Eternal mental distress Ruthless tyrant of self … Reflection of your inner self Impossible to defeat Schizophrenic paranoid Atavistic enemy Infaust Mayhem – Watchers “ I remember the scene. Murky gray sky marks the end of many lives. Two floors down, six bodies lie in unison, blood spilled everywhere. He and his girlfriend, who just wanted for her to change, to be a bit better than what she is, her plan has failed miserably, and her death is now a proper dot in her prolonged manifesto. He didn't deserve death, his girlfriend didn't deserve death, other students caught in the fire didn't deserve death, – but they are there, two floors down, lying in unison, their blood marking every surface, contaminating their future and the hopes for it in the darkest pit imaginable. And now I'm here, bleeding from my leg, watching her panicking eyes watering up. The instrument of taking a life lies right beside her on the cold wet concrete. My feelings mark the surface with red. I'm slowly losing consciousness from the blood loss, as she, smiling, fragile and hopeless, takes another step back, – this time onto the air, falling to her death. Before I could crawl to witness her final stage, the epitome of her biography, the SWAT team swiftly enters the scene and takes me away, dragging me through the tunnels of hallways to the street. And then it all went to black. Was it preplanned, was she predestined to commit such an atrocity? Or was it an outside influence? And if it is an outside influence, was it me? Was it my fault? ” A coat of gray poisonous smoke nonchalantly covers the page, marking it the way only he can understand, as Anon, desperately sucking on this last cigarette, slowly writes this down. Other people standing beside him bear the smoke, smashing into their faces each and every time he blows cloud after cloud of gray out of his mouth. His outfit almost blends in with others, although, definitely, he does not belong here, – his pale human skin, grown thicker from the past events, tells everyone this fact. His light bag sometimes makes him worry – what if someone stole something? – but every time he checks he just proves to himself that the acidic experience that is Volcaldera Bluffs doesn't want to do anything with a person like him. He is cracked, like a glass panel. A myriad, a cobweb of scars moves around his soul, growing bigger and bigger every day, decaying and rotting every second. His soul turned into nothing more than a laughing stock, a shaft of what previously was a premium currency in this soulless world. He still believes that him living another day is a miracle, because otherwise he wouldn't stand here, with these cereal mascots of men and women beside, on this platform, waiting for public transport to arrive and take him away from here, as far and as fast as possible. He still believes standing here is a wonder, because otherwise he would be hanging from the ceiling of his saddening apartment, with no message unread, with no missed calls. He had to get away from Skin Row, as far and as fast as he possibly could. That meant finding a proper job and sending a resume into Volcano University. As days passed, while he slowly and steadily made money, Anon, suddenly, got applied to be the student of the biggest university in the entirety of Volcaldera Bluffs. The day after his application, he packed the little belongings he had and ran away from the desolate district of Skin Row, moving into much more northern Noah Arc – a solid modern district built upon the remains of the previous century. He found himself a proper apartment where he could live as much as being a student will last, with a rent that is, amidst many options, nothing less than a miracle. He picked up many things he wasn't doing for the past year. Overall, beside his life expectancy going up a ton, everything was going soothingly fine. But the past will never let him go. A thousand screams and yells in his nightmares remind him of what happened. Her fragile smile shatters the silk of dream reality. The silhouettes of people he knew before, now far away. The disastrous building, where he spent a hefty amount of his lifetime. The composition hurts him again and again, multiplying the daily pain of absence he feels. Every attempt to run away is pointless, since any small detail, directly or not, will remind him of what happened. At least he was still in doubt of whether it was his fault or was it predestined. His only coping strategy. But the truth will remain the same, even if unaccepted. The train finally arrived. It slowed down until full stop, barely reaching the other end of the platform, and a second after the many doors opened, to let people in and out. Anon stood beside one of the double doors, waiting for passengers to leave. As the last granny left the wagon, people began storming inside the train, desperately trying to leave the constant autumn's coldness and loneliness. Anon was the first one to enter the wagon, and the winner of taking a good seat near the window outside, opening a view on a sad city. Soon, the doors closed tightly, and the train began its slow and quiet path towards the other end of this magnetic line. To pass another hefty period, Anon took out his phone and tried to search some forums to vigorously shitpost in. Most of which he has gone through in the past. Hopes of finding a fresh new board paid off, with a newly made Greek antic Olympics metaphysics discussion popped out of the deepest web. He tapped away, making a vitriolic shitpost