Recommended Topic: [After Death]

Confirmed

Loading…

• Michael   -

       Darkness. A whole lot of darkness.

       Michael’s eyes felt weird as he opened them, but the thought was quickly whisked away. His thoughts felt…strangely serene. What happened again? Michael tried to remember, but as he neared remembering, a horrible, sharp pain stabbed his head. Don’t. 

     Michael didn’t try again. For some reason he wasn’t curious about what happened in the least, which was strange since he was usually curious. No, that’s not right. I’m curious, but it feels muffled too. Once again, those thoughts slipped from him, his mind instead turning toward where he was. He was laying on the…floor?…of a dark area. It wasn’t black, as he could still see his hair against it, it was just dark. It was like there was simply nothing, except for the contradicting fact that he was laying on nothing. He slowly sat up, and he felt a strange, muffled feeling of pain.

        Huh? Michael blinked. There were objects scattered about the area, ranging from a violin to a calculator. Michael sat there for a moment, then he understood what he saw. They were objects from his life. Mama’s old violin and school calculator, fathers piano, Terry’s surprises, his new flowers, and countless other objects that belonged to his life. 

      Where am I? Even while his mind was muffled, Michael could tell where he was unnatural. With a hard bit of effort, Michael brought himself to his feet. Strangely enough, the muffled sense of intense pain spiked again, though Michael couldn’t quite feel it in his current state. He glanced around, and his eyes caught on a book he didn’t recognize. The area had countless books from his fathers giant library, but that one was far larger and far more unfamiliar than the others. When his attention turned to it, suddenly it was in Michael’s hands, scaring him.

       He jumped, almost dropping the book. Once he calmed down, he examined the large book in his hands. Wait, my hands don’t look right. They… The thought slipped through his hands, and Michael turned his attention back to the book.

       It was a green, hardcover book with gold letters inscribed elegantly onto the front. The words read “Guide to the Afterlife” strangely enough. Michael shrugged, not thinking too hard about it, and flipped it to the table of contents. 

        Guide to the Afterlife 

1. You’re dead

2. What this means

3. Aspects of Death

4. Possession

5. Important memories

6. Rules

7. What is Paradise

8. Literally Everything else about Afterlife

      

      Michael frowned. Afterlife? He opened the first chapter expectantly.

1. Your Dead

      Guess what? You're dead! Now before you go off about how you're “not dead”, you “don’t know where you are”, “what in the world is this place”, “why does my mind feel funny”, and “what the hell is going on” and other nonsense, we need to get this past you. You. Are. Dead. Hopefully, you trust my word. If you don’t…well you’ll find out you’re dead soon enough. 

        It took him a second, but despite his muffled emotions, Michael still felt bewildered. I’m dead? The thought slowly made its way through his mind as he processed what he had just read at a snail’s pace. I’m…dead. Unfortunately, the thought felt strangely right, supported by the fact that it wasn’t one of the thoughts his mind let slip away. Am I really dead…? It could explain why all this strange stuff was happening. Maybe I’m in hell. Michael wondered dreamily before slowly turning back to the page, his mind half in the clouds.

        The good news for you is that you're lucky! Your death lottery number won, so you were graciously gifted this book (by Paradise and Waste renowned author Jace Brown nonetheless) and a personalized MMT. This book is obviously a guide for your Afterlife journey, but you’re probably wondering what an “MMT” is. Well, first of all, that’s just the slang term for it. It’s technically called the “Memory Management Tool” but it does a lot more a lot differently than the name implies. First of all, it’s an ‘infinite’ area. If you run too long in one direction, it will put you back where you started because you haven’t collected enough Significance for that area to matter. (Significance is explained in the third chapter, so bear with me) Here, everything that has ever mattered in your Life has been perfectly replicated. You only have the amount you had in real life, but it’s just as legit as the real deal. If there’s food there, you can eat it. Oh right, eating. 

        You can eat. Somehow the matter recycles and whatnot, a different author covers that. So, even if you have an impairment that would usually cause you to be unable to eat, you should be able to. (Unless you have no mouth. If you have no stomach or esophagus though, you're still clear) Anyway, back to the main point.

        MMT can house other dead people as well if you’re feeling generous. But you don’t hold any special power over them, they can do what they want. The final two parts are that you can speak to others inside while not being in it, and you simply have it, it isn’t an object or anything. Lucky you.

2.   What this means

       Being dead doesn’t make you one hundred percent invincible. There are pros like not having to eat or breathe, and not being able to be truly destroyed. But there are even more cons. You may be forever separated from family, your fellow dead people are merciless, you can be possessed, trying to live a normal life may kill people close to you, and other horrible stuff. Not all sunshine and rainbows. Wounds will heal in record time without causing permanent damage, but the pain will be the same as before. You can eat or choose not to, but you won’t ever taste food. You don’t need to breathe, but the way you died may forever cause you pain. 

         On the subject of pain, your senses and thoughts are most likely currently suppressed. Beware that the worst moment in your life may await you, depending on how horrible your death was. Good luck.

         Living your best dead life can mean many things. Some choose to go to Paradise, the land where you slowly lose yourself in a constant state of insatiable, unending hunger for bliss before rejoining the turmoil of the cycle of life. Some go there searching for happiness and the end. That is not what it is. Others stay on Earth, searching endlessly for a life they’ve already lost. Or you go to Waste, which is essentially a bunch of black markets, brothels, hate, rage, and betrayal. Paradise and Waste are easily explained, but sticking around on Earth is a whole different story. 

      Out of the millions who have died, 99% immediately go to Waste or Paradise. Young children are most often the ones who stay simply because they aren’t too affiliated with a religion, which is often what spurs a person to go to Waste or Paradise thinking it’s the same as heaven and hell. But others may stay too. You’ll find that those who stay often have revenge or trauma-aligned reasons. But, the most common reasons are the following. Children stay, despairing and broken hearts chaining them to their families if they had one or loved one. Teenagers stick around begging for the high life to come back, mourning over lost friends and fun. They are the ones who try to go back to normal life while sticking around the most. Adults tend to leave, unless they harbor grudges against the cause of their death, whether it be a person or a thing. 

        Whether you're a child, teenager, adult, or somewhere in between, staying on Earth isn’t for the weak-Willed. (Will is another concept explained in the third chapter) Most wander until they’re overtaken by anger and madness, wreaking havoc on Earth until they realize how pointless it is. Some try to do good deeds, but eventually they crack. A few find a way of “life”, perhaps even love if they are lucky. Those who try to go back to normal often end up with dead friends and family. Each option is best for different people, but sticking around on Earth oftentimes can be a difficult and lonely Afterlife. 

       The final matter of this chapter is ethics. When you're dead, everything becomes wonky and weird, and Afterlife’s rules have a few more holes than Life’s rules. Ethics are like the rules, they’re very finicky. Being dead, your existence is technically defined as a living memory, if you stick around. (Lots of slang is used, though. You can be referred to as a soul, a memory, a ghost, etc. But, living memory is the most accurate one) What matters to your memory, the people important to you in both of your lives will matter. With them, Life’s ethics and morals basically apply the same. Little change happens there. People who have some level of importance but you don’t particularly care about, that’s where morals start to go off the rails. If they annoy you, suddenly hurting them is a completely viable option. Long story short, if might makes right, poison makes right, ruining their life makes right, or whatever else makes it right, you consider doing it. Simple and a bit cold. But people you don’t know or hate? Murder, death, torture. Or maybe you pretend to be nice. Whatever’s best for your agenda. Afterlife’s ghosts are often merciless. But not everyone. Some choose to be kindhearted and loving unless somebody bothers them, but that doesn’t mean you can trust them. Those types care deeply about loved ones and tend to be protective, sometimes to the point of insanity.

       Michael stopped there. That was…a lot. If I really, truly am dead, then… Michael wasn’t sure what it meant. He had a horrifying gut feeling that this was all true, and despite how wild it seemed, it would explain his current situation. There was no realistic reason for what was going on, and it didn’t matter how slow Michael was, he could understand that. 

       He sat there for a second, just staring into the abyssal space, taking it all in. Everything’s wrong. This thought, simple as it was, came with the horrible, sudden return to reality. With this return came the crushing tsunami of turmoil, emotion, and pain. 

       Michael screamed, but nothing came out. Sadness, fear, confusion, anger, and hopelessness overwhelmed Michael’s senses. All the emotions and pain that had been muffled suddenly bore down in a wave of pure agony. For one, agonizingly long second, Michael was wracked with an ineffable feeling of pain and emotion he never wanted to feel again. It was like somebody ripped out his heart, carved into it and the rest of his body, then left it out on a beach to be beaten by endless waves. But, as suddenly as the storm came, it washed away, leaving Michael stunned for a time. He didn’t know how much time passed, but eventually, he returned to a more normal state. 

