Fountain Grass

My parents died two weeks ago. I'm free now. 

It took me another two weeks to plan my suicide, so a month in total.

The first time I psyched myself up. I went to a good range, a bit off from Shediac, the place with the old couple. They taught me how to shoot. They called me the quiet boy. I wanted to tell them I was already 22. I'm not a boy anymore. 

I squeezed the trigger good. I breathed in and out a good bit. The old man Lewis was a jackass. I wanted to tell him that I only needed to learn how to shoot, not well.

The first time was in the middle of the woods. I wrapped some duct tape around my mouth. I put out a picnic blanket, I think it was my mother's, set aside two toys: a Buzz Lightyear, cheap kind, missing the plastic top, and a Casio watch with the calculator. I opened six cans of Coke and pretended like my friends were there, cheering me on. I couldn't tell them, of course. It'd just bother them. 

Safety was on. I shook, felt nauseous, and didn't do it again.

God gave me a second chance, I wasn't going to blow it. 

Next time, I psyched myself up with Knob Creek. A lot of it. It hadn't been a while since I drank. It was good, the fire melted my blood. I remembered to turn the safety off. 

This time I told my friends, I have a date. They congratulated me. They asked me what her name was. I said Denise. They asked her where she's from. Algeria. She black? No. Are her parents Algerian? I don't know. How did you two meet? Amusement park. What were you doing at the amusement park by yourself? I wasn't. Who was with you? My parents. Why'd you go to the amusement park with your parents? My dad wanted to go, he had cancer. He liked roller coasters. It was a good send-off. It shut them up. My dad hated rollercoasters. Show us a picture of her! I don't have one. I'll take a photo on the next date. I told them we were taking a vacation.

I booked a hotel out of Mobile, drove down with my gun. Week long stay. I told them I was here for a business conference. I asked for a second key for my fiancee. What name? Denise.

I psyched myself up. Day in, day out, I listened to the hammer of the gun. Click, click, click. I listened to it day and night. Hold the grip tight, I told myself. The barrel points at your skull. Let it click.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

The second week, I fired. I don't remember what it felt like. Don't worry, I left a good tip, everything I had.

Everything went black. My head hurt. Great, I thought. I fucked up again.

I didn't. 

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My hands fumbled around for anything. I felt a door. I opened it. It had a good creak. The air was thick. The stairs were cold. Stone. Smelled like water. A soft rug beneath my toes. I was wearing shoes when I fired.

Was I in hell?

I entered a room. It had a long hall. It led to a dining area. Medieval fantasy? Everything was made of wood and stone. Big bannisters, gargoyles. Hard lights and warm gusts of air from a roaring fireplace. Boiled eggs, dented from nails picking at their shells. Black sauce from mashed plants in some hand-picked garden. Bannisters with battles I don't know or cared to. Phalanxes of empty armor lingering with the stench of sweat. Brown banners from puffy wool soaked in wastewater. Towels smelled like shit. Food on each side. Chicken. Salmon. Purple lips pressed into thin gold chalices rims knife-sharp wine to the brim. Asses imprinted in the seats. Cushions regaining shape, shells inside snapping as it puffed.

I passed through the hall, hoping to find someone. Nobody. I didn't yell out - what if someone heard me?

I left the entryway. The sun stung my eyes. Cloudy overcast, winds rolling fat, fluffy clouds. An ocean of hameln grass stretched to the horizon, criss-crossing with rose tide-caps peeking beneath alien fronds.

I got a good distance out, around a twenty minutes' walk. Behind me was the castle, a jutting, vertical mass. Big battlements, fat, locked bricks zigzagging up to wide crenellations. Green flags striped in gold flew fluttered on high. But that was it. Not a town, not a village. 

Just a castle in a sea of waist-high grass, stocked, warm, and empty.

I've read about these before. Status. Nothing. Open. Nothing. Escape. Nothing. I guess this wasn't it.

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To anyone reading this, this diary begins with my arrival because I hoped - perhaps desperately hoped - that you'll find this. At the time of this entry, everything was deathly still.

When I woke up in that dark room, I thought there'd be something waiting for me on the other side. For a second, I thought I'd find myself on an adventure, good friends, good companionship. I don't know what I was expecting. Perhaps something less dour.

But there's nothing here. It's been two days now. No chirping crickets, no songbirds, no barking dogs, shouts, shuffles, scritch-scratches, chatters, tweets, screeches, screams, howls, growls, click-clacks, moans, groans, nothing. All that spoke was fire, and all that wailed was wind.

It's been the fifth day since I told myself it could've been worse. I could have been put in a situation where there'd be something truly dangerous. I could be a slave or dead (again). I could have been forced to fight and grovel. I could no longer be myself. 

But here's a warm castle with food and fixtures, fields green and verdant, roses gowned in glass thorns, dandelions blinking in golden moonlight, roots shivering at the kiss of a flame. Things are nice and beautiful here. But no matter how strange these new things were, I couldn't get the question out of my head.

Where is everyone?