room 304.
"I only want to express the black part of me, the part of me that’s twisted. When something is fun, it’s fun for only that moment, right. But the bad stuff, the pain, we bring it with us for days. And depending on how deep the wound, we might not be able to forget for a year or two. First off, It’s impossible for anyone to sustain fun for 2 years. In short, I have no interest in expressing the ethereal."
- Kyo
He can peer into the holes in your soul and count the cracks in your heart. He can walk in your very memories and listen in on your thoughts. An ability like this would make a man go crazy, but he has no heart, and he has no soul. He is but a mere collector of broken memories.
When did it all start? I can remember everything, even now. The letter, it's sitting in between the loafs of bread and the jars of salt. It didn't start with the letter. Ever since I took my first glance at the world and looked at the fear in my mother's eyes, I knew that I was different.
My parents, they kept me in my room all day and everyday . I did all my classes online and talked to my parents on the phone. Other than the few seconds after I was born, I had never had face to face contact with a single human being for the first fifteen years of my life.
Oddly enough, the days that had passed by, were extremely vivid. When I was born, I remembered the way my mother's wide eyes dilated, and the faded blue hospital gown that hung from my mother's frail body. Then, when I was five, I remember the rug that snugged against the farthest corner of the room. The red blood threads were soft and silky. They were soft enough that instead of falling asleep in my bed, I fell asleep on the rug. On that rug, I would often dream about Arabian nights, soaring on a flying carpet and watching elephants bathe themselves in the moonlit rivers.
The rug only kept me content for a few years, though. It was when I turned twelve that I finally began to know what the word loneliness was. No longer was it just another word that I read about in the files of my computer. I had no one, not even my rug to keep me company.
I never did question my situation, but only accepted it as a way of life. It was the inevitable. But that day, when he slipped the paper underneath the cracks of the doorway, was the day that changed.
The piece of paper was folded neatly in a square. In black ink, was scribbled the initials of my name. When I unfolded the paper, there was only a single sentence scribbled against the the folds.