The Waste

[XombyPhish]

Yeah... Short story I'm writing. It's posted in a couple other places (Not on this site) but people in those places don't seem to care for Originality, they want vampires, cat-girls, Naruto. Hopefully people here will be accepting.

(NOTE: You'll probably notice drastic changes in writing styles. I had a serious case of writer's block in between the first, second, and third chapters.)

Chapter 1
The Escape




There once was an orphanage, built in Gothic-style that resembled a castle. Before The Waste change the world the building was beautiful, children always playing in it's yards and around the campus.


But as the years went by, an more and more machines were built the sky become clouded and black with smog. And it began to get very cold, until it was snowing all the time. In some places it the snow was even black like the clouds it was born from.


Few people cared. They didn't think it was much of a problem.


Until the people began to die.


The snow contained so many chemicals that it was actually poisonous to breathe. Three-fourths of world died in a month. Leaving only scattered bits of civilization. The Orphanage happened to be one of these bits. Modification were made so that it could supply it's own air. Though; no one knew where they obtained fresh food and water.


The headmaster, Victor Mossil, took charge of the orphans and tried his best to keep them healthy. But as more and more children began to find their way to the orphanage, Victor found that it was just to much for him to handle by himself. He went into the Orphanage basement for two weeks without coming out. Leaving the oldest orphan, a fifteen year old male by the name of Stephon--more well known as Sty--in charge of everything. After two weeks Victor emerged, a person that none of the children had ever seen before followed him. It was bald, and wore glasses that revealed no trace of eyes. It wore a strange where banana-like hat, with beads connected to ear-muffs and around its neck. Its body covered by flowing white robes. The children knew not whether to address it has a him or her, so they gave it the name Hib, which it took to almost immediately. After a few days Victor disappeared into the basement again, leaving Hib in charge. The Headmaster emerged again, in time, with another one of the gender less things following him. This one was named Tiq. After introducing the duo of Hib and Tiq the Headmaster was rarely ever seen, simply leaving Hib and Tiq to do all the work.


One day, as the children were preparing themselves for bed, many discussing the new type of meal and how it tasted odd, Hib fell down the flight of stairs which connected the Male dormitory and the common room and was killed. The only child to bare witness was Sty. Who immediately up the stairs to the Female Dormitory where Tiq was readying the girls for bed and burst through the door, much to the surprise and embarrassment to many of the girls. Tiq demanded to know the reason for the intrusion. When Sty told Tiq what happened to Hib, Sty was told to go to bed, and that the problem would be dealt with by tomorrow.


As morning approached, the sleepless Sty journeyed down into the Common Room, the body of Hib was gone, in fact, no trace of him was present. Once breakfast came Sty was much surprised to see Hib serving what looked like badly cooked chocolate, but tasted slightly of dirt, and something he couldn't put his finger on. As Hib approached the table Sty was sitting at, Sty abruptly stood up, startling many of the children at the table.


"What's going on! I saw you fall down the stairs and die last night! How can you be hear?"


Hib looked at him with a confused and slightly bewildered look upon his face.


"Dear child, I'm afraid you must have had a bad dream. For if I was dead, how could I be here...serving all you children delicious food?"


The children at the table snickered at Sty's foolishness. And He set down with a red face, almost certain that last night wasn't just a dream.


Suddenly a knock came from the door. It was the first visitor the Orphanage had since the poisonous snow, now called The Waste, began to have other effects upon the body. There were stories of how it changed people, but none of the witnesses were ever able to talk about it. It was as if what they saw was so horrifying that their minds couldn't grasp it well enough to be able to describe it. As another knock came from the large front door that stood at the end of the center hall came, Hib and Tiq looked at each other, and left the dining room, closing the door behind them.


None of the children ever learned who was knocking, and Hib and Tiq denied that there ever was anyone. They said it was simply the wind.


Months past without any odd things occurring, and winter came, and all of the children were ordered to only go to and from the dining room and their dormitories. Hib and Tiq told them that this years winter would be a very harsh one. The children didn't mind much. In the better months they weren't given much more freedom.


