Room of the Pale Dreams (SOLO &/OR INVITE)

       Lightning crackled in the atmosphere, ozone filling their nostrils as they sat around the fire. There were nine of these creatures in varying degrees of corporeality, who stared on at the last one with hungering, their eyes lingering at the eleventh one, whose flesh and blood was left to mystery in an all-consuming cloak. Hundreds of shadow hung about them, on this little platform that teetered over the abyss, words and signs hanging overhead. They existed in a realm beyond reality.

       Their doom had come.

       There were no tears to be shed by these hollowed creatures. Fragments of themselves, broke away freely fromm their skin, their faces, their bodies, floating in the air only a few inches away from them, some shallow form of themselves still holding on to their sense of self-preservation. The dark itself floated as dust in the air on the outskirts of the bonfire’s lights as even the small desert’s gentle wind threatened to disperse them into the sinking void beyond, never to be thought of again. Their company was sparse consisting of a simple wooden coffin; a trio of three whose scattering was most severe forcing them to cleave to one another; a silent bartender cleaning already sparking glasses with an expertly flourished cloth whose presence was quietly deafening; their Cheshire’s floating smile hung nakedly in the air, its voracious, thirsty maw sealed with a sinister grin; and the white-haired one and the red haired one.

       No longer did the white hair’s face glisten with charisma that overflowed from his once silver tongue, his face shattered into millions of brilliant fragments. Cloven to him stood one whose was identical but whose face was wearied by a thousand sorrows, downcast in the remains of the shoulder. Woven around were dozens long, pale, bony fingers with razor black nails digging into them, revealing scars and scratches underneath the ripped linen remains of their clothing. The white hair’s eye and face no longer bore a scowl to its rival, instead sharing with him a hopeful smile, whose warmth began so many years ago.

       He would remain there, as part of his promise. He would watch over their hoarded splendor, their precious memories.

       He beckoned to the red-haired one with a rasping voice, letting the others stir with him.

       The cloaked one reached up to the red hair’s tall shoulder, his grip gentle, but firm. Red hair’s presence was by far the strongest here, next to white hair’s and the cloaked man, easily turning under the pressure, away from the fire of their home, their muse. With an extended hand, the cloaked one seemed to pull string from the air, tearing through the realm itself, a whirlpool of data and indigo lines swirling into a tunnel that seemed to stretch on. Forever.


       The red haired one began to shake his head when a sudden, massive force slammed into his back and into the portal, disappearing into it.

       The platform went silent and the flames’ light dimmed.

       ---His head flooded with words, his skin tear, mind stretching. Bones cracked as he hurtled, his existence, his being spindling off into the beyond. The screams went on forever as thoughts and images flooded his vision.

He is Public High School #169, charging up and down the stairs, flailing his fists, having the time of his life, wakes up in Mugen Hall picking himself up from his face’s bleeding impression from the concrete, having a collar and leash put onto him by the pale one, getting walked about, laughing happily, being introduced to a puppy, eating the puppy’s head, threatening and screaming at and with Gilbert, running several hundred miles underground, breaking his arms in the cold sweat of several hundred push-ups, going into the endless darkness of the sewers, the syringe, the lights, the operating table, the writhing, those long fangs sinking in, lapping, mind haze, a hoard of cats, intensified acute pain, the rocking and the thrusting, the slicing, overflowing thick black ambrosia, dripping from his lips the iron, his throat was full, suffocating, dying, ceaseless, the echoes of the dead of night, the wastelands that opened up before them, he was with her, she brandished a scythe, the house became full of fresh and warm corpses, the little girl’s neck snapped like tearing a biscuit in half, those invasive violet eyes hungrily drew him in with approval, the large black tome instructions on how to---, the abandoned ruined streets with all the missile craters, the all the men clad in black who dragged anyone still standing on the streets into these vans to never be seen again, a hundred monsters with red eyes and horns emptying the streets and homes with hungering hands and claws, the take of the night desert as a long caravan of vehicles drive into it, the complete conqueringof the evening and morning sands, the return back to NOTHING.---




       The boy woke up.

       ...In this reality.

       A layer of red hair rested over his face and annoyingly over his nose. After huffing at the morning hair, he shook his head violently and clawed at the sides of his head, which caused him to wince strongly to his left side, where the exposed, shaved part of his head was parallel to. There were still stitches on the side of his head and the skin was still red and raw-feeling, his neck bite marks finally scabbing over into scar tissue after the Administrators… convinced him to stop picking at it. In his nakedness, he pushed himself off backwards off his full size bed and stretched his long legs to splay his toes over the cold carpet.

