Practice Story 1-T-Backrooms Iniative
An indescribable dread falls over Bennett. He looks around and views nothing more and nothing less of the same; a pure void. The screeches and wails make a wild cacophony, almost forming a noticeable symphony before him. A creature approaches, creating distorted noises that almost sound like miniature failures at human speech. All he could do was sit and lie in this unrecognizable place and let the cacophony become a mesmerizing symphony before him.
7 days before these events, Bennett was at his home. It was bright outside, a divine spring that shined through the windows and made his skin feel that perfect amount of warmth. Bennett was in Freshman year of high-school, a developing man to say the least. The “great” school of Nevermore High. The school year had begun rounding it’s end and Bennett knew he had wasted it. He had done nothing notable with anyone. After thinking deeper on that he couldn’t even recall a time in which he went to do anything with any sort of a friend in a couple years. Those couple years ago are nothing but static from an old analog TV; a cacophony of distorted and burnt out sounds that have no distinct connection. Bennett had often worried about this, how could his memory be so diluted? On a second thought, he never could recall a time when his memory fit together perfectly in the first place. It had become yet another worrying thought in the cesspool of his mind. A cesspool that was consisting heavily of his worries about his current social endeavors
Bennett knew he wasn’t someone who stood out. He tended to wear mainly flannels and simple jeans, reflecting well on his preferred taste in music; grunge. His mind consistently shifted to the feeling of longing; longing for social encounters. He was already aware of his inability to remember his past social status, yet he still focused on trying to piece together some sort of healthy friendship. Even so, he pushed the idea out of his mind at that moment. “I need to focus on practice.” He thought considerably to himself.
He lifted his electric guitar out of the stand on that Wednesday afternoon. He peeked out the window to confirm his parent’s car had left and quickly plugged it in to his amp. It wasn’t anything special, a normal quality amp with doodles and drawings of his own on it. A few stickers there and a few drawings there, he had a connection with it, no pun intended. He strummed the only few chords he knew on his guitar, making a resonant noise blast from the amp. The sound caused a feeling of euphoria. This is what he always practiced for, it made him feel at ease almost. Comparable to being in the center of a storm, the eye. Yet, even on the surface he knew he was unpolished; a raging sound without direct reins. The practice continued for about 2 hours.
He later went downstairs and noticed his parents still had yet to park into the driveway. A solitude home with him at the center. Whether he liked to admit it or not, a fear developed within him. “What if they don’t come back? What if something bad happened? What if they don’t wanna come back? What if someone shows up here and kicks my ass for no exact reason?” All these thoughts welled within him, the fear prolonged his movement and made his breathing uneasy. This wasn’t a rarity either. In an attempt to calm himself, he made noodles and readied himself for bed.
That night he dreamed of a singular rusted key hanging on a thread above him. In his hand he saw a badge with an eye on it. Upon the top of the badge it read, “The Storm.” He looked around at the enveloping darkness and asked where he was. He exclaimed desperately, “Where the hell am I? Is anyone there?” No response came from the endless sea of void. He looked up upon the single bulb in the room and then centered his attention to the rusted key. He grabbed it and pulled it down within his hand.
Something indescribable exits from the void and makes itself apparent to Bennett. This was the most dreadful thing he had seen in his life. Frozen with fear, he could not speak, therefore he listened. A raspy voice, sounding akin to a distorted text-to-speech bot emerged from the unidentifiable creature. “What will you have when you push it all away?”
The sun shines it’s rays onto his face. Bennett rubs his morning eyes, feeling tears upon his soft skin and those tears dripping onto his calloused fingers. “Morning,” he thought, without any recollection of his dream. Then he loosened his grip of his right hand to reveal a rusted key. He says to himself, “Where did this…?” A single rusted key. He feels a sense of nostalgia just from looking at it. Bennett had been a big fan of older looking items, old keys and old watches, just antiques tickled his fancy. He decided to keep this rusted key, pushing away his fear of where it had come from. He shook his head in an attempt to adjust his hair. Decently long, brown hair that split in the middle of his forehead with the sides almost reaching his shoulder. He modeled his hair off of current rock and grunge artists at the time. That and also because the last thing he wants to do is be placed in a position where he has to convince his mom to cut his hair again and again like usual.
Bennett’s mother wasn’t a barber or anything. She really only cut hair as a hobby. Her actual job wasn’t fully known to Bennett either. Bennett has gone a full 15 years of his life without knowing it. She always pushed the question away, claiming it to be ‘office duties.’ Bennett never bought that. Yet the thought of his mother made him urgently consider, “Did she ever come home last night? Did dad even come home?” He quickly pushed himself out of his bed and shoved a shirt and pants onto his noticeably skinny body.
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