hay this is the unedited original chapter 1 where it kinda rambles on longer, i cut it down a ton so it would read better but i feel we lost some of the detail so im posting this original.
It was awful outside, not in the casual sense of dreariness but in the manner of a city cursed by its own existence, grey and smothered beneath a sky that resembled wet ash, a ceiling of oppressive clouds that seemed to sag lower with every passing hour, sealing the town in a coffin of choking gloom. The air was sodden with damp and soot, carrying with it the rancid perfume of coal smoke, sewage, and decay, every breath a slow poisoning. Rain slicked the cobblestones in the street below, where gutters overflowed with black water that carried broken twigs, leaves gone to pulp, and the carcasses of rats swollen by filth. The skeletal trees that lined the outskirts of town stood stripped and mournful, their limbs twisting upward in the fog like the clutching hands of beggars or the tormented dead, reaching not for heaven but for release. Beyond them, the forest loomed, its treeline as sharp and black as a knife, its depths whispering with things unseen, and even the bravest never dared to wander its dripping paths when the sky was this dark.
Ssprug stumbled out of bed, the thin mattress groaning as though it too resented his weight, blinking away the lingering fog of nightmares that clung to him like damp cobwebs. His skull pounded with a dull, insistent ache, each throb like a hammer on an anvil, a grim souvenir from last night's whiskey binge. His throat was raw, his mouth thick with the taste of stale liquor and ash, and for a moment the room itself spun in sluggish circles, the warped wooden beams above seeming to lurch and sway like ships in a storm. He pressed his palm to the edge of the bedframe, steadying himself against the grainy wood scarred by decades of neglect, his eyes adjusting slowly to the dim, jaundiced glow that seeped through the cracked shutters.
The chamber was a mausoleum of his past life, its walls hung with faded posters whose colors had long since bled into grey, fragments of once-bright moments now rendered ghostly and pathetic, memories embalmed in dust. He stared at them with hollow eyes, recalling the time when laughter and hope had still existed here, before she had stepped into his world and twisted it until it broke, before she had torn out his heart with her cold delight, crushing it beneath her heel with a sadist's glee that still bled into his dreams. The shadows in the corners seemed to lean closer as he thought of her, as though even the darkness mocked him with her absence.
Around him lay the relics she had left behind, or rather the things she had forced into his keeping, shelves of books that pressed upon him with their weight, volumes dripping with slogans and manifestos not his own — How to Be a Queer Ally, Smash the Patriarchy, Why Monogamy is Sexist — tomes he had never chosen but had endured because she demanded it, each title a brick in the wall of her twisted gospel. And crowning the pile, towering above all the others like a sneering idol, sat a book whose very existence seemed to taunt him — Why White Men and Asian Men Should All Be Rocket Shipped to the Sun, its garish spine gleaming in the dim light, the name of its prize-winning author embossed like a curse. Its presence in the room was a wound that never closed, a reminder that the world outside was just as cruel, just as absurd, as the ruin of his own heart.
His gaze fell then upon the photograph resting on the crooked dresser, its glass smeared and clouded with time, yet still containing her smile, still preserving her beauty like an insect caught in amber. His ex — the one the town now muttered about in hushed gossip as the girl who broke Ssprug's face — stared back at him from the frame, her grin radiant, devastating, a ghost from a time when he had still believed in warmth, in happily-ever-afters, in the foolish comfort of love. His fingers hovered above the glass, trembling, longing to trace her lips, to feel again the softness that had once fit against his own as though their mouths had been carved for one another. For a heartbeat he almost allowed himself to sink into the memory, almost allowed himself to breathe her in again.
But then the darker truth surged forward, crashing over him like a wave of bile — the memory of those lips wrapped around another man, the animal sounds of betrayal spilling from her throat, a symphony of cruelty that replayed in his mind until his stomach knotted with rage. A sound ripped from him, not quite a word but a snarl torn from the throat of something cornered and wounded. His hand seized the frame, knuckles blanching white as his grip tightened until pain lanced through his fingers. With a guttural grunt he hurled it at the wall, the crash splitting the silence as glass erupted in a storm of glittering shards, the fragments scattering across the warped floorboards like shattered stars, like the splinters of his own ruined heart. For a moment he stood there panting, chest heaving, watching the ruin with a grim and savage satisfaction, and yet beneath it lingered the same void that no destruction could fill.
The silence did not last. From below, the shrill cry of his sister pierced the stale air, a voice jagged as broken porcelain, slicing through the fragile quiet. "Hey, wakey wakey, eggs and bakey!" she screeched, her words grinding across his skull like nails dragged down a chalkboard, each syllable lodging in his raw nerves. Her voice carried up the stairwell, warped by the hollow, crumbling walls of the house, filling the chamber with an echo that felt less like family and more like mockery. Outside, the rain thickened, tapping insistently against the panes, as though the whole wretched town demanded he rise and stumble into its waiting jaws.