Sty, however, was beginning to grow restless. Tired of the confines of the Orphanage, seeing the same things and people day after day and only being able to look out into the Waste. He desired the freedom that only being able to escape could bring. His friend Gerard felt the same. Although being three years younger than Sty, Gerard was many times over his superior in brawn. In fact, Gerard has never been known to lose a fight in all of his years at the Orphanage.


Gerard and Sty began to formulate their plans for escape. They couldn't go through to front door because Hib and Tiq were almost always guarding it, usually with a Doberman named Ret. Ret was held in place by a collar that had to leashes attached. The right leash was always held by Hib, and the left by Tiq, making sure the Doberman wouldn't run off.


One day, as the were trying to decide between digging out or busting a window, they were over heard by the outcast of the Orphanage, Vicks.
Vicks was always the one everyone bullied and pushed around. He was quite scrawny and short, even for a nine year old, making him a easy target for harassment.


After overhearing Sty and Gerard talking Vicks demanded he be let in on it, or he threatened to tell Hib and Tiq. After almost no thought at all both Sty and Gerard agreed.


Gerard was the only person Sty ever told about what happened the night he saw Hib die, embedding a fear of the care taking duo between the two friends.


Sty and Gerard soon found that Vicks was a valuable asset. He knew almost every spot they could escape from, but he never had the guts to do it himself.


At the very back of the Orphanage, there was an old ventilation shaft that led out into the Waste, the door was always locked, though, the key to which was always in Tiq's possession. So the trio of armature-escapees did the next best thing, they picked it. It took them three days to finally manage to bypass the lock on open the door which would lead to freedom.

[XombyPhish]

The Waste - Chapter 2 - Ten Years


Hib and Tiq stood watch over the front door, the visits from the things the Waste had tainted were becoming more frequent, the attempts to escape weren't as bad as they used to be. After news had spread that those three children had escaped ten years ago, the number of attempts increased. Hib and Tiq couldn't understand it, what was to be gained by leave the Orphanage, all that awaited the escapees was death. The first few months children made mad dashes for the door, only to be met with the Doberman named Ret. When the child disappeared Hib and Tiq gave excuses, though most of the children knew what really happened. But now, after a few years, no one tried to escape, they were all afraid. Though, sometimes, in the final months before children who were turning eighteen had their birthday they tried to escape.

When a child turns eighteen, he can no longer be held in the Orphanage. They can't be let out, they'd be to close when they turned into a monster because of the Waste, they might come back to the Orphanage. So on the eve of their birthday, they are forced down into the basement, and are never seen again.

There never seems to be a shortage of children in the Orphanage, they seem to just appear in the nursery over night, no one noes where they came from, nor did anyone really care.

Most children who were present during the time the Headmaster ever made himself present were either missing, or had simply forgot, or pretend to.

Then there was a knock at the door, Hib and Tiq looked at each other, confused. There were never knocks. It was also bangs.

"I think it might be a human, a living normal human," said Tiq.

"Perhaps, however, not. Would you risk the safety of the children over mere chance?" stated Hib

"No, perhaps yo--"

"Let me in! I'm Sty! Stephon Hingsly! I lived here ten years ago!"

"The Hingsly boy? How is he still alive? How can he still talk?" asked Tiq.

"I'll go ask the Headmaster what to do," said Hib, and he took off rather briskly down the hall which led to the basement.

"Mr. Hingsly, my colleague Hib has gone to ask direction for what to do with you. Please be patient." ordered Tiq, although Stephon had said nothing since stating his name.

Minutes passed and finally Hib returned, slightly flustered as if the walk had tired him. Tiq could tell it would soon be time for a new Hib to be created, it had been days since they were created. The Headmaster was getting old, and slow, making less and less everyday.

"He said...To let him...In...and to...Take him...To see him..." said Hib, still out of breath.

