Chapter 1

A Chapter by Matthew

Its the start.

Our protagonist couldn't figure out where he had found himself. The air didn't taste the same, the trees were oddly shaped and twisted, and the entire landscape had a feeling of ever-changing evervesence. He got up off the ground and wiped the dirt off of his clothes which had changed from a t-shirt and jeans to white hospital gown. His feet had been adorned with those little bootees that allow you to slide down the hallways like an ill ice skater. The wind whipped through his clothing and embracing his skin, yet he didn't feel chilled. Instead, as the wind hit his bare skin, he felt violated. It sent a shiver, not up his spine, but to the very core of his being. The air tasted of dull sulfur. Just enough to leave a fowl taste in your mouth, but not enough to overpower all the other senses. It was just enough to be a constant, unpleasant distraction. As our protagonist looked up from his body and out to the landscape in front of him, he thought he had fallen down the rabbit hole.

There was a large multi-colored vista that sprawled out before him in a magnificent display of twisted art. Bright reds and oranges danced in the sky in a playful embrace, while dark blues and greys made up an ominous storm cloud far off into the horizon. A place that looked like it was where this world ended, and the everlasting begins. The ground was varying shades of brown, with the shades changing so abruptly, it looked like a Western scene painted by Salvador Dali. The cactuses were brightly colored in everything but green, but their form was twisted and gnarled. Scattered throughout the dessert were tall, pitch black trees that looked like a place of death in the already dry dessert. Scattered, unidentifiable weeds grew in small patches in the far distance of the dessert.

However, there was one place that caught our protagonist's eye almost immediately. It was a small cottage, not more than 500 feet to the left of him. It was an odd structure. Outside was a garden, only protected by a makeshift twig fence held together by twine? The plants that grew inside the garden were about as odd as anything else in this world. They all omitted noxious gases, some strong enough that it smelt like it could knock someone out if it was concentrated. The darker plants were all vines that twisted and slithered their way up the brightly colored cottage, wrapping them around the chimney, looking like it was trying to constrict it to death, although the vines had no idea that their mission was futile, as chimneys do not breathe.

Around the small cottage was about 45 feet of grass growing out around it on either side. In that grass was a medley of lawn ornaments ranging from lawn gnomes and pink flamingos, to what our protagonist hoped were severed heads left over from some kind of Halloween. The gnomes were set up in such a way where it appeared they were pointing and laughing at the heads on the pikes. The flamingos were off being loners, all turned inward to form their own little huddle, isolated from the events that the gnomes were participating in.

Our protagonist approached the house with a surprising sense of calm. He walked up to the door, the entire time thinking that the gnomes had turned their twisted gaze from the severed heads to him, and were giving him a hopeless, angry stare. He started to walk quickly to the door, knowing that no matter what was on the other side, it could have not been worse than the hellish stare of the tiny warriors. Our protagonist racked his knuckles of the wooden door three times in rapid succession to give a feeling of urgency to the act.

He listened carefully for footsteps, or any noise that would indicate that something was living inside and that might be willing to open the door. He heard none. After many tense, heart pounding seconds, he heard the faint sound of locks unlocking, and from the sound of it, there must have at least been a dozen. Our protagonist could almost feel the pins unlock from their position, the perfect tension being applied to all the moving parts to unlock a relatively simple door. It made him wonder, for just the briefest of seconds, how people used to live in a world without locks. He knew that originally a lock was just an iron bar you slid across the door when you were home, but you generally don't need protection if you are already home. These were the kinds of thoughts that floated haphazardly around our protagonists mind, distracting him even from the intense world that he now found himself in.

Our protagonist was snapped back into place as the door swung open, revealing an empty entrance way into the small cottage. Confusion overcame our protagonist, as he was usually accustomed to the owner of the residence to stand in front of the doorway when guests arrive to check over his visitors, however whoever resided here was able to unlock many locks, swing open the door with great force, then make himself as unnoticed as even the smallest of mice. It was something that set off our protagonist's survival response. He could feel something deep down inside of him that something was just not right with the entire establishment.

He took a few cautious steps inside the cottage, and as soon as his entire body made it through the threshold, the door slammed shut, just like our protagonist had seen so many times in his favorite horror movies. As soon as he heard the door slam, he heard the distinct sounds of the locks clicking back into place, and he knew that more than just a hermit lived there. Something else was in control of this house. He could feel its energy move through him, manipulating how everything moved. Our protagonist knew that everything from the fluttering of the drapes, to the brightness in the house was controlled by something, and the only evidence that he had of his accusations was a general feeling of dread and melancholy. In fact, he would even go as far as to say that he felt molested in a way. He felt like someone was not only watching him, but seeing deep inside of him. He feared that whoever or whatever was there could smell his fear, read his thoughts, and predicts his every move. This gave our protagonist a sense of helplessness, as he knew that no matter what brilliant scheme he created, as he considered himself quite smart, would ever succeed because whatever he would go up against was clearly a higher form of being, and you just can't compete with what he suspected being the next step in evolution.