to satiate his self-destructive needs, but the moment he finished and the moment he hovered his big finger over the small “Post” button, he found no power to press it. Reading the shitpost again and again, made with the pristine quality of an avid 4-chan anonymous, Anon realized a little and simple truth – he grew out of it. He deleted the text and hid his phone, deciding to somehow pass the time differently. Constant autumn spreads around, its gray sky can put to sleep even the fiercest of salarymen. The contradicting movement of sky's patina and the train was nauseating, and Anon turned away, looking around the wagon. It was rather empty and, thus, fresh and quiet, which on its own is quite good. Many dinos sit, separated from one another, dressed differently, but thinking rather the same. The depraving feeling of isolation began to gnaw, as Anon saw a pair of two young pretty hypocrites, giggling and kissing each other every moment after. It was blissfully disgusting to watch, so Anon lowered his gaze and focused onto his hands. They were cold and pale, sticking out the sleeves of his new and warm green jacket – similar experience to the past. Scars of an involuntary concrete stairs waltz spread around. The nails were trimmed before this frightening day. Veins barely sticking out, showing how much of a manlet he is. The only thing that stands out is a new waterproof clock on his left wrist, facing on the inner side of the arm, army style. He didn't even try to change; physical prosperity for mental therapy was too much work for a broken man like him. Stagnation and inevitable degradation for him sound like a proper lullaby. All to keep the memory. Suddenly, he felt the train stopping. Looking around, he noticed dinos slowly leaving, mostly new ones. He picked up his bag and joined, soon standing in the crowded and much colder tambour. The train finally stopped; second after the doors opened, and the overall shoving parade began, with Anon being just yet another gear in this machine of movement. Slowly and steadily, he left the platform and soon found himself on a street five minutes away from Volcano University. His fast legs quickly delivered him to his destination. There it was, the grand building. Made in simplistic brutalism, softened by the colorful exterior, it towers above distant buildings. Many windows with barely visible silhouettes. Many colorful students walked around the staircase, talking about their future, their past and themselves. This is where everything begins. This is where kids become men and women. A myriad of opportunities reveal themselves from the shadow of uncertainty. Something Anon has delved into ever since his graduation. Something Anon has committed himself to. Plan is simple and straightforward: breeze through studentship while not making any friends and continue forward after graduation in his pathetic life. The first obstacle: the staircase. So many different young people taking over the steps, talking. Anon's first step onto the concrete stair turns them into avid observers, witnesses, watchers. They look at the human slowly walking on the steps, muttering to himself. Is that a human? How did he get here? Where's his spear? Simple questions heard every day. Something he has to deal with for some time. Because of which he wishes to be reborn as a dino, to perfect his plan. Inside, the university can be described with one word: spacious. So much space... Anon felt dizzy from the sheer volume of the main hall; he felt small and insignificant. Besides the open space, it was quite alive, with students, staff and professors always going somewhere. Creating a perfect illusion of activity. Mesmerized enough, Anon walks to the dressing hall, just a tad bit smaller than the main hall. Many hangers, coats, bags with sports wear and boots. Walking around this self-made labyrinth, he finally found a free hook, where he left his warm green jacket. Fifteen minutes before the first period. He tasted his breath: the professor wouldn't like the smoke. From the pocket of his pants, Anon whipped out a fresh pack of mint gum, opened it and tossed a couple inside. The mint crawled around his mouth, making its way deeper. He stopped, opened his bag, took a bottle of water and took a sip, for mintiness to progress. Anon proceeded walking towards his class, a few steps before entering he hid the gum under his tongue. The moment he placed his hand onto the door and opened it, he heard: — Wait for me! He stepped aside, letting a dino run inside. He captured a glimpse of the student: white sweater with a rather wide open neck, erotically revealing clavicles, black cargo pants, high white boots. Tattoos were spotted around the neck and on the face, what if there's more of them? Piercing on the brow, a chain and a pendant on the neck. A stylish blue and black haircut. Blue scales. A beak and a tail with spikes. And a piercing dark gray gaze. Someone new. An avid runner? An aspiring rapper? No, one can't connect the looks to the psychotype. This is just wrong. Before dwelling into this more than he should, Anon stepped inside the classroom and closed the door behind him. A typical classroom, with tables and two seats at each and one. Almost twenty people, talking to themselves, doing their own things. A professor waiting patiently, looking rather young. Anon threw his gaze around the tables, trying to find himself a desolate spot. Gladly there was one, and Anon swiftly took it. Soon, the bell rang, and the professor wrote his