       This was his new home. A little 8x10 foot room, complete with a closet and a study desk. Because furniture was sparse and due to his personal situation, the boy was granted a solo 20x10 room, with a 5x7 bathroom, and a kitchen that bled into the minimal hallway equipped with a small dining table. There were exactly three small windows up towards the roof of the three rooms. To him, it was like waking up in a hotel. Getting his papers processed had taken a while he had been oblivious to most of it meant to ease him in their interests at reforming him, the government had allowed him little in the form of creature comforts, it was still more than he had been allowed in his life. He did not understand was that this was his last chance at a school.

       With only his collar (which never came off, practically necessity to facilitate introducing himself next to breathing), he jumped off his bed and onto the floor at the alarm on his desk to slap it quiet. Grunting, he got prone and began to push-ups to start up this morning’s routine.

       Push-ups. Crunches. Planks. Jumping jacks, alternating in increasing each sets’ repetition by 5 or 10. His goal, ever since his last growth spurt, was to get back up to 100 push-ups, but the length of his body and his most recent injuries, prior to his transfer, still kept him at the 70-80 range. For now. Excitedly, he took to his workouts, grunting loudly... and much to the chagrin of his neighbor who began pounding on his wall during the jumping jacks.

       However, now was not fun-fun happy time. His neighbor would not realize the significance of this fact in this moment, as the boy continued, ignoring the invitation to “play.” According to Gerald, the boy had to keep at this every day and keep increasing the repetitions if he ever wanted to get as strong as him and “play” with more fun people. The boy just found it sad that Gerald never wanted to see him again after “playing” with his sister in their first and only spar. But sadness never solved anything and the boy gleefully continued onward, finishing up his hour with several sets of shadow boxing. He never could quite the footwork down, but punching the air made delightful whistle sounds, while trying to imagine all his potential playmates faces.

       The boy finished up, shooting a look at his clock, and then doing a double take. For a moment, as the “5” turned into a “6” and before the “59” turned into a “00” he could’ve sworn he saw the 6 turn into a “2.” But that was crazy. He had an hour and a half before homeroom started, which the Administrator told him he HAD to make sure he was there for, so cranked the door open into the hallway and dashed for the bathroom.

       “Warmth” his nickname for his nicest (and most tolerant) teacher aide stressed the importance of a good shower and behind a red face the necessity and difference between shampoo and body soap. It had taken a while of getting used to realizing that “body soap” also could mean liquid soaps, and that no, the soaps in bathrooms were NOT meant for your hair. The issues of over scrubbing was probably the worst self-learned issue from that year, but the lessons he had learned then were no less valuable to him. It was a very meaningful time, and he genuinely was sorry that he had to leave.

       It was very hard not to “play.” Especially with all those people who gave him such toothy, welcoming smiles.

       Finishing his business and washing the paste from his mouth and finishing his drying, the boy finally made his way back to his room to finally put some clothes on. A black t-shirt, his favorite kilt, a pair of boxers (which the Administrator had to stress at him never to forget… as much as possible), some long socks, and then his only pair of shoes: a pair of very worn looking steel-toed combat boots that almost went up to the top of his ankles that he’d taken last year when his flimsy pair of sneakers finally tore. Thankfully, when “Warmth” discovered it, she said a few nice things and then went to talk to the guy he had taken them from. For some reason unbeknown to him, “Warmth” decided to explain all the “why you shouldn’t steal.” It took the boy some time---if the guy had wanted them, why wasn’t he wearing them instead of those sandals? But he had sort of made a promise not to. If he could remember.

       His pantries and fridge were conservatively stocked with ready-to-eat foods, but it was practically mandatory that he get a job and learn how to cook for himself by the end of the year, the Administrator had stressed. The Administrator stressed over a lot of things and seemed very stressed himself talking to the boy, but the boy found the creases on the Administrator’s forehead funny, as though the forehead was smiling at him. It only made the boy smile back at the Administrator very enthusiastically. Playfully, he drew with the butterknife creases on his bread in childish curves that looked like the Administrator’s forehead, but then it almost made him pause when it came to actually eating his food.

       At the very least, the food finally eaten, the utensils washed (they had trained him well in middle school), and the peel thrown into the trashcan (he did not understand why he could not just put it back in the fridge where he found it, but it was stressed that the banana peels needed a new home once they were opened. It kind of reminded him of himself.), the boy finally made his way to get ready for school.

       His backpack had several notebooks and several boxes of unopened, pre-sharpened pencils as well as pens. The backpack itself was a novelty, not having to carry everything by himself anymore and risk tripping and falling whenever a “playmate” stuck out their foot in front of him. But it was alright.

       The boy had made good time today, and it was only 6:58 AM. Smiling, pleased with himself, the boy made his way out of his room… where a watching Aide sighed, as she went to close and lock his dorm for him, after he had left with the door wide open.

       But to the boy? He had gotten his first morning routine done successfully, sore and tired. Today was going to be fantastic.

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