As our protagonists breath grew quicker, heavier, and more frantic, he started to hear a faint humming sound, as if it was made by a very effeminate man.

He was able to pinpoint the sound coming from another room. There was no door leading to his room, but instead just an open space that would have been good for a door. The room, from what our protagonist could see, was a sunroom. Large glass windows made up the entirety of the back wall, letting in the brutal sun. The furniture was faded and was draped in old upholstery and grandma plastic. The humming could be traced to a source just out of our protagonist's eyesight to the left.

Our protagonist took several careful steps forward, as careful is usually how he thought things out. He didn't feel fear exactly, although someone from the outside looking in would describe our protagonist's demeanor as "terrified" that is not in fact what he felt. He felt so overwhelmed with energy and adrenaline it felt like he was going to be sick in the greatest way possible. Even though he was confused, cold, defenseless, weak, and had his a*s hanging out of his hospital gown, he felt confident that nothing he was going to face could have been worse then what was waiting for him in the real world, and that thought alone made him really sad.

He stopped for a second, letting the indistinct humming continue as he thought truly about his situation for the first time. Even though this place was barren, lifeless, twisted, dark, and demented, he still felt like he was safer here than he ever felt when he was at home, and that brought up the next logical thought of 'why?' Our protagonist knew the answer before he even had to finish asking it in his head. The reason this world, although terrible and loveless, was better, was because there were no people. People, in our protagonists mind, had been nothing but a barrier between him and greatness. He knew that if he had power and ultimate control over the population, he could make a utopia. Would everybody like it? No. In fact, under his plan, most would be exterminated to make way for the perfect generation of humans. The best and brightest from every faith, sex, race, and sexual orientation would be saved to create a world that will grow exponentially.

However, as our protagonist soon found out when he tried to put his plan in action back in the real world, the world is mostly composed with those that wouldn't make the cut, and those people also tend to be the loudest, and the strongest, and the ones keeping revolutionaries like our protagonist from experiencing the greatness that he always knew he could achieve.

So, here he was, trapped between two distinct hells that are as far from each other as possible, yet still provided a sinking feeling of despair. He decided that there was no point in staying around and waiting for things to happen.

He closed his eyes, took a hefty breath that filled his lungs so fully that he felt like it was enough oxygen to sustain him for the rest of his life. It seemed to be the first time our protagonist was ever 'high on life'. With his valiant eyes closed, he walked through the archway into the sunroom, turned to his left, and opened his eyes in order to see what was controlling this house. This world.

Our protagonist, for the dozenth time, felt confused when he faced the man that was making the humming. He noticed one thing about him, and that was that the man was unnaturally pale. He was whiter than a Scandinavian albino. He was whiter than that crayon that comes in the big box that nobody ever uses, because the paper you generally draw on is white. He was so white, that the sun reflected off of his skin, almost burning our protagonist's retinas. It was dead silence as the two men stared at each other with mutual curiosity, although if you were to ask him, the protagonist would probably say he felt more threatened by the pasty homeowner then he felt by him. During their silence, our protagonist was able to make out more about the person who sat before him. He was dressed in a purple suit made out of some odd material. It was rough, and appeared to resemble corduroy, but that seemed absurd, as that is the worst material to make a torso cozy for. His undershirt was a baby powder blue. It was the kind of shirt that you always picture someone going to the prom decades ago would wear un-ironically. It was a crime to fashion, and it only helped to hurt our protagonists even more, as the shirt also seemed to reflect the light that came into the room directly as him. He wasn't wearing pants, but for a reason that the protagonist never expected anyone would guess. His lower half of the body that was divided by where the stomach ends and the crotch begins, was made entirely out of plastic, like a mannequin, yet he seemed to have full movement over. All forms of male or female genitalia were totally absent from his mannequin southern region. The only word that came to our protagonist to describe the situation was uncanny, and even that didn't convey the full range of emotions that the situation was forcing him to feel. He hoped. Oh god how he hoped. That English speaking society never encountered something so disjointed and unnerving as this, to where there needs to be a word created for it. He prayed, to a god that he didn't believe in, that the figure that stood before him never made it into the real world, in case this was some kind of dream walker debacle.

It had to have been several minutes of nonstop, socially unacceptable staring, before anyone said something. It was the man with the plastic legs and vibrant torso who spoke first.

