For some reason my computer has decided to slow down a hundred times more than usual (which, obviously, has NOTHING AT ALL to do with the 21.96 gB torrent I’m downloading at approximately 3.1mB/s).

But I digress. ;_;

So, here we are again, I guess. Roughly 1500 words of new content! I suppose from now on tentatively weekly updates are fine. Expect them Friday/Saturday/Sunday.

Also, DRRR pic because I finally caught up with it. (And also, Shizuo Heijima episode = god level awesome)

Oh, and I decided not to include the entire thing as it is. I’ll make a separate page for that when I’m not feeling lazy. Later. I think.

…Maybe.

By the way, I haven’t even gone over much of the stuff I wrote yet. Expect it to be crappier than usual. I just want to get this post out before my computer just outright dies on me ;_;

So, yeah. Last update + new content after the jump.

Beads of sweat carved liquid paths down my brow, doing nothing to ease the overbearing tension that filled the air around me.

Maybe, just maybe, if I was very quiet and pretended I wasn’t actually—

“Simon?”

Fuck. “Yes, Professor?” I timidly asked, looking up at Professor Hewitt from my seat at my desk.

“…Your essay, Simon.” He demanded skeptically, figuring out the situation in less than a minute.

“Ah, right, about that… Well, you see—“

“After class. My desk. We’ll talk.” He interrupted stiffly, before turning to the student next to me.

Ugh. With this, my grades were definitely going to drop below the 50% mark. Then again, nobody cares about Film Studies of all things, so… No, I can’t allow myself to think like that.

Ugh. Just… ugh. I felt like smashing my head against the hard wood of the desk at that moment.

Mr. Hewitt’s meaningful glance at me before he started class didn’t help much either.

And then, somehow, seconds melted into minutes, which eventually fell to hours. Notes that reflected on the amount of attention I had actually paid in class littered my previously empty paper (when I say “notes,” of course, I’m referring to the doodles of twelve unicorns jumping six flaming hoops over a pit of sharks.). It was only until a hand was rashly waved in front of my face that I was driven out of my slight trance.

“Class is over.” Clark stated blankly, bringing his arms to rest across his chest.

I looked around, realizing that the majority of students were beginning to wander out, the number remaining quickly dwindling.

“Oh.” I stupidly voiced, beginning to pack up what little of my stuff had actually been out.

“Don’t forget, Hewitt wants to see you.” Clark reminded me, turning on his heel and walking away.

“Yeah, yeah.” I said, to nobody in particular. I let out what must have been my hundredth sigh for that day, before hoisting my backpack onto my back and slowly walking to the large desk at the front.

In all my years, never had I ever met a man as intimidating as Mr. Hewitt. Complete with frighteningly large muscles and a voice deeper than my freshman year gym teacher’s, he was commonly referred to across campus as that Film Studies teacher.

“So, uh… Mr. Hewitt.” I began clumsily, reaching the front. I shifted from foot to foot, hesitating for several painful moments to look him in the eye.

“Ah, Simon. Welcome, and have a seat.” He offered, gesturing to the empty arm chair by his desk. I obliged, although not for the sake of my own comfort.

“I assume you are aware of the fact that you are, indeed, failing this class?” he stated matter-of-factly.

“Well… yes.” I answered half-heartedly.

“And you are aware that I have no choice but to give you a zero on this report?”

“…Yes.”

Professor Hewitt allowed a moment of silence before speaking again.

“Let me say this. I am considering boosting your grade to a high D if, on this next documentary project, you show me that you are really willing to put out the effort to pass this class.” He offered, twiddling his thumbs on the tabletop in front of him. “Keep in mind, this is only if the project is something beyond the requirements I have set for you. You know who your partners are, right?”

“Um, yeah, Clark and Tony.” I explained. He shook his head, almost as if in… disappointment?

“And you have a topic, too?” he pushed further.

“Yeah, we’re thinking about doing our documentary on, uh… well, the Blissem Massacre.”

To my expectations, Mr. Hewitt was taken slightly aback by this new piece of information. He took a few seconds for quiet contemplation.

“…The Blissem Massacre, huh… I expect lots from you three, understand?” he said. I nodded vigorously. “Make sure you don’t bring any ghosts back to my classroom when you hand in your documentary!” he lightly joked, letting a thin smile finally creep onto his face. I forced out a depressingly fake laugh.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Mr. Howard. Thanks for the, uh, opportunity to raise my grade.”

“No worries, Simon. Come in next week with a fresh start.”

…A fresh start? Teachers are unfathomable.

“Sure will, Mr. Hewitt.”

He grinned. “Splendid. You are dismissed.”

Words can’t describe how badly I wanted just to get out at that moment. I hated—absolutely despised—talking to teachers, especially those that were actually my professors.

As soon as I made my way out of the accursed classroom, a feeling of relief spread throughout my body, from my chest all the way out to the ends of my hair and the tips of my fingers.

I let out a shaky breath after inhaling fresh air. Good lord. Teachers.

“So what did Mr. Hewitt want?”

The sudden new voice permeated my thoughts, startling me slightly. I looked up to find Clark and Tony looking at me expectantly.

Honestly, I had no clue why Tony even bothered to befriend and—amazingly—even further said friendship by hanging out with Clark and me. It boggled my mind. In all my years of nerd and geekdom, it was an unspoken rule that those with an actual social life don’t even associate themselves with beings of my social caliber.

And yet, here he was, the guy famous for only attending parties when he wasn’t hosting them, bothering to wait with Clark (of all people) outside a dingy old classroom while I got lectured on my stupid report.

I would say I was curiously appreciative, but I had gotten used to the routine long ago.

“…I want you to guess.” I sarcastically challenged, responding to his earlier question.

“Was the report really that important? I mean, I knew he would fail you but I didn’t think you skipped out on that many assignments.” Clark commented.

