Solitude

Three people. Two worlds. One destiny.
And that is to stop both worlds from colliding, entwining to a nightmarish morph of death and chaos. How will it all play out in a fateful town?
And with a mysterious entity following them, helping them, guiding them...
In the end, it all comes down to
Solitude

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5. four

Cobalt was driving down the highway. The sky was relatively clear and this called for more people to it the roads, enjoy the sunshine, whatever. Kestrelston was a medium sized town where everyone was tied to everyone one way or another, and they were all determined to be together for a few hours a day, especially on such a good one. Cobalt didn't mind being stuck in traffic. In a way, it was the same as him lying in bed, wishing for sleep to admit him into the land of oblivion.

And so he tapped his fingers tunelessly on the dashboard, farting Big Betty along when the road permitted, spewing thick black smokes into the pleasant sky. Then, the big billboard rolled in. Unlike normal billboards where ads were plastered across the whole board, advertisers in old Kestrelston were too poor to afford such a huge board by themselves- from small time butchers to chain laundromats. And so it was universally agreed silently that the board could be split up into sections. Today, or this few weeks, there was only three sections. They weren't here two days ago. They must've changed it recently.

The first row advertised a new Japanese restaurant. This one was the most prominent, largest, with brightly coloured sushi, the one in the foreground a classic salmon sushi pinched between slim black chopsticks. Below that, the same laundromat ad that had been advertised since earlier last year. They had backed down slightly, decreased the size of their ads. This one was less than a quarter size of the billboard, tucked to a side, allowing a square for the last ad. It was captivating for being not. On simple white background, big black letters proclaimed, "BROWN'S PSYCHIATRY". Beginning from underneath the 'A' was Dr. Brown's qualifications in smaller but legible print. In medium font, his services were boldly proclaimed.

"Mental diagnosis/treatment. Sessions begin at $50, come in this week for $5 off," Cobalt read aloud. His eyes trailed down and saw the location. Selma Road, Number 32. Cobalt cast a glance down at his watch, through the cracked plastic. Making quit a hasty decision, he  swerved left and took the first exit to the symphony of angry horns.

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