Not Yet

1 | 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕎𝕚𝕟𝕕𝕠𝕨

It was at the earliest of mornings and I was at the brink of my existence.

There I laid sprawled on my bed, with my haphazardly, done-in-haste organisation of a soft green blanket and a duo of creased cream pillows. My slender hands was outstretched before me, with my palms opened. The world was the mouth to Hell. Callous and merciless.

The ageing, grey curtains were tied back by frayed ribbons, leaving the window exposed. I watched the night sky in awe. The soft breathing of my mouth accompanying the vast silence of the sky.

There was my theory, that the sky was an illusion. An alluring nature, borne from an imagination of a greater, omnipresent being. That the sky actually is a curtain enshrouding our Earth, projecting a gorgeous plane of slow-placed billows of gas, and shimmering dust of stars.

What is the sky concealing?

Possibly the entrance to Hell, as mentioned before. What about the spacemen, and their rockets? Wouldn't they know what actually exists out there? The tangible answer?
To me, I believe that spacecraft is fake. That we are indoctrinated into thinking and perceiving that beyond the sky is just a collection of galaxies, with velvet, ink black expanding infinitely. For I haven't been able to witness a real launch of a rocket – hence only watching it on the screen of my television.

But this is just a theory from a mere shell of a lesser being. Of an entity hoping to understand the works of the world, and to be a holder of philosophical ideas.

•~•

Down the concrete street from my standard home, a party was going on. The techno-disco music was blaring obstreperously, with the screams piercing into the silent darkness. I mean it was comforting, to listen to other beings having an explosion of joy, of content while ignoring the rest of the world. It was what made us human. The fact that we have the tendencies to help ourselves before we help others.

The members of the party wouldn't be aware of the disruption they were causing. It was a clear understanding that the purpose was to have fun. But would they be at fault for keeping up the residents of the whole community, due to us situated in a swollen valley?

That's right, our hometown was located at the base of the valley. We called this secluded area, Prize Valley. As in, being discovered by an explorer and deeming the once luscious valley, the great prize of the century. I mean I could see why it was acknowledged as the 'prize of the century' in the eyes of the explorer, K. Richard. It was because he saw or believed that the discovery was worth something, that it would blossom into something worthy, far greater. That it would become Richard's successor; a legacy.

"To have a place in the world", my mum explained, "allowing him to feel validated."

I shook the thought away hard and clenched my teeth. It hit close to home. The irrational fear that when I pass over to the afterlife, I would be forgotten. I would become an evanescent vapour of a teenage, nihilistic rejection of society.

I chuckled as I sat up. It was absurd, with my sort of thinking. For goodness sake, my thoughts stumbled and jumbled like excluded jig-saw pieces with rough edges, and just remnants that isn't able to add up to a bigger image. Who isn't able to connect, or be able to make a statement on his own.

"Lift yourself up," my mum had commanded, "and stand with your two feet."

Any normal being could do that. But what about me? How could I be confident in doing what other people expected me to do? She was asking more than I could give, for I don't have the traits of an extrovert – less provide a pseudo-persona of an extrovert. And even if I did try, with all my best, I find myself plummeting and falling apart. I'm a burden.

God, look at me when I'm at the stage of my vulnerability. It's futile, trying to pick myself back up. I scrunched my hair and picked at my cheek. I raised my hand and swung full-force at my face. The pain came, in sharp jolts. I watched as my fingers quivered, when I gingerly touched the area. At the contact of my fingertip, my face stung.

There, Liam... you're human. So palpable that you can feel a wetness trickling down the curve of your cheekbone. You're a fucking human, just like the others. You're not grand. Who did you think you were, Liam?

I was exhausted by the time I realised I was rambling on, attacking myself for being inept.

•~•

It was almost 2am, when I noticed that the music had stopped, and now replaced by the muteness.

I took a quick glance out of the window, and made out an irregular silhouette standing from the front of the garden bed of azaleas. My eyes drew to the attention of the item clutched in it's hand. It glinted and sparkled in the silver strings of moonlight. A glass bottle, perhaps.

It stood there, and I knew that whoever it was, had been stalking me from the minute I began barraging myself with insults. And has possibly seen me slapping myself.

Stupid, stupid, stupid...

My armpits began perspiring, as the slimy sweat travelled down my arm. I stared at the figure blanketed by the darkness. It's identity unknown to me. I wanted to close my curtains, but dread took ahold of me. Stunned me in place, glued me to my cold bed. Do something now, before it comes nearer.

I could hear the advancing footsteps, the stiff thud of heavy shoes, of a hot breath vehemently burning in my chest, and a gentle, sorrow whisper from behind.

This was my imagination. I was creating figments of a false reality. This isn't real. The person at the front of my house, isn't coming in. There's no advancing stomps of it's footstep, no hot breath invading the my body or the gentle whisper sending me wobbling in trepidation

My heart was booming, pounding against my chest. I was suffocating, apprehended so abruptly. I found myself breathing difficultly, with uneven bursts of breath. I closed my eyes, as the ink darkness invited itself in. Stay calm.

My mind was overworking, malfunctioning and self-destructing. This hasn't ever happened to you before. Shall we compute with the ordeal and resolve the issue in a mannerly, cordial action, or shall we just crumble and become an error an error an error an error...

What has my mum told me before if I was ever in a situation like this? I don't know. I can't remember. I can't focus. I can't focus on me focusing. I can't focus on me focusing focusing. I think I am going in a deep sleep. I think I could hear the distant screams of my own. The feverish mind slowly fading away. I becoming a nothing. I becoming the nothing.

> –—–—— Author's Note ———— <

Hello, I appreciate you making it to the end of this chapter, and I hope to see you continue with this work of mine. Please feel free to comment your thoughts, and to correct my grammar or mistakes.

I just want to ask you one question:
What do you think about the first chapter?

Thank you,
CorruptDragon