jade scream at me.

I turned towards her, the colour draining from my face in a sudden shock. She folded her arms and tapped her foot impatiently.

“Come on!” she shouted. “I don’t want to be late! The others are waiting for us!” With that she continued to run down the glass corridor.

I slowly followed her, unsure of where were we going and who “the others” were. The little voice remained quiet and that strung me a little worriedly.

We went down the corridor briskly, and there were some peculiar sights inside the corridor.

There were people whom were synthetically made from metal and electronics, but they all bore an individuality, whether it was in a certain look they carried or an evident way they walked or an obvious manner they held about them. There was one that had what looked like a red fin upon its head; another that hunched over and limped as it walked; and another that was madly shouting “The end is nigh!” like some insane percher.

There were also people that resembled animals, but they acted and walked and dressed - in the same pale hoodie and pants that Jade had. There were some that looked cat-like; some appeared fox-like; some seemed wolf-like; and some resembled otters.

Jade and I stopped when we came to the end of the corridor and there in front of us was a great city laid in front of us. There were bright neon signs that peered over every corner of the street, either trying to sell something or direction you to somewhere, and the majority were crimson and violet; there were buildings made of a black glass, that occasionally lit up with a vibrant violet light, that watched over the city like a stern parent over its child; and the city was littered with a great stream of people that seemed rather easy to get lost and swept away in.

I stood frozen in shock and awe as I gandered at this strange urbanized place that was before us. My breath was stolen from me and my eyes grew wide, trying to scope in more of the place. Jade, however, seemed climatized to the area; she, instead, looked at me quizzically and asked me “Are you okay?”

I looked back at her quickly and I quickly shook my head up and down; and without a second to spare we went off into the streets and its waves of people. I kept close to her with each passing step - a few times I would bump into her, where she should tell me to watch where I was going. Regardless, we trekked on and the further we went on through the city the more I was entranced by its haunting beauty that seemed ethereal. It was like everyone was performing a dance to ensure a balance was maintained amongst its people.

I looked up at a strange building that twisted around itself that had a great pink and yellow neon sign that spelt out “Lone Diggers’” and there were curvaceous women outside of the building in great glass vials that slowly and gracefully danced. A few goers were mesmerized by their liquid-like movement and by their divine appearance.  Though as I continued to gaze at the dancers I noticed that their faces were blank like an empty canvas.

We wandered on, seeing strange sights that almost made my jaw drop or my eyes bulge. This otherly world was surely not a place like home. Home felt infinitesimal, as if there was nothing else do to there, especially in contrast to this new place, which felt like a whole new adventure awaiting to fathom and discover.

We came to a small building that had the words “Sunfruit Avenue” written in bold, orange and crimson neon letters that flashes sequentially. It was not as grand nor as showy as some of the other establishments in this strange place, but it had its own warm feeling of welcoming and acceptance. Outside of the building there were violet-leaved trees that bore bright orange fruit. 

The Pale Woman

For days she had been scavenging in the bleak, uncomfortable alleyway of an alien city. She picked and ate every rotten morsel she could find within the steel trash bins, no matter how much the vile taste scorched her tongue. The pain of hunger seared through her stomach and the sharp, cold air bit at her ferociously, as if it were also hungry. With each gust of wind that nipped at her skin, she shivered ever so violently, clutching herself with her bony arms to keep what little warmth she had. The only thing that concealed her from the harsh cold of the city was her tattered, pale gown that she had worn like a terrible dress a mother would force upon their daughter. Flimsy, it was; nonetheless, it was better than merely her skin against the bitter winds.

Her auburn hair, streaked with honey blonde, hung in greasy curtains over agonizingly thin and pale face, that was dotted with freckles upon the nose and cheekbones. Her light blue eyes were keen with the instinct for survival; and her ears perked high in alertness. The fear of being dragged back to the pale hell by the faceless pale men weighed heavily in her mind and blazed within her heart. Each night she would descend into a world of dreams that were amalgamated with blurs of colours and terrible, terrible cries - no shapes formed from the clouds of the dreamscape, only the colours and cries incomprehensible to the sane. She was not sane - madness would be a label to easily describe said woman, and a label she was accustomed to.

For years within the pale hell crimson would seep from her and haunting cries would echo through her mind. Streams of a watery blue would rip down her face and screams would vacate her mouth. It drove her mad and it left her with scars - both of the visible and invisible variety. When she was young she would hold a friendly yellow to her breast that smelt of musk as if it were kept within an ancient attic. For the longest time, the yellow was her only source of companionship, until the pale men stole it away from her, and exchanged it for pale and crimson, and countless tears. Too many tears for a child to bear.

She was not the only one in the pale hell. There were many others. Others who suffered from claws of crimson. Some she knew, and some she did not. She remembered the slender, milk white one topped with a short black and blessed with sparkling orbs of green and a fantismal ability to make her feel happy and warm, no matter terrible the pale world would seem. There was also the dark chocolate one who had orbs of a childish grey and a silent manner about him, as if he could not speak, as if he was broken; but his orbs told worlds and the curvature of contentment told everything. There was also the one with a lanky gold and gleeful orbs of violet, whose energy seemed boundless and whispers were like stepping into an otherly world.