       It was a rather sobering moment, however short. Michael lay there on hands and knees, feeling horrible, but currently quite grateful. I don’t ever want to feel that way again. He wiped away the tears he hadn’t even realized he was crying and opened his eyes. 

       A disgusting and terrible scene awaited him. It was the same room he had been in before, but the broom was cast aside, its wood splintered and bloody. The rest of the room was left off far, far, worse. The scene would forever scar itself into Michael’s mind. The white and black checkerboard-styled flooring was stained red by pools and splatterings of blood. So much blood. Michael felt sick to his stomach, and it only got worse the more he looked.

        In the pools of blood, things were floating. A bloody, severed forearm, tricep, hand, and fingers. Another. The same thing with two legs. Grotesque, bloody, and roughly severed, they were the four limbs of an unmistakable body. Bile rose in Michael’s throat, but he was unable to throw up. The body was the centerpiece of the murder scene, the whole midsection ruthlessly chopped out, though not quite in half. The disgusting stench of a pierced bowel hung in the air. Long, slimy, blood-covered pieces of intestines were floating all around, and the other organs weren’t any better. The bone, which Michael could barely see through all the blood and carnage, was mostly untouched, but the other organs had been roughly smashed. In the area where his legs would have been were two stumps, the other thing in that area smashed to bits. There was no pattern or strategy to it, just destruction. Michael could also see the head was detached, laying separately. Using the now rough and chopped edge of the neck as a base, the head sat at the very end like a trophy of death. Untouched black hair, now matted with blood. Pale skin streaked with blood and crusted with old tears. Once blue eyes, now bloody, carved in face. The mouth was untouched, as well as most of the nose and the whole forehead, but the area where eyes were from side to side was now marred flesh. 

      Horrifying, but undeniably Michael’s own body. Torn into pieces. Michael sucked in a breath. How do I fix this? Michael thought sadly, unsure and feeling lost. He had never felt as helpless and young as at that moment. Tears burst from his eyes, and he cried. He cried for a long time.

      But nobody came to help, and sometimes you had to do it yourself. So eventually, Michael stopped crying. Eventually, Michael stood up. Eventually, he decided to fix the problem. It wasn’t because he was brave, but he only had two choices, and that was to keep crying or move on. He stood up, a sad calmness overtaking him as he began to search for a solution numbly. 

       He quickly discovered his current state of being was like an undefined cloud of consciousness that was somehow able to affect physical objects. He got the feeling he was like this because he didn’t have an available body. Without a word and with the least amount of thought possible, Michael searched around the room. There was hardly anything in there besides the cabinet, so before long Michael was scouring it. Any lock didn’t stand a chance as he bashed it with the brooms and mops laying against the cabinet. He quickly emptied the drawers, and soon enough he was able to find something that could work. It was a roll of Duct tape, and some needle and thread. Michael was by no means good at sowing, but he had watched his Mama do it, and he didn’t have much else to use. Holding back the bile in his throat and grimacing, Michael pulled out his own body parts. He felt numb. 

     Slowly, and with quivering hands and emotions, Michael sloppily sewed and taped his own body back together. It was a shoddy job and the end product was bloody and destroyed, but Michael felt the tiniest bit calmer now that he had a body. As well as more despair as he realized just how ruined it was. No matter how he felt though, he had a body, and he was quickly yanked back into it. 

      Michael winced. His whole body ached and protested as he struggled to stand. It was hard to move, the pieces of his body grinding against each other and loosening the threads holding it up. The pain wasn’t fun, but it was more like having a bad knee—except for everything. It was tolerable, and he had even more range of motion than before. Michael stared at his arm as he slowly rolled it in a full circle, bending unnaturally. Bile and pain came back with a vengeance, so he stopped. 

     Unsure what to do, Michael began to stumble out of the room when he realized he had a problem. His chopped-up internals and his face were still a disaster. How can I see right now? Honestly, Michael wasn’t sure how he was doing much of anything, but he didn’t have time for his dreamy thoughts. He sighed, the sound coming out surprisingly normal despite all the conflicting factors, like his chopped-up lungs. All of the duct tape had been used to remake his body, so all that was left was thread, needle, and his clothes, which were all in rags beside the ribbon. His flannel looked more like a torn and bloody crop top, and his black pants had become one pant and one rough short. Starting with the thread, he reluctantly tried to pull together his gross mess of a face. He tried to tie it together, but it was too slick and it just wouldn’t stay, so he turned to the cloth. Michael did tie together his body, and he never wanted to think back to that moment again. He never wanted to touch such flappy, bloody hanging skin again. Vegan. I’m gonna become vegan. He quickly ripped off his pant, turning them completely into shorts. He hastily tied a thin layer around his head like a blindfold and the rest around his stomach. 

       It was done. Bloody tears somehow spilled out of Michael’s empty, covered sockets as he stumbled over to the door. The door…looks burnt. Michael wondered why aimlessly, but he moved past it, a great urge to go home and hug his mom fueling him. I want it all to be normal again. I want to pretend this never happened. He felt a deep sadness, but he trudged on past the door and into a ruined burnt hallway.

     Gone was the pristine white hall of Firmin HQ. Obviously, a fire had been through there, because ash littered the floor and black stained the walls and floor. Doors were black as night with wood planks peeling off from them. Michael noticed it all, but he paid it no mind as he focused on pulling his broken body to the exit. The smell of old fire was almost comforting. A faintly glowing exit sign was like the finish line, instilling both determination and fear in him. Determination to make it home and return to his life, which seemed so wonderful now that he’d had a taste of death. Fear of if he would even be able to do so. He couldn’t completely understand it, but he got what the book said. Everything was different now. He wanted to stay on Earth, but it might not work out, and the thought scared him. He didn’t want to lose his life, his family. Even if they weren’t perfect, his death had instilled a far more grateful outlook on his life. The idea of twisted morals scared him too. He felt different, but just how different was he? He didn’t want to be mean or hurt anybody unless they hurt him, but what if that view changed? What if I change too much? What if I’m different? What if I become like the person who killed me? What if I already am?

        Footsteps that were struggling but sure became confused and unsteady as Michael was filled with trepidation and endless questions. He was fearful of the future. He stopped, his dead limbs teetering a little. Maybe I should just leave. Is Paradise seriously that bad? It would be…easy. So easy. For a second, Michael felt himself fade. Felt himself ease away from his own body, off up into the forever nothing. Hungering for happiness, hungering for–No. Terry’s waiting for me at home, and so is Mama. Father too, even if he doesn’t care. That doesn’t matter, because I care for them, and that’s enough. If I leave, Mama and Terry—maybe even father—will be worried. Leaving them and letting myself truly die would be selfish, and Terry taught me that being selfish is bad. I’ll make sure they never have to worry, and they won’t ever have to feel that pain. Michael smiled at that thought. He knew deep down he was only five, and he wouldn’t truly be able to protect them, but he just needed to think that. Just for a little bit. Just until this is all over. 

      With something that wasn’t quite brave enough to be courage but rather an unreal hope, Michael started to walk again. Slowly but steadily, he made his way to the door, beginning to reach up a hand like a zombie. I guess essentially, I am one. He tried to open the door, but it only budged an inch. Pushing again, it didn’t open. Using his full force this time, he rammed into the door and was immediately thrown out and onto the dirt. He spat out the dirt, disgusted by its taste. At least I can taste it. He struggled to get up and cried out in pain when his right pinky finger came loose. It was disgusting to see it separate from his body, and he gagged. He didn’t know how to sow and had merely pulled together the bits, so most of him was hanging by a literal thread. Steeling himself, he shoved his pinky into his back pocket and tried not to think about it. He looked around to see that the area was deserted, though caution tape was strung all around. There was caution tape around the door, but it had been broken when he had come through. He was standing in the middle of the front where all the landscaped plants were, and the parking lot lay before him. A ton of dirt had been tracked into it, by cars he could tell. Everything was burnt, but Michael liked that. The fire had burnt away the building and all the new memories with it. He would never have to face this building again.

     Walking past all that, Michael looked out onto the road. No cars were anywhere to be seen. Luckily it was nighttime, and nobody was to be seen. Now it’s a matter of finding my way home. 

     Michael dug through his brain, trying to remember where his house was. Usually, he was quite forgetful, but he knew the way from his house to here quite well and the distance was very short.

     It's going to be a long walk.

