Romeo's Tale; Entanglement

Romeo August Hinzpeter

Romeo's Tale; Entanglement

Disclaimers: This book is created independently by the author's imagination, himself. Names, places, and incidents are either just products of the author's imagination and a minimal degree of creativity.

Note to audiences; Reminder: This story contains rough and unpleasant language and a theme that might trigger an unwanted imagery because of the in-upright mindset of some characters.

Note(also to audiences): This'll be my very first book, so I will be sorry in advance about every grammatical errors that'll be spotted in the story. Also, please bear with me and my writing, I'm still in my learning process, thanks!

...

The day-air wasn't as cold as the winters blow and of course wasn't as hot as summer. It was just humid. The people of the town of Waikato continue their lives and so did Romeo August.

Funny, his name is August―Its the last day of July, so tomorrow's August.

Romeo August Hinzpeter:

I don't know but the persona in a white suit stroll me out into the street of Waikato this morning. I haven't seen the outside since, I believe, decades now.

Now I'm back at this single-windowed room and almost gone sunshine enters like some piercing swords through the curtains. I glance at the ceiling and its a plain wood. I like it.

"Are you up to your tales again?" A semi-enthusiastic tone of voice from the white suit persona asks me.

I look at him. He gave me a what-look in his face.

I didn't bother answering and just closed my eyes.

I sat on a chair and its every inch seems so familiar to my touch and my back perfectly fit in.

I took the pen lying around the table and ran it through a paper of which appearance is mysterious.

I can smell dust from the old table creeping all over the insides of my nostrils and I can feel how rough it is like in my hand―rough as a wooden table can be.

I open my eyes at last.

Then my hands started to write in bold letters.

_______

CLYD

JED

BARBARA

Afterwards, after writing those I a piece of paper, I read it out loud. The white persona looks at me and seems not making any weird reaction, doesn't even talk. So uttering randomly somehow doesn't feel weird at all.

"Who are they?" Now, the semi-enthusiastic tone of a voice asks. Oh, he's still here. Is he really interested?

Again, I didn't answer. Not because I wont bother, but because I don't know.

(I don't know.)

I lean back to the chair and wonder with my mass intact and motionless about whore those names I wrote. I don't know.

But why did I speak of those names?

How did I write those names?

And, somehow, why do I feel like I know them all?

I slant back to the table and continued writing―completely ignoring the white suit persona.

Scratch sounds of the pen I am holding rubs trough the piece of paper once again.

Somehow, now, I feel like I really posses them―those names.

Or could it be, actually, I am them.

I can control them and I feel for sure.

(Of course, I should be.)

I closed my eyes and stopped writing.

In just about five minutes of blankness, "Still with me?" The semi-enthusiastic tone of a voice asks. It was the white suit persona.

I stayed my eyes closed and started talking my story out roving around my hands to tell my story to him.

And there he sat, listening.

...

StanLee