This is a story written by me starring several TTV Boards members, who all signed up for being included in this topic.
The Book of Tears
I don’t like to be alone.
In spite of the darkness being a respite for me, the infinite void of nothingness makes for horrible conversation. That can get to you if you let it in, if you let the solemn silence overtake what little you have. It’s a fight which is impossible to win on your own.
And what lies in the dark? What unforeseeable sights and unknowable entities hide in that harrowing gloom, that silken cloth cast across the lights of the horizon, casting an impenetrable blanket across the imagination, so stifling the wonders and woes of the silent observer? Why does the dark of a silent room and the void of an endless expanse speak such different words?
When you see the stars, the infinite nothingness proclaims the identity of an unidentifiable watcher, but benevolent in design, spying down on the unknowing observer to be a presence, a hope.
And in the dark corner, the shadow under the bed, the end of the hall, the dark at the top of the hill, lies a terrible monster, a horror beyond perception, a vile creature prying open the imagination to the worst possible terrors conceivable, and yet somehow infinitely worse than even that - the originator of nightmares, the author of trauma, the master of sleepless nights and haunting phantoms, seeping through every instance of gloom and blackness where once was illumination. This creeping one, this foul thing, watches and threatens to spring suddenly and terribly and encapsulate your heart in utter despair, bringing to fruition all that you dread and despise in one terrible moment.
For most of the world, this second character is personified as Ghid, the wicked fiend who solely bears the blame for every villainous deed ever committed; this penultimate hellion, the landlord of the underworld, waiting in every black descent of stairs and poorly-lit hallway. No other course of action or motivation could exist for the monster, so corrupted by the hollow lightless corners he crept from that his fate would be none other than the villain of the story, of every story.
I would know something about the stories there because this ominous evil, this malicious mastermind, is me. The originator of terror, The plaque plague, He Who Is Unmentioned, The Keeper of Wilhelmus, The One To Trust.
That’s how they know me now. That’s how they view me - an inefficient, stubborn, petty little man with some form of lung cancer, and an invincible pet by my side - that’s the large skeleton man in eye-searing attire standing to my left. Er, right. He insists on being called Diero, and where he got the name from I’m not quite sure - I believe that’s a saying used when someone has absolutely no idea of something.
There’s someone smaller than anyone else here, even me - the yellow-faced Cordax, nestled in that oversized purple hoodie, who is currently trying to hit me with his elbow until I notice how cleverly he hid his knife in his shoe despite how he already pointed that out during the process of hiding it. It didn’t matter; as soon as someone noticed it was there, it was over for his little hiding place.
Who else was worth mentioning… There was the girl, although she was sitting on the ground trying not to cry. Sitting down, she was just as tall as me, which is kind of sad. But that’s not what she was crying about.
And then there’s my son, Winger, who is showing every possible sign that he doesn’t want his helmet removed. It’s not my fault he looks like an edgy french robot singer; that was entirely his choice to dress up as. The jacket with the large wing emblazoned on the back doesn’t help either.
“Alright, everyone into the car.”
Diero’s eyes fluttered down towards me. I gave him no indication of anything. I knew that in one of his pockets he held a computer chip - a very important computer chip.
“I said in.” The Pakari-wearing individual growled, literally kicking Cordax through the open door. Winger shakily followed on his own accord, clearly dreading the idea of being kicked by the officer. Diero stood static for a moment, waiting to see if the officer would try kicking him, but eventually turned towards me and motioned for me to get in.
“This would be a lot easier for all of us if you’d just tell me the circumstances behind those folks you were burying in the middle of nowhere.” The officer said, his blue Pakari reflecting the fading sunlight as he gently helped the almost sobbing girl into the vehicle.
“'Fraid that’s none of your business.” Diero mused, the artificial southern drawl he sporadically utilized to make the outrageously wide-brimmed hat he worshiped like the sun not seem so horrifically out-of-place. “A fellow should be allowed to see the dead get proper burial, is all it is.”
“You’re looking rather dead yourself.” The officer eyed Diero’s skeletal figure suspiciously. “Regardless, you all know the law: There is to be no excursions beyond the border without proper authorization, by order of his majesty the illustrious-”
The entire group was silent for a moment.
“…Into the car.”