-

        Michael wasn’t sure how long he walked. Could’ve been days for all he cared, but the sun hadn’t yet risen, so he knew it hadn’t been days. But eventually, the white house he had come to call home was in sight. It was large and glorious, hence their large amount of money, but also simple. Their family didn’t decorate, much to Mama’s chagrin. He had made a wrong turn at some point because he was looking at it from behind, but he had arrived all the same. It was probably for the best that he didn’t come from the front, just so nobody saw him. He snuck around the eggshell white bricks, lightly running his four-fingered right hand over it. The door was small for the house, metal, and black. He opened it without another thought, hurriedly going in and quietly shutting the door behind him. He let out a sigh, all the stress of the moment going out with it, leaving behind a tired sadness. More bloody tears spilled out from his empty sockets, and he fell to his knees, ignoring the pain that came with it. He sobbed and whimpered, but picked himself back up. I just want it all to stop. Make it-

        “Thump.” A muffled thumping sound came from upstairs, most likely from Terry’s room. Michael blinked, the shock blockading his sorrow once again. He went to go up the stairs, but he felt a thread on his lower leg come loose. Biting his lip to avoid yelping, he clutched the part of his leg below his knee to the above, making sure it didn’t come completely free. Michael quickly hobbled upstairs, making his way over to Terry’s door. Stopping to catch his breath and adjust his grip on his shin, he looked up at the door. It was a light gray color, and a large piece of paper was pinned to the middle.

Property of Terry & Michael Harrison!

Girls drool, Boys rule!

No losers allowed 

       Terry’s handwriting was scribbled all over the paper in dark red crayon, Terry’s favorite color. Michael had drawn the ugly little black flowers that were scrawled around the edges. Pride and affection filled his missing heart at that sight, and he was filled with a sense of need for normal. Need for the old Terry. Terry had been acting normal lately, but Michael knew better. 

        He shouldn’t see me like this. His limp hand hovered above the doorknob as the thought entered his mind. He looked down at himself. Torn black jean pants—now shorts—and bloody, barely sticking duct tape which gave way to ugly, fleshy sow/tied together body pieces. Blood ran down the side of Michael’s leg, coming from just underneath his shorts where his legs were taped and down to his body. I hate this. I look ugly. Where his shorts stopped, a long thick piece torn from his pants was wrapped around his midsection, damp with leaking blood. His ruined flannel covered the rest, and his red ribbon looked darker red than before. The neck was the most securely strapped, but still frighteningly loose, the thread wrinkling his dead flesh with effort. As far as the face goes, it was the same besides the giant ax-sized groove carved violently into it. Hesitantly, he reached a hand up the blindfold and felt his empty sockets. He shuddered. It was wet with blood and overall disgusting. Hands retreating from the sockets eagerly, Michael felt his hair for his star clip. Shockingly enough, it was still intact, though wet with blood. He looked disgusting and horrible. It’s okay, Terry will probably still be asleep, and if that noise was him, it’s still too dark to see me. It didn’t matter, even if he was awake and it was light, Michael needed to see him. Terry wasn’t dead. There was no rational evidence or explanation that said Terry could have died, but still. Michael needed to see him alive and well. Feeling a little more confident, he pressed his hand down firmly and opened the door.

         The door gave way to a room with soft gray carpet and white, poster decorated walls. From bands like Metallica to Nintendo Entertainment, Terry’s room was lathered in decorations and LED lights. A blue and gray bed sat in the back left corner, and on the right of the room by his one large window was a black desk with no chair, contrasting with the light colors of the rest of the room. A few books and whatnot were scattered across the floor, and the corner with all his games was a little messy, but his room was clean for the most part. All except for one knocked over black chair in the middle of the room, which was supposed to be pushed into the desk on the right. Surprised and confused, Michael looked up at what was hanging from the ceiling. His voice came out in a horrified, scared croak.

        “Terry…?” Why?

OVERRIDDEN

—————————————————

Administrator has Personally Blocked All from this Data

Do Not Return.

—————————————————

Restarting Due to Sudden Override Procedure

Beginning After Last Topic

Recommended Topic: [Send Off]

Confirmed

Loading…

• Rose   -

       A lot had changed over just a few years. Rose had a second child—a little girl, but Liam had been quite strict about seeing the toddler. Michael had yet to see her, him being deemed an “irresponsible child” and a “hazard to the infant” especially after the missing incident. Rose thought it was insanity, but after Michael went missing and Terry…she had to give him a moment of control. When do I get mine? She shoved down the rebellious thought. She would have her moment, but first she needed her husband to chill out. For now, she had to do this.

       Rose knocked on Michael’s door, not surprised when it was opened without a word. Michael looked like he usually did these days. Blank face, sullen pale blue eyes, black as night hair—almost. On him was an oversized navy blue sweater that was abnormal for the warm summer weather. It was bland, but he had all kinds of accessories like a star clip, a red ribbon, cute moon glasses, and leaf earrings to spice it up. He looked normal, yet strangely tired and sad at the same time. Looked paler and his roots were looking more brown too…I’m overthinking it, he probably just misses Terry. I hate that we had to lie and tell him Terry had to leave. I can’t believe my boy committed…she teared up at the thought, emotions resurfacing. Shoving them back into their place, she smiled for her son. 

       “I know you’ve been feeling a little sad nowadays with Terry gone, and I have good news! A good friend of ours, Dr. Fitzgerald, has a new facility that we’re going to send you to! You’ll get to meet all kinds of other folks, and I’m sure they’ll have kids your age there too. You’ll be heading in a few minutes, so let’s go downstairs.” Rose smiled. She couldn’t believe her boy was almost eight now. Nearly three years after he went missing in a fire one day, and the day Terry killed himself. Stop. You can’t think about it. Don’t grief in front of your own son, he doesn’t know what happened. She schooled her face and drew her attention back to Michael. His eyebrows were scrunched up, and Rose had known her son long enough to tell that he wasn’t on board with this idea. She pulled him in for a squeeze, but Michael didn’t comply, seemingly not wanting to be touched. He’s been quite uncomfortable with touch lately…oh well, another thing for Dr. Fitzgerald to help us with. She brushed it off as best as she could. Concern lingered. Composing herself and straightening out her yellow dress, she smiled and thought about the good news. 

        “Guess what Michael, you're going to have a little sister when you come back!” Rose announced, raising her hands up in surprise. Michael’s eyes regained a little bit of their life and his lips twitched upward. Rose stifled a sigh. That was unfortunately the best she could get these days. Michael reached up a hand to open the door further so he could follow her downstairs. Rose frowned at the sight, seeing the bandages covering his hands. He had been wearing those all over lately, and surprisingly enough he had even ignored Liam when he told Michael to stop wearing it. He almost always complied, but he was shockingly stubborn about the bandages. He wore them everywhere, they even went halfway up his neck. Does my boy like fashion statements? He does have all those accessories too, but those were from Terry. Leading Michael downstairs, Rose peeked down to see if the Doctor was here yet. She saw him talking with Liam and groaned. He’s early. Less time with her boy before he left. 

       “Oh! It’s our new rockstar!” Dr. Fitzgerald said, copying Rose’s nickname for Michael in a fake happy voice that screamed “you’re young and dumb” and made Rose cringe. As a mom, she knew kids were smarter than they looked, especially her kid. She hated that goddamn voice, why did doctors think that helped with anxiety prone children? But of course she wasn’t going to tell Braxton that. He was a proud doctor. So, she greeted him with an overly optimistic smile and gently pushed Michael forward by the small of his back, ignoring how he flinched. Sorry Michael, bear with me for now. Braxton smiled and held out his hand for Michael to shake. No hand came up to meet his hand, and Rose barely contained her laughter. She watched with mirth as Michael finally registered the hand in front of him and still refused to shake it, not wishing to be touched. She covered her giggle with a cough when she saw the apologetic look on Michael’s face. God she loved her kid. Quiet and introverted, but he definitely inherited some of my rebellious tendencies. Dr. Fitzgerald cleared his throat and retracted his hand, pretending that all didn’t happen. 

      “Alrighty then, why don’t we go? So goodbye to your Mom.” He cooed, bending down on his knees to be eye level with the short Michael. Michael turned and, with a little hesitation, wrapped Rose in a hug. Rose felt tears well up and squeezed Michael back, ignoring how strangely hollow he felt. She kneeled down and whispered to him.