A small crowd of children had accumulated to watch from behind corners, to afraid of punishment if they approached to close. hib and Tiq took hold of both handles, and slowly opened the door, which creaked loudly with old age. A very haggard man fell through it, his black hair long and tangled from years of being ignored, his clothing ragged, and his skin pale with cuts, scratches and bruises dotting it,

Hib helped him up, telling him in a low whisper to follow him. Stephon obliged and before long was at the basement door.

[XombyPhish]

Chapter 3
The Basement

Before long Sty was at the basement door. It was clearly old; the knob, which was probably at one point a brilliant gold color, was now rusted with age, a thin layer of dust accumulated upon it, which caused Sty to wonder, How did Hib communicate with the Head Master? however; this was something to ponder later.

Fatigue was heavy upon Sty’s mind. Ten years out in the Waste had certainly changed him. He was more calculating now, even now he was forming countless scenarios in his mind about his soon-to-come meeting with the Head Master. He was deep in thought when Hib spoke up and snapped him back into reality, “The Head Master is a very busy man and has set aside some very important work. So it would be very prudent of you to enter the basement now, please.”

Sty looked again at the door, which now seemed even more ancient, the paint peeling off in various places, the wood splintered here and there. And there was a smell. It was familiar, yet somehow completely foreign to Sty’s nostrils. Finally he reached out and hand and clutched the door knob and turned it, the creaks and groans of a protesting door and its hinges manifesting themselves loudly in Sty’s ears then, as if on its own accord, the door flung open and the smell assaulted Sty’s nose as if it were being held by a flood gate, then was suddenly released. It smelled of decay and of nature. Sty turned his head to look at Hib, who only nodded, and then proceeded into the basement for his meeting with the Head Master. The door slammed shut behind him.

It was almost completely dark at the head of the stairway were Sty was standing. Only a faint gloom that curled from the bottom of the staircase served as a guide to where he was meant to go.

Sty made his way down the spiraling stairway step by step, slowly feeling his way down with his foot to avoid slipping and falling. The basement was very hot, and Sty’s long unkempt hair stuck to his face as he descended. Finally he reached the bottom. He stood still for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Somewhere there was a click, a turning of gears, and then the entire room was flooded with intense light. Sty, blinking back tears and squinting from the sudden brilliance, shielded his eyes with the back of his hand. The room was large with machines like transparent coffins filled with green liquid lined the walls. Inside each coffin there were countless cords all connected to a mass of what appeared to be flesh. On the far end of the room was a single steel door. Sty, who was shaken by the odd machines, proceeded toward the door. As he passed each machine he couldn’t resist looking at the things inside of them. Some where very small, but others seemed more developed, almost human in appearance. When he reached the door he extended his hand to turn the knob when a voice came out from speakers that were hidden from view. The voice was horse and very raspy. At first Sty had trouble understanding what it was saying. It seemed to be saying the same thing over and over, finally Sty began to be able to pick out words and before to long the entire message became clear, “I am the Head Master. This is a recording. In my current condition I am unable to converse. This message will loop fifty times and then the second part will be conveyed.”

Sty reached again for the knob and turned it, opening the door. When the door was half-way opened a body fell out, very old, and very decrepit. Its white hair had grown so long that the end of it was still lost somewhere in the darkness of the room. Cables and wires were connected and wrapped all over the body. Sty fell to the ground in horror and shock. The SMELL of it! Sty covered his nose with both hands to try to block out some of the smell which had him on the verge of illness.

“My name was Victor Mossil. I was born April 26th, 1948. I died November 13, 2005. My body, if my servants have no disobeyed me, is within the room directly ahead of you. You are Stephon Hingsly, born December 4th, 1982, missing since May 12th, 1997. You are now in charge of this orphanage. Inside the room of my corpse is a journal. My journal. Inside of it you will find answers to many of your questions concerning what has happened and what you must do.

“Keep in mind that you have no choice in the matter of keeping the orphanage. It must be done. Hibs and Tiqs have already been pre-grown to, at the moment of this recordings beginning, to obey you. If you should, however, attempt to flee, the will terminate you.

“Have a good life Head Master Hingsly.”

