The Eden Projects (EDITING)

A beginning.

-6 Years Ago, Present Day-

My name is Kasper. He regarded himself. And it means Treasurer. 

This... I am not.

Kasper knew what he was, and what he wasn't. He knew he was an awkwardly human-shaped shadow. He knew that his breath was shackled to his lungs like a diver playing for a well metered breath. And he knew, above all else. One day, it would run out. One day, it would kill him. The day he was born what thing he would come to be was decided for him. 

So he would be a shadow in wait until that moment came. 

Then he would be darkness... this story, is a monster.

My name is Kasper. All around me are destined to die. 

Very few people knew about the house that sat in a slump at the far end of Farrow Street. Even fewer could know just how many people fit within it. Fewer still, dared step foot on its porch. It was forgettable. Looking like any house around but everyone knew. There were monsters inside its crooked walls and creaking floorboards. There were monsters and they were ALL hungry... 

The rain fell heavily against sodden shingles which frayed and bent along the peaks of the house. Its broken windows blinked slowly with the waning light. Her brow furrowed and cracked as her makeshift door swung on rusted hinges; tarps flapping like loose lipped sails in the wind, moss laden and heavy with the droplets. They slid down from there. Like some creeping, visceral thing into the rocky gutters. The unnerving smell of a faceless septic stench drifted in the darting breeze, claiming many a nose in the surrounding area. There it lingered.

The Farrow street house sat hugging the outer walls of a city. THE City. Stretching to the sky in all its majesty. This rundown neighborhood was no more than a mud stain on its perfect outer garments. Jealous of the city's beauty, a few of the pocked houses framed themselves with makeshift flowerpots and what one could assume as decorative fencing. Not the Farrow house. It was dark. Always dark. The rest of the homes were in no way a fancy feature. Broken and bending under the oppressive weight of the hopeless people who dwelled there. The Farrow house wore its heart on its sleeve.

Through the fog, in one of the pollen dusted windows, sat two boys. Their expressionless faces were as worn as the walls around them. Munching on bits of food and sipping on warm water the two looked out into the dew. Two of the four who lived there. One of the four who could still hold a genuine smile, and the other. Who feigned one well. The piercing smell of alcohol hung about like soppy towels. Masking any emotion they could have. Their father Adam, who slept through a drunken stupor for the thousandth time, dozed motionless in a recliner ahead of an old television. A tangible darkness clotted the air there with a radioactive toxicity. It silently begged for a spark to set an explosion into motion. Today, the day before, and every day to come was the same. The rain, like some untouchable barrier forced them once again to stay indoors.

So it was, and so it would be, nothing ever changed for those living on Farrow Street.