      “I love you, my little rockstar. Now you go have some fun and I’ll take care of your garden. And guess what, I’ve got a goodbye gift.” She pulled a flower crown out from behind her. Michael grabbed it eagerly from her and put it on, the tiniest little smile on his face. So adorable. It was so big it fell over on top of his glasses, covering his eyes. Rose laughed. Michael pushed up the flower crown and took off his glasses, then with another thought took off all his accessories excluding the bandages. Rose raised an eyebrow and was prepared to take them, but Michael just shoved them in his back pockets. Not bothering to ask, Rose gave her son a final pat and stood up. She turned to Braxton with a serious look. He raised his hands in surrender.

       “I’ll treat him very well, Rose.” He proclaimed, waving for Michael to come over. He followed obediently, albeit sadly. Rose nodded curtly and watched them walk her son away, feeling like she was sending him to prison. It’s for his health. She told herself, but she didn’t believe it. 

Requested Timestamp: [##/#/## after Death]

Accessing…

Confirmed

Loading…

• Michael   -

        Pushing open the book, Michael sat in the dark nothingness that was his own little home. Or Memory Management Tool. Whatever one wanted to call it. He was focused on the book in front of him. He wasn’t wearing anything besides his bandages, which he had sort of fashioned an outfit out of. He had found they were the best material, easy to wear, fairly comfortable, and applied the proper amount of pressure so a thread didn’t come loose or he didn’t start bleeding. He had used his free time to figure out how it worked and had opted for tough body stitches, rather than the rougher and less sanitary cloth sowing method he had originally scrapped together. Fortunately, none of his pieces were cut at the joints, so his movement didn’t hurt unless he bent something unnaturally. But after he saw Terry, he struggled to bring himself to face reality. Terry’s death haunted him, and he cried every time he thought of it. He shoved the thought out of his mind. He couldn’t think about it. But even so, life didn’t wait for him and he needed to figure out this whole death thing, so here he was flipping to chapter three of “Guide to Afterlife”, which was intimidatingly wordy.

3. Aspects of Death

       So you're dead. We’ve established that. But even death has rules, perks, and consequences. The most important things are the two building blocks of Afterlife: Will and Significance. 

      Will, or willpower, is the measure of mental endurance and power of us living memories. Physical rules are a whole different can of worms, but technically us dead souls aren’t physical beings, despite our appearance. Before I explain Will further, I’d like you to take this all with a grain of salt. Rules tend to apply a whole lot less to ghosts. Anyway, Will is the force that governs all things supernatural about being dead. As I stated, Will is your mental force, and oftentimes is higher the more strife you’ve been through during both lives. But if your Will breaks under somebody else’s Will, you're down for. But of course that’s the stuff of taboo, and you tend to only come across it with crazy-ass earth ghosts. Will is tied largely to your emotions, subconscious, and your memories. Will temporarily gets stronger the more emotion you feel, which ends up helping you in times of need. If you're angry or sad and it’s pointed at somebody living, they tend to feel some kind of pressure and foreign emotion, but that’s all unless you try to attack them. If you're attacking them, their Will, which they don’t know how to use, is usually weak, so you can easily kill or hurt them, fortunately. (Mortals Will is weak because Will is shaped by strife, and Death—the greatest strife of them all—is what one needs for it to become strong enough to be more tangible. This is also how a ghost tells whether a person is dead or not) Will also has to do with your subconscious, whether it be desires or thoughts. This area has more of a passive affect usually, affecting how you present yourself the most. When you die, your emotions, memories, and most of all your subconscious decides how you appear in the afterlife, and since your Will is connected to your subconscious, it tends to slightly affect. It’s the one that makes the main decision on what your appearance(s) look like. The only other notable thing it affects is the air you give off. Like how tall people tend to make you feel intimidated, except people with an aggressive subconscious give off an intimidating vibe. Pretty boring-ass and non-important stuff. More interesting though, is the tie to your memories, which make up who you are when you're dead. Rumor has it recalling a strong memory can cause a surge in Will strength, but it tends to be different for every person. Memories determine the strength and defense of your Will, which in my opinion is a far more interesting subject that I get into more in my other books. (Check them out at BrownJace.web!) As I wrap up this subject, I want you to keep something in mind. The way it’s discussed almost sounds like I’m talking in a video game, but Will is only a term I use to describe something unmeasurable and ineffable. The main similarity between mortals and living memories is that both carry the potential to surpass one’s limits in a time of need. Of course potential is different from simply being able to, but alas, you get it. 

      Significance. Sounds like a measure for how special you are, and it kind of is. But not quite. It’s actually more of measuring how important you are. You gain significance by going through events that will matter or do matter to your living memory. For instance, if I died of a car and had built a fear of cars, facing that fear would be an event of Significance. You would gain significance. Significance decides how much you can affect Life, basically opposite to Will, which decides a hella lot of your Afterlife. 

      You slowly lose Significance over time, depending on how life changing your events were. It takes a very long time, but if you lose all of your Significance, the most common way is by doing nothing for a long while, you become almost nothing. The echo in the hallway. That scream you thought you heard last night. A lot of those horrible, random things are faded souls, trying to make a mark in life so they gain enough Significance to return. Perhaps they’ll try to murder a mortal, whatever works for them. You can trust returnees the most right until they’re on their back foot, but that’s the case with all souls. 

      The only other known way to steal Significance is by making a deal. My advice? Think carefully about every deal you make with your fellow dead. There’s nothing else to say. 

     On the kinder and less used side of Significance, giving. You can give Significance to other living memories if you have enough to spare. It’s a very simple thing with not many other complications, but it could mean the difference between losing a friend or keeping them. (If you ever manage to find a friend, they are utterly invaluable, so this isn’t as horrible an idea as one would think) 

     Back on the subject of affecting Life, there are some basic principles. One Significant event, even though the importance often differs, generally is enough for you to affect physical objects and appear to people. This Significant event is Death. 

     Two Significant events means you can do more supernatural type things. Not wizard magic or any of that fun stuff, but you get a bit of leeway over something(s) important to you. Do note that this is something(s) important to you as a whole and isn’t necessarily something to do with your death. An example of this would be that if smoking was a big part of my life but not the reason I died, I may be able to manipulate smoke. Of course some things are better than others, because Afterlife is unfair. 

      Three or more Significant events improve these features and make you better at injuring people’s Will. (Losing enough Significance will not remove you from being able to manipulate important factors)

      On a different topic, holy hells this chapter is wordy, how you appear. Obviously I explained a little of this when it came to Will, but that was all about how it plays a part in creating your appearance. What you look like and manipulating your appearance is a whole different story.

      First of all, what you look like. Most people when their dead think of ghosts as beings with wings, halos, horns, tails, and all that shit, and because what you subconsciously think is a deciding factor on how you’ll appear, 99.9% of people end up with some matter of wings or horns, all depending on what kind of person your subconscious—which is a helluva lot more honest than you surface thoughts—believing you are as well as what you wanted to be. And because all humans are selfish and narcissistic to some matter or degree no matter how nice and selfless you are, everybody usually ends up looking unique and special and blah blah blah. Maybe you have tiny-ass red feathered wings, or maybe you have white bat ones, horns, and a tail. Maybe you're a furry, or maybe you don’t have anything like that. It’s a lot of maybe, long story short. Whatever you look like, everybody tends to start with two appearances. (If you don’t, you're probably in Waste and this part won’t matter much to you, but for those on Earth and hanging out in Paradise, keep reading) One appearance is how you look when you're dead with all your horns and blood and death, all of it. Like some kind of “dead self”. Your other appearance is a slightly different version of your old Life self. At first, you may find it difficult to switch between them, but eventually, you get good enough that you can even switch some things from one appearance to the other or try to make a new appearance. If you struggle, I urge you to focus on your emotions. Even so, you may struggle to control switching back and forth. Appearances are all about how you identify yourself, so more appearances can sometimes come about after Significant events, some people even end up with dozens.

     This is a slightly more fun side of Afterlife, because from the toxic plastic people of Paradise to the lonely, struggling people of Earth, everybody gets to float! Some people put in the work for a far greater and far less limited version of flying by actually using your wings, but that's overrated with the masses. When you jump, you’ll get this instinctive choice of whether you want to float or not, and all you’ve got to do is choose. Float around! Be lazy! One of the few perks of Afterlife! And if you really want to skillfully traverse the air, then you can put in the time and effort for that. But the rest of us? We’re gonna be chilling in the breeze.

      Michael laid back down, dizzy from all the information. That got complicated. He decided to think more on the complicated concepts later, turning his attention to the bright side. Michael needed that right about now anyway. 

     After all, he had to try out flying. Vigorously, he got to his feet and launched himself into the air. Feet slowly moved, arms waved. He closed his eyes and…landed on the floor. What went wrong? I didn’t feel anything. Michael, feeling the most disappointment he had felt in a while, frowned. Wait, I have wings in my “dead form”. He squeezed his eyes shut once again and tried to think of changing into his ugly, bloody dead self. 

