The Lost Souls

Hickory Dickory Dock

Tick. Barely been out of my bed in these last 2 days, they haven't flown by like I wished they had, they dragged, hour by hour. Tick. The sound drives me insane, but at the same time the ticking makes me feel not dead. I've felt dead in a lot of ways now. Tick. Like a beating heart, a steady one. Tick. I'm not dead. Tick. And now I wonder would it still tick if I wasn't in the room to hear it? Does it tick for me? Tick. Mesmerized by the ticking. Tick. I'm not sure if I want it to stop. It's comforting knowing that this sound will always accompany me in this home. Tick. It makes me feel less alone. Tick. It echoes, fades, resonates again.

What's worse it's one of those rare tranquil nights when nothing else is heard. I'm not able to appreciate it because the quietness is driving me insane and the only sound I have is driving me more insane.

I cried, till I couldn't understand why I was crying. I couldn't understand why I was crying because I couldn't understand anything I had been told to make me cry. It became a whirlwind of memories, no, nightmares. It can't be separated, or cut, just knotted up into one big tangle inside my mind. Trying to separate those threads gives me a headache; I end up burying my head under pillows and begging my temples to stop my brain from hammering into my skull. I don't know what to feel so I let the ticking of the clock feel for me. If only I could switch it off, let my heated body cool down again.

My hair is matted with knots in knots, my fingers catch in it from time to time and pain shoots into my scalp. Like a bird's nest, a crown of tangles. But leaving it tangled like this gives me more incentive to stay inside under my covers, hiding from a world that doesn't move anyway.

Every time I convince myself to get out of bed for just a little while, eat something or go outside, I let myself down again. Stay inside. You're safe here. It's true. No one can hurt me in my home. A storm can't attack me. Words can't attack me. Its quiet here, no explanations and no sudden life-changing discoveries. I'm safe here. Safe. A fortress against everything obscure.

My hunger begins to gnaw at me, its claws latching onto the lining of my stomach; a shooting pain travels across my ribcage. I don't want to settle it; I'd rather stay in bed for another day. It's a trek to go to my kitchen and make something. I don't even want to. I want to do nothing. I want to feel sorry for myself for a few more days before I'll ultimately recover. I know this feeling won't last forever, because this world will keep moving, I'll have to move with it. I don't want nips at my heels for not being able to catch up.

No. I've lived a simple life for far too long for someone to make it so complicated. I have a choice, there is always a choice. He can't come into my life and leave everything in disarray.

It's a spec, how small is a spec? A spec isn't significant at all. It doesn't have to grow; it could stay that size till I die. And who's to say it won't grow smaller? There's no danger. There is only danger if I choose there to be danger. I don't have to be so afraid. Virtues are dramatic. This is my life; I have choices in how I get to live. Or do I? If every choice is pre-planned, isn't free will an illusion?

I stare up at the ceiling, painted-over bumps dot across it, I challenge myself into counting them all, and I lose count after 5 seconds. There are probably as many bumps above me as there are of stars in the sky. Stars appear every once in a while, they don't shine as bright as I thought they were supposed to. They don't glimmer with hope; they show me a taste of what I wasn't supposed to have. They shine with superiority, so high and bright against the pitch black sky. Getting an aching neck from looking up at them tells me how elite they are compared to me. A better life than mine.

It's so boring. Everything about my life is boring, mundane and useless to my potential. It's another thing which doesn't seem explain the spec. I have no reason to think like a Virtue. There is nothing in my life which could even open the idea to me. How can I know what it's like to be one of the Virtuous if I have never stepped foot in Virtue or have been one myself? It doesn't make sense.

Liam Noah Anderson is a Virtue, I'm nothing like him and I don't want to be like him. His pale skin that shines with youth, the healthiness in his stance, the confidence. I can't stand the effortless smile the most. Smiling in Sin...it just doesn't work. It goes against everything Sin claims itself to be. That smile is like finding an oasis in a desert. It's rare, it should be hidden. This city can't home a smile like that. At least I'll never see him now. My problems have disappeared.