She cherished each of the three, especially the one who held green orbs and the power of delight. She would always cherish each time they sat together in laughter, each time the four of them would lay back in the otherworldly whispers of the one of gold, each time she would cry into her breast. She cherished them like they were a treasure from an ancient land that proved to be unique beyond measure. Solemnly, the treasured memories did not last for long enough. The were all taken one by one, shadowed into pale and never to be heard from again. How the streams of blue came down when she could not seem them again. How crimson seeped from her paleness, regardless of the pale men.

This transcended for years. Countless weeks of imprisonment in oneself, numberless days of crimson, incalculable moments of a pain that burrowed through her like a bullet of silver through a grotesque beast of the inky night. That is what they treated her as: a monster - and they drove silver into her to dig crimson like a hunter would with its captured beast.

After cycles and sequences of crimson and silver, she was visited by one of the pale men prior to sleep. A pale man who had a clear air of hunger about him, regardless being void from any facial expression. He looked down upon her and he slummed closer and closer to her. She tried to scurry from him like a little rat being chased by a carnivorous cat; but like most rats, she was cornered and the cat pounced upon her. The air of hungry began to choke her and the pale man seized her by the wrists, and he deflowered her rose of innocence, and upon that day the pain flared up inside of her and it began to fester within her from thereon, like an infected wound. Then the streams of blue arrested and a silence shrouded her. Each strike of silver that tore through her from that point on felt like nothing in contrast to what the pale man had done to her. She was broken like an unfaithful mirror and tarnished like a rusted clock.

Then, beyond all hope, flickering orange and bursting red ate through the pale hell, and the pale men perished, including the deflowerer. Especially him. You see, she saw him, with her light blue orbs, wither and wail in the tongues of orange and red, and a weight seemed to be lifted from her chest. Nevertheless, the pale hell was fall all around her as if the world was ending, and she thought death would take her by the hand and lead her astray; instead she was taken by a figure of darkness and shadows and she was taken to the place of dark looming towers and biting cold, a place that seemed empty to most, but to her it was freedom to her, an otherly world the one of gold would whisper within her ear.

For the past few days she strode, and she saw tall figures of black, who seemed absorbed within themselves, paying little attention to the girl. She did not know whether she should attempt to converse with them, for they could possibly be shrouded pale men. Pale men disguised in darkness. So she scurried to the alleyway where she scavenged on the rotten scraps like a vulture in search for food, and she ran like a fox escaping the hunt. A hunt she thought had existed.

She gazed and peered out of the alleyway to see the figures of black walk across the streets, to and fro, seemingly busy with themselves, unaware of the pale woman.

