The Glorious Chapter 2

It comes after Chapter 1

What happened next was neither clear nor significant. Whatever trip that was taken by our protagonist was a short one; however it’s the destination that mattered.

         He found himself back home, in his bed, with his clothes. However, given what he had just seen he had to wonder if this was all just part of the tests somehow. Never did the thought occur to him that maybe it was just a bad dream. He felt how alive that world was, how connected he was with it. He knew that trials were coming, that he believed in the deepest part of his soul, but right now he just couldn't figure out if he was awake or not. Jeff, his nastier half said the trials would take place over a couple of days, but he failed to mention what definition of days they were using. Our protagonist had no idea the day and night cycle inside his own mind, and he couldn't imagine that the embodiment of his evil knew about the day pattern out in the conscious world. That meant, he concluded, he would never know when he was in a trial until the first one happens and he can try to figure out clues. He didn’t even know if he needed to go back to sleep to start them, or if this whole world was just another conjuring of a shattered mind.

         Our protagonist didn’t understand the task that lay before him. All he knew is that he was a man who suffered a very sever psychotic break at some point and he needed to fix it. That was his mission.

         He looked around him at the place he may or may not be awake in. It all looked the same.

 

         The odd thing about this situation is that our protagonist didn’t remember where he fell asleep the night the dream happened. He had no idea if he fell asleep in his bed or somewhere else, or what caused him to fall asleep. The thought of this raced through the protagonists mind mixing with thousands of other possibilities and scenarios that could be playing out. He started to sweat, thinking that his mind would win so easily before the first trial even began. He supposed it wasn't so easy to stare into the dark black eyes of your greatest shames and come back without a little screw loose. Our protagonist had an idea thought. An idea that was so brilliant and well put together, that he was surprised he didn’t use it to wiggle his way out of most things. It was suicide.

 

         With a rope in hand, and a saunter in his step, he decided to take the required steps in order to make sure that he never goes back. He figured that flipping the game board was less harm in the long run then to play with a damaged opponent who knows your ever move. So he was going to kill himself, and he felt absolutely natural about the whole affair. He figured that his mind was just shut off; it can't suck him into a tamer version of hell to be taunted by a dick named JEFF. Yes. This was the easiest solution, he knew that, and he accepted that.

 

         Our protagonist often had thoughts about this day, and whether or not it would be his hand, his enemies, or mother natures. He always had a fascination with death. It was universal, feared, and in a way he felt like it drives everything humans do. Religion arose because of the fear of death and the natural human instinct to try to put a meaning to all of it. His death in particular he thought about a lot, long before any of these dreams took place. He had trouble remembering why, just flashing thoughts that sparked for an instant, and disappeared into the vast nothingness of his memory.

        

         He got himself ready. He put on his nicest clothes, hummed his favorite song, and tied a knot that he had practiced many times over the years, just to make sure he got it all perfect. He checked his work, and then double checked it just to make sure. He got himself a stool to stand on and a rafter to hang from. He looked around the room with the rope already tightened, and he sighed as he realized he owned nothing but note. It would sadden most people that the most important thing they will leave behind is a corpse, but our protagonist didn’t see it that way. He always figured it was your last chance to make a statement. What would his suicide say? He didn’t know. He knew that they would find him weeks later when the smell became too much. He never had visitors, so there was nobody to inspire with a message, so he decided that a simple note will do. He took out a napkin that he always carried around with him but never used, and wrote a simple message and dropped it on the floor before taking a step off the stool, and into the world of still nothingness.

         The simple note simply read "My only hope is that I didn’t leave the world in a worse way then when I came into it."