Grim (Watty Awards 2012)

1: The Ruins

IMPORTANT

GRIM IS IN SOME SERIOUS  REVISION. I'VE TOTALLY - PRETTY MUCH - CHANGED THE PLOT OF THE STORY AND ONE CHARACTER'S ROLE HAS BEEN ALTERed. ONCE I GET ALL THE CHAPTERS WRITTEN OUT, OR MAYBE MOST, I'M GONNA START UPLOADING THEM. GRIM HAS ALWAYS HAD A DEEP CONNECTION WITH MY CREATIVE MIND AND I FEEL I RUSHED WAY TOO MUCH WITH THIS STORY TO GET IT FINISHED FOR THE AWARDS. I did NOT GIVE IT JUSTICE. I DID NOT GIVE IT ENOUGH CHARACTER OR TIME TO DEVELOP IT INTO A CONNECTING STORY.

GRIM
(EDIT)
Chapter One.
The Ruins.
Daniela Burton 2012 May 7, 2013 3:08 P.M

My ears catch up on the chatter amongst the group of friends sitting at a picnic table across the street. I stare with not much excitement, towards the opposite way. A small white building sits on a decent patch of grass, surrounded by sidewalk. I don't believe it's a home or any type of store, just an empty, white building.

I allow myself to listen for a moment. "Ryan!" A girl yells playfully. My eyes quickly jump to girl. Much like me, she is young. I envy her.

A sting in my wrist jolts me up off my seat on a bench. My feet edge closer to the sidewalk, nearly stepping into the road. I listen now to all the chatter in this small town.

She's coming.

I can feel her presence now as she creeps closer to where I wait. Right on schedule, as I had thought. When you've been doing this for a long time, you tend to become pretty fucking awesome at it.

Cars whip past me on the streets, people walk right through me on the sidewalk and cats hiss at my ghostly presence. The wind blows, but passes right through me. Glancing once more at my wrist, numbers embed themselves into my skin.

It's hard to fully explain the ultimate existence of these numbers and what they portray. I feel we can get to that much later, as for now, I have a job I need to get done.

Maryanne Withers.

I begin to walk down ninth avenue in downtown Cleveland, Ohio. The year is 2010, middle of may and the sun is bursting with heat. The rays of light have no affect on me or my body. My long brown hair is still, though the wind pushes through others around me.

Crowds of people walk right pass me as though I'm not there, but I am. I'm part of a dream you thought could never be real. Something only told in stories and possibly folklore. I bring piece to souls and free them to their new life in a new world.

My body is covered in layers of clothing. A dark brown leather jacket covers a grey sweater with a tank underneath. Jeans wrap around my waist and go into a pair of boots that reach above my ankles. I'm completely covered, yet completely cold.

I know what you're thinking. It's a typical thought process when you hear about someone who is always cold and no one can see them. I'm not a vampire. Heck. That's too fairy tale for this world. Ghosts exist, but I wouldn't say that's what I am.

My eyes flash to the left, across the street. A woman of barely thirty walks on the sidewalk; we both head the same way. Though, she can't see me. I'm very odd about creeping too much on people. Somehow, I feel as if they can see me or at least sense my presence.

Do you ever get a cold chill next to you? Something crawling up your spine that makes you want to shiver. We give that kind of effect on people. We live in the same time, same era, but a different world.

Glancing over at Maryanne I look above her head for her death clock. Numbers countdown. It's a way for us to distinguish thoroughly who our target is. We only get one target at a time, but each day we have at least twenty four. This is my last of the day, so I'm taking my time. There is no rush to go back, 'home.'