“See, that’s the thing. The only thing I’ve handed in in that class was that one short essay on the movie industry and where it’s headed economically.” I explained, beginning to walk down the long stretch of hallway.

“Sucks for you, man.”

A short silence followed, before I began again.

“But, you know, he also talked about the doc project. We’re still set for Saturday, right?” I asked, just to make sure.

“Oh, right, the doc project. Yeah, Saturday is still good.” Tony confirmed.

“You have the research, right?”

“Yeah, and I think Clark has the cameras set, too.”

“Yep. All that’s left to do is the actual documenting.” Clark’s agreement, while reassuring in nature, did nothing to alleviate the oncoming pressure from the doc project.

And on the Blissem Massacre, at that. The mere thought of it sent shivers of excitement and anticipation down my spine.

Officer Jeremy Blissem. Husband to Molly Blissem, with two daughters, Margaret and Jo, and also a son, Phil. They’d left for their remote beach house (or rather, beach) for the summer, and disappeared for a week, the amount of time they said they’d be gone.

However, they weren’t heard of even after that. Police had searched the house, and while there had been signs of them living there for a while, they were nowhere to be found. The entire family of five was recorded missing.

A month passed. Two months. A couple walking down the now open beach had sniffed out something that smelled horribly disgusting; “Almost as if dried rotten eggs had replaced the sand beneath our feet.”

Said couple then discovered the Blissem house, still shrouded in mystery and… the smell of rotten eggs, apparently, which had grown stronger with every step nearer the house. After getting past the unlocked doors without much difficulty, the stench lead the duo to the attic, where the five carcasses of the Blissem family peacefully rested. Mutilated beyond recognition, grotesquely disfigured, some lacking body parts while others couldn’t even exactly be called a “body.”

Horror. The incident shocked thousands, sweeping across the nation. It stole the headlines of newspapers for days on end, never ceasing to appall and intimidate those who looked into it.

The biggest question: What the hell had happened? Nobody knew. It was exciting, yet deathly frightening at the same time.

Who could have done it? How could they have done it? When? What were they going to do next?

Five years later, the house became government property, open only to those who had a valid pass. More investigations were made, more confusion arose. Close relatives and friends of the Blissems were interrogated.

Five years after that, and the murder was forgotten. Cast away, as humanity moved on to talk about the next big thing.

And finally, another fifty years after that, three students planned to do a documentary on the whole thing.

As was evident, I definitely had my work cut out for me. But that wasn’t really what I was worried about. No, what tugged at my resolve the most was probably… fear.

Fear of what? Honestly, I had no clue. Normally things like this didn’t daunt me in the least. However, there was no doubt that something about the Blissem Massacre triggered something in the back of my head.

Oh, well. I was going to be spending a day or two at the actual house itself at the most, so there was almost nothing to worry about. Security over there had weakened at first but then entirely dwindled out to nothing over the years, so while the old locks and keys were still in effect, there weren’t any actual people there.

I think. Well, it was worth a shot.

“How long are we gonna be there anyway?” Tony asked, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Eh, I estimate about a day or two, if we work for a few hours on each day.” I answered.

“Two days? Oh, don’t tell me we’re going to be driving back and forth. Wait, don’t tell me we’re staying overnight either!” he complained.

“Well, that depends on what you two want to do. I’m fine either way, actually.”

“So am I. ‘S not like I have anything to do over the weekend anyway.” Clark decided. The two of us expectedly looked over to Tony.

“Oh come on… I don’t really want to do either, you know? Can’t we just, like, drive over early, get our work done, and head back?” he suggested.

“Well, if we work double time, we might be able to make it…” Clark pondered.

Yeah, right. Just because we’d work faster didn’t change the fact that we’d need at least an hour’s worth of footage. Regardless of how fast we got things done, we would need to roll the camera for at least an hour. And that even excluded the drive there and back, mistakes and reshoots, preparations, and actually getting into the house.

When we were first assigned the project, I figured that we’d need probably a few days of either camping out there or just a week of driving every day. Trying to squish everything into the span of two days was just barely possible, but a single day… that would take god-level-powers.

“Nah, I really think we’ll need at least a couple of days if we’re driving back and forth. If we’re going to camp out there then we’d get a lot done the first day, but I still think we’d need to sleep over at least a night since we can only film when it’s bright out.” I countered. Tony sighed.

“Well… then let’s sleep over there. The faster we get this thing done the better.” He reasoned. I nodded. That had actually been the direction I’d been heading towards too.

I didn’t exactly like the prospect of sleeping there, but if it could save my grade even only slightly, then I was more than willing to do it.

“Oh wait, but I need to return the cameras and equipment by Tuesday. So we only have Saturday, Sunday, and Monday. Well, more like half of Monday, if we take the packing up into account.” Clark pointed out.

This was not working the way I hoped it would at all.

“So we’re stuck with only three days? …Do you think maybe we could leave tomorrow? It would give us a lot more time.” I suggested. Today was Thursday, so if we left tomorrow we’d have four days.

A groan was elicited from Clark.

“Do we really need that much time? I was planning on actually sleeping tomorrow. You know, since you woke me up at four in the morning last night.”

“Well, you know, technically it was two nights ago.”

“I’m not even going to respond to that.” Clark sharply replied.

“Simon, I really think three days is gonna be enough.” Tony agreed, yawning. “I didn’t get much sleep last night either, you see?”

“And you guys think I did? I probably got the least sleep out of all of us. Besides, if we just go to sleep at, like, 6-ish today, we’ll get a total of 10 hours.”

“…Simon, you better not be planning on waking me up at four in the fucking morning again.” Clark warned, quickly doing the math in his head.

Natsume, Madara, and that cute little whatever-it-is from Natsume Yuujinchou because I WANT A THIRD SEASON, DAMMIT

Because facebook hates me and decides to leave the italicizations unformatted, I’m just going to post updates here.