The Pale Hell

“She’ll never live.”
“She has to live! She’s our daughter!”
“She’s a dead lady walking!”
That was my first memory. It was all sound, everything was in darkness. My first memory was of shadow and words. Empty words. Sad words. They were the only thing I had to cherish prior to the pale hell. I theorized over and over again that that conversation was from my parents, the people who labelled themselves as my parents. I would not consider them my parents. Or maybe I would. I would not know. What makes a parent a parent?
I know my mother birthed me, but that is all I know. Why did she birth me? I never understood that. Is that what mothers do? And if so, why do they do that? I have had so many questions and curiousness prance and waltz in my head. Though I would never get answers. Only demands.
“Shut up.” “Don’t talk back.” “Lay still.” “Don’t tell anyone.” “Tell me if it hurts.” The last one is a rarity. They normally went on and commenced like I had no feelings. I felt everything. And I still feel it whenever I close my eyes. I could feel it as if it was still occurring.
My most vivid memory, my first memory in this pale hell, my most painful memory was a strange one. Let me paint you a picture.
A room stained with grey, smeared with white, and chairs and tables all scattered about disorganized. The windows were wide open, and a storm with screaming lightning, rumbling thunder, gusty winds, needles of rain, and an ominous grey sky came rolling in.
A young girl, no more than six, stood in the middle of this room. Alone and afraid. The girl had lanky, auburn hair that was more akin to the hue of chestnuts than anything else, and oddly enough it was streaked with honey blonde. She had sheet white skin, and seed-like freckles dotted across her straight nose and her high cheekbones. She was a slender little thing; and she had scared little pale blue eyes. Very child-like. She was wrapped in a white gown clutching her mustard coloured teddy bear in hope it might protect her from the big bad monster. The monster. The monster was out to get her. The fear of every six-year-old child.
The little girl’s breathing was ragged and shaky. She tried to erase it. She burrowed her mouth into the back of her teddy bear. She breathed through the bear. It tasted musty, not the most pleasant taste, but the girl still held her mouth against the teddy bear; backing away to the far corner of the room. She squeezed her eyes shut and she prayed that the monster would not come and get her.
The thunder clapped abruptly, and a loud gust of freezing wind fell through the window along with a few needles of rain. This made the girl flinch with fear, almost yelping; but she managed to stay silent. She did not want the monster to come and get her.
The door across from the little girl swung open. The monster stood in the doorway. It was colossal and terrifying. The girl gasped, and her eyes widened in fear. She had nowhere to run; but the little girl still squeezed her eyes ever so tightly and she hoped that the monster would never find her.
The monster slowly tromped through the room. Inspecting it for the little girl. Its breathing was heavy like an anvil. The girl could feel its weight pressing down on her. The monster slowly grew closer to the little girl. As it grew closer, the little girl’s breathing became more fearful. More heavy. The stench of fear loosely hung from her breath.
The monster could smell her fear. It looked straight at her. She still squeezed her eyes shut, clutching her teddy bear hoping it would protect her from the monster. The monster just advanced towards the little girl and it gripped her gown. The girl let out a shrilling shriek. The monster had got her. Hope did not save her that day.
They stole away salvation and happiness. The teddy bear. It was the only form of communication I had. The only person to talk to. When I was young it used to talk to me. Speak to me. We had such fun conversations. They always filled me with the warmth of joy. An illusion of security. A facade of hope. A friend. Is that not what friends are?
Hope never saved me. Not once. Hope ever saves anyone. I do not know what saves people. Do people save people? Or do people harm people? I always fell towards the latter from my own past experiences. Although I would never call the people who scathed me people. I called them monsters. Most people associate monsters as large beings with ragged skin, and razor teeth, and dark eyes that were windows of a chaotic and destructive soul. I would never link the connection of the large beings to monsters.
Monsters to me are pale faceless creatures who wear long pale coats. They lack eyes, mouths, noses. Expression. Individuality. Emotion. Those are my monsters. Monsters who carry out hateful deeds and terrorful orders that cause me excruciating harm.
I remember one of the monsters visited me one night, when I was casted into a sticky shadow and a pale room painted, smeared, and stained with chunks and strokes of crisp and wet scarlet. The scarlet that pours from people. I have had so much scarlet pour from me. Especially whenever I write in silver on myself. I do not really write anything, merely just copied down scattered, incoherent thoughts that seem to prattle and rattle inside the glass prison that I label a mind. They were simply scarlet lines that held a much deeper meaning. They seethed with a fiery pain when I finished copying them down.
The voices would plant seeds of those thoughts, ever since I was a young girl. Ever since I was released from the glass tank where I would be kept in water. Drowning yet breathing simultaneously. The water scorched me from the inside out. I prayed for a death; though praying never gets you anywhere. Only a wasteful wish and an empty heart.
Back to the monster who visited me in the midst of a night. I laid dead-like as I contemplated through an echoing shade of demise and the ashes of my heart. He came up behind me on the ground and he grabbed me. Painfully. He leaned forth into my ear, and snarled piggishly. His breath was hot and disgusting. His skin was a foul pale. His eyes were dark with hunger. He smiled a grim smile.
Within a flash I felt pain that came from behind me and the deep, disgusting moaning from him. It started slowly, then its tempo increased. So did the pain. The pain clawed and tore through me. I wanted to scream; but my voice was seared with a swelling pain from the monster. The pain seeped through in the formation of crystallized tears. They burned my pale eyes. My innocent youth. What little dignity I had left. My virginity was ripped from me. Horribly. I tried to numb myself by escaping into my mind. It did not succeed. I was trapped in the mortal realm of that dreaded pain. When it arrested and the monster left I could hear voices cackle in laughter. Pointing and gawking at me. I felt defeated. I felt like a husk. Hollow. Pointless. I dubbed life to be unfit and meaningless like a midsummer kiss that lasts for mere seconds. I never understood the notion of kissing. I never understood a lot of things. It seems rather sad. Though I do understand pain. I understand it deeply.
The physical pain last for what seemed like nights and days. The pain that etched my mind lasted an eternity. From then till now. I cry whenever I even venture back to the pain. It claws my heart like a silver dagger. Silver that I have written on myself.
I would see the monster constantly. Every waking second. Every sleepful moment. He appeared like a ghost that haunted the living realm for sport. Everything else seemed to be blurred in pale. Except him. He stood out like a lost child in search for their mother. Every second I saw him. Every waking moment. I saw him. And I saw a smile. A faint one. Distinguishable. There.
It was even branded through to my very dreams. I saw the smile and him whenever I closed my eyes, and ventured away to a paradise inside my head. It seemed that paradise was in ruin and in shambles. I attempted to run from him in paradise, but he would always be in distinctively visible. I would try to flee within it, as far as I could go to its corners, but, regardless, he followed me.
Then people began to follow him. Gray people. The Miserable, I called them. They hallowed and screamed in despair, and they carried on their backs great bags and sacks that caused them to hunch over painfully. They would look at me, only me, with great, pitiful eyes that asked me “why?” “Why did you let it happen?” “Why are you weak?” “Why?” They would then point with lanky fingers with long, rotting nails. Their expression would be hollow, and masses of black tar would spew from their gaping mouths and pollute my paradise into a further state of ruin and disgust. The tar seethed and foamed through, from corner to corner. I watched as it was all washed and burned away. I then tried to run from it. I tried to run from my own paradise. I could not. The ooze of The Miserable soon trapped me, scathing me. It began to fester and wound me. It tore the flesh from my bones and the wit from my mind. My paradise had fallen into disrepair and a terrifying horror that would scar any individual that dare to glimpse at it. I was trapped in a realm that disguised itself from the hell that it truly was.
The monster was always in sights and I had no way of running from him. I would see him so greatly that my eyes would swell in tears and my heart would snap in twain. I attempted my life on several occasions - with silver against my heart, with water in my lungs, with rope around my neck. A total attempt of three. I was solemnly arrested by the pale monsters from any attempts on my life, and the monster would always be there to see me and my failures.
After the third time, I was visited by a woman. Not a monster, but a woman. I was surprised by this woman; she was not a monster, and there was a strange familiar sense to her like a missing piece to a puzzle that was tucked away. She was tall, thin, and pale, but not pale like the monsters, but pale in a soothing sense. A friendly sense. Her hair was an ashen grey, streaked with silver white; her lips were a crimson red; and her eyes were a hungry silver. She stood unclad with head to toe overtly exposed; and she smirked a grimful smirk.
I was unsure why she was indeed here, let alone have the knowledge of whom she was. I wanted to ask her, but the words congealed in my mouth. I simply looked up at her like a stray mutt. She looked down at me as if I was a pointless child.
She then, with her slender hand, grabbed by face and lifted me forth off the ground. She then casted me towards the ground. She then leaned forth toward my ear and gave a harsh whisper, like the folly of swords driving through the feeble. “Perish,” was the only word she whispered; and it echoed through my torn mind. She then threw me to the ground, and everything began to darken. I felt a thick ooze formulating from my mouth that smelled like a decaying corpse, wasting away in the crimson sun. My last vision was of her simply walking away. Away from me. Then I felt cold. No more.

