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Chapter 47: Lost~Lost~
~I am alone. In this narrow path, nobody can save me. Why did I have to bring myself here?
I am lost. I am in the middle of a horror flick, nobody can save me. Why did I not listen to my friends?
No one would miss me, nothing good comes from me. Please, won't you say farewell to me?! Please!
I am not worth losing sleep over. It's not hard to see, why I have given on me? I don't need hope and I don't value myself.
Whatever happened to me?~
The song keeps repeating itself. That horrific song never shuts up! I want to pull my hair out. I want to scream. I feel guilty, but there was nothing I could have done to save them.
Flashes come to me. Suello is out in the middle of the desert, walking for miles without water. He collapses, my heart skips a flutter.
I want to step in, but I can't. This image keeps me back.
"Vi, I will save you! I promise!"
He keeps trudging through the endless desert with the blaring sun on his back. The sweat of his brow keeps him compa
Chapter 46: A Lost Friend~A Lost Friend~
We are now in some place called Halloweentown. This turnip head fellow in a black suit showed up, he was really slender. Maybe, Slenderman, but creepypasta asides. He was nothing like the faceless spidery phantom.
This guy just like to dance and sing. I also saw three brats, one in a devil costume, one in a skeleton costume and one in a witch's costume. They all threw pumpkins at the wall and several explosions went off. Annoying brats! I hope they don't-
"Gotcha mister," I am now translucent, but still Sora, Donald and Goofy cannot see me. Maybe, it's this world, maybe, it's the people I have met, but...
HOW CAN THESE FREAKING BRATS BLAST ME LIKE THAT?!
I nearly crashed into a tombstone. Stupid, STUPID, stupid! Where are these kids' parents? And, if so, where are their spankings?
If I did something like this, my dad would have had my hide. Kids, these days, I suppose!
12 am passed, Sora and Donald and Goofy were invited to Skeleton Jack, turnip-h
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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