As for a title, how about The CAE Project? Horribly unoriginal, I know, but the name itself has a huge impact on the plot. I can just go for the artsy fartsy names for chapter titles or something.

I’m always open to suggestions!

Anyway, today I bring you about 800 words of new content as well as minor fixes from the last update. (…and I’ll fix the dorm problem later ;_;)

Enjoy.

Prologue

No. No. This wasn’t happening.

I was not standing here, there was no horror because it wasn’t now, it wasn’t happening, it never was…

I felt the tears well up in my eyes before hesitantly, slowly spilling over onto the fragile skin that was my cheeks.

I let out a shuddering breath that I had been unconsciously holding, bringing my crimson-stained hands to gently stroke at the knife. Embroidered with intricate designs of fantastical creatures, angels, devils, gods, it stood completely perpendicular to the skin that it had so ruthlessly, so mercilessly clawed through. It was shoved in almost to the hilt, colored jet black in a startling contrast to the crimson-tinted white that had adorned the blade.

Crimson. The color of blood, as deep as the red of wine. The crimson was everywhere, running across not only the gruesome wound, but across my vision, dancing through the sky, weaving thick threads of the damned red all over the supposedly pure black setting.

“Ha… Hahaha….” I giggled, unable to bring my eyes away from the grotesquely gorgeous scene.

“Look, look, Cae! It’s sticking out of me! Hahaha, Cae, look at this, look at this, can you believe it?! Can you believe it?! It’s in my belly!!” Cackles spewed forth from my mouth, robbing the empty air of the silence it had held just minutes ago.

This was hilarious. Hysterical. Comical to the point of psychopathy.

Why? I vaguely questioned myself. I’m dead now, aren’t I? Why am I laughing? It’s just so… so funny. Me? Dead? Never. Never in a million years.

Yet here I was, throwing my voice up to the heavens as I sang insane laughter, the echoes of the deformed voice reaching my ears. Here I was, joking about how I have a dagger thrust several inches into the weak human flesh of my own body, cackling in a way that almost would have someone believe that I was uncultured, liberated, and not bound by the ties of duty, consequence, and the will to survive.

Maybe someone, if cursed enough to come across this pitiable sight, might believe that I was free.

Ha! Free!

“Cae, Cae, Cae, they think I’m free!! Free, right?! Free!! They… haha… They think I’m free!! Hahahaha!!”

Still shaking in the throes of laughter, I fell to my knees, bending my back in a way that should not have been possible in the least and throwing out the laughter that had been caged within me.

Blood. I coughed up blood, the liquid tumbling out of my mouth, not unlike the way a wave might crash upon the slick rocks of a cliff. The red that flowed forth landed very unoriginally onto the pool of ruby that had already settled itself upon my knees. Choking, wheezing, physically unable to laugh any longer, I simply trembled in my place on the filthy ground.

Silence. Pure, golden, silence.

Chapter 1

“Simon Gattuso. Professor Hewitt. Film Studies 116. 12 February 2010.”

The blank words stared back at me bluntly, the light of the computer screen flickering as it danced about. Dimly, the cursor by “116” blinked on and off, refusing to move forward. The only sound that felt kind enough to grace me was the light buzz of the modem and the patter of inexorable rain on the window. My hands rested on the musty keyboard in front of me, fingers resting on the home keys; however, the slouch in my posture and the dead look that glazed over my eyes told nothing of even the slightest attempt in typing anything. Rather, they gave off the opposite of just that.

A  procrastinator. A cunctator. Someone far from fit to attend college in today’s fast-paced society.

This situation always manages to find me, one way or another. Somehow, some way, I wind up sitting at my desk with a ten-page essay due in approximately four hours. Of course, I’ve made considerable progress on it (Set the font for Times New Roman size 12, double spaced everything, fixed the margins, hell, I even set the header to display pretty page numbers. Progress? Damn straight.). Sadly, the only thing I have left to work on is writing the cursed thing.

Damn. I let another wistful sigh issued from my mouth as I slouched even further into the worn and deteriorated fabric of my aged swivel chair. Finally, my fingers left the keyboard, instead coming to lie on the arm rests. I blinked. Once. Twice. Slowly, reluctantly, I pushed myself up into a standing position and stretched out my limbs, hearing every little crack and pop my joints had to offer. A quick glance at the clock told me all I needed to know: 4:17 a.m. on a pitiful Friday. It’s raining miserably outside, I didn’t accomplish anything at all last night except for five hours straight of video games and another two sitting at my computer screen wondering how I should kick off my essay.

Well. So much for that.

There were two things I could do now. I could either actually attempt to get the essay done, or I could just do what I had done at times like this since the beginning of dorm life.

The decision was made in less than the span of a few seconds, and a heavy yawn escaped my lips as I walked out of my room and into the darkened hallway of the dormitory. There was no need to try and make out the hallowed numbers of each room; I had followed this path countless times, regardless of the hour. Three minutes lead me to an ostentatiously decorated door, depicting assorted comic strips, inside jokes plastered on yellowed paper, and a particularly noticeable poster of Taylor Swift. I didn’t even bother to knock, simply pushing the door open and walking into the lightless room.

There was no need to search; I found what I had been looking for within a matter of simple seconds. I nudged at the breathing lump that inconspicuously blended into the colorfully stained floor with my foot, closing the door and flicking on the lights.

Littered with empty beer cans, trash, paper, CDs, and other miscellaneous crap, Clark’s room never failed to depress. The last time it had seen the light of cleanliness must’ve been at least the day before Clark moved in. He called it “organized chaos,” and had firmly insisted that he knew where everything was, and if he didn’t, then “the gremlins that snuck in at night were clearly at fault.”

This, in its own, leaves almost nothing to be said.