The house groaned under the weight of decay, timbers swollen with damp, the scent of mildew and coal smoke seeping into every surface. Beyond its sagging door lay the town — a labyrinth of leaning chimneys and crooked alleys where shadows pooled like ink, a slum birthed from forgotten European suburbs, its veins clogged with soot and desperation. The forest pressed close against its edges, vast and hungry, its blackened trunks like the bars of a cage, its depths whispering secrets meant for no living ear. And above it all hung the sky, rain-choked and swollen with smog, a suffocating canopy that promised no dawn, only more night.
And in that gloom, Ssprug sat on the edge of his bed, heart hammering, head aching, the shards of the photograph glittering at his feet like an omen.
Ssprug's boots thudded against the warped wood as he began his descent, the whole staircase groaning like an old coffin being pried open, but before he reached the bottom his eyes were inevitably drawn to the door hanging ajar just off the landing — his sister's room, the place that reeked louder than any perfume she ever doused herself in. He didn't need to push the door open further, the sight spilled out like a confession, and the stench of cheap beer, stale smoke, and something far fouler poured into the hallway like a living thing.
The room itself was chaos made flesh, a shrine to both filth and vanity. Pizza boxes sagged against one another in crumpled towers, grease bleeding through the cardboard onto the floorboards. Beer bottles, some half-full, others shattered, lay amongst the litter of soda cans crushed flat under careless heels, their aluminum glinting dully under the pale wash of the rainlight that seeped through the cracked blinds. Condoms — both used and torn from their foil packets — lay discarded like shed snakeskin, tangled up with lace panties of every shade from sugary pink to stark black, some tossed onto the bedpost, others crumpled in heaps beside the mattress. The stink of latex, sweat, and sugar-sweet body spray mixed with the omnipresent mildew of the house, the air so thick it clung to the back of his throat.
The walls were painted an uneven mess of pink and black, glossy posters plastered haphazardly over the plaster, most curling at the corners from damp. Teen pop idols with artificial smiles stood shoulder to shoulder with grimacing rock bands in eyeliner, their faces pale and sneering, their autographs printed in metallic ink like holy relics. Glossy magazine cutouts of handbags, shoes, and glittering jewelry covered the spaces in between, the dreamscape of every consumerist fever dream taped over cracked plaster like talismans. In one corner, a rainbow of trendy shopping bags from high-street stores overflowed with clothes still bearing price tags, half-buried under heaps of dirty laundry that smelled faintly of sweat and smoke. A rack of shoes leaned against the bedframe, most mismatched, scuffed, or stained, but arranged with enough intent to show she wanted to be seen in them, even if only once.
Above her bed, tacked proudly between posters of over-saturated pop stars and half-naked actors, hung a lesbian pride flag, its stripes bright but dulled by a layer of dust, curling at the edges from damp air. It was flanked on one side by a cheap plastic pentagram, the kind bought at novelty stores, and on the other, a chalk-scrawled sigil drawn crookedly onto a black-painted mirror, half-erased by fingerprints as though she had traced it idly while bored. The shelves beneath sagged with cheap occult paperbacks, tarot decks with bent corners, and a chipped skull candle burnt down to a lopsided nub, its wax pooled over empty lipstick tubes.
The bed itself was an unmade sprawl of black sheets twisted around pink pillows, one stained by smeared eyeliner and the faint rust of dried blood. A vibrator lay abandoned on the nightstand beside a chipped compact mirror, tangled up with earbuds, hair ties, and cigarette butts pressed into a saucer that once belonged in the kitchen. The whole place looked less like a bedroom and more like a landfill of failed identities and fleeting obsessions, every square inch screaming for attention while suffocating under its own mess.
Ssprug paused at the threshold, his jaw tightening, his nose wrinkling as though the sight of it were somehow contagious. He muttered under his breath, not even sure if the words reached the bottom of the stairwell. "Christ, you're a fucking bum…" His eyes lingered on the piles of panties strewn like confetti across the floor, on the gleam of discarded foil wrappers catching the dim light, on the clashing storm of consumerist excess and occult posturing that filled the walls like graffiti in a crypt. For a moment, the silence of the room pressed against him, the flicker of candle stubs and the smirk of glossy idols watching him like witnesses to his disgust.
With a sharp shake of his head, he turned away, letting the door swing slightly inward as he trudged down toward the foyer,
Ssprug stomped down the warped staircase, each step creaking
At the bottom of the stairs, leaning impatiently against the splintered doorframe, his sister waited. She was dolled up in the kind of outfit that made propriety crawl back into its grave, an ensemble so brazen it seemed like mockery of decency itself. Her raccoon-striped tail flicked back and forth with deliberate insolence, ears twitching as her big, purple, watery eyes looked him over with a mixture of amusement, concern, and something else far more calculated. Her lips tugged into a smirk, but her expression was vacant in that practiced way of someone who knew her looks did the talking for her.
