NOVEL WEB Day 0: -Those Who Walk Hand in Hand With Their Darkness-
Somewhere in the small city of Havenport, the night shines brighter than usual, bringing out the worst in people, as well as illuminating a path to those who side with darkness, who lay down their soul for the power, who worship the roads less traveled, away from being human. And in the small city, somewhere in between roads, laid across a surgical, cold metal table, lies a pretty, young woman, someone whose life is fresh, bright, and beaming with possibilities for a future; her eyes are closed, her body unconscious, recovering.
The woman, suddenly, rushed with an alert of her body, a last attempt at something she can't understand, jolts awake with the feeling that something is definitively wrong; memories fuzzy around her head, blurry fragments of something that happened, something that she knows is important but that she can't bring herself quite yet to remember; she can only feel a dizziness as her world spins in a familiar motion, that paired with the strong smell of alcohol coming from every breath she takes, tells one story, but even so, almost as a cruel reminder, there's a pain, sharp, insistent at the back of her head, that paints another picture of what is going on.
Beside the woman, there's a figure, shadowed of all features by the lack of light inside the room; even so, they stand up and walk graciously around, like they don't even need to see to move—like the lack of light is unimportant to them; a song, a lullaby, vibrates the person's tired, croaky vocal cords, sounding strangely characteristic, both eerie and calming.
Hearing the unfamiliar voice that produces it, the woman, with a newfound curiosity and the start of what can be described as understanding, tries to sit up, acting like waking up with a strange someone isn't uncommon to her days.
Her attempt, however, is unsuccessful, as she soon finds out that her hands and feet are tied to the table and herself, keeping her arms pressed against her side and her legs locked together uncomfortably, especially as the alcohol wears down and returns her sense of pain.
The figure stops, gazing at the woman, something she can only tell as the moonlight reflects on the person's eyes, or so she thinks, as they glow lowly. A simple laugh, one that at any other time would be normal to hear, rings, bringing with it a question to the woman: What is it they are laughing at?
"Dear Muse, please don't dare to move; the process surely must be painful, but I need you to stay strong for me; you're about to become something so pretty." The figure speaks softly—caringly—but even when the tone tries to pass this message, the true intention behind it is clear and sure as day, not good.
Pain, hot, infernal, shoots up the woman's system; the protection her body had crafted for her as she was dazed away crumbles like a wall of bricks being struck by a hammer, not once, not twice, but much, much more; time loses its grips on her; the brain throws away the concept of that, trying to focus solely on surviving; it fails, because even if it forgets that time exists, it still ticks by, cruelly. Consciousness slips away, the mind crumbles together with the defenses, and in mere minutes, what was a woman with eyes that glimmer with life turns into a lifeless doll.
The figure, saddened by the scene, sighs in disappointment. "Oh what a shame, the potential you clasped in your tiny hands, so dearly, displaying proudly for the world to observe, to bask in; it has misguided me into a false belief; you seduced me with your sweet fragrance, my muse, and now you paid the unjust price of progress; but rest assured, on the deep parts of heaven, that your death was not in vain."
The night progresses, and accompanying the body, carrying it to the middle of the city, the figure smiles; they lay the cold woman on the unforgiving cement, doing justice to their words and allowing her to, one last time, display her potential for the world to see.
The city sleeps, quietly, unmoving; but soon, when the sun hits the skies, the light will shine on her, and the curtains will be open; the lucky ones will forget about it and continue with their normal lives, but the unlucky ones, oh, they will be cursed with the burden of trying to understand what has happened—to look beyond the veil.