As was evident, Clark was an interesting guy. Unhealthily skinny, socially awkward, and an avid fan of video games. Undoubtedly someone who would end up befriending people like me: other unhealthily skinny, socially awkward, avid fans of video games.

“Dude. Get up.”

My terse command shook the air, breaking the quiet. A groan came from the flesh I was pushing at.

“Si… Simon, man, what the hell are you doing at… damn, is it four in the fucking morning?! What the hell is your problem?” The inquiries came lazily, slowly yet surely reaching my ears.

“Good morning, merry sunshine! The Earth says hello!” I enthusiastically spat out, going so far as to even allow onto my face the type of grin a Peewee Herman clown would use.

My salutations were greeted with silence.

“…The birds are mooing? The cows tweeting? The sun shining…?”

“This better be important.” Clark deadpanned, ignoring my attempts at happiness. I sighed, shaking my head.

“Well… how should I put this…” I began. He cocked one eyebrow, giving me a quizzical glare.

“You know that essay we have due tomorrow in Film Studies?” I paused to allow him a second to nod, but instead he took the promising opportunity to explode on me.

“It’s four in the fucking morning and you want me to help you with your goddamn essay? Jesus Christ, that thing was assigned two months ago! What the hell have you been doing all this time?!”

“Hmmm, now that I think about it, it was all mostly either pulling stupid stunts with you or playing random shmups.” I countered bluntly. A moment of silence ensued.

“…Okay, that’s pretty understandable.” He finally responded. “Why the hell should I clean up your own crap, though?”

“Mainly because I still have those pictures of you at 16 on the Boy Scouts Expedition.”

“…You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

“Son of a bitch… Okay, you know what? Fine. Fine. This once. I’ll help you write your goddamn essay. You owe me, though.”

I chuckled, stepping forward to give Clark a good pat on the back.

“’Atta boy, Clark.”

“Oh, shut up.” He snapped, grabbing a pair of bunny slippers (I don’t even know why he still has those) and shuffling out the door.

“So, got any ideas?” I first asked, dropping my voice down to a whisper as we entered the hallway again.

“Sure I do.” He replied, rubbing the last remnants of sleep from his eyes.

“Could you, uh, expand on that? Also, my dorm is to the hall on the left, not the ri—“

“I know, I know. Just shut up and follow me.” He ordered as we stopped at room number 515.

“Oh, man, Clark, he’s gonna kill you.” I warned as I finally recognized his intentions.

“Nah, he needs me for the doc project. I have the cameras and crap, remember?”

The battered door was carelessly half-flung open and the two of us stepped inside. Clark’s hand fumbled along the wall for a few seconds, before the lights dimly buzzed on.

The escape route I had mentally prepared wasn’t needed this time. The weathered wall-lamps in the room shed yellow tinted light on the scene: Tony was sitting on his bed, leaning against the wall. A laptop could be found resting on his knees, the sounds of furious typing momentarily stopping as he looked up at us.

“Tony, what the hell are you doing?” Clark questioned. Apparently I wasn’t the only one surprised at finding the man in question awake.

“…Shouldn’t I be asking you two? What do you want?” Tony casually returned, eyes glancing between both of us before returning to the laptop. The clicking of the keyboard resumed as he started working again.

“Er, I need some help for Hewitt’s essay. You know, the one on Plan Nine.” I said, eyeballing my surroundings.

Out of the three of us, Tony was definitely the most… um, normal. When Clark and I found ourselves laying siege on Arkadia with our level 80 paladins, Tony was out watching the football game. No, probably even participating in the football game. Along with about twenty different busty girls trying to see who could cheer him on the best.

His normality also affected his room, which was plastered with colorful posters, a large portion of which depicted half naked women (I counted about five of Megan Fox.). The rest were either famous sports icons or rock bands that could generally be heard blasted from Tony’s boombox whenever he was home.

I had been here several times already, yet the sheer number of females that decorated his walls never failed to amaze me.

“Hewitt? You too? Heh, that’s what I’m working on right now.” He explained, not bothering to turn his gaze back to us.

“Oh, cool. How much do you have done so far?” I asked, in surprise.

“About 7 pages. You?” he replied.

“…I fixed the headers to show page numbers.” I answered, taking a seat in the vacant chair by his desk.

Clark wearily raised a palm to his forehead, sighing in exasperation. “You know what? I’m done here. G’night, guys.” He declared, before dragging himself back the way he had come.

“What’s up with him?” Tony inquired, sparing a farewell look at the empty doorway.

“Just… Never mind that. Anyway, I need ideas for an intro; you got any?” I said, finally getting to the point.

“Nope. My essay is basically a paraphrasing of this other guy’s paper on The Creeping Terror. The movies are practically the same.”

“…Are you kidding me? The only things that make them even remotely similar are the aliens and the… the bad-ness.” I commented, looking at him incredulously.

“Whatever, dude.” He offhandedly said, still unceasing in his typing.

I sighed. A few minutes of a somewhat awkward silence passed, before I just gave up entirely and stood up again.

“Screw this, I’m going to sleep. ‘Night.” I said, heading towards the door.

“Whatever, dude.”

Fuck my life.

~

Beads of sweat carved liquid paths down my brow, doing nothing to ease the overbearing tension that filled the air around me.

Maybe, just maybe, if I was very quiet and pretended I wasn’t actually ther—

“Simon?”

Fuck. “Yes, Professor?” I timidly asked, looking up at Professor Hewitt from my seat at my desk.

“…Your essay, Simon.” He demanded skeptically, figuring out the situation in less than a minute.

“Ah, right, about that… Well, you see—“

“After class. My desk. We’ll talk.” He interrupted stiffly, before turning to the student next to me.

Ugh. With this, my grades were definitely going to drop below the 50% mark. Then again, nobody cares about Film Studies of all things, so… No, I can’t allow myself to think like that.

