Layer 1 - Illusion: Memory 1; Night drive - Disillusion.....

Because this website is stupidly limited and constantly changes my format, I have removed the original format and text effects. Some things may not make sense because of this. However, I've added subtle alternatives to replace these. W.I.P DRAFT - WILL HAVE ERRORS. READ OUR READER'S GUIDE IF YOU'RE STUCK WITH HOW TO READ WITH THE WRITING STYLE AND SPECIAL GRAMMAR (ALTHOUGH SOME RULES/STYLISTIC TEXT ARE DIFFERENT IN EVERY CHAPTER DUE TO THE LIMITS). Summary: Right aligned text in italic is extra simultaneous background information/inner thoughts. Center text in bold is inner voice/separate identity.

I AM LOOKING FOR CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM, GOOD AND BAD.

C.W: EATING DISORDER SUGGESTIONS

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Memory 1: Night drive - Disillusion

AGE: 9

YEAR: 2018

Stadium Lights Demo by Ren Downfelt plays

I find myself waking up in the soft back seat of a car. I emerge from a deep sleep that feels like it lasted hours.

A dark blue midnight sky stretches above, pouring its calming deep moonlight, faintly resting over the quiet road. It mingles with the warm, orange glow of the streetlamps that pass by, flickering like old memories struggling to stay lit. In autumn’s end, majestic autumn trees line the roadside—their leaves swaying gently in the crisp night breeze. Unlike the blurred illusion of my usual dreams, the world here feels real—a memory that once was present.

A soft indigo mist breathes naturally over the night—its presence both comforting and distant.

Tiny spots both unimportant and unseen drown, forgotten in The Nothingness. It feels like everywhere I go in this…lucid? dream, they follow in my subconscious.

I feel the car’s AC toast my invisible feet. A gentle breeze drifts through the open window (how I always liked it), carrying the fresh scent of autumn leaves, fused with dad’s air freshener with that jellybean-gramophone thing, and the faintest trace of my mother’s old clove pink perfume (strong, spicy, balmy, a blend of cinnamon and nutmeg sweetness). Our drives through our little town at this time of night always felt like a euphoric vacation high, new each time (I never cared to remember anything).

I feel that sleepy comfort after a nap—peace.

In the driver’s seat, my dad hums softly to our favourite late-night radio tunes (from alternative indie, to classical, to 90’s rock—dad was always a big music nerd. Made sense why he tried to get me into it so much), his fingers tapping lightly against the wheel at the red light. The soft glow of his phone screen reflects off the dashboard, a no longer needed map still open after a long drive from a day at the amusement park with my friends. He speaks to my mum with a serious expression, but his words muffle out in faint static.

Dad was never the fittest, but somehow, despite all the foods he’d cook for us, he was still fairly healthy (despite spending all his days inside, working) because mum’d force him, like with me, to “get on out and taste the sunshine!”.

I toy with the back of his curly hair (my hands go through).

His outfits were always so simple and dull—a black jacket, grey buttoned shirt, and basic trousers, with gradient reds from the back and filled in vermillion. Vermillion, like his hair and dark orangey eyes.

Despite his exhausted eyes and general dull demenor, he was really! Really fun and loving when it was just us, out whenever! A great friend!

…Even if he was just really my dad back when I didn’t have any real ones.

Beside him, mum hums while she knits—her warm, delicate yet still young hands moving[KJ1] with quiet familiarity. The half-finished jumper drapes over her lap—one for me (multiple patched colours and shades, mainly bright yellow), and one for Michael (almost identical but themed bright green).

She smiles with her overdone makeup (always a perfectionist), revealing her bright, sunny-yellow eyes—caring and softened as natural. Her passion for knitting and flowers (I know, stereotypical but that was always her thing followed by gran-gran—especially her love with the outside. Dad always shared her passion with flowers, too. Even me! Well- well—Bliss. I miss our family garden…) has inspired her ultra cosy fit of clothes and design – designs for everything, actually!—an oversized knitted sweater and undersized yellow baggy joggers with a bright orange gradient from behind, yellow like the sun (almost matching dads, ironically).

On top her head, she has a gorgeous but somewhat simple flower crown of loving pink carnations, and innocent lily-of-the-valleys. Her long, wavy blonde hair which covers half her face, is braided at the back in the shape of a swirling flower. Her hair leads down to two long pigtails, decorated in cute and tiny buttercups, which dye into pink and white on either side. They stretch around her legs—like I said!—like vines, overgrowing.

And Michael.

He was my bestest friend. My older brother in all but blood. My parents had always treated him as one of their own.

Super exhausted, he sleeps beside me, curled up in my favourite blanket, his steady breathing in sync with the rhythm of the tires against the road. (Always wearing a poor choice of clothing) I can’t help but feel nostalgic looking at his smart white shirt and black trousers, always looking like we’re back in school. A bit of stained fruit-juice from that amusement park under a crease is on his shirt, but he hasn’t noticed yet to panic.