name onto the table. Anon took his notepad and wrote down the name and the subject's name. The professor, as the starting lesson, began a usual rant about who he is, why he submitted himself to this subject, the basics of the subject and many more. His voice was tired, robotic. His moves were lazy. He had to do this years prior, he had to do this today. A ritual that must be commenced. The students, including Anon, barely cared about the speech, they just wanted for this day to pass, so they could return home and do their things. Anon began to pass time... ...and found himself in the cafeteria an hour later. Noise, constant noise. So many students are sitting all around, no table is free and empty. The ceiling is unusually tall, the windows are huge, opening a view of the city, where life constantly flows through the veins of streets and cells of apartment complexes. Well, why did I think that it would be empty? – Anon thought. – Besides the gym and library, the cafeteria is the element of the crowd triad. Of course there would be a lot of people. The library sounds nice though, so I should visit it sometime later in the day. Anon picked up his tray filled with food, began searching for a free spot. And soon he found one. Nonchalantly he took a seat, wished everyone bon appetite to show his outrageous benevolence and began eating. The food was rather good, definitely better than what Anon anticipated, and soon Anon found himself with an empty tray and a stuffed stomach. — Yo, you the new guy? – The student across the table asked. Anon nodded. — I'll tell you right now, don't drink from the fountain on the second floor. People can get sick from it. — Really? – Anon asked. — Yeah! I'm telling you, I got a couple of friends getting their asses handed to the nurse 'cause of the water. — Maybe it's rusty? — Maybe. But, definitely, the council will fix this soon. Anon looked at the student. Definitely not the wording he expected. The council actually cares about the students? What if it's a lie, to submit the new blood to their will. — That's why I carry mine. – Anon said and took out a 12-ounce bottle of water. — Can I take a sip? – the student across asked. Anon gave him the bottle. The student sipped the fresh water and returned the bottle. — Thanks, bro. – The student smiled. Anon nodded nonchalantly. He checked his clock, to notice he had only five minutes, so he stood up, discarded his tray and made his way to another classroom on the different floor. He made it in time, went inside and, again, found himself a desolate and empty spot to sit down. Soon, the bell rang, and the professor, a pretty old and benevolent lady, closed the door, to begin her rant in peaceful silence. Anon couldn't care less about the rants – he was already at the bottom of the care meter. Anon passed time again... ...to find himself in a library, reading the little contemporary literature there was. Right now is what's called “activity period”, where students, who have already chosen their necessary activity (whether it be swimming, music, art and so on), do them for the following two hours. For Anon this period meant two free hours, in the span of which he could do whatever he desires. And he isn't alone – almost every freshman is doing anything to pass this time. And of all available activities, from smoking his lungs outside to aggressive shitposting, Anon, slowly growing out of his old habits, decided to go into the library instead and read a book. Anon examined the book he held. Hardcover, quite thick. On the top of the front cover was: Connections Unseen ; on the bottom: Jonathan Overture . Both written in blue on a pastel white background, with a black whirly pattern in between. The spine had the author and the book name in a straight line. The back cover didn't have anything, only a continuation of the black whirly pattern. Looking inside the book, where the text was accurately typed in on a soft white paper, he noticed that he almost finished this three-hundred pages long piece. That was surprising, considering that the text looked rather hard to digest, with all the whirly meanings. Anon decided to finish the piece before getting up. The library around him was quite big, many tall wooden shelves stacked to the brim with books, forming a labyrinth. The colors here were calming, reassuring. This table was one of three in this place, aside from a sofa and some beanbag chairs. Smell of books coming in fresh from the typography was one of the most soothing things surrounding the library, with dim lights and the enormous silence. No windows, no hurry, no worries. Just books. A thousand years' worth of stories, etched into paper and transformed into the tiniest pixel on the electronic map of history. Anon finished the book, settled it on the table and stood up from the chair. Despite feeling like he was pulled out from a different dimension, he feels that he can remember the storyline, what it’s about, how it began and how it ended, the characters, their connections and contradictions, the surroundings… Anon feels he knows the book in its entirety, and can retell it with an ease. What caused such an effect? Maybe this endless peace and silence in the air? Whatever it was, Anon enjoyed reading it. It never felt so good, so comforting. Still, he needed to do something. He got tired of just sitting in this little island of constant peace. Too much or too little of silence is disturbing, this time it was too much, just too much for one to handle. Anon looked