ColdFlames (A typical PhanFic)

Chapter One

This story is mainly from Dan's PoV if otherwise I'll tell you so Kay?

The air was cold, the clouds of my own breath swirling in the air. The saturated street glistened as the street lamps shined on London. The sky was like an unilluminate blanket as it was a bruised purple that cover every crevice of the city. I was alone. I had left for a reason, my house corrupted itself and I was the only one there. My demons killed me and my terrors almost crushed me. I had to leave. So I left to the only place I know in this dark time, darkness itself: it's all I've ever known.

As I left the barren streets I commonly found my self turning onto crowded ones filled with lights, fake snow and obese old men in red suits staring at me, it only proved England's wintry state of Early December.

I can still recall my prior events you know, the flames as I tried to light myself on fire, the acid like sting of vodka as I poured it onto myself and guzzled,it down my throat and then finally the cooling wet rain that saved me before I lit the match. Something out there stops me from dying. Meaning well but only fuels the urge to cover my wrist in red streaks and to bruise my knuckles as I punch the walls in my fury. It tells me that something is coming my way and that something will save me, again and again and again. But I'll throw myself away. Erase my exsistance like many of those around me as I stalk these streets invisible.

But once again I'll still turn onto the next street and enter the torture house that I call home.

I eventually arrived. I entered the house litter with empty wrappers and water bottles. I cleaned up as the light came on, I looked in the mirror and saw myself, pale  green, death like and crying. My brown hair over my eyes and my all black outfit still smelling of strong alcohol, as I frowned at my self. I turned on the TV not much to watch at midnight before I eventually just put on Tokyo Ghoul instead to watch even fictional characters slip into madness.

My website that I blog on anonymously earns me the money to actually keep on living. I even write on Wattpad sometimes. Simply writing stories on gothic horror and physcollogical genres which gets me quite a large internet following already. Many of you listening to me talk would probably even think that I'm a creep living in an industrial house but in fact my house is quite clean demonstrating a sense of class when the odd person actually comes to visit and not just bully me. The effects of the Internet have gotten me where I am today.

It was him who inspired me, the one who never swore and gave me that encouragement who told me that I could make it and I was never alone, him who lay behind that screen, but also wanders these streets in the day just like me. Phil Lester the amazing man who has it all. He's perfect nothing like me however, I doubt he would ever bother with a low life like me who tries to set himself on fire. I'm probably just better off going to sleep.