Chapter Two: Phonograph There really wasn't much from the room aside from the dusty lamp and the end table that it was on. There was an old phonograph machine in one corner, three records laying on the ground haphazardly next to it. One was cracked into four pieces, and since I for the #life of me couldn't think of any way to fix it using what was in the room, I payed it no more thought. There was a wooden rocking chair propped against one of the walls, but no bed. I began to wonder if this was the whole of my eternity. That's it? A half empty room from the '20s? Whoever was in charge of designing heaven wasn't being very creative. Or hell. Either way, it could have been worse. I could always sleep if I had nothing else to do. I sighed, walking back to the phonograph machine and picking up one of the intact records, blowing the dust off. I had started playing the record about thirty seconds ago, but all I got was a dull grating noise. I was beginning to wonder if I had done something wrong, maybe missed some dust, when a voice that sounded as grainy as old music began to come from the machine. "Well, here you are. This is the fruit of your labor."

Chapter One: Phonograph For me, not believing in an after#life made living itself scary. Every waking moment had been a countdown to departure, a boring ride to the final destination. But it turns out, there was something. I was certain that I had died. Yet I found myself waking up in a massive, room. It wasn't ethereal, or strange, the walls and floors weren't white like those in a clichéd sanitarium, and there was no fire. I didn't see any doors, but I felt a throbbing pain in my chest. Flinching, I pulled out the knife that had been imbedded in my heart. The serrated blade made a ripping sound as it was removed, which was just as painful as it sounded. I swore and threw the knife across the room, impaling it in the wall. The wall.. Was strange. Peeling cream colored wallpaper, covered in cracks. There were no windows, the only light came from a dusty lamp sitting in a corner, casting a dull yellow light out into the room. The floor was dark hardwood, and there was a coat of dust on it about a centimeter thick. Deciding that whether I was dead or alive, I should look around, I stood up.

Chapter One The picturesque blonde stood surrounded by her dozens of semi-friends, blue eyes bright but shallow. Suddenly, the sea of plastic, flawless teenage boys and girls began to part, looks of annoyance and mild contempt on their faces as they began to mutter amongst themselves. The anorexic looking boy didn't seem to notice. He kept his wide eyes downcast, continuing to walk towards the girl at the center of the group. After what seemed like hours, she turned her head, noticing his small frame standing there, greasy black hair sticking out in all directions, clutching a bundle of long dead, blackened roses in his hand. "... Who the hell are you?" Her voice was as dull as her eyes. "... I'm your friend..." His sentences were choppy, and his eyes darted about. "I don't know you." She looked down at the hand he was holding the roses in and cringed with disgust. "You're bleeding!" He was holding the flowers so tightly that several thorns were stabbed into his skin, a few of them broken off there. He didn't seem to notice until he looked down at them, at which point he smiled. "And you look splendid this morning as well..." "Huh? I didn't say anything like t-" She trailed off as he held out the flowers. Looking down at them, she squealed and jumped backwards when she noticed a dead, half-rotted bird nestled in their center. "Is something the matter..? Charlotte has been living her for a while.. She's such good company on... Rainy days..."

Choice Running from the other Hands still locked together Close your eyes Shut out the pain Reflections face one another Hands pressed to the glass Broken angel and fading demon Choose; despair or death?