And with that the recording cut off. Sty sat there for a moment. His mind reeling over what all had happened in mere moments. He became aware of a sound. He turned and saw Hib dragging the body away.

“Allow me to dispose of this for you, sir.”

Hib drug the body to a odd-looking machine and opened a hatch at the front, a awful grinding noise started from deep within the machine. Hib then lifted the body with little effort being that it was almost skeletal already, and tossed it in and closed the hatch.

“There now. That should last us for awhile,” he then turned to Sty, “I understand that you have some reading to do. The journal is right in there; you should have no trouble finding it. I’ll leave you be for now. This unit and the Current Tiq unit are good for another couple of days, so we’ll handle things for the time being until you get adjusted to your new position,” and with that Hib removed himself from the room, leaving only Sty, and the room.

[XombyPhish]

Chapter 4
The Journal


Sty didn’t bother to go into the room, not yet at least. He was the new head master after all; he could decide what to do and when to do it so long as it got done. At least, that’s what he hoped the deal would be. Hib and Tiq hadn’t said anything to him yet and he was sure he had been sitting on the cold tile floor for at least an hour now. Besides, what could two elderly twins do to a man who survived ten years in the waste? It was absurd to fear them, yet some how he did. Perhaps it was living with them for fifteen years that cemented fear of them into his mind, but no, they were never particularly scornful, even when rules were broken. No, it was more likely the fear was born from That Night so many years ago, when he witnessed the death of Hib, then his sudden reappearance at breakfast the morning after. Whatever it was Sty felt that making enemies of them was not an intelligent thing to do.

Sty finally stood up and looked at the door as if for the first time, even when it was open the light did not enter. There was a perfectly straight line between light and the shadow of the room. This puzzled Sty, which also puzzled him. After being in the waste he thought he was done with being puzzled. A voice lofted down from the stair case drawing closer as the source descended, “I trust you have had sufficient time to read the journal and are now ready to assume your duties as—Oh, hello? You haven’t even entered yet?” Tiq looked furious for moment and Sty thought that for a moment he might have to run, he was good at running. Sty shook his head slowly, head bent down like a scolded child. What was it about being around authority figures, past or present, which always sent you back into childhood?

Tiq sighed, “Well, hurry up,” he paused for a moment, and when Sty made no movement, “Go on!” The sharpness of Tiq’s voice compelled Sty to turn on his heels and take the first step into the room.

Once he fully crossed the threshold he turned back and was shaken once again by the sheer oddity of the orphanage. He saw now was the light was not able to enter. The other room and the one he was presently in were cut off by what looked like solid water. It had not been visible from the other side, but from this side the previous room looked as if he were staring out it from under water. He touched the surface and ripples appeared but Tiq on the other side seem to take no notice, or simply didn’t care, and went back upstairs.

Sty turned his back to the barrier stared into the room that stretched out before him. It was huge, yet he could not move more then a foot to either side because from wall to wall, aside from a thin pathway to an old chair in the center of the room and the little table next to it, were machines, wires, and tubes all connecting to the chair. Sty walked the narrow path to the chair, the silent hum of the machines manifesting in his ears. On the table next to the chair sat a very old, very worn book. There was once a title, or at least something written upon the cover, but the years had worn it down to faded scratches. Sty reached down and carefully picked the book up and opened it to its first page.

Property of Victor Mossil

04/26/58

Hello, journal! My name is Victor Mossil. Today is my tenth birthday. My mother bought you for me. I hope I write in you a lot.

The next few pages nothing was exactly written. Just crude drawings of at first seemed to be deceased animals and chemicals in vials, as the pages progressed so did the detail in the drawings, one picture was surprisingly haunting, even to a survivor of the waste.

It depicted a young woman, lying on the floor with blood dripping from her mouth, her eyes were white, and there was a huge gash on the side of her stomach, but the most disturbing part was her right arm, shoulder, and part of her back. They were all hideously deformed and disproportional to the rest of the body, at least three times as large as their counterparts to the left. Sty turned the page and was surprised to actually find writing.

