Hello.

If you’d allow me, I’d like to formally introduce myself before we begin. After all, the story is a journey shared between author and reader, so I think some sense of acquaintance is, perhaps, in order.

My name is CloudedDaydreamer. My identity lies in ink and paper. 

I’m on a little journey to see my dreams realized, my thoughts materialized, and my flaws immortalized. If you’re reading this, then perhaps you’ve chosen to walk this path with me. I welcome and thank you. 

Now that we are introduced, let me start by asking you a question:

How do you see Fear? To me, Fear is a puppet master. A cruel, otherworldly being that presides over the hearts and minds of all. I am not perfect. Fear takes my imperfections and uses them to cage me; where I sit to watch from perceived safety as life passes me by. 

Do you feel the same way? Good. Let us explore this feeling together, you and I. 

Let me tell you a story…

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Behold a boy in a stark white void.

Hot tears rolled down the boy’s face, with no hands to wipe them away. Those hands were too busy covering his ears to block out the unremitting roar of many voices—a chorus of cries that clamored countless cruelties. His senses were reeling, his ears were bleeding, and his eyes were blinded by the brilliant light that filled the air. The boy's jaw ached; gaped in a scream that was never to be heard above the deafening noise that suffocated his mind and threatened to drown him. Occasionally, he would jolt and quake. Every muscle in his small body spasmed violently with deep sobs. Like his screams, however, they would never be heard in this pale prison. 

Pathetic.

That was the first time he heard it: the voice that spoke above the others with words like razors that rent his morale. In its presence, the anarchic shouts of the others would unify and soften into faint, mocking laughter. The light in the void would dim, allowing the boy to glimpse the billions of floating, disembodied eyeballs that filled the sky like a swarm of locusts. This swarm watched him incessantly; they hungered and threatened to devour him with their sharp, piercing gazes. These moments maimed him until all that remained were the carved-out husks of dreams and ambitions and a future. 

Worthless.

He was never sure of how much time was passing anymore. He wouldn’t even be aware of time’s relentless crawl if it weren’t for the fact that he was changing, physically, and had run dry of tears to shed. The void—with its eyes and voices—had hollowed his heart and left his soul desecrated beyond recognition. Anything bearing semblance to hope had become an alien sensation, and he entertained the voice that spoke above the rest more often now, even daring to affirm it.

Useless. Sure. Hopeless. What else? Alone. True enough.

It came by more often now, like an uninvited friend, to whisper vileness into his weak mind, willing him towards apathetic surrender. The eyes had drawn closer as well, carelessly violating his space and choking him with their ominous stares. The light of the void would no longer offer him the respite of ignorance by obscuring them from view. They were always there, now—always staring. He sat in the middle of the blank, empty canvas; a huddled mass of oversized white garments that covered his every miserable feature. 

As time continued to pass immeasurably, the boy continued to grow without changing. Every day was the same: voices, mockery, eyes; the agonizing atrocities of imposed isolation. He’d watch ghostly figures periodically pass by and fade into the air like distant echoes. Countless weights hung from his heart like anchors from ships, preventing him from leaving the port of despair in search of better shores.

“It doesn’t have to be this way…” 

The boy lifted his head, his face hidden in the shadow of his hood. There was no source to be found for the new voice that seemed to come from everywhere at once. The void went silent for the moment. Not even the voice that spoke above the rest dared interrupt the newcomer. 

“There’s another option.”

The boy’s eyes continued to scan the horizonless void, burning from its stark lack of color. He blinked, and a door suddenly filled a portion of the space before him. The boy’s heart seized at the door’s sudden existence, and his limbs burst into the frantic motions of retreat. He dragged himself backwards, too afraid to stand, and in this fear hardly noticed the dozens of eyes that he bumped into along his way and sent pinning off into the blank expanse. He stared at the door from his newly-established safe distance, waiting for his heart to stop drumming in his ears. His eyes took in every detail of it. Even from this distance, he could tell it was ancient. It was practically falling apart; soggy oak wood sagged from tired hinges with a sense of self-resigned defeat. Mold and rot ran deep in its façade, eating away at its mass and releasing a nauseating stench. In the upper half of the door, rusting iron bars covered a smashed window that peered into pitch-black nothingness—a nothingness that seemed to beckon everything into itself. It was as if this door was the only thing keeping that darkness from swallowing all existence into its embrace. A crude iron handle was bolted into the soft timber. Something about it begged to be put to use; turned so that the door could open and free the darkness. Words were painted on the lower half of the door’s rotting face in inky-black ooze: “SAFE PLACE”. 

“You don’t have to stay here,” came the voice again, “it’s quiet there. It’s dark. It’s peaceful.” 

The boy began to stand, all traces of the fear that had previously driven him were gone, replaced by the allure of that alien sensation that had long since vanished from the void. Darkness? Silence? Peace? Life glimmered faintly in his eyes at the sight of the four-letter word he’d thought, until now, to be dead. 

“I can protect you,” said the voice, with all the gentleness of a mother comforting her weeping infant, “I can keep both of us safe.” Safety. The boy’s heart skipped. He was standing before the door now. The stench of mildew and decay was overpowering at this distance. His head was spinning. His trembling hand grasped the handle. It was cold and rough to the touch, and resisted him at first. Time-devoured mechanisms fought for freedom from a deep-rooted stiffness. With enough effort, the handle snapped downwards with a metal-on-metal shriek and once-frozen hinges squealed painfully back to life. The door swung open, letting the boy gaze deep into the all-encompassing blackness within. He felt it pulling at him, taut as a rope around his spirit. The darkness became all he could see. The silence became all he could hear. The odor of rot was gone, replaced by the overwhelming smell of wet stone. He was there. Even though he hadn’t yet stepped foot through the door, he was there. 