around, noticed the shelves towering above. “ Contemporary literature ” – that’s what was said on a plaque hanging from the ceiling. Anon took the book, placed it into the free space on one of the shelves, and then decided to find himself some literature to read in the meantime. Of course, he could’ve gone to the bookshop or at least purchased them online, but this is too good of an opportunity to just pass up like this, to just replace it with mechanical taps and clicks. Soon, Anon held four hefty books in his hands. Despite the looks, they were quite light, he didn’t even feel the weight tiring his arms. He placed them onto the table he was sitting at for a second, to grab the bag, then took the books to the librarian – a senior student, whose young face was quite of a surprise to see. As much as Anon can remember himself, he always knew that librarians are, firstly, elder, secondly, women, and, thirdly, passive aggressive. This young fella looked novel and alien. Anon placed the books onto the counter. — You’re a freshman? – The librarian asked, looking into the filing cabinet below the table for a new card. — Yeah, – Anon said. — Okay… We’ll have to fill out things. To, you know, have a grasp of what goes where and when. – A click of a pen. – What’s your name? — Anon Y. Mous. Soon, the card was filled out, and Anon can now legally take the books for a period of time. The librarian wrote down the names of the books into the card with a pencil. — Just to clarify, – he said, – you don’t need to return them in a week, or two weeks, or something like that. You just need to return them when you feel like it. Just be sure they will be the same. Yet another novelty. No strict policies. Embracing students like actual people, with their own right to exist. This place… – Anon thought. – It definitely doesn’t belong in this cruel world of ours. It’s too nice to its attendees. Just too nice. Anon tossed the books inside his bag and left, his footsteps barely making any noise on the red wine color carpet floor. He needed to pass time again, and just outside the library, he picked out one of the books he took and began reading… …to find himself reading at the end of the last period. The clock strikes six. Reasonable for the five (including the “activity” one) periods in this place. The overall movement slowly began as they sensed the end of this long day. Anon didn’t care, he was too invested into something he was reading, but even his investment into the story, written on these white pages with black ink, soon dissipated, as the sense of the blissful return to his apartment, slowly creeping on him, was just too nice to not think about. So nice, he lost track of what he was reading. He reread one sentence six times before dropping reading the book, tossing it inside his bag aside other things and preparing to leave. And as on cue, as the professor said the needed words, the required spell, the youth collectively got up and began moving to the exit. The hallways were empty. There were not so many groups that stayed here until the fifth period. Gladly Anon and his class have to experience it only twice per week. With people talking their lungs out, thriving to return to their sweet homes, he made his way into the main hall and to the dressing hall. It was rather empty, the reason is already known. His autumn-winter jacket was sticking out in its profound green loneliness; he took it and, putting it on, left the dressing hall, went through the main hall and onto the streets. Cold, dark. Silent rain. Street lamps mark the safe spots to travel. Lights in the buildings ever so slightly away. Before catching a cold on his first day, Anon quickly descends the concrete staircase and quickly walks towards the train station. His silhouette appears and disappears in the nauseating pale white street light. The rapidity of his legs emphasizes his alien nature in this world. A wolf amongst the colorful sheep. With aggression and guilt locked in his body. Excess primordiality. All he wants is to return back to his little home, where he could feel safe for the following night. Anon reached the train station, bought himself a ticket and entered the platform. Strangely enough, there were no lights nor shades to cover from the rain. And without a hood on his jacket, Anon embraced the rain pouring down onto his bald head. What is more surprising than the absence of lights and shades was the absence of people. There were only a couple of distant silhouettes, barely reaching out from the void of this evening. Without the usual hoard, this platform felt desolate. Soon, the train arrived and opened its doors for the waiting and soaking wet. Anon took a seat at the window, before sinking into his own thoughts as he threw his gaze around the wagon. Quite empty for the time, only a couple of people share this wagon with him. What if there was none in the front, or in the back? What if these people are the only passengers in this automated system? Anon left these questions aside, instead, while looking at the dark urban brutalist landscape, choosing to think about what he has done so far today. Almost five years. This will be his life for almost five years. And with his plan his life will be nothing more than a self-made hell. How can one avoid any confrontation, any connection to the other individuals, instead closing onto himself, instead shutting in a self-righteous isolation, for the sake of being left alone to safely breeze through the studentship like butter on bread? The bet