11/13/63

The date caused Sty to stop for a moment. 1963 was the year the first reported cases of The Blight were recorded. Sty turned the page back to the woman, could she have been one of its victims?

Dear, Journal. It’s been awhile since I last wrote to you. My father said I was too old to write in ‘girly-diaries.’ I believed him for awhile; still do. But, in light of recent events I am hoping that writing in you will provide some comfort.

You see, Journal, my mother is dead. One afternoon she went out to pick up some groceries. It was a nice day, which makes what happened next so strange. It began to snow. I wanted to go outside and play, but my father restrained me with tears in his eyes. At the time I had no idea why that was. But I soon discovered why. It was no ordinary snow, it issued out from dark-gray clouds like smog. Father told me to go in my room, and when I asked why he yelled at me. He had never yelled at me before, so I went to my room. Soon I heard loud banging at the door. Then I heard my father walking away from, then walking back to the door. I heard the cocking of a shotgun, and then I heard the crashing and splintering of wood. Screams. A gun shot. Another scream. Another gun shot.

I think I must have sat in my room for a few hours. When I finally left, I went to the front door; it had been torn off its hinges. There was blood everywhere and in the center of the room were two bodies, one of my fathers, the shot gun still securely held by his fingers, his face blown in by the force of its fire. The other was my mothers, or what used to be my mother. She was now horribly deformed. On the previous page was what she looked like. My father had shot her, then himself. I’m alone now. The snow is still falling. I hear things outside. But I’m in the basement. They can’t find me hear. I hope.

Sty turned the page, it was dated ten years later, and this would make Victor the same age as Sty.

04/26/73

My birthday. But I have to work. I need to work. They shipped in three specimens from the last outbreak of Everto Plasmator Virus. We call it that it means Demon Maker in Latin. We tested their intelligence. They had lost NONE! And we were very surprised that they could speak. Though, they didn’t particularly have anything nice to say. So then why do they attack us?

02/23/75

The snow still hasn’t stopped. I took refuge in what I thought was an abandoned orphanage. It wasn’t so abandoned. Three Blighters present, forty-five children accounted for, fifteen dead. I dispatched the Blighters, I didn’t use fire, even though it’s the easiest way to kill them, it could very well lead to my death as well. No, I used an invention of my own design. It’s rod that shocks on contact, enough volts to paralyze the Blighters (meaning enough to kill three normal men). It then injects liquid sarin, one of the most effective nerve-agents ever made, which, by the time paralysis from the electricity wears off, the paralysis from the sarin sets in, as well as convulsions, and respiratory failure. I had obtained the sarin from the lab I worked at before everything went to hell. My supplies are getting low. I might have enough to kill one or two more Blighters. For now, I will see to the needs of the children.

02/24/75

I have discovered that the Blighters in the orphanage were the caretakers and the Head Master. I can’t just leave these children here. I can’t take them with me. I’ll have to stay here and protect them. They call me Head Master now.

[kiz_paws]

That was quite the story! You have some really good ideas there. I don't know if it is critique that you want, if so, I am not so seasoned a writer that I would be able to offer you constructive criticism. But I can say that I enjoyed the read. However, the ending is a bit loose, if that is really the end (I wasn't able to say). Now if you are still working on it, my apologies. But if that is the end, my opinion was that it all of a sudden just 'fell', you know?

Keep up the writing, you seem to be at ease with the pen! :thumbs_up

[XombyPhish]

I'm glad you enjoyed the story! Critique would be nice, but as for whether it's the ending or not I would have to say VERY far from it. There's still at least ten or so more chapters that can easily be written.