But I turn to my other side. And I see Bliss sitting there—everyone in the car completely oblivious to my presence.

What I can feel. It’s not really for me—it’s me feeling what he felt.

Oh...right...

I’m not really here...

I’m just a ghost of my past, I guess...

So I watch with nostalgia.

I watch Bliss rest his elbow against the half-open window, holding his soft little 8 year old head. I notice something though that I don’t remember, on his fluffy, short hair, forced to be overly-conditioned by mum (always a perfectionist) that flows with the cool wind.

Just like mine, a grand, majestic forget-me-not, leaking with tears and bursting with flaming light.

Except—only 8 petals have fallen from this one, new and fresh. I can see it now—each individual petal (yeah, for sure at least a hundred), sharper and clearer than my eyesight can handle, and glistening and shimmering like a star, both being born and dying.

He wears his brightly coloured clothes ready for the holidays, and his bright and innocent purple eyes daydream, gazing at the midnight world passing by. The stars above shimmer—to him, like distant dreams, worlds, where anything could happen, waiting for him, watching back in serenity.

The car slows as we pull into a well-known McDonald’s drive-thru. Dad chuckles, glancing at him through the rearview mirror. "One last late-night snack before home, mmh, kids?"

Driving at night has always been therapeutic for me. As the calm, peaceful night opens its eyes and sees beyond closed eyes, it just gives off some sort of out of body feeling that’s always been so...sentimental. The soft purr of the engine and the steady hum of the tires feel like a heartfelt conversation with the core of the night, settling everyone’s restless mind. The radio continues to play, making time stretch out endlessly into mellow.

Bliss grins sleepily. "Lemme get Happy Meal!!!"

As neon lights scatter through the trees, I spot familiar places among familiar neighboorhoods from nights long ago; gas stations, fast-food spots, pubs, shops, arcades, carnivals, Sunday church—remnants of a past that still lingers.

Mum giggles, shaking her head and stuttering with her finger. "We- we just got back from visiting Folge! And that’s- that’s not a very healthy choice! You're getting too old for those, my little bliss!"

I remember when I was just a small, innocent child, guided by what I saw as my all-knowing parents. I felt invincible. Magical. I had no worries in the world.

But his dad orders it anyway. He always does. And when Bliss holds the warm box in his hands, it was the biggest deal ever!

Even getting all the way back from our home country didn’t matter to him when he was hungry! Ha!

Now, I sit here next to Bliss, staring at the same places, the same roads—only everything feels...different.

Bliss finishes his meal (saving a few nuggets for Micheal). But as I feel that familiar, vivid taste of salted fries and crunchy chicken nuggets downed in ketchup (the good food before they changed it), it’s!...-

Its-…

I don’t really like it that much anymore. Aside from the fact I don’t really eat much, what’s different now is that I haven’t really had any junk foods like this because I tried to be healthy. At the time this memory took place—I didn’t care about that and was just enjoying—but now, I don’t even think I really like mcdonalds that much anymore…?

The world pauses.

In the window, I see a reflection mirror me. Hidden in gently scribbling, deep blue light—two pairs of upside down crescent moon-shaped eyes, with blue forget-me-not irises and pupils spiralling in the middle. The eyes, illuminating in the fog-smeared window, carry long eyelashes of lavender that entangle in a complex.

Similar to that blue figure in that neon light, they speak to me softly with the voice of a child. “Don’t feel like you have to finish it, ____, okay…? If you want, we can fast forward?”

I glare at the eyes. And hesitantly, I waver my invisible hands through the happy meal, and as I do, the memory resumes —I’m able to taste it at the same time Bliss does, and in spite (with my mouth wide open) I munch on the food.

“I’ll do whatever I want!” I sulk, whispering (I feel like I have to hide from Bliss even though this is just a memory) with my mouth half full. “The taste’ll come back!” I swallow with unease and regret for ruining my unintentional potential for a healthy diet.

He nervously laughs, quiet. “…But—do you want this? And let me say your name, N-“

Static.

You ignore.

I spit out the food when the blue figure goes away.

Micheal was always way too polite; he’d constantly deny too much money-spent foods just not to be rude, but I’d always sneak him a few nuggets anyways.

You should've kept them to yourself.

Dad pulls into a petrol station. The lights hum, simple and bright, illuminating empty forecourts. When Bliss taps Micheal, he jumps right up in an instant.

Bliss giggles quietly, “You good, silly?!”

Micheal straightens his posture, whispering back with a weird disjointed smile. “Cockroaches.”

Dad eyes the car rearview mirror, grinning.

“Right then—me and Mum gonna get some more petrol real quick. If Micheal's up, ya boys wann’ choose a Christmas movie this year?” Dad asks.

They both eagerly unbuckle their seatbelts in a flash.