Ugh. Just… ugh. I felt like smashing my head against the hard wood of the desk at that moment.

Mr. Hewitt’s meaningful glance at me before he started class didn’t help much either.

And then, somehow, seconds melted into minutes, which eventually fell to hours. Notes that reflected on the amount of attention I had actually paid in class littered my previously empty paper (when I say “notes,” of course, I’m referring to the doodles of twelve unicorns jumping six flaming hoops over a pit of sharks.). It was only until a hand was rashly waved in front of my face that I was driven out of my slight trance.

“Class is over.” Clark stated blankly, bringing his arms to rest across his chest.

I looked around, realizing that the majority of students were beginning to wander out, the number remaining quickly dwindling.

“Oh.” I stupidly voiced, beginning to pack up what little of my stuff had actually been out.

“Don’t forget, Hewitt wants to see you.” Clark reminded me, turning on his heel and walking away.

“Yeah, yeah.” I said, to nobody in particular. I let out what must have been my hundredth sigh for that day, before hoisting my backpack onto my back and slowly walking to the large desk at the front.

In all my years, never had I ever met a man as intimidating as Mr. Hewitt. Complete with frighteningly large muscles and a voice deeper than my freshman year gym teacher’s, he was commonly referred to across campus as that Film Studies teacher.

“So, uh… Mr. Hewitt.” I began clumsily, reaching the front. I shifted from foot to foot, finally bringing my eyes to meet his.

“Ah, Simon. Welcome, and have a seat.” He offered, gesturing to the empty arm chair by his desk. I obliged, although not for the sake of my own comfort.

“I assume you are aware of the fact that you are, indeed, failing this class?” he started matter-of-factly.

“Well… yes.” I answered half-heartedly.

“And you are aware that I have no choice but to give you a zero on this report?”

“…Yes.”

Professor Hewitt allowed a moment of silence before speaking again.

“Let me say this. I am considering boosting your grade to a high D if, on this next documentary project, you show me that you are really willing to put out the effort to pass this class.” He offered, twiddling his thumbs on the tabletop in front of him. “Keep in mind, this is only if the project is something beyond the requirements I have set for you. You know who your partners are, right?”

“Um, yeah, Clark and Tony.” I explained. He shook his head, almost as if in… disappointment?

“And you have a topic, too?” he pushed further.

“Yeah, we’re thinking about doing our documentary on, uh… well, the Blissem Massacre.”

To my expectations, Mr. Hewitt was taken slightly aback by this new piece of information. He took a few seconds for quiet contemplation.

“…The Blissem Massacre, huh… I expect lots from you three, understand?” he said. I nodded vigorously. “Make sure you don’t bring any ghosts back to my classroom when you hand in your documentary!” he lightly joked, letting a thin smile finally creep onto his face. I forced out a depressingly fake laugh.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Mr. Howard. Thanks for the, uh, opportunity to raise my grade.”

“No worries, Simon. Come in next week with a fresh start.”

…A fresh start? Teachers are unfathomable.

“Sure will, Mr. Hewitt.”

He grinned. “Splendid. You are dismissed.”

Words can’t describe how badly I wanted just to get out at that moment. I hated—absolutely despised—talking to teachers, especially those that were actually my professors.

As soon as I made my way out of the accursed classroom, a feeling of relief spread throughout my body, from my chest all the way out to the ends of my hair and the tips of my fingers.

I let out a shaky breath after inhaling fresh air. Good lord. Teachers.

Date Masamune pic in celebration of the FRACKING AWESOME NEW POSTERS THAT GRACE MY WALL.

Anyway, I fixed up the last part and finished up the rest of the first half of Chapter One. The second half will detail Simon failing his class, stay tuned.

Also, as usual, warnings for graphic language and graphic depictions of violence. Constructive Criticism welcomed and appreciated.

Enjoy.

Prologue

No. No. This wasn’t happening.

I was not standing here, there was no horror because it wasn’t now, it wasn’t happening, it never was…

I felt the tears well up in my eyes before hesitantly, slowly spilling over onto the fragile skin that was my cheeks.

I let out a shuddering breath that I had been unconsciously holding, bringing my crimson-stained hands to gently stroke at the knife. Embroidered with intricate designs of fantastical creatures, angels, devils, gods, it stood completely perpendicular to the skin that it had so ruthlessly, so mercilessly clawed through. It was shoved in almost to the hilt, colored jet black in a startling contrast to the crimson-tinted white that had adorned the blade.

Crimson. The color of blood, as deep as the red of wine. The crimson was everywhere, running across not only the gruesome wound, but across my vision, dancing through the sky, weaving thick threads of the damned red all over the supposedly pure black setting.

“Ha… Hahaha….” I giggled, unable to bring my eyes away from the grotesquely gorgeous scene.

“Look, look, Cae! It’s sticking out of me! Hahaha, Cae, look at this, look at this, can you believe it?! Can you believe it?! It’s in my belly!!” Cackles spewed forth from my mouth, robbing the empty air of the silence it had held just minutes ago.

This was hilarious. Hysterical. Comical to the point of psychopathy.

Why? I vaguely questioned myself. I’m dead now, aren’t I? Why am I laughing? It’s just so… so funny. Me? Dead? Never. Never in a million years.

Yet here I was, throwing my voice up to the heavens as I sang insane laughter, the echoes of the deformed voice reaching my ears. Here I was, joking about how I have a dagger thrust several inches into the weak human flesh of my own body, cackling in a way that almost would have someone believe that I was uncultured, liberated, and not bound by the ties of duty, consequence, and the will to survive.

Maybe someone, if cursed enough to come across this pitiable sight, might believe that I was free.

Ha! Free!

“Cae, Cae, Cae, they think I’m free!! Free, right?! Free!! They… haha… They think I’m free!! Hahahaha!!”