“There are no eyes there. No voices. No pain.”

The boy felt a strange sensation coming over him: a slight tingling at the back of his head; a tense, building energy in his spine that yearned to be let out; a newfound sense of lightness. He slowly raised his arms and spread them outwards. His heart began to race, fueled with a muddled mix of undefined feelings. He leaned forward, letting the pull grow stronger. His mind blanked. Numbness overcame him. Numbness became him. 

The boy fell from the pale void through the door to serenity. 

“You’re safe here with me.”

He must have fallen unconscious, for he found himself coming to on his hands and knees. The ground was hard and smooth, like glass. His eyes began to adjust, carving out vague shapes in the darkness. Slowly, the shapes took form and clarity, before perception gave them identities: a knife and a slab of sleek, white plastic. He picked up the knife first. It was heavy in his hand, but the handle rested perfectly there. He silently drew the large blade from its sheath and tested its edge with his finger. Iciness bit his skin and drew warm blood. Something was crudely etched into the blade, and he squinted and fought to read it. It was a name: “Henry”. Something about it seemed so foreign yet familiar. Reading the name felt like seeing an old friend for the first time in ages, but barely recognizing them. He knew the name intimately, but only in the faint reaches of hazy memory. He set the knife down and moved on to the plastic object: some kind of mask, upon closer inspection. It was a little big for him, but it begged to be worn all the same. It was featureless and smooth, with black ovals for eyes and a black, crude question mark messily painted down the center. 

He looked up, examining his surroundings now with fully adjusted eyes. He was sitting on a small, raised platform in the center of a massive cavern. Tunnels branched off into the darkness in every direction, and he could make out the outlines of doors of all shapes and sizes planted in the cavern walls. The only source of light here was a dimly-glowing red mist that filled the air. It compounded to form a bright haze: a wall of blood-red fog that deterred curious gazes from exploring too far. Behind him, the door he’d come through had all but disappeared. It was only faintly visible now, encased in a tombstone-like obelisk of black crystal—a wall of black glass. 

“Welcome to Limbo, child. Here, nothing can harm you.” The voice must have followed him through. Or perhaps it had always been here.

A moment passed in continued, silent, awestruck intake before the boy finally spoke. It was the first time he’d ever even heard his own voice. It was weak, coarse, and small. “Who are you? Who am I? What is this place?”

He stopped. There were too many questions forming in his mind; he couldn’t possibly ask them all. A silhouette began to take shape in the glass wall. It mimicked the boy’s own outline, like a twisted reflection or shadow, and peered at him through two white spots on its head. 

“I am your protector, and you…you are whoever you choose to be,” the reflection whispered. The boy frowned, unsatisfied, and took the knife into his hand to present it to the ghost in the glass. 

“What is this name? Is it mine?” he said. His eyes searched the figure in the wall for unspoken answers, but found none.

 The figure just shrugged. “As I said: you are whoever you choose to be. Your name is whatever you decide.” 

This response propelled the boy back into silent contemplation as he looked at his only material possessions—the knife in one hand; the mask in the other. There were so many questions he felt would never be answered. He glanced around once more. The darkness was undoubtedly comforting. The quiet was most welcome. As the strange voice had promised, there were no eyes, no clamor, no laughter here. There was no judgment or pain. There was not a hint of danger lurking in the depths of the red fog’s glow, or around the bend of the tunnels. Before long, a single word had planted itself in his mind, slowly pushing his doubts and questions away. He didn’t understand where it had come from, nor why it refused to leave, but it felt…good. He once more turned his attention to the mask. It begged to be worn. So he would wear it. 

Okay then, he thought, glancing around once more. Let’s try this. Solemnly, he lifted it over his face and secured the straps around his head. All at once, he was home. He had a name. He had a purpose. Gone was the pathetic boy. He turned to the figure in the obelisk, staring through cold eyes and newfound confidence. He spoke his name. 

The faceless figure smiled. 

“Very well,” said the figure, “let’s be safe here. Together.”

Author's Note: Hey there! Cloudy here! I know I'm not normally supposed to have these kind of notes in chapters, as it disrupts the flow of the story and all, but I wanted to take this time to quickly say a few things. First of all, thank you. If you're seeing this, then you read all the way to the end of this prologue. That simple fact alone means more to me than I will ever be able to express in words. Writing is my passion in life, and being able to share that passion through stories with you brings me so much joy. So thank you. For reading my work. For supporting my passion. For helping me get just a little closer to my dreams.

Now that I've said that, I want to quickly clarify something. As I said in the description, I aim to keep a consistent, weekly upload schedule of every Saturday. Future posts will not be this long, and I will try to be more consistent about their length. I have school work and personal life to attend to, and this story is still a work in progress. Since I want to deliver to you what I feel is the best quality work I can provide with each upload, I strive for "Quality over Quantity". If I miss a weekly upload, I will do my best to be transparent about why, and make up for it the next week.

Again, thank you so much for taking the time to read this. It means so much to me.

Never stop daydreaming...

-CD