The Lost Soul

I stood there in the ancient, rusted hallway, staring at the darkness that laid before me like an ominous sheet fog where no sailer dared to trek. A dim-lit light dangled from the ceiling like a hanging corpse swaying back and forth, back and forth. How I had got there was beyond mysterious in my eyes. I thought about my next course of action very carefully. My mind scattered, uneased. Agitated by a sharp fear that stuck to the roof of my mouth and burrowed deeply in my heart. A frozen chill ran down my spine like a small, diseased rat. I could faintly sense an evil presence that lurked within shadow, though I did not know its placement in contrast to me. I was aware that there was no escape if I turned back because of the absence of a door or any means of leaving. If I had turned back a wall would be set before myself.
I composed a list of opinions that I could achieve: the first was either wait until the sands of time had laid me to waste, starving would of course cause my finale; the second was to traverse through the darkness in search of an exit, but I would most likely be encountered by the unknown presence; the third, which was probably the most foolish, was to cause as much noise as possible to attract whatever lurked in the dark to tempt luck and fate. I gravitated towards the second option. The third seemed too stupid and the first seemed like I was giving up. I was neither a fool nor a deserter, despite wishing to countless number of times before; but do we not all wish from time to time to lay down and die? It is a part of time, and it occurs more often with some people than others but it does indeed happen. I mustered up as much courage as I could entrap, then I began on my trek down the corridor, slowly, but surely, still with fear niggling on my shoulder.
I soon left the illusion of safety of the light and I began to venture into the darkness of the unknown. My each passing step echoed through the hallway, and soon it was the only sense I had that I was still alive. Blind by shadows, the faint glow of the light transpired from my sight and darkness was my only company. My breathing soon became ragged and the fear grew on my shoulder, soon encumbering the whole of my back. It seeped in through my skin and it grasped at my heart. Still, I tried to remain strong for the chance of survival, to at least escape from the mystery of the rusted hallway. With each passing step I grew more and more anxious. The anxiety and fear started to crawl up my throat in an unpleasant fashion, though when it reached my mouth it did not come up. It simply swelled like a gaseous balloon.
I could still faintly sense the presense with each echoing step, though it neither grew nor contracted as if it stayed in one place. Nevertheless, I was often wrong in the placement of presences. For example, if someone was rooms away from myself I felt as if they were beside me, or vice versa in the extremely odd case. Sometimes there would not even be someone when I sensed a being. I thought that I had gone mad, perhaps I already had? It would indeed be fitting because of my infamous title “The Madwoman.” A clever title that I wore with pride like a priest bear his cross. I was always different in comparison to most, not because of my sixth sense, that I managed to keep a secret to most - save the one I trusted the most - but because of my persona. I was quiet and thoughtful, and I looked at the universe through a different keyhole than most. Some things I dubbed to be tedious, pointless, and others I view them as right, sensible. My views had caused me to lose more friends than I had gained through them. I learned how to blend in akin to a chameleon. I played pretend like a child just to beseech company, although I always felt outcasted among them. I was fine with this fact. I prefered the company of myself, but the company of others aided me to understand what it meant to be human. What happiness in a collective hive meant instead of searching it by yourself. Still, I had a preference to venture on the quest by myself, much like the fearful trek into the unknown which had been laid before myself.
I strided through in darkness for a countless measurement of time. It felt like hours, but it could be the larger or the minor of it. Time is indeed a strange concept without a device to record it. The hallway seemed vast, and I soon found myself to be hopeless. Regardless, I trekked on. The fear began to mellow out, though it was still present in the form of my stomach. I pondered about my soft bed, my books bountiful with life and wonderment, my comforting housecoat, and the dear safety of my apartment. Those thoughts were the light that I kept aglow in my heart, that kept the darkness abay from my mind to seed a paralytic fear. Then I heard the sudden deep groan of scraping metal. My heart lept from my chest and I grew pale with fear. I stood petrified in darkness, trying to distinguish anything out of the darkness. I waited for minutes, and I did not hear another groan.
I continued, shaken, on my voyage once more, into the abyss of the unknown. My footsteps echoed, and my breath was ragged. My mind was fragmented, but it slowly pieced itself back together once more. I still tried to remember those that comforted me; but each time my mind would ease me the metallic cry would erupt once more, abruptly scattering my mind like frightened mice. I still managed to walk forth, though with each moan of metal the claws of insanity would tear down the walls of which I held what little sanity I had left.
Then, as I walked, it all suddenly came to a frightening halt, and silence soon took its dreaded place. Though this silence was not soothing in contrast to the moans of metal that would echo. Instead, it was a silence that I dubbed to be unsettling and fearful, as if there was something lurking behind myself, following my every step. I could not tell whether or not this paranoia was a utility or a handicap; but no scent nor sound came from behind or ahead of myself.
Soon, I came across a white light, faint but indeed a slimmer of hope for salvation. I quickened my pacing and I soon saw a figure cast near the light that had its back to me. I began to slowly approach this figure, occasionally saying hello in a polite attempt to not dismay it by my presence. An awareness that I was there. Regardless, the figure did not move, as if I was not there. I gradually stepped round the figure to entrap a better glance of whom the identity of the person might be. My eyes glued to it as I circled, and the horror that circumferenced it would be indeed clawed through madness onto my mind.
I carried the face of a little girl that was both plump and round; but its skin was an abhorrent pale that seemed rather sickly, and at the fringes of it there were visible stitch marks like that made into a ragged doll. It persed a terrible smile that held a set of yellow-stained teeth that had flecks of brown carelessly dotted across; she held a rotting tongue of black in her decaying mouth and her gums were a diseased red, and I swear that maggots and worms burrow and slithered within them. I painfully cringed at the viewing. Its breath both foul and hot like that of a summer’s day spent with an uncle whose hygiene was lacking.
Stepping back from the abomination and casting my hand forth for defense, I soon felt small hands fondle and brush my thigh and ankle like a lover on a devilish night. I screamed, jumping back from the caressing and I tried to run forth like that of a fearful cat; but I tripped over my feet and I landed on the floor, which strangely did not feel brittle and hard, like that I felt underneath my feet, instead it was the soft, slimy, squishy material akin to an organ of any lively person. I had barely any footing on ground and I tried my best to flee; but my attempts were in vain and little figures began to laugh and dance round me. They came towards me and they began to touch me, brushing up to me venereally. They defiled me like sinners up top a temple, and every moment I dreaded. I felt as if I was being ripped in twain and being stitched back together simultaneously.
Then, though misery and agony, I saw the figure with cringe worthy features unhinge its stitches, snapping them off with ease. It held the facade of a diseased little girl in hand, and beneath I saw a face that I could not believe: it was the face of my own dear love, who perished in fiery flames of a man’s lust for destruction.
Thunder abruptly roared and I woke up, not in the hallway of rust, but instead in the shadowy domain of my apartment. I laid on the rough ground instead of a muscle-like terrain that was indeed foreign and I held a blade in my hand. My wrists and arms were slain with many streaks of crimson up and down, from just below the hand to the elbow pit, both apparent on the left and right. In my other hand, I was looking at the final picture I would have ever possessed of my deceased dear before the tragedy of the fire. I could feel the ashamed presence of her ghost looming down at me, asking me why. Why would I do such a thing? I could also sense the little soul of my late sister who would have been in spectral tears to see her elder sister in such a pathetic state. I am sorry, Frost, my sister, and I am sorry, Amelia, my only love. I am deeply and truly sorry.

