"This tower is a dog-eat-dog world, where if one has the slightest bit of mercy, they'll be devoured. Mine life is a lesson, for I have shown mercy to myself, which is why I have suffered." A man of nobility spoke to a young boy, about nine to ten years old. "Grandpa Jerald, is this why those smelly aunts say to steer away from you? You always talk mysteriously like that."
Meanwhile, the child continued to sip their drink while watching other kids in the park play, uninterested in their entertainment. "Hah, you youngin, always so distant. I'm the only one who cares for you in this family, you know?" The weathered man grumbled, but still ruffled the kid's hair before standing up. "That's a quote from a book, [Rosebud] by Kane M. Sunday. If you were more booksmart, you would've gotten the reference, lad. Listen here, as advice from someone who got fucked sideways by society, you should give more attention to other people!
Sigh, if you continue to act like a selfish buffoon all your damn life, you'll eventually get filtered out by the system! I'm not trying to say that you, as a person, should not act selfishly sometimes, obviously, but don't be such a bitch sometimes." He spoke in a tone of self-deprecation and righteousness, while pointing a finger at the kid.
"...Language. Old man, I'm going home; this place is boring." The white-haired boy bid farewell to the man in a brown trench coat, while Jerald grumbled about respect for elders.
Just as the kid left the park, the bearded man yelled out to him. "Lathell! Make sure to read Rosebud! It's a great book for kids like you!" Lathell stopped for a moment, then nodded without turning his back.
_____I am the dividing line that shifts perspectives_____
"That bastard, kicking me out of the house for a thing I didn't even do!" Thunk! The scowling teen, in frustration, kicked a drainage pipe to his right. "Ah, damn, that hurts!" His expression contorted into a frown as he held his foot, jumping up and down on the spot.
As he kept mumbling bastard, bastard over and over again, he began rushing out of the alley absent-mindedly, until he stumbled into a well-built person headfirst. "Ah, my bad man, didn't see you there." Lathell mumbled an apology quickly as he ducked out of the way, without looking at the towering man. He tried to hurry his pace again, heading towards the familiar bar he usually visits.
But just as he was about to walk away, the man suddenly put a hand on his shoulder. Lathell momentarily froze before turning his head. "Uh, hey, sorry about that, but I'm kinda in a hurry."
The burly man stared at him before crouching down to pick up an item. "Here, you dropped this." He handed Lathell seven 5 Lain coins, equivalent to three cans of soda and a bag of pastry. "Ay, thanks." Lathell grabbed the coins and casually pocketed them, looked at the now smiling man, and bowed lightly before heading to the bar. Lathell found the man's vibe strange, but he seemed nice. Whatever, time to get a drink.
The smiling man, his hand still outstretched, stared at the young man's receding figure, his thoughts unreadable. Though if you looked closely at the back of his hand was a glowing mark, pulsating before fading.
_____I am the dividing line that shifts perspectives_____
"Asss I was sayinn' man, luck seems tcha' a problem with you these daysss. Heh, got yo' bum detained for, like whattt? A few days or sooo fore' gettin' bailed, then you got yo' ahh kicked out. Sucks to be you, man~" An office worker, in drunken stupor, sympathized with the young man, who was equally drunk. He was holding a half-empty wine bottle, waving it around as he spilled its contents everywhere on the counter and floor. Strangely, not a single drop has stained any of his clothing or face.
"It's all their fault! Those damn bastards won't even hear me out! They should take an IQ pill at this pointttt." Lathell complained, for the thirteenth time now, making the other patrons groan in unison. "Then they'd be like me! Oh, so handsome, so strong, intellectual, and so goddamn rich! Well, not really rich now though, hehe..."
As he thought about his recent situation, he suddenly became dejected and slumped over the bar counter, wallowing in self-pity. Bran, the office worker, noticed his state and tried to cheer him up. "Oh come onn, you called yourself the greatest yet you're ere' crying like a bitch! Real men don't cry like that for reaaal!" Lathell stifled his nose and looked at the now standing man, doing his best to pose in a 'heroic' way.
"For real?"
"For reaaaal. for reaaaaal. Here, have a shot, maybe it'll make you feel better." Bran handed the young man a swig of alcohol, which he gladly accepted.
"Yeah, you right! I'm no bitch, I'm a real man for real! I ain't got no time to be bitchin' about those fatasses!" Lathell gulped down the drink in one fell swoop, stood up, and began loudly hyping himself up by shadow boxing.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I am the GOA-" As Lathell performed an uppercut, he didn't notice the puddle of wine under him. And as expected. He slipped.
BAM!
