The Swamp

Chapter One: An Angel From Below

[TW for this chapter: implied depression, swearing; TW for later in the story: sexual assault, mention of God, the devil, demons, and hell]

~

A soft, translucent wisp of steam rose gently from a figure submerged nose-deep in the muddy swamp. He opened his eyes, exhaling a stream of bubbles to the surface of the mud before rising, the sun bathing his green skin in a delicate light which made his powerful form look even more daunting. Thick, muscular legs pulled out of the mud and onto solid ground with great effort to secure him as he turned and went inside the nearby shack. The word "Shrek" was scrawled haphazardly above the door in a bright red paint that stood out sharply against the overwhelmingly brown environment.

Crickets' chirps from outside could be heard from the open window and Shrek began to prepare breakfast. Reaching blindly for a bowl, he knocked over a dirty glass, which shattered across the dirt floor and turned his kitchen into a minefield of shards. He groaned.

"Why is it always the Mondays that screw me, eh?" he asked the empty house. He rolled his eyes and chuckled softly to himself before carrying on, pouring moldy cereal into a bowl followed by soured milk. Mud dripped from the ceiling into the bowl with a plop, but he didn't notice or care.

The ogre slumped into his kitchen chair, narrowly avoiding the glass. He slammed down the bowl and leaned forward in preparation, the wooden chair creaking beneath him, before beginning. He ate sloppily and with wild abandon, like a starving animal. Milk sloshed about, staining the table as it dried as had too many other spills before. His spoon was rusted and rough on the edges, his bowl seemingly the artsy kind - white with an orange ring around the inside - but he knew it was just from various dinners of the past left to fester in it for days on end.

He didn't care. Fiona wasn't there to keep his head on straight. No one was. What did he care if he spilled a little milk or if there was a bit of glass on the floor? He didn't mind it, so it didn't matter. Nothing seemed to, anymore. The days just droned on, and on, and on, an endless cycle of drip, drip, dripping mud and chirp, chirp, chirping crickets. It was all just...gray.

And now he was sad. Great.

"Damn if this day just doesn't keep getting better! If my luck keeps up maybe Fiona will come back-" A sob broke off his sentence. He slammed his fists on the table and through the tears picked up the bowl and chucked it at the wall behind the sink. It shattered, the pieces falling into the pile of dirty dishes floating in a pool of disgusting water in the sink, mud dripping down from the ceiling behind them.

He stood up suddenly and stormed to the door with an unusual fire in his eyes. Tears ran down his full, green cheeks as he held up a shaking fist, ready to slam it into the flimsy wood at the risk of knocking it down, but he held back. He squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face into his hands, smearing expired milk across his forehead. His body seemed to drop to the ground on its own. As he drew his knees to his chest, he hoped, maybe this time, the darkness would hide the image of Fiona burned in his mind from him. That image of her dancing in his living room, smiling; then, sleeping so peacefully next to him, like an angel; then, the pure disgust plastered across her perfect face as she left. She turned her back on him. Her beautiful form walking away haunted him, every moment of every hour of every day, mocking him endlessly.

Softly, he choked through the sobs, "Why...why does it always...have to be...M-Mondays..." He leaned his forehead against his knees, wiping his milk-covered face weakly with one hand. Outside the door, a frog ribbited a long, melancholy note.

In a baritone drawl, it croaked, "Though the mud is quite warm, my heart seems so cold / From the start with him, I knew I'd never grow old / The idea of love, to me had been sold / But it seems the only worth he had, was as fool's gold."