It has come to my attention that The beginning chapters are...well, quite frankly, SUE. I have therefore decided to re-write them, in hopes of staying true to what Aanyx's character has become. If any of you older readers liked the chapter the way it was, send me a message and I'll be happy to give you the original in return :)
Twilight Town-a quaint little place famous for it's Summer Struggle Tournament. Contestants from all over the world train for months in an attempt to make it to the finals.
Unfortunately, that means less time for me to hang out with two of my best friends, Heyner and Roxas.
Who am I, you ask? Aanyx-Just Aanyx. I don't much care for my full name, especially since my first name is so weird in the first place. I live just past Sunset Hill, with my mom. She's a lawyer, though, so I don't see her around much.
That's why I like coming to this side of town-not only do most of my friends live over here, but there's also a lot more excitement over here. And this week's excitement is coming from none other than the Struggle Tournament!
So here I am, sitting in the biggest alley in town, as the two blonds of our group duke it out with bright blue slightly padded bats-Struggle Bats, to be exact-while my other two friends, Olette and Pence, ditched to get us dinner.
"Oops...Time!" I called, noticing the stopwatch had...well, stopped. "Who won?" Roxas asked before chugging a waterbottle. I looked from one to the other, "Um..."
"Forget it, she's hopeless." Heyner huffed, tossing his towel down. "Look, forgive me for not finding the Struggle as interesting as you two do, okay? And you know I have a fairly small attention span, so you can just-" I was promptly cut off by Pence's call of "FOOOD!" from the other end of the alley. "Finally!"
"Man, I'm starved!"
"Boys..." I muttered with a roll of my eyes, though joined the others inside The Usual Spot nonetheless.
"Aren't you gonna eat, Aanyx?" Olette asked, looking up from her own carton of good old-fashioned take-out noodles. I shook my head, cracking my knuckles habitually, "Nah, I'm not that hungry...At least, not for Jason's. Mom and I had some last night, so..."
"What else is there to eat 'round here?" Heyner snorted. I rolled my eyes, "Oh, I dunno, a home-cooked meal perhaps?"
"How is your mom doing, anyway?" Roxas asked, leaning back in his seat. I shrugged, "Normal, I 'spose. I wouldn't really know, she talks more to her clients than me nowadays..."
"I'm sure she's just having a busy month, that's all." Olette suggested-just like she always does. "Yeah, more like busy year..." I muttered before standing, "Listen, I'd better get going-I'm still house-sitting for Mr. Brown and I haven't really been sleeping well, anyway. Must be pre-school jitters..." With that and a half-hearted wave over my shoulder, I made my way to the train station, staring at my feet as I walked.
To be honest, I would've rather had the pre-school jitters. No, the real reason I couldn't sleep was that stupid voice.
They all began like any other dream, I suppose, where I'm doing whatever it is I'm doing like most dreams go. Then I have the urge to start walking...so I do...and I walk clean off the scenery and into pitch-black darkness. And every time, that voice starts talking to me, saying how I'll submit, or some other such cheesy nonsense. If it weren't happening to me, I'd say it was a badly written horror film or something.
But there's just something about his voice-something that makes me want to scream bloody murder and gauge out his eyeballs. And there's the fact that he never shows himself.
But I do see other things, while this happens. Cloaked and face-less, eighteen figures form out of the darkness, not quite solid. Then the sixteenth from the left takes off her hood-and I wake up. There's no denying those seaweed-green eyes, nor that annoying mess of auburn bangs-That sixteenth figure is me.
Creepy, right? It gives me chills just thinking about it...
Realizing I had stopped at the foot of the stairs, I shook my head in a half-hearted attempt to clear it of the dream. All I succeeded in doing was to make my long braid smack my shoulder a few times. Why do cartoons and stories have people do that if it never works?
More importantly, why do I do it if it never works?
Boredom creeping through the more-or-less silent train ride, I jingled the keys in my pocket. The Browns would be back from their week-long trip to the beach soon, and maybe I can ask Mrs. Brown about it. She claims to be psychic, but really I've yet to believe her. I think she's just good at reading people. Like Sherlock Holmes. She's still the best person I can think of to ask about it. She knows about reading dreams and what-not, so maybe she can help...
Then again, had I slept a bit better, I suppose I would be able to think a bit more clearly. Well, maybe pure lack of sleep will drive the dream away tonight...