_____I am the dividing line that shifts perspectives_____
"That's why I tell you to drink in moderation, kid. Look at what happened to ya!" It's been two hours since Lathell slipped and hit his head on a nearby stool. He stood under Enjou's gaze while caressing the bump on his head. "Ugh, how could I know that a damn spill was there! It wasn't the alcohol's fault." He grumbled, though he knew that it would just increase the scolding of old man Enjou, the barkeep.
"Gah, fine, I'm tired of you thrashing around here! Get out before I force you to!" Irritated, Enjou threatened him with a fierce glare. "But, you know, I got no place now... Would you, you know, let me crash for a bit?"
"No, I know you already have some friends who'd take you in." The silver-haired man answered.
"Ugh, you're not sympathetic enough. If you're like me, you would've been showered in praise." Lathell once again showered himself in praise, earning a disgusted look from the old man. "Alright, get out!" Enjou then started to usher the young man out of his establishment with the force of an angry mother
With a slam of the door, Lathell was now once again on the streets, landing on his behind. "Sheesh, old man got some anger issues, huh? I crashed at his place once, and now he won't even let me in his house. Crazy behavior, he should be grateful I even thought of sleeping in his home." He grumbled as he slowly got up, patting the dust off his pants and straightening his crumpled jacket. "Okay, now where should I sleep? Maybe Trevor's? Franklin's? Or Michael's?" Lathell pondered before taking out a silver coin, resting it in his hand, flipping it.
The young man looked at the flying coin in the air, mentally choosing which side gets who. Plop, the coin landed in his palm, and it was heads. Michael, it is.
With that sorted out, he started walking to Michael's house, just two blocks down the road. Hope he has some food and beer, going for round 2 at his place would be fire.
Lathell thought as he slowly walked down a set of winding alleyways that led to Michael's apartment complex.
But it was eerily quiet. He brushed it off as just his imagination and kept walking until he saw the stairs leading to the apartment. The surrounding area was littered with plastic bottles, plastic bags, beer bottles, and syringes of unknown substance. The walls were weathered, cracks lining the seams of brick with cement. And a foul urine odor oozed from the drains nearby. Dim lights flickered above, showing their aging.
"I forgot he lives in a shabby place like this. He's got a solid job and stuff, why won't he move? Makes coming here every time such a drag," Lathell mumbled under his breath as he climbed up the stairs.
As he moved through stairwell after stairwell, he finally reached the seventh floor, where Michael's room is.
"Hah, hah, hah, hah, fuck. Why'd I choose his house?" He bent down, grabbed a nearby railing, and started panting loudly as he fanned himself with his dress shirt. His jacket was already on his shoulder, taken off during his battle with the stairs. After he finally stopped panting, he looked at the gray sky above from the walkway, splattered with dancing light from how many discos and parties. The sky was polluted with light. "No stars today, huh. Always will be." He sighed as he trudged his way to Michael's. "Room 717, 717... Ah, here it is." He knocked on the door.
No sound. "Weird, he's always home this time around." Seeing that it didn't work, he pressed the doorbell.
No sound. "Not that either? What's he doing? Yo, Michael, you there?" He tried again, shouting this time.
No sound. "Michael, you asleep or something!? This time, he started banging on his door; oddly enough, the neighbors didn't even bother with the noise.
Still, no sound. Lathell groaned as he tried the doorknob, but to his surprise, it opened, even if it was a tiny crack. He peeked inside. "Hello? Anyone home?"
Again, no sound, Lathell sighed, probably thinking that Michael had been knocked out from drinking. The door was now wide open, casting Lathell's shadow down the unlit hallway and into the living room, barely illuminating it. He tried to turn on the lights, but they didn't turn on. Likely broken, he thought. He moved his way into the room, looking at the surroundings. Surprisingly clean, with the only dirty place being the sofa, with various pillows and blankets stacked on top of each other. He hurled the blankets and pillows away from the sofa to check if he was lying there, still no sign.
"Doesn't he always sleep here?" Weird, wonder what changed. He said the latter part in his mind, before moving to the bedroom of the apartment. It was slightly ajar, with only the buzzing of the ceiling fan overhead audible from the outside. Lathell reached to open the door but stopped, instinct rising in him to go and run. Why is it so peaceful? Every time I come here, there's always some noise, but today, it's awfully quiet. Still, he brushed it off as just another figment of his imagination.
He gently opened the door.
Blood. The first thing he could react to was the smell of blood, its iron stench eating away at his sanity. The second thing was the skinless person, crucified and hammered into a wooden stake atop a bed, scarlet liquid pooling beneath them.
Plop, plop, tiny droplets of red dripped down to the floor and the bottom of the bed, making its way toward Lathell. Crimson stained his feet.
Michael was dead.
[Chapter end]
word count:1864
Fuck, i think phainons gonna die next update WAHYHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH