The Melting Mind of One Fictum Ernest

Cycle One: Sensation

Imagine for me, death, the sights, the stench, and taste. Your answer doesn't matter so I'll tell you mine, it's an abyss, filled with pungent rotting mulch; a semi-sentience, to be philosophical or a butcher's dumpster to be less so. on December 18th I found myself in the latter and I felt like the former, so death.

I settled my stomach before In a daze grasping in the black for something rigid, so I might hoist myself out of the ewwy-gooey beneath me. (yellow belly)

"what?" I ignored the noise my brain produced until I was in a better place for worrying, something like a decrepit alley coated in a thick layer of snow, ah perfect! I thought as my face was embedded in the sub-zero blanket, leaving a little imprint for future generations. the dumpsters aroma clinging to me still making it upsetting to breathe. (It's minus 5 to be precise) "ugh... not again" I mumble into the frigid embrace. (could you be troubled to pull it together?) We're being watched) and just as promised by my delusions was a figure draped in an oversized brown cloak, with splotches of discolouration exemplifying the cloths disrepair. Rising to my feet I take in my surroundings; mix matched bricks stretched behind and in front for a few meters. (to your right, glass shard on the ground, take them and strike first) (sO MIghT aBEl KILL cAIN) attempting once more to ignore my auditory hallucinations, I limped on a perfectly functional legs toward the figure... (coward.) you want from me! I'm brittle, so I can't go around being overly sincere. Despite my over played injury my body does have a general ache, but looking at my physique I can say it is not derived from exercise, as I am skeletal in the most charitable terms, with grime coating my skin and cheap clothing, the entire outfit paper thin and yet I am not affected by the blistering cold. I limp all the way up to the cloaked figure, the only noise outside of my crunching footfalls being its snapping cloak caught in the gale. It stands still for the duration of my approach until I'm just a few feet away, at which point in finally spoke with a dull voice like I'd just interrupted them from standing in a que; I don't like them, but I can't say why.

"hello" I try to look closer at them but the cloak they wear seems to always flow in a manner to obscure anything but more cloth, were I any more mentally unsound I'd think they were a vortex of cloth. (is this how you greet everyone? C'mon smelly get a grip)

"yeah, Morning... who're you?" (a real social butterfly huh?) the figure changes to a calmer tone, a tension I had not noticed in the air relaxing, although it still sounds like a snake gifted speech "Limbus. and yourself?" seems they weren't throwing me any soft ball then, (seriously? Ugh, Do you have some ID?) I quickly rifle through my various pockets which results in the discovery of an off-white business card labelled Fictum Ernest printed on one side with placeholder text for a phone number and address on the other, it will have to do.

"Fictum Ernest, one and only. Do you know where you are?" the figure responds in a blatantly practiced manner.

"Tarpat, obviously. Do you know where you are going" upon the question being asked my mind receives information in the voice of one of the things in my head, it wasn't a format of information that my body melded well with, coming off as a sense of nausea that tugged me in a direction.

"I think I might stop by your mum's house" I show the figure my middle finger and hope they understand my intention, they seem uninterested in my agitation.

"well, best of luck Fictum." I don't like how they said that or maybe I just don't like them. They vanish around the corner, and I don't watch them leave. The same unfamiliar sensation rips through my soul describing a path down the street (To tHE-)

"I heard you the first bloody time" good grief I'm arguing with myself, but I guess I've nothing better to do, why not check out the nauseating sense of alien purpose.