Face the truth

Chapter 1. The Bar, The Old Man, And The Problem

"Hey kid, are you gonna pay for that or what? You've been here for two hours." a stern looking waitress loomed over the teen in the eating booth. The boy looked up at her, though unable to see her clearly through the thick layer of cattle bone on his face.

"Of course, ma'am." he pulled out two silver coins, one bigger than the other. The smaller of the two had a windmill on it, worth five dollars. The larger had an image of a chicken, ranging to a price of twenty dollars. "Give my compliments to the chef, please. The meal was delicious." the waitress took the money, and gave him a weird look.

"Please forgive me if i'm wrong, but your dinner only costed fifteen cents...?"

"It did, but that's your tip. The remaining money, I mean." the ginger haired teen smiled at the waitress, though it wasn't actually visible. He stood up, fixed his coat, and smoothly passed the waitress to get to the door of the eating establishment.

"W-Wait! Sir, I can't except this! T-This is more than I make on average in a year!" the waitress looked extremely surprised to hear that it was a tip. Her name was Deborah.

"Don't fuss, you were a good waitress. Now, if you would excuse me, I really must be going. Farewell." he opened the door. It had its signature loud creak sound off from the effects of rusted metal scraping against rusted metal. He hopped down the two stairs in front of the door, and out onto the sidewalk.

"Yeesh...at least i've still got time to get to the place by dawn." it was currently darker than the color black in the town, as night had fallen upon it. Though it was silent from lack of people walking around, owls and other animals could be heard hooting in every direction. The wind howled against any object near him. It was also rather freezing. It was so cold, that the teen assumed that any moisture in his body had turned into an icicle. He shivered rather violently, and wrapped his arms around himself and his clothing. His legs tip-tapped on the concrete and asphalt floor beneath him as he held a fast-paced walk. He figured that moving would help simulate more heat through his body. The last thing that the teen wanted to happen was for him to catch hypothermia and die before he got to the bar.

His current attire was not the warmest. It was a simple black t-shirt wrapped inside a black leather jacket, or coat, depending on what you classified as warm. He wore skinny jeans as well. A beanie covered his hair and ears, as to make sure not to freeze there. As for his face, he didn't need anything there. To be completely honest, the boy didn't have a face. Weird as it may sound, everyone in town knew that he did not. However, the mystery was WHY he didn't. Not even November knew, the boy with the missing face. That was his nickname, though it was long. The name was rather fitting for him. Instead of a face, he wore a cattle bone prosthetic. It was carved into the shape of a human face. The details on it didn't necessarily match that of a human, though. It was instead painted black in certain areas to make it look like an angry skeleton. November had made it himself personally. He didn't have the ambition to look normal. In fact, that was the opposite of what his intention was. He wanted to be so different, that nobody forgot him.

Though November never wanted to admit it, he was actually mad for having no face. Especially because he had no memory of how he lost it. One night when he was a kid, and it just...poofed. Gone. along with his parents.

"C'mon...c'mon...aha! Finally!" he found the bar at the end of the street. He had walked this road at least a thousand times, but it never failed to get him lost in some form of way. The shops were all fantastic. But the best was the bar. They didn't serve actual alcohol, but instead a wide variety of sodas. Not many adults ever showed up, so the teens and kids could be as wild as they wanted. Many actually LIVED at the bar. It was almost like an orphanage, but more cool and not as lame. The outside looked like a regular log cabin. It had red doormats, and a two-car garage. The driveway was just crushed up asphalt and dirt. It didn't look like much but a poor person's home, but it was truly so much more to everyone who lived in town. November stepped up to the door, dusted himself off, and gently knocked on the door. Loud stomps were heard all until somebody slid open the peephole. The eyes of an old man bored into November's soul, before asking the regular question.