story thang (I need a title help) (Part 1)

All little children know not to wander into the dark woods. Because when they
come out, they, sure as hell, will never be children again. It’s
just a think that the forest likes to do – but surely, it’s
one of the many reasons why you and I would never survive there.

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She lived in a world all by herself, a world full of towering, hardwood trees, petit
gardens, and charming little animals. A world, from dusk to dawn
(and, on occasion, even longer) confined within a cottage that
constantly smells like warm honey milk, constantly filled with the
sound of cooking on the lower levels.

But she was never alone for long. Each and every time the morning sun licked her face
while stretching from the unseen horizon, an opportunity greets the
girl, an opportunity to make a new friend from the forest, be it a
deer, a rabbit, or even a small door mouse. However, as the ticking
clock of time rolled by, the joy of the friendship slowly wound down,
as the companion became less and less amiable, as it became more and
more like a stranger. Though there was nothing to worry about –
as the unseen and unspoken of hostess provides for the girl’s
very last meal of the day, as the tender madam of light shrank behind
the looming treetops once more, the girl always returned to her room
and inside her warm, prepared covers knew that the next day would
always provide for opportunities to befriend someone new, to create a
bond with a new soul as was always delivered to her each and every
day before. Though of course her past friends never revisited her,
nor have they ever shown any signs of memory concerning her after the
day they have been acquainted. They became no more than background
creatures; plain animals at best.

The days treaded by in the presence of the girl, yet seemed kind to
her. Her days were endless – and, coincidentally, so was her
soul. At the eve of every omnipresent shadow, as her comfortable bed
beckoned and as the nest of the cottage politely had her leave nearly
all of its rooms, the girl was comforted. Comforted and loved,
always. The windows would fog over and the view of the outside world
would become nothing but a serene white mist, at the same time the
mist of her dreams would slowly fill the room with their sweet,
fruity scent, casting a glow to the broadening darkness.

What dreams, one may
ask?

Dreams of passions unknown.

Dreams of unexplainable lights, of choruses of voices exploding from the closed eyelids of a goddess.

Dreams of home.

But at the same time, what is that? What is that place where faceless smiles gather,
embracing her with their love? Where her warm, soft blanket’s
not the only source of personal warmth? Where she can remember names,
and when others can remember her name? Where an end is always in
sight?

She never knew if these dreams are simply sugar-covered nightmares. Perhaps the only
thing that kept her from being unsettled was her blanket, who seemed
to have a pulse of itself, a pulse that always soothed the rate of
the girl’s own, coaxing her too, and assuring her that these
faceless grins are not real, not out to get her and take her into the
darkness. And she believed these truths. She let it all warm her
heart, and, as usual, a smile would play on her lips.

Though, of course, she never knew she did that.

She has never seen another person, ever, and hardly knew what – and how she
looked, more importantly. For even though the house was filled with
mirrors, – mirrors of every elegant frame imaginable on the
smooth, rustic walls – she has never seen herself. She never
looked into the mirrors, which constantly depicted somewhat sinister
reflections, with the shadows grossly misplaced, as well as with a
sinister feeling of eyes always inching down her back. Always had she
seen her backside in those mirrors, always had seen her smooth,
waist-length hair. As unsettling as it was, however, always were
there antique decorations filing up the spaces in front of every
mirror, allowing for the kind old cottage to hide the horrors some
other fool had dare placed previously. Nonetheless, the girl was used
to it. Her house had been good to her. She never had felt any fear,
at least no fear in comparison to the love for her residence –
ever.

One night, as delicate puffs of snow fluttered onto the already white ground, a
lengthy shadow crept over the girl’s covers, making them shiver
violently.

“Sonera,” whispered a voice from behind the window, the voice – as well
as the window’s glass itself – blurred to a point of no
return. The girl’s eyes flashed open, however, as if the voice
had screamed into her eardrums. Her blanket had no heartbeat anymore,
and she forgot to breathe.

“Sonera.”