The Ritual

Deep under hollow wind
Where our lilies grow.
Help me, my darling,
No one shall know.
Under the willow tree,
Where evil shall not sleep.
Come with me, my love,
Deep into my home.
Don't mind my mother,
Her eyes are ever closed.
Up to my bedroom,
Where they cannot see,
Give me your warmth,
And I shall not bleed.
Hold me, my everything,
The demons do not sleep.
Help me, my darling,
No one shall ever know.
Pass me the silver,
So I can write in red.
Where are you going?
I wish to not be dead.
Come with me, my darling
I shall take your head.
Goodnight, my everything.
Thank you for your warmth.

A Study of Crimson: Chapter Four (Incomplete)

Dr. Vada Thorn Amadeus. Doctorate in medicine.

Elizabeth Obson was found dead at 9:56AM when Shadow and I had arrived. The plump dog-woman - who resembled a shepherd more than any of the canine-folk subspecies - was found in her hotel room, with her neck in the noose of a belt that had been hoisted onto the wood and brass ceiling fan above. The deceased looked to be about middle-aged and she was very overweight, around three-hundred pounds, I presume. Her eyes stared lifeless at the room in front of her and a smile seemed to still be in place on her flabby face. I am deeply sorry for the loss that you have received, friends and family of Mrs. Obson. She wore a crimson dress that had a roughly slashed symbol on the enormous stomach - ‘XII’. She also had a golden wedding ring upon her left ring-finger and a emerald jewel with a golden lace around her neck.  

This image made me sick to my stomach and tears welled up in my eyes. My companion, on the other hand, was deeply gazing at the hanging woman. She was being uncaring and observing as if the deceased was a painting hung up in an art gallery.