is the following: his plan will be broken in pieces in the following semester. This is nothing different from what he had to experience in high school. High school… Head in hands Anon realizes what he has done. It has been less than a year since the disaster strook. Silently healed up, silently visited the grave. Silently believed that his lonely life is the better way. He didn’t change. He didn’t grow from her death. He remained himself from the moment he entered Volcano High to spend his last days of youth. He ran away, to continue living as an enclosed parasite. He ran away, to not hold the torch of blame. He ran away to not accept that what happened is primarily his fault of inaction. He just ran away. Faces appear in Anon’s mind. They are sympathetic, understanding. Not angry, just confused, but ready to act for the sake of his mind’s stability. And Anon wants to take their hand. Anon wants to feel their scales touching his thick skin. Anon wants to embrace them tightly, to cry on their shoulders, to hear the comforting chant. Anon wants them to help him. But they are nothing more than a silhouette, a face inside his mind. Nothing more than a picture in his broken imagination. And that fact clogs up inside Anon’s throat, almost making him cry in public. He holds the tears. The train stops. Anon gets up and leaves. The cold wind blows into his ear; he swiftly gets the bag behind him and quickly leaves the platform, stepping onto the street not so different from others. The shadows in between the lights hide his presence on the empty sidewalk. Cars rarely roam around, following phantom destinations. The weight of the bag behind his back disappeared entirely, as if he didn't have it. A moving orange dot of weak light – nothing more than a cigarette in Anon’s mouth. Soon, he reached his apartment complex. Before entering, he sucked onto the cigarette, taking its life span in a single huge drag, before letting out an enormous cloud, thawing in the black murky nothingness. Anon enters the apartment complex; it is really warm inside, and his weathered ears feel weird. He takes a lift, big enough to fit two people and a toddler. Then he steps outside on his floor, finds his door and swiftly opens it with a key. Soon, he is inside his apartment. It is rather warm and welcoming. Pastel colored walls calm an agitated mind. The coldness of laminate flooring is nice to feel. Anon, after leaving his boots and his jacket, goes to the small kitchen, leaving his bag to lie on the floor beside a wall. There, in the small square space, taken up by a small table for two people, some cabinets, a stove, a toaster, an electric kettle, he makes himself a good cup of tea and, despite the boiling hotness, drinks it in one sitting. He leaves the cup and goes into the living (and the only) room. The bed was too nice to pass by, so Anon, leaving the bag beside it, drops down. The tiredness in his body almost immediately kicks in, and he finds himself thriving to close his eyes and go to sleep. He checks the time: seven. There’s still a lot of time to pass. Anon begrudgingly gets up from the comfy bed, pushes his bag to the table and sits down on a good office chair. The window opens a view onto the murky streets. On the table there is a lamp, some office things and a good laptop, somehow strong enough to run some modern games. He reaches into the bag and takes out his diary. Turns on the lamp, and takes a fresh pen. He begins to write down everything that happened to him today. From the big things to minor details. The fidelity of what he writes is astonishing, he never thought he could remember so much from a singular boring day. Minutes pass, and he keeps on writing, not feeling tired at all. He wants to remember today, so he wouldn’t have to remember the past. Oh, the past… No matter if he thinks about the disaster, the beginning, the choices or all other things in between – no matter what he thinks about, desperately trying to search for this blissful nostalgia, it hurts. A singular thought about the high school, his past friends and experiences makes his shin hurt. That is the reason why he has this diary – to try and focus on today. But even that is nothing more than placebo. His apartment is similar to what he had to live in in Skin Row. The view from the clean window is the same. Everything is the same – all the way to his plan of breezing through. He stutters, moves his hand aside, resting it onto the table, and looks at the pages. Unintelligible gibberish spreads across. Nonsense. Pain of absence, guilt of inaction. Gnawing onto him. He cannot continue like this, otherwise he would fill all the pages with this absolute bullshit. He closes the diary and moves it away. Now there’s not much to do. Read a book, look around the internet, listen to music, watch a pirated film, smoke a cigarette… Barely fifteen minutes have passed, but it feels like a good hour. He unbuckles his clock and leaves it on the table. Goes to the kitchen and drinks a cup of fresh water. He looks outside, only to see nothing. Just a city, slowly going to sleep. No signs of stars or a moon on the murky sky. In this inevitable melancholy, Anon takes his pack of cigarettes, takes one, lights it up, opens the window and lets out a cloud of smoke, to thaw in black and cold. “ First day spent. A lot remains. If I keep it like this, I might do what I wanted – get a degree and spend the rest of my lifetime to myself working my ass off until I fucking die. It’s better this way, anyways. ”