Prologue
In Which We Introduce Your Most Pathetic Host; Me
In Which We Introduce Your Most Pathetic Host; Me
They say bad things come in three. I don’t know who “they” are, but I’d like to tell them one day how right they are; maybe even shake their hand (or hands, seeing as “they” could refer to both singular and plural). You see a couple of days ago I was normal. Okay, maybe the word “normal” is a bit of a stretch. I was… acceptably average in a vague sense of the term. I wasn’t good at anything, but I wasn’t particularly bad at anything. I’ll try to describe it as effectively as I can.
You know that extremely popular person who everyone likes? Now, think of that extremely unpopular person who everyone doesn’t like. Have those two in your mind? Well, get them out because I’m part of the “everyone”. I wouldn’t tend to call myself a conformist, but I suppose, if you really want to get into technicalities, I am. Not in the typical way, but I’ve never really stood out enough to be original or unique.
Being me the way I am is just what I do.
Well, the first thing I can tell you is that once you think your life is just dandy, the world (and whatnot) has quite the way of reminding you that you're about as significant as an ant. Yes, indeed. Maybe even less so. Anyway, onto my original problem.
Three things went wrong (though maybe to my adversaries they went right). You see, I made three decisions. Well, I went through three different situations in which my choices were… shall we say, less than appropriate and satisfactory to and for the general population.
I suppose I should probably start with my first decision, though chronological order has never appealed to me much. I might as well start with the last decision I made, because it’ll make just as much sense as my first one. Actually, it’ll make this a little more interesting if I do. Leave you guessing, so to speak. Anyway, here I go nonetheless.
Chapter One
In Which We Discover How Truly Idiotic One Person Can Be
In Which We Discover How Truly Idiotic One Person Can Be
Yes, as you may have guessed by the title I’m not one to be modest. This decision was stupid. Terribly so. Though I suppose you can’t blame me, but then again… you can. Just one of my (many) flaws, the way I figure it. I’ve always been too sympathetic. Or maybe empathetic. I could never really understand the “big” difference between the two. Nevertheless, I’m babbling, aren’t I?
Onto the actual occurrence.
I was a little bit depressed from my previous choices. Depressed may be a tad bit of an understatement. I was contemplating suicide. By contemplating, I mean thinking of the many different suicides that were possible and figuring out which ones I could afford and which ones would suit me. It’s surprising what you can find on Google.
I’ve found one which would be awesome, but painful. I could always steal some anaesthetic, but then maybe I’d be caught… though in my circumstances that probably wouldn’t occur. But that would still ruin a great many plans. Depending upon whose plan it ruined it could either be a very good thing or a very bad thing.
My allowance had been cut too. Yes, I know. Why? What sort of manner of evil being would dare to sever such an important thing from my life and leave me to wallow in poverty? My guardian - that’s who. And no, not guardian in the sense that they’ll guard me from the dangers of a fantasy adventure, but guardian as in a replacement for my parents.
Yep. I figured that had to be one of my bad decisions, but we’ll get to that later… or maybe I’ll do it next just to mess you up. (You may notice I call my guardian “my guardian”. This is because I’d rather keep their mysterious identity secret and also their gender. And on second thought, also their age.)
Anyway, with my money gone and suicide on the mind, I went for a stroll in our garden to attempt to take my mind off things. It was a big garden, really. My guardian liked nature. I never understood why. Sure, it’s lovely and all, but would you really want it that close to you? Okay, maybe I’m a little biased because I have odd and random spurts of hay-fever which cause unstoppable sneeze fits, itchy and watery eyes and, possibly the worst, the need to breathe through my mouth and taste the chemically poisonous smell of the flowers instead.
There were all types of flowers and plants there in that awfully big (and awfully awful) garden. Of which, I could only name two. One that is probably not even an official title. A rose and a Christmas tree (guess which one I prefer.) I was pretty sure Christmas trees don’t have pollen. So, I went over and sat under that tree and continued to contemplate my self-brought doom. However, by the time I got there I was severely suffering the nasty effects of the aforementioned illness of mine.
It seems that thinking so much about such things (and sneezing so hard that you begin to get a head-ache from your brain hitting your skull with such force it could break said person’s nose if applied directly to a wall) makes one weary. As my gaze faltered (which wasn’t that far a stretch from itchy and watery) and a yawn escaped my mouth (which made my ears pop as my nose was blocked, but still running horribly) I noticed a figure, fail-hiding in the rose bushes. The only thing my tired brain could think was thus: Gosh, I hope that poor person doesn’t have hay-fever and Wouldn’t that hurt?
And then I fell asleep.
---
Needless to say that when I awoke I was no longer under a Christmas tree, if that really is its real name. You see, figures that approach you that look like shadows that you only notice as you lose consciousness aren’t good things. In fact, they are entirely bad things. Or so my guardian warned me, in nearly exactly those words.