Still shaking in the throes of laughter, I fell to my knees, bending my back in a way that should not have been possible in the least and throwing out the laughter that had been caged within me.

Blood. I coughed up blood, the liquid tumbling out of my mouth, not unlike the way a wave might crash upon the slick rocks of a cliff. The red that flowed forth landed very unoriginally onto the pool of ruby that had already settled itself upon my knees. Choking, wheezing, physically unable to laugh any longer, I simply trembled in my place on the filthy ground.

Silence. Pure, golden, silence.

Chapter 1

“Simon Gattuso. Professor Hewitt. Film Studies 116. 12 February 2010.”

The blank words stared back at me bluntly, the light of the computer screen flickering as it danced about. Dimly, the cursor by “116” blinked on and off, refusing to move forward. The only sound that felt kind enough to grace me was the light buzz of the modem and the patter of inexorable rain on the window. My hands rested on the musty keyboard in front of me, fingers resting on the home keys; however, the slouch in my posture and the dead look that glazed over my eyes told nothing of even the slightest attempt in typing anything. Rather, they gave off the opposite of just that.

A  procrastinator. A cunctator. Someone far from fit to attend college in today’s fast-paced society.

This situation always manages to find me, one way or another. Somehow, some way, I wind up sitting at my desk with a ten-page essay due in approximately four hours. Of course, I’ve made considerable progress on it (Set the font for Times New Roman size 12, double spaced everything, fixed the margins, hell, I even set the header to display pretty page numbers. Progress? Damn straight.). Sadly, the only thing I have left to work on is writing the cursed thing.

Damn. I let another wistful sigh escape my lips as I slouched even further into the worn and deteriorated fabric of my aged swivel chair. Finally, my fingers left the keyboard, instead coming to lie on the arm rests. I blinked. Once. Twice. Slowly, reluctantly, I pushed myself up into a standing position and stretched out my limbs, hearing every little crack and pop my joints had to offer. A quick glance at the clock told me all I needed to know: 4:17 a.m. on a pitiful Friday. It’s raining miserably outside, I didn’t accomplish anything at all last night except for five hours straight of video games and another two sitting at my computer screen wondering how I should kick off my essay.

Well. So much for that.

There were two things I could do now. I could either actually attempt to get the essay done, or I could just do what I had done at times like this since the beginning of dorm life.

The decision was made in less than the span of a few seconds, and a heavy yawn escaped my lips as I walked out of my room and into the darkened hallway of the dormitory. There was no need to try and make out the hallowed numbers of each room; I had followed this path countless times, regardless of the hour. Three minutes lead me to an ostentatiously decorated door, depicting assorted comic strips, inside jokes plastered on yellowed paper, and a particularly noticeable poster of Taylor Swift. I didn’t even bother to knock, simply pushing the door open and walking into the lightless room.

There was no need to search; I found what I had been looking for within a matter of simple seconds. I nudged at the breathing lump that inconspicuously blended into the colorfully stained floor with my foot, closing the door and flicking on the lights.

Littered with empty beer cans, trash, paper, CDs, and other miscellaneous crap, Clark’s room never failed to depress. The last time it had seen the light of cleanliness must’ve been at least the day before Clark moved in. He called it “organized chaos,” and had firmly insisted that he knew where everything was, and if he didn’t, then “the gremlins that snuck in at night were clearly at fault.”

This, in its own, leaves almost nothing to be said.

As was evident, Clark was an interesting guy. Unhealthily skinny, socially awkward, and an avid fan of video games. Undoubtedly someone who would end up befriending people like me: other unhealthily skinny, socially awkward, avid fans of video games.

“Dude. Get up.”

My terse command shook the air, breaking the quiet. A groan came from the flesh I was pushing at.

“Si… Simon, man, what the hell are you doing at… damn, is it four in the fucking morning?! What the hell is your problem?” The inquiries came lazily, slowly yet surely reaching my ears.

“Good morning, merry sunshine! The Earth says hello!” I enthusiastically spat out, going so far as to even allow onto my face the type of grin a Peewee Herman clown would use.

My salutations were greeted with silence.

“…The birds are mooing? The cows tweeting? The sun shining…?”

“This better be important.” Clark deadpanned, ignoring my attempts at happiness. I sighed, shaking my head.

“Well… how should I put this…” I began. He cocked one eyebrow, giving me a quizzical glare.

“You know that essay we have due tomorrow in Film Studies?” I paused to allow him a second to nod, but instead he took the promising opportunity to explode on me.

“It’s four in the fucking morning and you want me to help you with your goddamn essay? Jesus Christ, that thing was assigned two months ago! What the hell have you been doing all this time?!”

“Hmmm, now that I think about it, it was all mostly either pulling stupid stunts with you or playing random shmups.” I countered bluntly. A moment of silence ensued.

“…Okay, that’s pretty understandable.” He finally responded. “Why the hell should I clean up your own crap, though?”

“Mainly because I still have those pictures of you at 16 on the Boy Scouts Expedition.”

“…You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

“Son of a bitch… Okay, you know what? Fine. Fine. This once. I’ll help you write your goddamn essay. You owe me, though.”

I chuckled, stepping forward to give Clark a good pat on the back.

“’Atta boy, Clark.”

“Oh, shut up.” He snapped, grabbing a pair of bunny slippers (I don’t even know why he still has those) and shuffling out the door.

“So, got any ideas?” I first asked, dropping my voice down to a whisper as we entered the hallway again.

“Sure I do.” He replied, rubbing the last remnants of sleep from his eyes.

“Could you, uh, expand on that? Also, my dorm is to the hall on the left, not the ri—“

“I know, I know. Just shut up and follow me.” He ordered as we stopped at room number 515.

“Oh, man, Clark, he’s gonna kill you.” I warned as I finally recognized his intentions.

