The following story contains a scene of attempted suicide that may offened some, and also contains language, brief sexuality, and violence.
Reader has been warned.
To better enjoy this chapter, please play this:
Have you ever had one of those moments that define your life utterly up to that point, a flash of cosmic premonition that shows who you are?
The blood dropletts on the floor of the bathroom, illuminated darkly red when the lightning flashed, was my definition.
The storm raged, rain making the old roof leak annoyingly onto the counter, rythmic drips that counted the seconds, as I lay there, the razor blade still glinting darkly.
I hadn't had a choice, really: anyone else would've done the same.
Jesus, this is a terrible way to start, isn't it?
Well, that just defines me more: I was never a social butterfly, a dope at conversation.
So, let's start over.
My name is Alex " Jack " Frost, age 19, college student.
I used to be normal; a geeky video game player, I was far behind my sexually active friends, and hadn't even dated before college.
Amid the throngs of students, I found like-minded people of my own state, and eagerly pursued my only real passion: writing.
An old laptop of mine was full of writing, universes both good and wicked, death and sorrow mixed in with joy and rebirth, fantasy and urban horror cheek and jowl to sexual episodes and fanfictions, all crowded onto an old Apple Mac I considered my true escape.
Plastered in Final Fantasy icons and decals from horror films, the laptop was never far from me, always within easy reach should another story birth itself randomly into my mind, and demand to be born onto page before it vanished into the maze of my mind.
There were several outstanding athletic and schoalstic programs at Jenkins College, but the writing program was hidden away in the West hall, a vine covered building at the edge of the campus, a spit of woods and crapbrush tangling its way across a field behind it.
The rooms were cold, the teacher crass, the desks splintered, and the window pane cracked:
it was a beautiful building.
Every day I went, rain, shine, cold, or wind, a smile on my lips and a story on my mind, ready to learn more of the writing process in the dank room the class was always held in, the teacher's droning voice my muse, as she explained the craft in direct detail.
It was here IT gave itself form; the dark muse, the other side of my psyche.
The following story contains a scene of attempted suicide that may offened some, and also contains language, brief sexuality, and violence.
Reader has been warned.
To better enjoy this chapter, please play this:
Have you ever had one of those moments that define your life utterly up to that point, a flash of cosmic premonition that shows who you are?
The blood dropletts on the floor of the bathroom, illuminated darkly red when the lightning flashed, was my definition.
The storm raged, rain making the old roof leak annoyingly onto the counter, rythmic drips that counted the seconds, as I lay there, the razor blade still glinting darkly.
I hadn't had a choice, really: anyone else would've done the same.
Jesus, this is a terrible way to start, isn't it?
Well, that just defines me more: I was never a social butterfly, a dope at conversation.
So, let's start over.
My name is Alex " Jack " Frost, age 19, college student.
I used to be normal; a geeky video game player, I was far behind my sexually active friends, and hadn't even dated before college.
Amid the throngs of students, I found like-minded people of my own state, and eagerly pursued my only real passion: writing.
An old laptop of mine was full of writing, universes both good and wicked, death and sorrow mixed in with joy and rebirth, fantasy and urban horror cheek and jowl to sexual episodes and fanfictions, all crowded onto an old Apple Mac I considered my true escape.
Plastered in Final Fantasy icons and decals from horror films, the laptop was never far from me, always within easy reach should another story birth itself randomly into my mind, and demand to be born onto page before it vanished into the maze of my mind.
There were several outstanding athletic and schoalstic programs at Jenkins College, but the writing program was hidden away in the West hall, a vine covered building at the edge of the campus, a spit of woods and crapbrush tangling its way across a field behind it.
The rooms were cold, the teacher crass, the desks splintered, and the window pane cracked:
it was a beautiful building.
Every day I went, rain, shine, cold, or wind, a smile on my lips and a story on my mind, ready to learn more of the writing process in the dank room the class was always held in, the teacher's droning voice my muse, as she explained the craft in direct detail.
It was here IT gave itself form; the dark muse, the other side of my psyche.
The real killer of those people....
Edited by TheTimidLight