“Whomever the murderer was,” said she, “did not steal anything of value, so it was not for theft.”

“Shadow,” I said, solemnly, “the woman is dead, dead! What on earth are you doing!” My companion seemed rather stout of heart because it seemed like she did not care about the dead. I could even see the faintest smile upon her face.

“I am curious,” said she. “Why would the mysterious order donate such a strange occurrence to us?”

“Shadow--”

“Doctor, I am also trying to clue for the letter. They said that it would be in this room, giving us an instruction.”

“Do you not care that is this woman is dead!”

Shadow did not even glance up at me for a moment, she merely kept her eyes glued upon the horror of the woman.

“Doctor, do you deal with a lot of death?”

“Yes, but this is different!”

“Ah, because you have no control whether they live or die?”

The nerve of my companion! I could feel a white hot rage building in my chest that I was tempted to lash out upon her. She was acting idiotic, childish, this was not something for her to solve, none the least.

“Shadow!--”

She even stopped and she looked at me with dark, emotionless eyes. Her cheekbones grew sharp, and her eyebrows faintly quirked. The once joyous smile had formed into a blank, yet angry formation of her mouth.

“I am trying to find the note, Amadeus.” I could tell behind the curtain of her dark eyes that there was a flicker that seemed to like the murder.

“Do you not feel bad for this woman?”

“Feeling bad will not help me find the note. Feeling bad is simply an anchor that weighs us down. I have been requested to find such a note. Now, can you please help me find the note?”

I sighed in compliance to my companion and the angry slowly simmered down to ashes, but my anger was still lowly present in my heart. I could not argue with my patient, not even with my roommate. I knew that arguing was difficult on the body. I could never bear to argue with Shadow for I knew she had endured bloodshed, and tarnishing horror, and how she was cursed with terrifying nightmares that clawed her mind. Over the time that I had so far lived with Shadow I had most often let her go about her way, only truly stopping her if her act caused herself serious harm. Although, I was still angered how Shadow seemed distant from emotion, acting like a cold machine that does not feel compassion nor warm except towards dismal horror and overtly bizarre phenomenons.  She was indeed not a pleasant person when left to her devices, but I knew a Shadow that could seem like the kindest person to people.

“Alright, alright,” said I.

“Thank you,” she turned back towards the swaying corpse and she began to look around the obese body. Her smile had burned back and her eyes were alight with question. She looked at the corpse with such wonder and with such excitement.

I never thought that she could be capable of such things before. Although, I found her to be rather strange as a roommate with her daily rituals and quirks.

She was always a woman who enjoyed her own company, usually spending hours locked away in her room where I would occasionally hear her groaning and yelling as if there was someone else with her, but for the majority of her isolation there would only be silence. She would often spend hours in her room and sometimes I would have to insist her to come forth into the apartment. Although I would be given a lot of time to do work, either fill out medical forms that would be mailed to me because of my constant being with my patient, or I would just draw with charcoal that would consume my time greatly. Over the first month I sold a couple and made a fair amount of money.

I would have such interesting conversations with Shadow whenever she was out and with each passing word she would give I would learn more and more about her, which in turns would cause me to detest and to salute my friend. An example - the PHD talk. A conversation that I cannot remember what sparked it.

Myself: “So, do you have a PHD, a Doctorate like me?”

Shadow: “No, indeed not. They are tedious pieces of paper that people waste their time for and they mean nothing in and of their own context. You simply spend a long time studying on a certain subject and become adequately superb in it. We dub meaning upon them that seems wasteful.”

Myself: “But they are an important thing to show people your academic achievements and they can get you great jobs! They are not just pieces of paper! They are a title! They show people how much you know and how you can teach a younger generation about your knowledge!”

Shadow: “What use is that? If people are measured by their work and how well-payed their jobs are then there is really little point in the idea of living. Then, we should consider ourselves to be slaves to a higher power. Papers should not dub our academic level.”

Myself: “Shadow! Without work then what is the point of people? If we don’t work then we don’t serve society in a greater function! Have you even met someone with a PHD, and have they worked hard for it?”

Shadow: “My father. He did work hard for his, though he does not see it as a means of higher thinking. He simply sees it as more work. Pile Higher and Deeper, that is what he says it stands for. What he means is it does not indicate how much you know, it indicates how little you know about the universe and that your path of knowledge is only beginning, if you see PHDs as a goal setting. I would never work for a sheet of paper and a pat of the head saying ‘Good job on your success,’ I am not a child. That seems rather tedious to do so. I indulge myself in literature and practical work that I see fit and try to work through my life. I work myself towards knowledge, not a title. Knowledge in itself bears sweet fruit that is bountiful to an individual.”

Myself: “Your father has a PHD, in what?”

Shadow: “Laws and Information. A fellow recommended it to him and he accepted.”

Myself: “Interesting.”

Shadow: “It was the only way he could teach and pursue an academic outpost, and get a good job to support my brother, who was incubating in pregnancy, and my mother.”

Myself: “You have a brother?”

Shadow: “Six and a half years elder to me, yes. Wolfgang Chopin D’Alton.”

Myself: “Interesting, and what does he do for a living?”