      He opened his eyes hesitantly and looked at himself. No blood, no death. He couldn’t believe that he was actually trying to change into that form, but to be fair it wasn’t much worse than this. He just would have a bloody carved face and…weird eyes. He hadn’t paid attention that night, but he could see through the blindfold. The sheer fact that he could see was weird enough, and though he had rushed to bed while crying, he had indeed seen his eyes without the blindfold. They were creepy black orbs with tiny white rectangles representing his eyes and pupils, but they were better than just bloody holes. At least I can see. He hadn’t paid attention and cried himself to sleep, waking up in his old Life form weirdly enough, but still with severed limbs unfortunately.

       No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t change it. He tried thinking, wishing for it to happen, but nothing changed. He sat there for a long time. Why won’t it work? Please, just let something work for once. Feeling upset and frustrated, Michael jumped up, feeling the great urge to throw a tantrum. 

    But he stopped. Exhaustion sank deep into his body, and he sat back down, crumpling himself into a ball and hugging his knees. He rocked back and forth, just crying and not thinking. 

     Stop. Stop crying. Stop it. Michael stopped rocking and wiped away his tears. Grow up. Chiding himself, he took a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut to stop crying. His bandaged legs had smeared red blood from his tears, and he was a complete mess. Bloody tears? Michael shook himself. He had cried enough lately to know that his tears weren’t bloody when his eyes looked normal. Bringing his hands up to touch his face, he felt wet, bloody, dented flesh. It was easy to tell the key to switching his forms now. He looked down to see the strangely…okay…sight of blood. Not bothering to linger on that depressing fact, he looked behind him. He had never felt quite as happy as then.

       Solid evidence that the biggest dream of humankind—to fly—would come true for him. He just had to learn, apparently. He rushed to find a mirror in the dark abyss filled with house objects and found his Mama’s stand up mirror. Long, feathered white wings were folded behind his back, the tips going just more than a foot past the top of his head and the ends dragging on the floor. They were simple and ragged, a few feathers a little torn or out of place and a bit of speckled blood stains. It felt really strange to try moving his new appendages, but Michael tried it anyway, excited. Weirdness made him shiver as he learned how to move his wings. With a bit of patience, he figured out how to stretch them all the way out. Examining himself in the mirror, he was shocked to find a surprise underneath his wings. A smaller pair of wings that went from his neck to his thighs were curled up against his back. After another second, they unfurled and stretched all the way out next to the larger, first pair. He noticed they were pristinely white and fluffy, looking almost newer than the other, larger pair. Stifling a squeal, he tried out flapping them and ended up knocking himself onto the floor. He giggled on the ground, feeling ecstatic. It felt good to laugh after all the horrible things that had happened. 

        Michael eagerly spent the rest of his day trying to learn how to fly without a care in the world. 

Recommended Topic: [Facility]

Confirmed

Loading…

• Michael   -

        Why am I leaving? Michael didn’t understand what was happening. He was sitting in a large, leather black van in a seat far too large for him. Overwhelmed, he shoved the flower crown over his head in an attempt to block out the harsh world around him. He wanted to go back home, go back to learning how to fly. I want Terry. Michael couldn’t stop the tears that leaked out of his eyes, and he hugged his knees to his chest. He thought he heard somebody trying to comfort him, but he blocked it out. There was no way he wanted to hear what they had to say to try to cheer him up. As if they had just died then saw their dead brother then had to leave their one loving family member. Michael greatly doubted they’d been through that. He ignored them for as long as he could, but suddenly a hand landed on his shoulder, and he scrambled away, struggling against the seatbelt and shoving the flower crown back up. The man named Dr. Fitzgerald was uncomfortably close to Michael’s face. The doctor's breath was horribly minty. He liked mint, but not that much. 

      “It’s okay, little rockstar.” Michael’s mouth twitched downward, and he felt a little sad. Mama calls me that, not strangers. Pushing himself impossibly further back into the seat, Michael looked up at Dr. Fitzgerald and tried to show his fear in his eyes. Dr. Fitzgerald didn’t appear to take the hint because he kept talking. Useless stiff face. Help me out!

      “There’s a whole other load of kids who are being taken into our facility, so you’ll have some new friends!” Load of kids? Is it some kind of dump? Michael wondered, genuinely curious at this rate after how horrible the doctor was being. 

      “Now I’m more used to handling infants and adults, so I’m a little new too. We can all earn things together.” So that explains it. Stomping out the little rebellious fire that started to kindle in his mind, Michael sighed. He forced the best smile he could get—not very much of a smile—and tried his best to play along. He brushed off the hand though, because he was not dealing with that. Every time somebody touched him he remembered blood and wrinkly, disgusting gory flesh. Dr. Fitzgerald frowned.

      “Do you not like to be touched? That’s okay.” Dr. Fitzgerald said softly with a sappy smile on his face. No shit Sherlock. Michael stamped out the fire again. He had probably been listening to his fathers calls too much. Eventually the man backed off and left Michael to his own devices. Michael was happy to shove the flower crown back over his eyes and forget about the doctor. 

-

      “Michael? We’re here.” 

      Michael lazily opened his eyes and looked up, dazed. Same old black car ceiling as before, unfortunately. Wait, don’t I have the flower crown on? The only way I would be able to see through it is if… Michael jabbed a hand up the flower crown and sure enough, his face was wet with blood. That was not ideal for him. Dr. Fitzgerald was in front of him, looking confused as to why Michael was pausing. Suddenly he seemed to understand, which was concerning because there was no way the doctor was right, and it was probably some humiliating explanation he came up with.

      “It’s okay if you're scared, I’ll lead the way and you can keep that on.” 

      Michael had never felt this great of a need to sass. Not even with his father. But he saw no better option, so he played along. Fighting back a gag and wave of disgust, he reluctantly put the tips of his fingers on the man’s. At least there were the bandages. He let the doctor lead him out while he got the situation under control, happy nothing besides the bloody face had come around. Eventually he reached up his other hand and was relieved to find a dry face and a normal, physical eyeball. Good timing too, because when he lifted the crown he saw that they were in front of the facility. 

       The building was two stories and very wide, and very white. Blinding white. Windows were perfectly placed along the front of the building with even space between them. Gray stone stairs led up to dark brown, wooden double doors with gold painted door knobs. It was horrible. Glancing to the side, three other children were nervously waiting beside the staff, one and one boy. One was to his left and one was to his right. The one to the right was a nervous but excited looking blond girl with curly hair, a yellow shirt and blue jeans, and red-white converse. To the left, a boy with dark, almost black hair and almost black blue eyes wearing black joggers, a gray shirt, and a neon green and white jacket. They looked nice, but Michael frowned when he saw the lack of fun add-ons on their clothes. As far as he was concerned, they probably didn’t have good fashion taste. To be fair though, he did have to stash his accessories in MMT. 

      Michael was thrown out of his daydreaming by a tug on his hand. He pushed back a feeling of disgust and eagerly took away his hand. They led him and the other two into the building. 

       The inside almost reminded Michael of Firmin HQ because of the pristine white halls and floors, except for the bright, kiddy posters hung up all around. While walking, Michael tried to sneak a few glances at the other kids, feeling shy and uncomfortable but also a little curious. He hated the familiar acid that bubbled up in his stomach in the presence of people all around him. But even so, this felt different than before. The acid was a little calmer, and his anxiety was more linked to him being dead and less to being scared. Feeling a little better, Michael reluctantly followed the strange men in white with a little less hesitance. Maybe I will make a friend or too… He shook his head. Maybe he would, but this place was a drag. And that is even more of a drag. The men had led them to a corridor with rooms that looked awfully like prisons. Three were open, probably for the three of them. They were metal doors with two locks and he could see two lonely bunk beds inside each one. 

     The majority of the men suddenly left and Dr. Fitzgerald stepped forward, a beaming smile on his face as he led them into the rooms.

    “Alrighty, so here is a taste of the rooms you’ll stay in!” Dr. Fitzgerald cheered, waving his hand in a sweeping motion as he presented the room. It was white like the hallways, except without the colorful decor, fortunately for Michael’s eyes. The bed was plain white and kinda small, but it looked pretty nice. Another metal door was in the room, and Dr. Fitzgerald opened it up to reveal an organized, perfectly designed bathroom. White, intricate tile lined the area. Toiletries were stacked along the countertop, ranging from toilet paper to acne spray. Everything one could possibly need. And also whatever “feminine products” were, according to Dr. Fitzgerald. It was really nice, but even that couldn’t stave off the strangely prison-like vibe it gave off. Michael shivered. 