“Nah, he needs me for the doc project. I have the cameras and crap, remember?”

The battered door was carelessly half-flung open and the two of us stepped inside. Clark’s hand fumbled along the wall for a few seconds, before the lights dimly buzzed on.

Due to my wonderfully effective self preservation techniques, I had mentally prepared an escape route, but this time it wasn’t needed. The weathered wall-lamps in the room shed yellow tinted light on the scene: Tony was sitting on his bed, leaning against the wall. A laptop could be found resting in his lap, the sounds of furious typing momentarily stopping as he looked up at us.

“Tony, what the hell are you doing?” Clark questioned. Apparently I wasn’t the only one surprised at finding the man in question awake.

“…Shouldn’t I be asking you two? What do you want?” Tony casually retorted, eyes glancing between both of us before returning to the laptop. The clicking of the keyboard resumed as he started working again.

“Er, I need some help for Hewitt’s essay. You know, the one on Plan Nine.” I said, eyeballing my surroundings.

Out of the three of us, Tony was definitely the most… er, normal. When Clark and I found ourselves laying siege on Arkadia with our level 80 paladins, Tony was out watching the football game. No, probably even participating in the football game. Along with about twenty different busty girls trying to see who could cheer him on the best.

His normality also affected his room, which was plastered with colorful posters, a large portion of which depicted half naked women (I counted about five of Megan Fox.). The rest were either famous sports icons or rock bands that could generally be heard blasted from Tony’s boombox whenever he was home.

I had been here several times already, yet the sheer number of females that decorated his walls never failed to amaze me.

“Hewitt? You too? Heh, that’s what I’m working on right now.” He explained, not bothering to turn his gaze back to us.

“Oh, wow. How much do you have done so far?” I asked, in surprise.

“About 7 pages. You?” he replied.

“…I fixed the headers to show page numbers.” I answered, taking a seat in the vacant chair by his desk.

Clark audibly threw a palm to his forehead. “You know what? I’m done here. G’night, guys.” He declared, before dragging himself back the way he had come.

“What’s up with him?” Tony inquired, sparing a farewell look at the empty doorway.

“Just… Never mind that. Anyway, I need ideas for an intro; you got any?” I said, finally getting to the point.

“Nope. My essay is basically a paraphrasing of this other guy’s paper on The Creeping Terror. The movies are practically the same.”

“…Are you kidding me? The only things that make them even remotely similar are the aliens and the… the bad-ness.” I commented, looking at him incredulously.

“Whatever, dude.” He offhandedly said, still unceasing in his typing.

I sighed.

A few minutes of silence passed, before I just gave up entirely and stood up again.

“Screw this, I’m going to sleep. ‘Night.” I said, heading towards the door.

“Whatever, dude.”

Fuck my life.

Bonus points, yada yada, you get the point. (Hint? Look by the logo.)

Today I bring you the complete prologue and the first part of the first chapter. It is nowhere near done or completely edited, constructive criticism is encouraged and appreciated.

Kudos to everybody who’s helped so far (especially Fred. GOOD LORD YOU WRITE A LOT).

Actually I doubt anybody will see this except for perhaps the occasional stray googler. Well, whatever.

Also, if you have any half decent ideas for a title, those would be great too.

Finally, a few warnings for the novel: Graphic depictions of violence, graphic language. You know the drill.

On with the show.

No. No. This wasn’t happening.

I was not standing here, there was no horror because it wasn’t now, it wasn’t happening, it never was…

I felt the tears well up in my eyes before hesitantly, slowly spilling over onto the fragile skin that was my cheeks.

I let out a shuddering breath that I had been unconsciously holding, bringing my crimson-stained hands to gently stroke at the knife. Embroidered with intricate designs of fantastical creatures, angels, devils, gods, it stood completely perpendicular to the skin that it had so ruthlessly, so mercilessly clawed through. It was shoved in almost to the hilt, colored jet black in a startling contrast to the crimson-tinted white that had adorned the blade.

Crimson. The color of blood, as deep as the red of wine. The crimson was everywhere, running across not only the gruesome wound, but across my vision, dancing through the sky, weaving thick threads of the damned red all over the supposedly pure black setting.

“Ha… Hahaha….” I giggled, unable to bring my eyes away from the grotesquely gorgeous scene.

“Look, look, Cae! It’s sticking out of me! Hahaha, Cae, look at this, look at this, can you believe it?! Can you believe it?! It’s in my belly!!” Cackles spewed forth from my mouth, robbing the empty air of the silence it had held just minutes ago.

This was hilarious. Hysterical. Comical to the point of psychopathy.

Why? I vaguely questioned myself. I’m dead now, aren’t I? Why am I laughing? It’s just so… so funny. Me? Dead? Never. Never in a million years.

Yet here I was, throwing my voice up to the heavens as I sang insane laughter, the echoes of the deformed voice reaching my ears. Here I was, joking about how I have a dagger thrust several inches into the weak human flesh of my own body, cackling in a way that almost would have someone believe that I was uncultured, liberated, and not bound by the ties of duty, consequence, and the will to survive.

Maybe someone, if cursed enough to come across this pitiable sight, might believe that I was free.

Ha! Free!

“Cae, Cae, Cae, they think I’m free!! Free, right?! Free!! They… haha… They think I’m free!! Hahahaha!!”

Still shaking in the throes of laughter, I fell to my knees, bending my back in a way that should not have been possible in the least and throwing out the laughter that had been caged within me.

Blood. I coughed up blood, the liquid tumbling out of my mouth, not unlike the way a wave might crash upon the slick rocks of a cliff. The red that flowed forth landed very unoriginally onto the pool of ruby that had already settled itself upon my knees. Choking, wheezing, physically unable to laugh any longer, I simply trembled in my place on the filthy ground.