Or will I? Where can you hide in such a small town? And if we're done, why does he still need to be here? I guess he could travel further into Sin, but surely he knows the risks? A soldier or not, A Virtue wouldn't stand a chance in the heart of Sin. They'd eat him alive. I guess it would be one way to never see him again but still.

The four sections of Sin are only of the same name but never tie together, no associations whatsoever. Sin is a dangerous place, even for Sinners. Sin was designed to be Hell on Earth, the deeper you go, the further into Hell you are. It goes as Inner Sin, Middle Sin, Outer Sin and the outskirts. All depends on what kind of Sins you commit.

What are worse are the prisons, it mean the end. Some crimes are too extreme to let go. Some crimes lock you for life. Some people go too far, the sociopaths of society. They stand high, protected and secured. Impossible to escape, tall with authority. Murder, rape, there's only one place for crimes of that nature. No one bothers with a petty crime, it's almost natural. Keep your head low, and nothing will happen. Stay quiet and no one can hurt you. Do what they say and you'll get away.

Thunder overhead growls, so powerful in the peace. I roll my eyes inwardly; of course it couldn't be so normal for this long. This is Sin, where it rains, thunders or hails. The sun doesn't shine, birds don't stop. It's ignored, all of this is irrelevant to the rest of the world, no one ever wonders about Sin and what Sinners must be up to. We're non-existent, invisible, outsiders. The abnormalities, something is genetically wrong. Raised up cold, broken and no one knows why. The phenomenon of the Sinner. How did the Sinner come to be? Who chooses a path so dark? What is a Sinner's reason to live? A living corpse. How do you live without a reason to live?

It growls harder, deep in its anger. My stomach growls now, clearly insignificant compared to the mood of the weather. The sickness that settles in makes me able to lurch out of my bed and treat my body with care. I should eat, before I become too sick with my own pity that I can't eat anymore.

I take careful steps to my kitchen, which faces the back of this house, one window which opens to a rusted, squeaking playground. The swing rocks with a hand of the air when the weather is stirred; it creaks and squeals, like the swing has a voice. I catch my face in the mirror in the hallway. I stop myself, staring into my own eyes, observing my reflection. I wonder, if eyes are really the windows to the soul. I search my eyes, as close as I can be to the surface, my nose hitting the sharp cold of it, my slow breath causing a fog on it. My eyelashes fan out as I blink into myself. My eyes, too round and large for my face. The paleness, from not taking care of my body properly. Dark circles hang almost proudly from disturbed nights. Tiny dark brown freckles dot my cheekbones and nose, I hate them, they look unnatural. I've become uncomfortable from looking at myself for so long, I look away, my stomach encouraging me to descend the stairs to where food awaits.

I cut an apple carefully with a knife, I've cut my fingers so many times that I try my best to be careful with it. It cracks open under the pressure, brown seeds the colour of my eyes, falling out on the counter. It begins to hail outside, hailing ice tearing through the skin of plump clouds. They spring out, pounding against the roads, against my roof, against the window. So loud it makes me think my window is open.

As I cut it into tinier pieces, realisations hit me like a slap to the face, how the hail connects with the ground. Everything slows down around me, except the steady ticking of the kitchen clock. Liam will stay. He won't leave. He won't stay out of my way, that's not his mission. It's the spec. Small now, but it can grow. It can keep growing till it covers the mystery of my soul. I'm an experiment. It's all because of the spec. It showed signs of a new opportunity, a new future. And suddenly, my life isn't my own anymore, it's in his hands. Whatever dropped, whatever fell out of me is being held together by a Virtue. The sound of the knife cluttering to the floor, the sound of the seed rolling under the chair, the hail crashing down, pounds the realisation into my temples. Tick.

- Has anyone seen 'Mother!'? x