       When they were led back out, the uniformed men had lined up some unfamiliar faces. They all ranged in different ages and sizes, some looking to be in their twenties-thirties while others looked to be younger than Michael. Dr. Fitzgerald walked to the far right end of the line and began introducing the people, first gesturing to a young, six year old looking boy.

      “This is Ariel. He was our first arrival and has been here for about three months, and I’m sure he’ll be glad to help you guys get settled. Even so, he’s still a little newer compared to our transfers.” The boy smiled nervously and Michael noted the slight bags under his blue eyes. Ariel was a short boy who had light, fluffy brown hair cut short, dangling around his head in soft clouds and strands landing over his face almost like bangs. He was wearing a, nearly white, gray sweater with a white shirt on top and white, baggy pants. Dr. Fitzgerald patted Ariel on the back and moved to the next person, this time a tall and lanky man who was hunched over with his hands in his pockets. He had white sweatpants on and a white shirt with a purple tie. It was strange because it was the only colorful piece of clothing Michael had seen anybody here wearing. He was pretty sure the man’s eyes were brown, but for some reason his eyes made Michael feel dizzy and hypnotized. Dr. Fitzgerald seemed a little less enthused as he introduced this man.

       “This is Vincent. He’s a transfer from another, older facility. He has lived with us since he was ten after his family…became unable to care for him.” Michael noticed there was no “he’ll help show you around” this time. He must be trouble. He had black hair just like Michael’s—except mine’s been turning brown—and pale white skin. He looked a lot like Michael’s father, which made him feel uneasy. Vincent grinned maliciously, leaving Michael unsettled.

      “…this is Mason, and he’s been with us for a few years, and I’m sure he’ll be an idol for you newcomers.” Dr. Fitzgerald said, pride oozing from his voice. Obviously he was the favorite. Brownish blond hair that looked strikingly familiar hung in straight strands off the man’s head, just the slightest bit longer than most hair cuts. His white shirt and pants weren’t out of place, but strangely enough, vintage watches were tied around his arms, covering most of his forearms and a few up on his bicep. He was slightly shorter than Vincent, but a little more filled out than him. His eyes were far more amicable, but they stopped Michael dead. They were harsh yellow eyes, the very same as…him. 

       Michael couldn’t help the panic as it overcame him. A red ax gleamed horribly with the red sheen of blood. A man with glaring yellow eyes grinned manically and raised the weapon, stepping toward Michael. No, stop it. Michael stepped back. Blood seeped from his body as it unmade itself, transforming into a disgusting pile of flesh, blood, and severed limbs. This time, nothing put it back together. This time it all rotted and died. 

       But that wasn’t what happened, a voice whispered inside his head comfortingly, bringing Michael back to reality. It was Terry’s. 

       Michael shoved the flower crown back over his head, unsure how to feel. He felt confused, lonely and sad. Terry was right, he had made it through, but he had lost the person he loved the very most. Yet Terry had wanted that way. Did I do something? Is it my fault? He didn’t know. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know anymore. But he did know one thing. I want Terry back. This isn’t fair.

       “H-hey, are you okay?” Softly, a finger poked Michael in the shoulder. He was shocked out of his breakdown, and he shoved it in a corner to deal with it later. He turned to look at the girl through his flower crown—the wave of turmoil had evoked a change in appearance again—and wiped away the tears that were streaked across his face, especially after seeing they had begun to turn red with his blood. It was the curly haired blond girl who had tapped him on the shoulder, and the boy was standing right behind her with a slightly concerned and slightly awkward expression. Michael couldn’t help the anxious itch and the bubbling in his stomach as he realized just how many people were in this room looking at him. Except Dr. Fitzgerald. None of them cared besides the girl and the boy, though. The girl fidgeted with her hands and glanced back at the boy, who shrugged.

       “Um, I’m S-“

       “Children! Let’s pay attention now, okay?” Dr. Fitzgerald snapped, his strained voice betraying his impatience. Michael tried to cast his best apologetic face at the girl before turning back to the front. Emotions still roiled around at the back of his mind, muffled but not gone, so he kept on the flower crown. Dr. Fitzgerald frowned at this, he saw, but continued on as he considered the battle won. 

       “This person right here is Kaila. They are also transferring from another facility, but they just lost a dear friend there, so we thought this would be a nice new start for them.” The doctor rubbed their shoulders comfortingly, though Michael was one hundred percent sure it did absolutely nothing to help. He felt sympathetic for them and suddenly felt a little less nervous. He wasn’t special, people died and friends died everyday, and that wasn’t okay, but everybody had to deal with it all the same. He tried to send a small smile to them, but they seemed distracted as they stared at the floor. Michael couldn’t see too much of their face, but he saw they had dark brown skin, tightly braided black hair and gray eyes. Same white shirt and white pants as everybody else as well. 

       “Next up is our newest boy, André. He joined us shortly after losing his family looking for homage, and we were happy to provide it, as we are inclusive of all people.” Dr. Fitzgerald preened, obviously proud of the good show of face it made to recruit a young kid of foreign origins. André had bright, tan skin and dark brown hair and brown eyes that seemed to have a shimmer of gold. He was wearing a white tank top unlike the others with long white shorts that went to his knees and little past. They were a little big, but it only seemed to add to his personality. André wasn’t looking at Michael though, his eyes were on the boy with dark hair, a playful smirk on his face. Michael cocked his head to the side, wondering if they knew each other somehow. Before he could even entertain the idea of trying to ask though, Dr. Fitzgerald was doing the same old thing with the next person.

        “These two are Cal and Char,” Dr. Fitzgerald explained, his head turned toward Michael and unable to see the drone that settled on the girls faces when they heard their names. “Cal and Char arrived a little later than André, so if none of the others are available I’m sure they are qualified for a basic question or two.” Michael inspected the two girls who stood side by side and was shocked to find he recognized them. The name clicked. A young Hispanic girl with brown hair and a beauty mark in the corner of her mouth, and a dark skinned girl with black hair and a stern face. Cal and Char. The two girls that once could have been his friends if his father hadn’t pulled him out of school. A wistful feeling swept through him and he couldn’t help wondering what could have been. They seemed to realize too because a glimmer of recognition entered both of their eyes at once and they glanced at each other before glancing back at him. Michael was happy to see their gaze become a little friendlier and hoped they could become the friends they had once almost become. He was hopeful. 

       Dr. Fitzgerald walked up to the front and smiled for all the people. 

      “One of the reasons I introduced these people is that you will be living and learning with them, but the other reason is because you newcomers will be choosing one of the eligible candidates to live with. You may have noticed I showed you three empty rooms with two beds and there are only three of you, and of course this is because I couldn’t leave you alone! I decided you needed your own experienced partner to show you the ropes, at least for the first month.” Michael blinked, surprised to hear a not bad idea for once. I hope I get Kaila. He was interested to get to know them and the two girls, but they were the only one experienced, so they were his best bet. 

      Dr. Fitzgerald grabbed Kaila’s hand first, and Michael squeezed his eyes shut and hoped. Hoped for a minute, hoped for two. This is taking far too long. Soon enough a hand was placed on Michael’s, but he was crestfallen to discover it was not Kaila’s, but rather the creepy hypnotic eyes man. At least it wasn’t…Mason…who I got partnered with. But as he looked at the evilly grinning maniac in front of him, he wasn’t so sure. 

     “I’m sure we’ll have a very nice time!” Vincent said, a wild look in his eyes. Even his voice sounded a little crazed, and he leaned down further till his face was right in front of Michael’s. Vincent narrowed his eyes inquisitively, and Michael gulped. “Funny flower crown. What are you, blind?” Michael vigorously shook his head. He wasn’t sure what to do, but he sure as hell wasn’t lying to this man unless he had to. Vincent clicked his tongue and leaned back, a disappointed look on his face.

     “That’s too bad, now come on. I wanna hit the hay, and I’m getting a little cranky.” Michael shivered and scrambled to follow the strange man into his new room, avoiding the temptation to go back and ask for a switch. Dr. Fitzgerald had left them on their own. 

     Vincent flopped onto the bed on the right and stared up at the ceiling. Michael happily took this moment to settle into his own side of the room. Not a second later he heard a shuffle and jumped, glancing behind his shoulder to find Vincent sitting up and staring down Michael. He frowned. That can’t be good. What did I do? 