Shadow: “He is a musician, a violinist. Professionally.”

Myself: “That is a good profession.”

Shadow: “Indeed it is. He plays at taverns, and he composes, selling his works for a small fortune.”

Myself: “Ah! Very nice! Your family are very high achievers! A violinist who composes for a brother and a Doctor of Law and Information for a father. What of your mother?”

Shadow: “Well, my father was more notably a manager of a concert hall. Without him that whole place would be laid into ashes and waste. As for my mother, well, she is a pianist and she worked with cloth and thread.”
Myself: “A very musical background! How very nice. And I have not asked before, what did you do for your job before?”

Shadow: “That is difficult to say. I like to say that I am a multi-profession, as I say before when you first came here, a jack-of-many-trades. I worked as an electrician, a poet, a guitarist, a welder, and a writer. I did what I seemed to like, not what society wished me to do to fulfill a purpose. I spent most of my time studying, learning, of course, ever since an adolescent age. I studied psychology at the age of sixteen, guitar at fifteen, the art of meditation at fourteen, martial arts from when I was nine until I was eighteen - kenpo and arnis to be exact - history of the Ancients at eighteen, a dabble of fetishism at nineteen, and the art of swordfighting at twenty.”

Myself: “Kenpo, arnis, fetishism? You’ve studied very strange things! What is kenpo and arnis? I have never heard of them? And why fetishism? I thought you were against sex as a whole!”

Shadow: “Ah, Amadeus, that is where you are wrong. I am not a fan of relationships and I find them to be tedious and time consuming. I am, however, fascinated by the culture of sex, well, at least its abnormalities. Fetishism seems to be apparent in everyone, and we all seem to have a strange attraction to an article. I have read about people who are attracted to the dead, the old, abuse, blood, bones, fat, ears, bondage, fire, drowning, giants, being eaten live, and feet. They all seem to fascinate me. Now, kenpo and arnis, well, arnis is a martial arts of stickwork used in the Islands of Mora, some generations after the collapse of the Ancient’s Empire, strange article of business. Kenpo is a mixed martial arts, with grand roots of arnis, that utilizes powerful yet quick strikes.”

Myself: “Very interesting! Shadow, your knowledge fascinates me, I have never before heard of the things that you say.”

Shadow: “Perhaps, Doctor, I might teach you, if you teach me.”

Myself: “Teach you?”

Shadow: “You are a doctor in medicine, are you not?”

Myself: “Oh, yes, I am, but I thought that my title and my Doctorate was pointless to you.”

Shadow: “Oh, no, I just see no point in PHDs, and your skills has mended me to a fine degree. Although, after your words I begin to see why people adore them so, but, I still consider them to be a waste. Nevertheless, do not let my opinion weigh you down in despair, that would be wasteful indeed.”

Myself: “Very true, Shadow. Alright, if you insist then we should teach each other then we’ll both be student and master!”

Shadow: “Indeed so.”

Conversations would come up like that time and time again, and I would always cling on to each word that would escape Shadow’s mouth. Her knowledge was not only vast to most, but also unique. I have always wondered why Shadow have studied the things she had studied and I wondered if her father, or perhaps mother, encouraged her to undertake such things.

When Shadow showered, which I had to insist on her to do, she hummed and sang a song, just one song, every time she went to shower. It went something like this:

Voiceless stars,

Chilling nights.

Bloody scars,

Lights so bright.

Children of the North wield your swords,

Children of the North raise your mugs.

Past the far mountain,

Past the shining trees.

Upon the fountain,

The fountain that will freeze.

The children there will be.

I would not say that Shadow had a voice of an angel nor the voice of a professional singer, but she could more or less keep a tune. She would always sing it so soft and gently, with the occasional squeak of her voice. Nevertheless, I would always ask her about it and she would ask what song as if her voice had not sang it prior. I would compliment her on her singing, though she would say that she was not singing. I found that to be rather strange.

Whenever I went out to buy groceries - twice a week, Mondays and Thursdays - and came back to Oxford Street I would be greeted by the old woman who ran the shop just beside our apartment. Mrs. Jahures was her name. She was a small old human woman with cloud-like hair, pale green eyes, fair, wrinkly skin who wore a purple dress and big, round glasses. She would always stop me and ask me how Shadow was doing. I would always tell her that she was doing fine. We would always have short conversations about the weather and our day, and before we departed she would tell me to tell Shadow that she said “hello”. It always made me happy whenever she asked about Shadow like she was her granddaughter, perhaps she even was. I have never thought to ask Shadow about such things.

Shadow was often absent minded, sometimes thinking I was not there. She would sit in her chair and think, drawing her hands up to her face, together, keeping her two forefingers erect to her lips, and would be startled whenever I started talking as if I sprang from thin air like a ghost. Also, she would leave socks and her slippers laid about around the apartment and I would always pick them up and place them in the correct location where they belong. She would not thank me for what I did. She would simply go about her day. I would not correct her in her ways. She was a strange, alienated woman.

“Have you unearthed any notes, Amadeus?” asked Shadow, keeping a fixed gaze at the corpse. “Preferably crimson, a note with crimson writing.”

“No, I haven’t seen any notes.”

“Have you even gandered?”

