Stay Out

Introduction

September 16, 2008

To whoever is reading this, please know that I am only writing from what I can recall. I am probably already dead by now. I'm not sure where I am or how I ended up in these bizarre situations; running away and fighting off these "monsters ." 

Why is it so dark?

But regardless of what is happening now, I want to retrace my memory to where; to how I got here.

Now I started from...  No, I was going to... NO!

I can't remember... I CAN'T REMEMBER!

Okay... I'll start from here

My name is Elliot Thomas Pierce III. I'm twenty-five years old and I am a researcher and writer for a local newspaper company. I'm from a small town in Illinois called Wilton Alley. I was born and raised there as a child, but soon left when I turned seven years old after the "incident" occurred.

My parents moved there so my mother could be stress-free. Miscarriages were common on my mother's side of the family for generations. Little did they know I was going to be their firstborn child. My mother was a very fragile, weak woman with a thick Swedish accent, but she was the sweetest, most wonderful, and overly beautiful person to ever meet. Her name is Adelita Edean Pierce, born and raised in Sweden. 

I remember when I was very young, my mother would tell me stories about how she and my father met, it seemed to be more 'fantasized ' than reality back then, but nevertheless, it was aesthetically 'imaginary.' My father was a straight-faced, strong, professional man but as I grew up he seems to be less than what my mother has been describing to me. His name is Elliot Thomas Pierce II and if anything he was more cold-hearted, stoic, and harden. He was born in Germany but raised here in America. His expression was always firm and serious as if he never smiled. I barely saw him and when I did, it was only for a minute or two. He spent most of his time in his studies or he's out somewhere that related to his work, someplace called the "Vision-04". I wonder what he was studying so much? I would try to not let that bother me since he never seemed to pay any mind to my mother and me.

How can a man like that end up marrying someone so caring, fragile, and emotional as my mother? This question sort of disturbs me, it is ramming and sinking deep within the creases of my brain, only to have a large decaying burnt hole where the question lies. But the doesn't matter now. My father was somewhere continuing his studies and my mother was slowly wasting away; still staring into her wedding photo.

She was wearing a handmade light champagne mid-fluffed long dress that dragged across the floor. The laced went down to her elbows with fanned sleeves attached to them; dangling past her wrists. The second layer of the dress had a thin beautiful designed lace that shined and shimmed a little, she looked gorgeous. Her hair was wavy and went to her waist. Her veil stopped at her hips and her heels were the perfect tone and style for her dress. My father was wearing a black suit with a white dress shirt and a black tie. The only thing that was so unique about him was that blue rose with black burns on the tips of the petals, it was tucked snugly in his chest pocket ... I'm off track now.