He chuckles. “Fair enough!”

Mum gently hands over a £30 note to Micheal.

“Here Micheal, I’m trusting you to use this wisely. Can you get some milk, eggs and teabags for us? Make sure to also get the ingredients for ____’s birthday cake!” she hands him a list on her phone.

When she tried to say my name, though, it distorted, too, into static.

“You and ____ can customize the cake!”

Dad adds, “Spend ‘ever you guys want with the rest—and make sure he stays out of trouble!” he points his finger at Bliss.

“Wowww...” Bliss sarcastically comments, stepping out the car.

Micheal nods with a smile. “Yes no problem, Mrs Flores, thank you!”

“Aw bless you. There’s no need for that; you’re family to us! It’s Lily to you, ‘kay?”

"Y—yes—Lily...”

Bliss giggles as he drags Micheal out the car, teasing him as he calls him “lame”. Him and Micheal step out into the lukewarm breeze, breathing in the (nostalgic) midnight air—cigarettes, food, and the silky, metallic scent of petrol.

They skip towards the convenience store—the same small shop I used to visit with all my friends after school, when—it wasn’t so serious.

I follow them through the door Bliss just left open—he didn’t even bother to close it, but Micheal does behind.

The welcoming bell jingles. The polished white tiles reflect the gleam of fluorescent lights, offering a gentle welcome. The soothing, cool breeze and lack of people reminds me why I always liked these shops at night.

Micheal carefully wanders through the aisles.

Bliss rushes and trips over everything (flat on the floor one second, then instantly running the next), excitedly racing to touch (what’s now my old memories wrapped in plastic): Toys, comics, games, snacks, art supplies, cheap costumes, DVDs.

Bliss nags, “B’day cake! B’day cake!”

“Now? Alright ____, what do you want!?” He smiles.

He forces Micheal to let him piggyback ride him around the shop like a horse, pointing at every angle!

“Dark choco!”

“Mint choco!”

“White choco!

“Just like bunny Illusia said!”

Micheal’s arms full, Bliss sprints around getting comics, bags of snacks and sweets, and pretty much a mix of everything. Micheal even had to secretly pay from his money!

“Gosh, what cake are you guys trying to make!?”

“They said, it a message from da future!”

Then, Bliss sees it.

He stops—a certain new Christmas movie on a rack.

The movie itself is irrelevant now. I only care about the feelings it brought. A memory remembers me—so sacred it makes me tremble with a wave of deep, magical, bittersweet nostalgia.

A warm orange haze, crackling and wavey like a fire. I remember when my relatives and I used to watch that old DVD yearly on Christmas Day from that point on—when everyone was together, and everyone was happy... I can still hear the laughter, the magical holiday music playing beside the glistening Christmas tree.

The fire crackled, toasty and cozy, it’s glow mingling with the joyful, twinkling merry lights. We’d drink snug hot chocolate to heat up ourselves from the cold, snowy winter night—extra creamy and with soft mini marshmallows, just like how Gran-gran made them.

And the smell!—That rich, mouthwatering aroma of a hot, succulent Christmas dinner fresh from the oven filled every corner of Home.

Gran-gran and Gramps chat with my parents. My cousins, uncles and aunts drink and laugh, while my big, fluffy dog, Bear, sniffs around, slobbering everyone with gentle affection. Michael and Bliss chatter at the table—our Christmas dinners still unfinished. We’re too absorbed in the movie. We’re having so much fun.

Everything is perfect.

Everything was perfect...

Soft tears slip down my cheeks as I reminisce about the golden days I once lived. Innocent little Bliss lifts the DVD up and beams, showing it to Micheal. Somewhat naturally, the DVD splits into two and begins to merge into my head. The lavender fog thickens into a more dreamy, unreal state. Neon colours outline the buildings and slowly absorb the world in steady flashes. The DVD phases through my skull and submerges into a part of my brain. A thought hits me.

If I can explore my past in this—lucid dream?...can I…change what happened…?

Can I still find Home?-

A piercing shriek—so nauseating I can’t think or do anything but focus on the pain.

A mess of chaos, I hear: Party poppers? Laughter? Fear…?-

Micheal stares at something.

He stares at me...

I try to smile lightly though in discomfort of the smile...the smile so unnatural, wide, cartoony?.

He stares.

I stare.

I can’t smile back.

I attempt to blurt out a few words, but all that comes out is glitches and distortions, twisting into my own body.

A painful static begins to rupture my ears.

The skies begin to fracture and bleed into a bright red ink.

The more he stares, the more off he looks...almost like he’s...someone different—someone...red...?.

Time freezes.

Static silence.

That black, void-filled door. It scribbles with obscurity in the back of the room.

I glide on over to it, my heart beating with the timeless beats of nothing.

My hands slip onto the door. Hesitantly, I twist the familiar doorknob.

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