     “My gosh, I forgot to sign you up for your uniform! Let’s go right now! I’ll explain how to customize it along the way.” Michael breathed out a sigh of relief at the mundane explanation for why Vincent suddenly arose. It was better than what ran through Michael’s head as a list of possibilities. Besides, he did want to know how to customize if he was going to be wearing lame old uniform white for the longest time. He didnt like it, to say the very least. He quickly got off his bed to follow Vincent out the door and into the hallway, letting the man lead the way through the maze of white walls that was the facility.

    “Unfortunately, everything you wear has to be either white or pretty damn close, so the options are quite limited, but you can choose whatever type of clothing you want to have. I must admit I am a little curious about what you’ll choose. Oh! Or maybe Dr. Fitzgerald will “decide for you” like he did with Kaila. Sometimes he gets like that, and he was getting a bit worked up back there…haha! Good luck.” Vincent cackled, then finished off with a flat stare, suddenly turning serious. Michael frowned. 

     Vincent didn’t speak the rest of the way, opting for silence surprisingly. He opened a black  door labeled “Uniform Management” and called out.

     “Ellie! We’ve got a newcomer!” 

     “Dammit V shut up man, I’m getting there!” A deep but feminine voice called. Footsteps rang through the white office room and Michael took a second to glance around. It was a simple white room with two dark wood desks and chairs on either side, stuff scattered across them. There were billboards hanging around with random colorful posters pinned to it mixed in with the actually useful stuff. He saw the person who had called out running down the hallway that led out the room and looked him over curiously. The person was wearing a white uniform, a black hat with some random sportsball team on it, and a pink skull pin in their long dark brown hair.

      “V, send somebody else down here for a change, I don’t always want to see my chronically insane brother. Maybe you could go find my other brother for me for once.” Ellie complained.

       “Whatever Ellie. I’ve got a boy for you to take care of here.” Vincent clarified, then turned to Michael.

       “He’s a real guttersnipe, but trust that this man knows what he’s doing,” Vincent whispered, winking. Huh, he doesn’t seem that bad. Michael was surprised because the man looked like he could be the mad hatter and Michael had initially gotten the sudden instinct to attack him. It was better to get rid of something before it could hurt him. But he didn’t seem too bad, if a little crazy and prone to mood swings. His thoughts were disrupted when Ellie spoke.

      “Alrighty boy, whaddya want to wear? Name’s Ellie, by the way. She, him, they, whatever the fuck. I don’t care these days.” Ellie asked, pulling a pen and paper from one of the desks and clicking it impatiently. Fear clutched his throat at the thought of talking, so Michael just stood there. Ellie raised an eyebrow, but didn’t press, instead snatching another paper from the mess on the desks. He presented the paper to Michael and he accepted, inspecting it. Sketched clothing was on the paper, simple designs like pants, shirts, sweats, shorts, etc. Ellie smiled.

      “Point to what you want below the waist then point to what you want above the waist, okay?” Ellie said kindly, seeming much less impatient than before. Michael put together his best smile for the kind person, hoping it expressed his gratitude. He inspected the paper, examining the swath of shorts and sweaters and whatnot. He gave the shortsleeves a wistful glance before pointing a bandaged finger at pants and a button-up long sleeve shirt. A part of him wanted to wear the shirt and shorts, but he felt insecure about his ugly body parts and bandages. It was probably safest to cover them up anyway. Ellie nodded distractedly, her eyes flicking to Michael’s now covered hands. She wrote something down on her paper and tossed away the reference paper before walking back down the hallway. Before she turned the corner, she flashed a mouthful of shark-like teeth in a grin and winked sloppily. Michael was rather endeared, and removed all thoughts of killing her. He turned to Vincent—still on the ok to kill list despite his lack of meanness—and waved his hand in an attempt to indicate leaving. 

     Vincent didn’t respond and simply left, leaving Michael confused. He sped up to Vincent’s side and dipped his head forward to catch a look at his face. Vincent was glaring at the space ahead of him and walking at a pace Michael practically had to jog to keep up with. Firm frown and hooded eyes, Vincent made an intimidating figure. Alas, the only things that scared a dead Michael was social interaction, his father, and Thomas—his murderer. Michael jabbed a finger into Vincent’s tall chest and stopped. 

       “Hey! What are you-“ Vincent turned, then paused. 

       “Why do you still have that dumb flower crown?” Leaning into the attitude, Michael stuck his tongue out at Vincent. Vincent frowned then stuck his tongue out too before trying to swipe Michael’s flower crown. Michael let out a little gasp and clutched it to his head, realizing having a bloody dent in his face probably wasn’t ideal right now. Especially if Vincent started trying to steal it. What if he steals it for real? He couldn’t help but worry as he took a second to form change. Gently raising the flower crown, holding it behind his back and dropping it in MMT before pulling his hand back in front of him. Vincent frowned, scrunching his eyebrows in confusion. 

      “You poked me to show me a magic trick? I’m mad, leave me alone. How’d you even do-“ Michael punched the man in the face in a desperate attempt to make him shut up. Having a fear of speaking, he had learned the value of silence. Of course that wasn’t why he punched Vincent though, he was just genuinely annoying Michael. If he punched him, Vincent would learn not to steal his flower crown. Like training a pet. Vincent touched his red cheek in disbelief and sputtered.

      “Why did you-“

      Michael was down the hallway and back in the room before Vincent could finish. He was still a bit of a coward.

-

      Eventually, Michael left MMT and landed back in the bathroom, relieved to find Vincent wasn’t in there. He shuddered at the picture it brought about and came out of the bathroom. Vincent was tying on his tie when he turned toward Michael. 

     “You were in there all night, and you forgot to wash your hands?” Vincent questioned in disbelief. Michael blinked and didn’t answer the silly question. Vincent shrugged and handed him some clothes, presumably his uniform. He turned to head back into the bathroom once more to change, but Vincent clicked his tongue.

     “No you don’t, you can get changed in here while I go have a much needed restroom break. One with a normal amount of time, I’ll have you know. You may want to take note.” Michael starred as he slowly managed to process the scene that had just unfolded. A little confused, he hopped into MMT and got changed before coming back out. He took a peek in a mirror and was happy to see he looked just fine in the long sleeve button-up and pants. His hair was a little messy after wearing the flower crown so he found a brush laying around  the copy of his bathroom in MMT, but besides that everything looked right. Just as he finished, he noticed something he had left out. A roll of bandages had come with the clothes. Ellie is my hero. His dead heart felt a little lighter at this little sign of kindness and he happily switched out the bandages. He was less happy to see his flesh and blood, but it didn’t tone down his mood that much. It was still a pretty good start to his day. 

       A clicking noise rang out as Vincent opened the door and smiled at Michael in that creepy way of his. 

      “I have to show you around this morning, so let’s get on with it.” He elaborated, gesturing for Michael to follow as he left the room. 

     Michael followed him into the white hallways and down the corridor, until they came into an unfamiliar lobby looking room. It was white paint and floors, obviously, but surprisingly the couches and chairs were a dull tan. There was no carpet, but a small glass table sat in the middle of an area of furniture that was on the left side of the room. To the right, a long island with stools was next to a kitchen. The kitchen and island was also white with tiles lining the walls, but the stools were dark wood. Michael kinda wanted to go to the kitchen, but Vincent snatched his hand and yanked him to the living space. Michael held back tears as the force yanked a little on his stitches. When Vincent stopped, he retracted his hand as quickly as possible. He quickly tightened the bandages just to be safe. Vincent grabbed his attention again and told him to sit down on the couch, which Michael reluctantly did, pulling his knees to his chest. 

     Vincent was still standing when he put his hands to his lips and whistled loudly. He was pretty sure everybody heard it, even if they were the first ones down here. Footsteps echoed from the hallway they came and Michael watched as somebody turned the corner. It was Mason.

• Mason   -

      “I’m not your dog, V,” Mason called out as he walked into the living area. Vincent always seemed to wake up early, so he wasn’t surprised to see none of the others in the living room. He was surprised to see a small child sitting on the couch and hugging his knees. He turned to Vincent with a flat stare.

      “V, you know you're not allowed to kidnap or harm children.” 

      Vincent pantomimed a gasp, putting his hand over his mouth. “I would never!” 

      Mason rolled his eyes and turned his attention to the kid. The majority of his hair was a silky pitch black that, strangely enough, looked brown at the roots. He had sickly pale skin contrasting with his black strands, and Mason realized that his skin was so pale because he was scared. It had taken him a second to realize because the child’s face didn’t change all too much. Now that he looked though, he could see his pale blue eyes were a little wide and a thin sheen of sweat could be seen. Goddamn, the little boy was trembling, now that he had looked close. Jesus, and I thought I was good with children. Mason hesitated, wondering what to do. He decided to find out more before making the situation worse. Mason looked to Vincent, who was eyeing the child curiously. Mason pointed, and Vincent shrugged.