“No, I--”

“Then please do so.” She began to pace around the body, gazing at it from different angles.

I began to follow Shadow’s request and I looked at every detail of the room, and I could not find the note. It was rather strange.

“Crimson, crimson, crimson,” muttered Shadow. “Crimson. ‘A note with a dissimilar crimson.’ Why can I not find you?”

I still looked around for the note, until I suddenly heard Shadow exclaim in what seemed like joy. I immediately jumped in shock and turned towards Shadow.

“Are you okay!” I worriedly asked.

“Crimson! Her dress is woven with crimson. She is the note. She is the instruction.”

I gave a quizzical look. “I don’t follow.”

“The ‘XII’ written in her is a twelve in the Ancients! Oh! I am be quite slow!” She dashed forth out of the room like a thunderbolt from the sky.

“Shadow!” I cried, following her. “Where are you going?”

She stood in her tracks. “They have set a murder before us, Amadeus. We must solve such a murder! We need to venture to the Church of Indulgence, find out who Elizabeth Obson is!” She then dashed forth once more. I hastily followed her, but my asthma was getting the better of me so I requested her to stop. She did and waited for myself to catch up, then we left the place together in quite a hurry. I could tell that my companion was enjoying the start of this case. I questioned, however, how far she would go for this strange event.

We hailed for a cab and we ventured forth once more to the Church of Indulgence. Our ride was silent for Shadow did not say a single word and I did not want to interrupt her. I figured that she was deep within her own mind, thinking. Her eyes seemed darker than usual and her face completely emotionless.

When we got to the church, which was a large, dark cathedral that had a very Gothic undertone to it, which resided on George Street that glared at the industrial life that was laid before it. We exited the cab and we made our way to the church. I followed Shadow who seemed rather chirpy when she ventured through the large, dark doors with a grand push, and happiness clearly visible in her sapphire eyes. It was wrongful to be happy at the death stricken woman.

We walked in through to find a long, gaping room that laid in silence and darkness. No light transpired through the room, except for the light that trickled in from the entrance. It was eerie and rather ominous

“Hello?” we suddenly heard a small voice cry from shrouded darkness. It startled me, nearly causing me to jump from my fur. I cannot say the same for my companion.

“Hello?” responded Shadow, confidently, as she tried to peer through the lightless room that stood before her.

There was a pause and we could hear light footsteps tap through the stone-covered floor. A man - a small dark cat who wore milk white Religious robes - appear forth into the glistening light of the outdoors. He kept his head slightly bowed and his hands behind his back.

“Have you came to embrace the glutton of our Lord?” asked he.

I cringed at the thought, but I difficulty kept a straight face.

“Indeed we are,” said Shadow, bowing graciously. “Please enlighten us of the ways of the Church of Indulgence.”

“Strange for a human to even know about our religion, but we live in strange times. Tell me, what are your names?”

“I am Shadow D'Alton, and this is my associate, Vada Amadeus.”

This was the first time Shadow had ever said, let alone mention, my first name. Despite living together for a month prior she had never uttered my name before. She either called me Doctor or Amadeus or a combination of the two. I thought little of it then but thinking back I dare say it was important in a strange way.  

“Ah, then follow me, Ms. D’Alton and Ms. Amadeus.” The cat transcended back into darkness and my companion followed him blindly into the murk of shadow. The door behind us had groaned shut and the whole room was eclipsed in blackness. I attempted to follow Shadow, though my attempt was in vain. I walked through the darkness eyeless, keeping my hands in front of myself, trying to feel my way around the area. I bumped into a stone pillar at least once or twice, and I was grateful that Shadow did not see me and my clumsiness.

I then heard the groaning of a large door and I saw a golden light, and the silhouette of my companion and the cat, in front of myself. Quickly, I went through towards the light and I was met with a large, grey stone-worked room, vast in comparison to any sort of regular church. I saw at least three dozen people, all whom were either folk of wolf, fox, or cat; I saw a lacking of elves, dwarves, or humans, save Shadow. Also, these people had obese like Elizabeth, in fact, a few even larger than her; and they were all clad in religious white robes. It was an odd sight to see, nearly making me cringe. We walked through the place, and I noticed in large booths that there were globular mounds of flesh and fur that were once lively people. They all had a series of tubes, that dangled from the ceiling, in their mouths, and oddly enough, their overtly large navels. It was a gruesome sight to see.

“Pray tell us about the church,” said my companion suddenly, as she was gazing about the queer place with wonderment. I could distinctly see a smile on her slender face.

“Ah, well, there is quite a lot to tell,” said the cat. “I would be happy to tell you about our sanctuary! What would you like to know?”

“What is the purpose of this belief? Why worship the notion of gluttony?”

“Oh! Well, it is believed that the true, happy form of any being is that of a gluttonous mass. We all need nourishment, and, with enough, we grow fat. We all strive for food, so we believe that our lord wishes us to indulge ourselves to a large degree. We only really stay fit to appease others and to work to get food, but what if you cut out work or your work is to eat? You get a happier, as it’s shown with our devotees. They all claim that they have never been as happy as they’re now.”

“A strange concept. How does one become a member of this church?”

“Ah, well, you have to be initiated! You have to eat an entire buffet in one sitting, a strange concept, it must be for you, but it is our customs!”