[XombyPhish]

The Waste
Chapter Five: Mind like Water

The first memory that I am able to recall is a room that was bathed in the brightest light one could imagine. As my eyes adjusted themselves the extremity of light that they were being forced to endure, as painful as it was, I did not close them even once. For it was the first time they had ever gazed upon anything. Finally, the light became too much, and I blinked and silent tears streamed down my face. I was confused by this, but paid scant attention to it. For the world was opening itself before me. A figured stepped into my shallow field of vision. Its contrasting dark colors making it stand out against the blinding whiteness of everything else. It reached its hand out before itself, outstretching fingers seemed to follow a solid path, so steady. As the tips of the figure’s fingers touched the brim of my cheek an icy chill was sent down my spine, yet another sensation wholly foreign to me, the figure was cold, though the room was hot. So unbearably hot. And I slept again.
I awoke in the male dormitory and was not surprised. Awakening here was something that all of us have done all our lives. I robotically gazed around the space that was designated as my area, which consisted of my bed, a hard cot with a thin blanket that was much too short so that my feet were exposed to the morning chill, and a small wood cabinet that functioned as a night stand. It served no purpose as none of us had anything worth displaying. On the foot of my bed hung the feeble string that looped around the frame that supported the mattress. Attached to the string I knew there hung a single piece of tattered paper with a single name scrawled across it. “Ark Kayne.” The bars on the end of the bed frame always reminded me of the bars on the windows. As if to say that even in my sleep I am trapped here. And for me, at least, this is true.
The sounds of the dormitory were the same as they were every morning. The light and gentle breathing of many mingled together as a single sound. I, as usual, was one of the first to awaken, as there were a few vacant beds. Though, time and experience have shown that this is not always an indication the child that had slept there the previous night had awaken and gone down to the breakfast hall. Sometimes children were stolen during the night, and were soon replaced.
I threw the sheet off from around me, and swung my legs to the side, placing them on the cool tile below. After staring into space for a few moments I eventually hoisted myself upward, the sudden movement caused my vision to darken and for a moment I was dizzy, but it soon passed. I knelt down and opened my bedside cabinet and took out my day clothes and quickly changed.
As was my habit I looked out of the barred window that was right above my bed. The waste was currently falling; it looked so peaceful, light fluff that drifted through the air on unseen air currents. That fluff was what the orphanage protected us from. It was the reason why no one ever left.
The creaking of the stairs was oddly soothing this morning, and somehow it felt nostalgic, as if I were hearing it for the first time in years, though it could have only been one night. Books that were kept in our library make obscure references to things related to time, that were no longer known here. Things like hours, minutes, seconds, these things have no meaning anymore. We only know night and day here in the Orphanage. Seasons were something of a puzzle to us as well. The books describe times when flowers would bloom, times when leaves would fall, times when the sun would shine ceaselessly. We have never seen these events. We only know one season now. The season of winter.
I spent most of my day in the library reading of the outside world. It offered something to do, and in a way, it was an escape. The other kids though me to be weird, but that was fine, I never connected well with others. Occasionally the Headmaster would join me, or I join him, when either of us found ourselves in the library together. He was odd, but not unlike me. He never told stories. But everyone knew the story, or thought they did, of how he came from The Waste. I wasn’t sure whether or not to believe it. But he was definitely strange enough to have come from out there. When we sat together we rarely spoke. Simply pleasantries such as, “Hello, sir,” or, “How are you today, Headmaster?” to which he would always respond with a simple nod. I think he graced me with his presence perhaps because he saw a bit of himself in me as a child, though it was hard to think of him as anything other than his eccentric, seemingly timeless, self.
Through my mechanically morning wonderings I found myself in the library again today, and I spied the Headmaster writing something in a book that my eyes most have passed over hundreds of times, he did not notice my presence and I slowly kept behind a bookshelf, peering at him from the space between the tops of the books and the bottom of the next self. Why I felt the need to conceal my presence I could not say, but I knew I had to read what he was writing. I hoped my curiosity would be rewarded.
After a brief time the tall, dark, man finished his scribblings and closed the book and made his way to a shelf in the far corner, filled with books with uninteresting titles such as, “Everyone Poops” or “The Time Tiny Timmy lost his Tooth” all these childish books were automatically looked over as all the readers in the orphanage desired more knowledge, not to read baby stories. The Headmaster placed the book and I paid careful attention to where it was placed so that I might be able to find it later.
I waited until the Headmaster left the room before I revealed myself, in fear that he might return to the bookshelf and take the book with him. Once he was gone I walked to the corner were the book was kept. If the Headmaster had come from the Waste his time in the orphanage had dulled him, for it was easy to find the book, for all others were covered in dust as they were never handled. I took the book and examined it, the title read, “Everything about Carpets” truly a book no child would ever read on their own. My impatience implored me to read what the Headmaster wrote immediately, and I was too happy to appease it.
The pages within the book were blank. It was slightly yellowed with age, but not a single character to be found. Displeased with my treasure I placed it back on the shelf and as soon as I did so I felt cold fingers, long and like bones sliding as smooth as serpents sliding down around my neck so that the palms the belonged to rested upon the frame of my shoulders. And the Headmaster spoke and they were the first words I had ever heard issued from his mouth.
“Mr. Kayne,” he almost seemed to hiss the words and I could feel his emerald green and icy blue eyes on the back of my head, piercing through my dark red-brown hair and through my skull and I felt his gaze on the backs of my eyes, and I found myself frozen, for I was caught, “whatever could you be doing in this section? Surely these books are to childish for one as astute in reading as you,” his voice, calm and cool without a trace of anger or frustration and if anything it sounded like from behind my back he was trying to hide a smile. His voice told me he knew what I was doing. And for the first time in my life; I felt fear.
With the event in the library weeks in the past a nightmare has replaced the old one. In the nightmare reality the Headmaster kills me for finding the book. I have not been in the library since and any time the headmaster and myself are present in the same room I cannot meet his eyes. In my sleep it feels as though he is standing over my bed, watching me with a knowing smirk on his pale face, cheery lips stretched thin across his bony mouth, his multi-colored eyes laughing at me for believing he could have been so stupid as to have left anything of his where someone could find it, mocking me from behind those blue and green windows to a mind diseased by the poisoned snow beyond the prison bars and glass. I wake up during the night, knowing he was there at the foot of my bed, but seeing no one there. And I am afraid to shut my eyes, for fear that his image would visible in my mind’s eye. For it always was.
Months of this continued. I felt my mind slipping as though I were trying to hold water in cupped hands, but not matter how tightly I tried to compact my fingers or cup my palms, the water always trickled out. I no longer slept, at least not on a normal schedule. I would go days without sleep, resting only when my body made me shut down, and in my dreams the figure with blue and green eyes cackled at me. I could no longer stand it. I, Ark Kayne, was going to murder Headmaster Stephon Hingsly.