The voice was testing her name, feeling it, trying it out like a chemise. Seeing
the angular nature of the shadow that directly rebelled against the
soft nature of the other soft shadows of the girl’s softly lit
bedroom, she felt even more unsettled.

 A grim. A smirk. “I like that,” the shadow said.

Don’t look at the window, the girl thought, her usually composed thoughts suddenly scattered
from the stranger’s presence.

A tap on the window.
A shift in position.

A cold-sweated shudder.

Don’t look at the window. You mustn’t! Her hands squeezed the blanket. No response. No heartbeats in neither the blanket or, as much as she tried to find it, in her own self.

“Sonera, I know you’re there,” the voice snorted, louder now, though amusement was
still widely evident. Several more taps. “I know exactly where
you are right now, what you’re doing. You’re squeezing
that blanket of yours, like that’ll do you any good.”

Don’t turn. Don’t look at the window. A claw of a fear tickled the inside of her neck. Her stomach leapt
restlessly. She bit her lip hard, willing herself not to cry. The house held its breath.

“You wouldn’t look at me.” The voice murmured. “But knowing how I could
see you, how could you stand that?” It wasn’t taunting her in anyway as it said that. “By the way, you could stop gnawing on your lip.”

A smirk.

“Sonera.”

And at the sound of the impatient voice again, she choked on her own spit. “Wh-who are you?” she stuttered, barely managing. She licked her dry lips – then, realizing that she did indeed stop biting her lips as the stranger has instructed for her to do, became irritated.

“Pretty funny how you don’t ask any of your other friends that, but decide to
shoot such a question at me?” the stranger snorted in mock offense. “I’m your friend too,
nay?”

A pause. A stillness of air.

Then, with warmth at last, the voice finally dictated, “Astar. They call me Astar.”

Another pause.

“But…that’s not my real name.” And suddenly, anger pounded into the girl’s
chest. “Then what the hell is it?! Jesus, don’t go
telling me such useless –“

She stopped right
there, agape at her own behavior. She hadn’t meant to be so abrupt. No wonder she has never spoken; if such callous, unruly things spilled out of her hot tongue all the
time, then it would be better if she blanket she has had an iron grip
on, and covered her mouth. Tears started appearing at the feet of her
eyes, confusion flooding her mind and allowing it to become a
disaster.

A hesitation. For a while, the girl had assumed – or perhaps hoped, she had no clue
– that the stranger had left, and that she could return to her
home, her home…

No. Not home.

 The house shrunk around her. She felt herself shrivel up underneath her covers,
feeling as though she was too rough for its embrace.

“There are things that I have no ability to tell.” The voice continues.
She feels a breath of warmth swim past the thick blankets. “One
of which is my real name. For as long as I remember, however,
everyone has called me that. Astar.” The voice inhaled slowly.
“And that is what you will be calling me, too, Sonera.”

“Why do you keep calling me that?” Sonera whispers, trying to be as gentle
as possible.

“Because of the same reason as I give myself. Neither of us know who we are, now
do we? And as for us nobodies, the only way to become somebodies is
to go find a name – legally or not, this is yours now, as “you” as your soul that I see blooming right here in you.”

Sonera cannot comprehend. A somebody. A smile with a face?

He chuckles. “This
sounds really weird, doesn’t it?” He asks self-consciously.

“Well, what
are you to tell me what or what I’m not?” Sonera grunts.

“Because I’mexactly like you. But the thing is…I’ve remembered much, much
more.” He sighs, is breath of air hinting at many uncomfortable
memories. He shifts nervously. “And according these experiences, Honey, you really have to make a bee-line out of here, unless you want to be…eaten alive.”

Eaten alive?

And suddenly I’m jolted out of my trance, and watch two hands pull me away from the
beast right behind me.

A beast with no face.

The place I considered my entire beautiful world, too.

My heart pops, and into the unknown I am sucked into, with Astar – no, a
star – gripping my hand with an unknown strength.