Garbage Disposal (Novella)

Afterword

For anyone who's wondering, there is a short story on Finn's younger days - only like 3000-4000 words - on my patreon.

Here's a little snippet:

It was lonely. The walls bled dirt and rust, the ashes across the ground screamed for some release, everything was lonely. He sat in the small room in silence – like he'd always been told to do. The earth around him formed lips where his legs were planted. He'd been alone in that house for a long time.

He didn't know his age, nor his name. Only that he was stuck in the same place, forced to repeat the same pattern and circulation of breath that he always did. Only that he didn't want to do it anymore.

Breathing was a hassle – it shifted some of the dirt in the air and caused his eyes to sting.

He couldn't smell anymore. The musk of metal and blood in the air had merged into the background.

His hands were red and brown. He didn't know why. He couldn't remember why. For all he knew, they'd always been like that.

He had faint recollections of someone else living in this room with him, but he couldn't remember them. His mind had long since stopped ticking. Someone used to tell him he was smart, that he could get out of this situation – whatever it was. He couldn't remember why.

There was no feeling of cold or hot; no heat or warmth had entered the room for a while. His body had forgotten the feeling of anything.

But, there was something niggling at him. Something telling him he should move – get up. He didn't know what it was or why it was there. He didn't even know why he decided to listen to it. But he did.

He stood.

Before this moment, he hadn't noticed the shutters of light streaming through the sides of the door. They strode colours in the air. Colours. He couldn't remember where he'd heard that word before.

The door opened and he stumbled out. It was bright. Very bright. Wincing, he raised a hand afront his eyes, looking around through the small gaps between his eyelashes.

White, black, beige. There was nothing but squares.

However, across the road there was a difference in colour. Red. Lines of red covered the wall – lines, some curved, some straight. He vaguely remembered someone telling him they were lettering.

He liked that colour. The same colour he faintly saw on his hands. Red.

A small smile pricked the corners of his mouth. 

...To Be Continued...

You can also find a short story on the lower-class of this world on my Patreon for free. I'll put the link here --->

Again, When They Were Gone is in the same world as this story (but set in middle-class), so feel free to have a look at that as well if you want. Link to that is here ----> 

Love you all and hope you have a fabulous day!! :D

Sylvia Shadow