[Monamy]

Horrifyingly thrilling!! My God, that was seriously one of the best reads I ever had!
Although nothing really special about the writing style, the development of characters and events took some really unexpected twists~ really, really loved it~♪ :nod:

[XombyPhish]

Horrifyingly thrilling!! My God, that was seriously one of the best reads I ever had!
Although nothing really special about the writing style, the development of characters and events took some really unexpected twists~ really, really loved it~♪ :nod:
Thank you so much! :D

And thanks for the criticism, do you perhaps have any tips for me as to how to make my writing style more unique or better? :)

[Monamy]

I don't really know... how about posting a conversation? like Person A talks then Person B, it makes things go smoother and easy to catch--rather than just posting the character's quotes (of course, that is IF you are/were planning on any conversations to take place beforehand) cuz... err... I don't know about the rest, but I noticed the lack of dialogue. Even if it's just one character whos present at one particular setting, a single 'thought' written in italic would make your writing sound more real-like. For example, when someone finds an empty book, the first thought that comes to mind would be something like "... what the hell?" or "Huh... empty..." Even if the character doesn't say it out loud, it gives the reader an idea about the character's mood/unique features/attitude/characteristics... It's a nice thing to add, in my opinion.

Try seperating your paragraphs with one empty line all the time, it makes reading so much easier on the eyes instead of one heavy-looking long passage. Although I really enjoyed reading your work, I honestly had to copy/paste the fifth chapter in MS Word and do the seperating myself ^^; because I found myself tending to lose the line or paragraph i was reading.

Keep it up, my friend... writing more will make you discover yourself what your work needs to rise to a new level =3