There are many ways to define a community. My favorite, the classic, being;
A community; A group of people living in the same place or having a particular characteristic in common.
Where I live, the people that surround me only fit one of those two determining factors. Placement. It's not these residents in particular, it's just... i've never really had much in common with anyone at all. As a child I would never play with others, never kick around a can (which was supposedly a big thing at some point), I never made time for anyone else. I wasn't a loner, per say; rather, I was simply cautious. I always knew there was something different that separated me from the others. That being my overbearing imagination, my inability to truly form connections with others, and my disinterest or inability to see value in people that weren't me. My apathetic lifestyle isn't a product of childhood abuse or neglect. It's simply as my mother would always tell me. "You're just...special"
My house is one of great aesthetic value. Sitting on the edge of a community that sits on the edge of social collapse. Stores being shut down, riots and strikes being held against unfair payment policies. People expected a greater payment for their minimal efforts, yet aren't willing to work any harder. None of this really affected me in any way, as I inherited my fortune from my late mother who was a whizz on making good investments. Rest her soul.
Unlike the community, the atmosphere that surrounds my home isn't chaotic or unflattering in any way, it's comforting and welcoming. This, of course, is due to my agressive need for visually pleasing house decor, but also my brilliant ability to create a false sense of safety. Not wanting to put to waste my beautiful home, it was often a hot spot for town parties or gatherings and occasionally organization meetings (none that I was apart of. I just like supporting these types of occasional flares of gestures towards bettering the community.) Now, I never actually engaged socially with others. No one ever really provided any sustenance or value to me. If anything, I considered myself to be a wonderful, yet silent host. Catering to these barbarians every will in hopes of gaining their trust.
Contrary to whatever beliefs they may have set aside relating to the nature of my hospitality, their friendship is not what i'm after. No, i'm after something that sits a tad higher on my pedestal of importance and relevance. Something that holds a symbolic stance on power and likely the one pleasure that provides more comfort than anything else; blood. (Not their blood specifically, but i'm not picky.) There's clearly something very wrong with me, but thankfully because of my busy schedule I haven't the time to acknowledge or feed my inner thoughts demons the attention that they desire. This isn't because I'm afraid of what I may be capable of. I'm very aware of what i'm capable of. Just, things like mass homicide and hiding bodies and all that clutter tends to be something that one must put a lot of thought into. I'm a very relaxed kind of guy... I don't like dealing with high levels of stress.
My guest list for tonight is short and sweet, only having prepared enough food and holes in the ground for seven guests. These people weren't of any particular importance, just poor saps who i'd chosen to be the subjects to my malicious and violent nature. Most of them were from work. All except Todd and Macy, who frequently attended a yoga class with me on fridays. I had thought them to be siblings at first, but their clear closeness and ways of showing their affection towards one another was a bit too... intimate. At least, as to what i'd expect from a pair of siblings. I hadn't much experience on such things as I was an only child. They were the first to arrive, gawking and making clearly rehearsed remarks on what an amazing job I had done at furnishing the place. I never understood why people did this. Did they not know who I was? Clearly my humble abode was going to look nothing less than ravishing at all times.
They made their way to my first living room. First, actually having been the second installment i've had placed into my house. If I ever felt like my home was too small, I had it enlarged. But no matter how large my house grew, I still felt empty. They had no trouble making themselves comfortable, sitting together hand in hand. The couch they were sitting on was actually a favorite of mine. Soft, relaxing and I had crafted it myself. After gathering the materials, the construction was pretty simple. Luckily, my aunt Clare was more than willing to provide the bare essentials. After our argument the night before I started had made her compellingly generous, and I took full advantage. Her bone structure had been slightly damaged, not nothing a little glue won't fix! Wooden legs, bone legs.. To me, all furniture was deserving of praise. The fur for the cushions actually came from her neighbor's dogs, which was a lot cheaper than actually buying the materials. Luckily their owner isn't likely to notice. He's been charged with a homicide of a puerto rican woman next door. Perhaps had he let me play in his yard as a child, he wouldn't have woken up to find Claire's skin draped out on his sundeck. Oh well...