       “What’s his name? Why’s he so scared of me?”

       Vincent frowned. “His name is Michael, and I’m not sure why he’s so scared. I pride myself on being scary, and he punched me.” 

       “He what?!” Mason sputtered, shocked. This trembling boy punched Vincent?! And lived to tell the tale?!

       “I know what you're probably thinking, and trust me I would’ve, but the kid had already disappeared into the bathroom by the time I finished my sentence. And as much as I hate to admit it, I was being a little bit of a bitch and tried to steal his flower crown. Which I still am unsure of how he hid. Trust me, I tried to find it.” 

       Mason frowned. Peculiar. So he basically shattered Vincent’s bloated ego, but he’s scared of me? Mason wasn’t sure what to make of it, so he slowly approached the kid, aiming for the seat on the couch next to him. Before he could get close, the kid leaped off and ran to the kitchen. Bewildered, he followed and tried to explain.

       “Don’t be scared, I’m just trying to ask you a question,” He said in his softest most gentle voice. The kid—Michael—didn’t calm down. Michael glanced at Mason in hesitation, but that only seemed to further his fear when he looked into his eyes. Mason groaned. This was the first time he had struggled this much, and it probably would be best he backed down. 

      As if he had read Mason’s mind, Vincent spoke. “I think you might wanna go, Mason. I’ll try and talk some sense into him and if it works I’ll call for you.” Vincent proposed, and he was surprised to realize it was both not a hazard and actually a good idea. That was rare when it came to Vincent. Mason sighed and slowly pulled away, walking back to the hallway, past the stools.

      Just as he was about to clear the island corner, he felt the top of his white loafers catch on a leg of one of the stools. He watched in horror and aching pain as the stool toppled over onto the tile floor with a loud bang that reverberated through the room. He lifted his head and whipped around to a now even more terrified Michael muffling his ears with his hands and tears sliding down his cheeks. His eyes flicked open and saw Mason, and suddenly it was fight or flight. Shit. 

        He watched, frozen, as Michael swayed and reached a hand behind his back. A small part of his mind observed the bandages covering his hand, but the majority of Mason currently could not give a shit. Mason’s formerly frozen eyes widened into saucers when he saw a sleek black metal object be pulled out from behind Michael’s back. Bandaged hands held a shaking gun as Michael looked into his eyes with fear and the faint glimmer of determination. What the hell is going on?! Is a child holding me at gunpoint right now? Where and how did he even get a gun in here?!

       “What the fu-“

• Vincent   -

       Vincent really had no idea what was going on. First Michael had gotten scared when Mason came in, then he pulled out a gun? Usually he hated children, but this little dude was seriously growing on him. Though to be fair knives were more his thing. And also they were how he got in this place in the beginning. Pay attention, you probably don’t want your one friend dying. He brought his attention back to the crime scene before him and interrupted. 

       “Hey, um, Michael buddy? I think you might have overreacted a bit over there. You see, guns are dangerous—albeit fun—and you should frankly put that down.” Vincent said with a nervous chuckle, raising his hands in surrender. Michael narrowed his eyes, but he already looked a little less scared looking away from Mason. Why is he so frightened of Mason? No kid had ever been scared of Mason The Child Whisperer before. He kind of felt smug. Of course, he definitely wasn’t thinking of that while Michael still held the gun, definitely not. Michael was still looking a little shaky, but his hands were visibly trembling less. I wonder if he wears the bandages to get a better grip on that gun of his…dammit Vincent, focus! He knew the situation was serious when Mason dropped an F-bomb in the presence of a child. Mason never swore around children. He ran over to Michael and quickly snatched the gun out of Michael’s hands. Vincent watched in amusement as the boy stood there for a second before realizing what happened. He laughed

       “Man you’re slow Michael.” Vincent mocked. No retort came from Mason surprisingly, who usually scolded him for being mean to children. He really is broken now, huh? Too bad, he wasn’t half bad. Turning his attention back to Michael, the kid's mouth twitched down in the slightest hint of a frown. Michael held out his hand and glared greedily at the gun. Vincent sighed and shook his head.

     “Small children aren’t allowed to have guns, they're not safe.” The poor kids frown only curved deeper into his face. Oh, dammit. I’ll give the kid an opportunity to steal it. Dumb kid stealing my cold ol’ lump of a heart. Vincent massaged his temples and grabbed Mason to drag him out to the hallway. He dumped Mason against the wall unceremoniously and walked back into the room with his hands in his pockets. Whistling some random tune he’d long since forgotten, he plopped back down on the couch like it was just another day. After all, Vincent had a name for days like these. 

      Wednesday.

• Michael   -  

        Michael didn’t think he had overreacted. As far as he was concerned, it was simple. In the moment he was terrified, and his goal was naturally to eradicate the threat. Fear was the reason he couldn’t speak, so obviously in his most fearful moment he wasn’t using his words, so that wasn’t an option. Yes, he could have grabbed a knife, but that was less lethal and had zero range unless you knew how to throw one. Michael was eight, not dumb. So naturally he used the gun, or rather his fathers gun. And it had worked, so in that moment his gun became Michael’s last resort. 

         But that wasn’t what was arresting Michael’s attention, instead he was paying more attention to the people who had just walked in, confusion clear on their faces. Michael had been sitting with Vincent in the living room in silence. Not really awkward silence, just uncertainty at what to do. Two familiar girls had walked in, and Michael peeked around the edge of his tan armchair to look at them. One had dark chocolate skin and black hair with yellow highlights while the other had slightly tan skin and dark brown hair. Both had green eyes. He froze. Cal and Char. What are they doing here? It's still early… Michael leaned further over the side of the chair and stared in disbelief. Char noticed and tapped Cal’s shoulder, pointing at Michael. Nervous, Michael slumped back into his chair and tried to push down the bubbling in his stomach that had arisen. An itch scattered across his skin when the two girls searched around the armchair to bust him. Cal scoffed. 

       “Of course your parents forced you here. This place is currently the number one in getting rid of unwanted children.” Char smacked her hand over Cal's mouth and scowled.

       “Sorry about her. She apparently does not understand the concept of politeness. Anywho, how are you doing?” Michael blinked, then processed the question and threw her a thumbs up. Char nodded. Cal rolled her eyes.

       “No need to beat around the bush. What was that noise? It woke us and everybody else up early. Appears they aren’t down yet though. God they’re  slow.” Char flashed Cal a look, but Cal ignored it, staring at Michael expectantly. Michael hesitated, feeling like his old self after this encounter with old acquaintances. Leaning over past the armchair, he pointed to the stool that was now propped back up. Cal looked confused. Michael got up and wandered over to the stool with a sigh and knocked it over. Char gaped.

       “What’d you do that for?! You—wait, that sounds like…ohh.” Char said in realization. Cal made a little “oh” noise too. 

       “But seriously, you could have just lowered the stool, you didn’t have to knock it over.” A little frown settled over Michael’s face at Char’s words. Clearly people did not agree with his approach to things today. He had only provided an example of the noise so they understood better. I hope they don’t think I’m weird. Michael dragged a limp hand over his face. He had an unfortunate feeling this had to do with being dead, because he had not had this problem before. Michael let out a tired sigh and wandered back over into the chair and sank in, feeling tired. The girls took the hint and went about their own things in the kitchen. He only felt more exhausted when he heard more footsteps. The old bubbling and itch arose, only making Michael groan. Why can’t everybody just go away? I wanna be alone. I wanna get some rest. Michael reached up to pull down his flower crown, but then remembered why he had put it away. He sighed again and closed his eyes, silently praying to the nonexistent God that he could have peace. 

       Turns out praying to nonexistent God didn’t help much. Michael heard a loud thump as a young boy launched himself onto a couch next to Michael. It was the one opposite to where Vincent was sitting, but with a peep of his eye Michael saw Vincent wasn’t there anymore. Unfortunately this led the child nearby to believe he was awake and start nagging.

       “Hi there! So you're one of the new ones huh? I’ve been here for a little bit, but I remember how much being new sucked.” Michael stifled a frustrated noise and turned to the small kid, opening his eyes. It was Ariel he saw. Ariel smiled, then surprisingly, he left. Michael watched in shock and relief. They aren’t dumb either. Maybe he gets it. He smiled at the thought and hoped so. He was emotionally drained and exhausted, so he promptly went to sleep. I wish I could sleep forever.