She had dressed herself like an advertisement for sin, striped tights clinging to her legs like a second skin, sleeves that shouted rebellion with every stripe, and a skirt so tiny it clung desperately to her hips, failing spectacularly to cover the rounded curve of her ass that she seemed all too eager to flaunt. The short hem rode dangerously high every time she shifted her weight, threatening to bare more than it concealed, and beneath it the faintest suggestion of lace teased at the eye, daring anyone foolish enough to stare too long. Her top was little more than a push-up bra masquerading as clothing, the cups straining against their meager burden — barely B-cups, but displayed as though they were treasure, nipples pressing faintly against the thin fabric in the cold draft of the house. It was lewd in a way that was deliberate, almost theatrical, her outfit a kind of performance piece where innuendo took center stage.
"Fuckin' hell," Ssprug muttered, his voice sharp with disgust as he glared at her, "can you put some goddamn clothes on before the neighbors start charging admission?"
His sister's smirk only widened as she tossed a battered lunchbox toward him, the tin clattering against his chest with a metallic thud. "Ready for another shit day at that shit school?" she asked, her tone sing-song, dripping with mockery as her tail flicked like a cat preparing to pounce.
Ssprug caught the box with a wary grunt, half-expecting it to be filled with her usual cruelty. This better not be your vegan shit again, he thought bitterly, flipping the rusted latch open. To his surprise, the inside revealed a shockingly decent attempt at food — an assortment of sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, the bread thick and soft, stuffed with smoked salmon, cucumber, and some kind of soft cheese that still smelled fresh despite the gloom. On top, piled haphazardly, were greasy fries, limp but salted, half-cooked in that way that suggested she'd bought them from the gas station on the edge of town and thrown them in as an afterthought.
He blinked, half in disbelief, half in suspicion. "What, like with your bare hands?" he asked incredulously, turning the sandwich over as though expecting it to crawl away.
She crossed her arms beneath her chest, pushing up what little cleavage she had in a gesture so calculated it bordered on parody, her smirk curdling into a sneer. "Don't worry, I did some research on what stupid humans like," she quipped. "Guess trash isn't good enough for you, huh? You need corporate-processed food trash instead, all that shiny McShit in boxes, that's sooo much better."
"I like McDonald's," Ssprug shot back, rolling his eyes and shoving the sandwich back into the tin. "But… thanks, dumper."
She tilted her head, lashes fluttering, smirk playing at her lips. "You'll eat it anyway. Don't pretend you won't. Look, I even threw in fries just to make you wag your tail."
The salmon actually smelled inviting, though his stomach twisted at the thought of trusting anything made by her. Still, hunger gnawed at him, and he found himself staring at it longer than he meant to. "Wait, where the hell are the eggs and bacon?" he asked suddenly, raising a brow at her.
Her expression soured, and she waved her hand dismissively. "I'm not allowed near the stove, remember? Ever since…"
"Yeah, I remember," Ssprug said dryly, shuddering at the vivid image of smoke alarms screaming, flames licking up the old drapes, and his sister running in circles wearing nothing but an apron that barely hid her front, cheeks flushed with panic as she splashed water wildly around the room. The house had reeked of burnt fat and cheap perfume for a week afterward. "Better it stays that way."
She pouted with faux innocence, tugging at her skirt as if the act of covering herself for a moment could erase the image. "You liked it," she teased, voice dripping with insinuation.
Ssprug snarled under his breath, hoisting the lunchbox over his shoulder and stomping toward the sitting room.
The living room was a wreck, as though the house itself had long ago surrendered to despair. The floorboards were warped and stained from years of leaks, the threadbare furniture sagging as if it carried invisible corpses. The television sat in the corner on a crate, its screen flickering between static and a grainy image of the newsreader, a gaunt woman with too-red lips and a voice cracking beneath the weight of bad tidings.
"…the downturn continues, with another factory shuttered this week. Bread prices rising again, while gas remains scarce… protests erupted last night outside Parliament, though the militia scattered the crowd before dawn. Officials promise relief, though no aid shipments have arrived in these districts…"
Her words rattled from the warped speakers, filling the gloom with the promise of nothing but more misery. Behind the newsreader, the feed cut to footage of soot-blackened streets, lines of men waiting for work, smoke belching from factories that had already half-closed. The world outside the crumbling house was just as broken as the one inside.
His sister plopped herself on the edge of the armchair, legs crossed, her skirt riding high enough to make the gesture obscene, and leaned back with a smug smile. "See, brother? You should thank me. While the whole rotten world starves, I just handed you salmon."