Silence. Pure, golden, silence.

Chapter 1

“Simon Gattuso. February 12, 2010. Film Studies 116.”

The blank words stared back at me bluntly, the light of the computer screen flickering as it danced about. Dimly, the cursor by “116” blinked on and off, refusing to move forward. The only sound that felt kind enough to grace me was the light buzz of the modem and the patter of inexorable rain on the window. My hands rested on the musty keyboard in front of me, fingers resting on the home keys; however, the slouch in my posture and the dead look that glazed over my eyes told nothing of even the slightest attempt in typing anything. Rather, they gave off the opposite of just that.

A  procrastinator. A cunctator. Someone far from fit to attend college in today’s fast-paced society.

This situation always manages to find me, one way or another. Somehow, some way, I wind up sitting at my desk with a twenty-page essay due in approximately four hours. Of course, I’ve made considerable progress on it (Set the font for Times New Roman size 12, double spaced everything, fixed the margins, hell, I even set the header to display pretty page numbers. Progress? Damn straight.). Sadly, the only thing I have left to work on is writing the cursed thing.

Damn. I let another wistful sigh escape my lips as I slouched even further into the worn and deteriorated fabric of my aged swivel chair. Finally, my fingers left the keyboard, instead coming to lie on the arm rests. I blinked. Once. Twice. Slowly, reluctantly, I pushed myself up into a standing position and stretched out my limbs, hearing every little crack and pop my joints had to offer. A quick glance at the clock told me all I needed to know: 4:17 a.m. on a pitiful Friday. It’s raining miserably outside, I didn’t accomplish anything at all last night except for five hours straight of video games and another two sitting at my computer screen wondering how I should kick off my essay.

Well. So much for that.

There were two things I could do now. I could either actually attempt to get the essay done, or I could just do what I had done at times like this since the beginning of dorm life.

The decision was made in less than the span of a few seconds, and a heavy yawn escaped my lips as I walked out of my room and into the darkened hallway of the dormitory. There was no need to try and make out the hallowed numbers of each room; I had followed this path countless times, regardless of the hour. Three minutes lead me to an ostentatiously decorated door, depicting assorted comic strips, inside jokes plastered on yellowed paper, and a particularly noticeable poster of Taylor Swift. I didn’t even bother to knock, simply pushing the door open and walking into the lightless room.

There was no need to search; I found what I had been looking for within a matter of simple seconds. With my foot, I nudged at the breathing lump that inconspicuously blended into the colorfully stained floor, closing the door and flicking on the lights.

Littered with empty beer cans, trash, paper, CDs, and other miscellaneous crap, Clark’s room never failed to depress. The last time it had seen the light of cleanliness must’ve been at least the day before Clark moved in. He called it “organized chaos,” and had firmly insisted that he knew where everything was, and if he didn’t, then “the gremlins that snuck in at night were clearly at fault.”

This, in its own, leaves almost nothing to be said.

As was evident, Clark was an interesting guy. Unhealthily skinny, socially awkward, and an avid fan of video games. Undoubtedly someone who would end up befriending people like me: other unhealthily skinny, socially awkward, avid fans of video games.

“Dude. Get up.”

My terse command shook the air, breaking the quiet. A groan came from the flesh I was pushing at.

“Si… Simon, man, what the hell are you doing at… damn, is it four in the fucking morning?! What the hell is your problem?” The inquiries came lazily, slowly yet surely reaching my ears.

“Good morning, merry sunshine! The Earth says hello!” I enthusiastically spat out, going so far as to even allow onto my face the type of grin a Peewee Herman clown would use.

My salutations were greeted with silence.

“…The birds are mooing? The cows tweeting? The sun shining…?”

“This better be relatively important.” Clark deadpanned, ignoring my attempts at happiness. I sighed, shaking my head.

“Well… how should I put this…” I began. He cocked one eyebrow, giving me his infamous skeptical glare.

“You know that essay we have due tomorrow in Film Studies?” I paused to allow him a second to nod, but instead he took the promising opportunity to explode on me.

“It’s four in the fucking morning and you want me to help you with your goddamn essay? Jesus Christ, that thing was assigned two months ago! What the hell have you been doing all this time?!”

“Hmmm, now that I think about it, it was all mostly either pulling stupid stunts with you or playing random shmups.” I countered bluntly. A moment of silence ensued.

“…Okay, that’s pretty understandable.” He finally responded. “Why the hell should I clean up your own crap, though?”

“Mainly because I still have those pictures of you at 16 on the Boy Scouts Expedition.”

“…You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

“Son of a bitch… Okay, you know what? Fine. Fine. This once. I’ll help you write your goddamn essay. You owe me, though.” He

I chuckled, stepping forward to give Clark a good pat on the back.

“’Atta boy, Clark.”

“Oh, shut up.” He snapped, grabbing a pair of bunny slippers (I don’t even know why he still has those) and shuffling out the door.

“So, got any ideas?” I first asked, dropping my voice down to a whisper as we entered the hallway again.

“Sure I do.” He replied, rubbing the last remnants of sleep from his eyes.

“Could you, uh, expand on that? Also, my dorm is to the hall on the left, not the ri—“

“I know, I know. Just shut up and follow me.” He ordered as we stopped at room number 515.

“Oh, man, Clark, he’s gonna kill you.” I warned as I finally recognized his intentions.

(^By the way, bonus points if you get the reference. Why this picture? Because FABULOUS)

So.  I’ve finally decided to make some use of this site. There are still a little tweaks here and there that I’d like to fix, but I suppose that can be tackled later.

This blog will mostly consist of a way for me to share work with partners for assorted projects, a place to post updates to the mystery I’m writing, a place to get comments and suggestions on said mystery, and also a place just to share random crap that I come across.

Well. We’ll see where this takes me in due time, I guess.

Let the games begin~