Why would I need to worry about things like that and be warned specifically against things like that? Well, that’s something you’ll find out when I explain my first decision that was probably wrong.
Anyway, onto my waking up. If you’ve ever woken up after a particularly long dream and forgotten who you are, and where you are then you’ll probably know how I felt then.
That’s not to say I dreamt. I don’t dream. I never dream; well, maybe I do, but all I dream is the static on TV where a channel should be, but isn’t. So that really doesn’t count as much, now does it? I meant dream in the sense that the past week had felt like a dream. A terribly wonderful dream almost on the cusp of being a nightmare, but not entirely getting there, not yet at least and not at all for lack of trying. I just wasn’t that susceptible to fear, mostly.
That’s why when I awoke that particular day (or night, I’m not sure) to find my mouth gagged, my hands tied painfully tight behind my back and my rather necessary vision noticeably lacking I didn’t panic. The smell of the disgusting and unforgettable rotten-hay-like stench of hessian itched its way into my nose.
Amazing!
My hay-fever was over. Wonderful even. If the hessian bag around my head didn’t set it off again, I’d be just dandy. I became aware of the feel of stares. Oh, don’t look at me like that.
You know that tingling sensation on the back of your neck when you just know someone is looking at you without knowing who or why and you suddenly snap your head around to glimpse the eyes of someone abruptly looking away, but you’re never really sure if they were actually looking at you and so feeling less than reassured you turn back to whatever it is you were doing feeling ever so paranoid and tad bit foolish.
It was that feeling, in perhaps not so many words.
Onto the matter at hand. I was positively sure that there were people around me. Maybe a person. Numbers don’t really matter when you’re pretty much blind and paranoid. Or maybe they do. There could’ve been hundreds of people out there. They might not have even been people. However, thinking on it that was probably just paranoia talking. Probably…
When they started to talk I’d like to tell you I did the smart thing and stayed silent as they spoke, but I think this is where we end up back at the start and at the description of this particular chapter. Yes, I’m an idiot and no, I’m not brave. They say you can only be one or the other. There I go with “they” again. How very much I’d like to meet them.
Oh, yeah, this is one of those decisions which altered a lot of what could’ve happened. One of my many mistakes… or choices, if you feel like being particularly sympathetic (empathetic... whatever) to my cause. My last one, thank god. If I had to make any after this one the whole world might’ve as well started contemplating its favourite suicide too.
So when they said, “Are you sure this is him?”
I said, “I can most certainly assure you I am not.”
Silence followed. It was the sort of silence people call “awkward”. I like those types of quiet. They say every awkward silence a gay baby is born. I’d like to start making more awkward silences just to level out the playing field of homosexuality versus heterosexuality. Not that I’m entirely sure which side I bat for yet.
“Ballow Jack, a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” a voice, oddly deep, purred.
“I’d like to say the same, but I can’t really say I’m feeling much pleasure right now. Only pain. Though you know the song – there’s a fine line between the two, so maybe my line’s out of whack.”
Yes, when I meet people I tend to blab. It doesn’t matter the circumstances, the person, the time or place. New people make me feel uncomfortable and act frivolous (in other words, inexcusably stupid).
“Just as cryptic as our spies have informed us. We’ve had our eyes on you as soon as you became… well, you’re probably aware of what we’re talking about. No need to repeat it in decent company. I suppose you want to know who I am?” the voice flared, smug and rather in a know-it-all tone.
“Not particularly, no.” I sniffed, offended by his superiority complex.
Maybe I was tied so tight I couldn’t move an inch, and he probably had people pointing guns and, even cooler, swords at me, but that didn’t give him the right to sound so pompous. To perhaps more normal people it did, but not to me. (I point to the acceptably in my explanation of me being average to get past any finicky questions or comments you may have.)
“Well, I wasn’t going to tell you anyway. A pity. To die so young and not even know who killed you. Farewell, Ballow,” the voice grew fainter and fainter, as if he were walking away, which he probably was judging by what he was saying.
Die?
Sure, I had thought about suicide, but that didn’t mean I actually wanted to die. In fact, dying terrified me. It scared the living daylights out of me. I couldn’t imagine just ceasing to exist. Being an atheist, that's what I believed, would happen
Maybe it would be like sleeping, but never waking up. Sleeping terrified me as well; sometimes I would lie awake just breathing there, staring up into the dark, wondering if I would wake up in the morning. I said I wasn’t afraid of much. I’m not.
Just really those two things, however stupid they may seem.
I didn’t want to die. I still don’t. But I’m going to stop here, and catch up later. Because I like messing with you all. Nasty, I know, but you don’t want to know what happened now. I’m not sure you know me that well yet to care. So, onwards… well, backwards, we go to my first choice which screwed me thoroughly up. Har-har.
Keep writing.
I fixed it up in the original text, but alas, it was not to be.