"Hellllooooo" he said with a high pitched, screeching voice while clapping his hands together viciously likes a clown or an excited girl who just got a pony for her birthday.

The protagonist didn't respond right away, but that was not because he didn't have the ability to respond to a simple greeting, but it was the simplicity of the greeting that threw him off. This man spoke English. Annoying English, but English nonetheless, and he started the conversation with the most casual of greetings, when nothing of this situation was casual, or normal, or cliché. Eventually as the weight of the man's lightly weighted words sunk in, he was able to respond with "Hello."

An appropriate response from our protagonist.

The cottage dweller stood up, walked over to our protagonist, and gave him a loving embrace. His hug was the definition of a hollow gesture. There was no love. No affection. His body, not even his torso, transferred heat. It was like being hugged by a temperature controlled machine. However, the most disturbing part is when he took a big sniff of his hair and whispered in the protagonists ear "I've been waiting so long for this."

It was at that moment our protagonist had a flashback to an unfortunate time when his uncle invited him down to a secret puzzle basement, so they could "put some pieces together." There never were any puzzles in the basement. In fact, the protagonist would say that the entire experience turned him off of puzzles, and uncles, forever.

However, it was that emotional trigger that caused our skittish protagonist to jump back from the man's dead embrace, get into a flimsy battle stance, and prepare to fight a man whose legs are made of non-biodegradable material. However, that man did not attempt to rush him and tackle him. Nor did he seem to intend to inflict physical harm in anyway on our protagonist. In fact, the man seemed sad. Like his true love just rejected him. His eyes, which our observant protagonist had noticed for the first time, were just black holes where eyes should be, looked to be sadder than anything our considerate protagonist had ever seen. The look was of crushing defeat, like he was just rejected by a part of himself.

The mannequin man turned his back slowly and pitifully and walked back to the couch he was sitting on, which was covered in plastic, sat back down, and put his head in his hands. Our astute protagonist thought he had heard the sound of crying coming from the heap on the couch, but he had his doubts that anyone who had those kinds of eyes was capable of emotion, let alone tears. Those eyes, which appeared like two black holes in the middle of the whitest face, were burned forever in our protagonist mind.

Our protagonist decided to sit gingerly next to the man and put his hand on his shoulder, and pat it sympathetically. However, even after all of these steps were taken, the man continued to cry, and that move was all our protagonist knew in terms of how to sooth a broken heart. However, having felt like he fulfilled his social obligation, he waited patiently for the mannequin man to stop crying and say something.

Once it became clear to everyone in the room that the crying had to stop for conversation to continue, the mannequin man wiped away his tears, and began to apologize. "Sorry" he said "I have just been expecting you for so long and I guess I got a little carried away."

"Who are you?" your protagonist asked before they had to get sidetracked by more feelings.

Looking the slightest bit offended, the mannequin man responded in an almost pretentious way "My real name is not something that I would be able to communicate with you. It's kind of an ethereal concept. You however can call me Jeff."

"And where am I and how did I get here?"

Jeff took a few seconds to contemplate the answers to these obviously heavy questions. "Well, to put it in the leave convoluted way possible; you are basically inside your own mind, and not in one of those crazy hippie acid trips. This is real, and it's for keeps. As for how you got here, I am not at liberty to say. Those details come from people much higher up the corporate ladder then I."

Whenever someone receives troubling, or hard to understand news, they sometimes go numb, closing themselves off from any real emotion they may be feeling. It was pretty plain to see that the protagonist was having a bought of denial about his situation, and his brain just decided to talk about the subject like it was matter of fact. This kind of mental trauma will probably have repercussions later.

"So what exactly are you doing here?" the protagonist stated bluntly

"Well, you know all of those deep and terrible things that you did throughout your life that would not technically count as illegal or sinful but still make you feel like a monster inside? For instance, remember that time you kicked a small dog because it was in the way of your striding path? I am kind of the summation of all of those life events, and I have been chosen to guide you through the magical wonders of your mind. Go team"

"Well, why am I here?"

"Like most personal hell created by humans, one only has to suffer through it to learn some larger truth about them, or the universe, or something, and from what I can tell, that is what you are here to do. Over the next several days you will be going through various tests and trials, all devised up by bits and pieces of your psyche. Imagine that this is kind of like your brain trying to pick up the pieces of it, but all of the pieces are f*****g pissed, so it's up to you to defeat them and make your mind whole again."

All of this information was hard for the protagonist to understand, but at the end he still only found himself with one question. "What happened that shattered my mind?"

All Jeff gave in response was a quite chuckle and the phrase "I guess that’s what we are here to find out" before everything cut to black.