Yellow Ledbetter

Welcome to Paradise

He's been alone for 6711 days by the time he feels the smallest tug hit his gut. At first he thinks it's the prison world spooks poking him again. The sensation that there's something eerie at the end of a darkened corridor, someone always watching just outside his window, a ghoulish hand hovering over his shoulder- retracting just as he turns around to get a good look. It really messes with his head. But even ghouls make for some form of company, which is why his mind has taken to making them up wherever there's something even slightly creepy. Lack of people, mixed with deathly silence wherever he goes, means most places have something off about them. Meaning he's damn near out of his mind.

When he was first zapped here he was angry, just furious enough to need an empty world as an outlet. Then he was amused- at the fact that his father thought the best form of Prison was an empty world.

Dumbass.

Because of the "great coven leader" he'd spent most of his youth isolated, how was this any different? How was this any form of punishment? Wouldn't it have been smarter to just kill him? Twenty odd years later and he finally understands.

People need people, and so does he.

No matter how much it kills him to admit it. Ironically after coming to terms with that he does actually kill himself. Attempt number 435 by drowning. He likes drowning. Waking up from death itself is a reset, add in water and it's what he imagines being baptised is like. He wakes up in a lake, face skyward, and the tugging is still there. Is he dreaming or does it feel stronger? The only company for miles around, lodged in his abdomen.

It doesn't go away. And he doesn't know if he's afraid or grateful because it's the first solid thing he can focus on since he's been here. Something beyond his control. An exciting plot twist. The one

thing he does figure out is that it's pulling him in a certain direction. It might be worth investigating but it also might be gas. Plus, he's right in the middle of a treasure hunt, does he really want to drop everything to investigate his mutinous organ?

But it still doesn't go away. So a week later he's packing a bag filled with his few findings and heading to Heathrow Airport, blinking goodbye to England from the cockpit. Even without people the small country holds a certain charm. It's perfect to be alone in. Paris was supposed to be next but instead he's flying back to Portland, dumping the plane with a less-than-smooth landing and driving back to the homestead. Still covered in blood and gore, the smiley face he drew on the front door with Joey's blood seems to have rectified itself and there's nothing more than plain wood guarding the entrance again.

Nope.

Nothing different here.

But the tugging has become more insistent. Definitely stronger. Definitely not gas. Moving in certain directions seem to affect it. He's playing hot and cold with the universe and it's the most fun he's had in years. Definitely more fun than treasure hunting. He always did love to play hide and go seek. Jumping into the Grand Canyon is a close second, but there's no pain in this game. Yet.

He steals another car- is it really stealing when the owner doesn't exist and the keys are in the ignition- and starts driving, using nothing but his guts as navigation.

Seventy-two hours and seventy-three cramped muscles later he's in Virginia. What the hell is Virginia even good for? At least Portland has Tonya Harding. But the sensation in his abdomen practically sings the moment the wheels roll past the 'Welcome to Mystic Falls' sign. A day searching the place, maybe another Ascendant has turned up, and then he'll keep on trucking. He pulls into the driveway of a large suburban house, his instincts screaming at him to stop here. He's been roped into listening to the universe, after it consistently screws him over, but he'll listen in style. The house he's chosen is the biggest one on the street, looming over a brown doored one across the silent road. It's practically vacant with very few signs of being lived in, in the real world. The one opposite has kids toys littered all over the lawn and a porch swing that stinks way too much of homeliness.