A girl called Sin

Sin lives in two worlds
Which one is real is hard to tell
But one thing she knows for sure is that she doesn't want to hurt anyone
She tries so hard but it always seems to happen

Sin is human and only a girl. But she is also so much more complicated than people assume. Sin didn't choose to be who she is...

This book is split between two Realities both concerning this girl. One you will find very familiar and another very alien.

This is obviously a work in progress but I'm constantly writing and will release more chapters most likely with encouragement. I should release and publish one chapter a month :) I hope you enjoy my strange worlds.


2. chapter two

Wake up. You're here now- safe and sound (mostly).

You're missing one eye and your hair's a mess but we'll get to that later.

Pay close attention to everything from now on.

This story is just beginning; and ending- but that depends strictly on who you are and how you look at these worlds.

As you probably know: we are all just characters in another's stories and you don't have an opportunity to choose which parts you come into, or whether you come into any of it at all.

In this place you are watching, there is nothing but the dull muted murmur of television static- like pins and needles it tickles your ears and provokes a shiver down your neck.

You won't find anyone here, you won't find any place worth staying. This world possesses only corpse poisoned fields. Hardly anything new will grow and Almost nothing is alive- but that girl.

She's not worth your time- she's sin itself. Sin is where it all began.

The girl grabs the gun nearest to her and pockets it with ease. It slides into her jacket like it was meant to be there; snug and warm.

She remains expressionless as she stocks up on ammunition, a token full of water and a cold can of beans that she downs like a shot due to an evident lack of utensils.

No pleasure is taken in her exchange- her mind is too focused on her survival. No need for niceties or manners when there's no one around to complain about such etiquette.

Her eyes are empty, dull blue- as if the girl that made her up before all this crap had been harshly evicted. All that looks left of her is an empty casket. Sure she looks normal enough- a tad disheveled but otherwise generic female with dark hair and blue eyes. But this is a just the cover of a book, a seemingly soulless being left to observe the rest of the horrors in this world and the next. She has a steel mask, and it protects her well.

Well enough.

She looks up to see that the sky is purple and dark. It runs fluidly like a Van Gogh, yet it lacks the fluent beauty, radiant colour and light . Unlike 'Night Vision's' entrancing flowing swirls, it's as if the sky is melting, like lipstick on a radiator.

The violet sky looms over its peers and caresses them with a consistent heat. It radiates only sick humidity, without providing any of the vitality of the sunlight in a lovely spring or summer; that in old times would sprout dandelions and new borns.

A faint trace of Pink peaks through the ever building clouds like a mischievous child trying to work out where their parents hide their sweets. It smiles at her- such mundane, innocent pastel pink.

Rosy blushes, lovers flowers and a faint lip stain startle Sin's memory.

However, as soon as the sky's rare, soft, pink beauty is acknowledged and memory tickles her mind- the darkness swallows it to spite her and she forgets it all over again.

Her face remains a statue void of expression or of feeling. Her lips are forever chapped with more crevices than a mountain range. Her hair is chopped but not styled, as if she had been at it with a knife in little light. Given the circumstances, it doesn't look that bad.

Sin's limbs move with knowledge, like they've been walking this world for thousands of years. She's as much a part of this environment as the carcasses of rubbled buildings in the gravel and sand surrounding her.

She ties up her hair with a torn streak of suede like it's just any mundane day, and picks up the sharpened hockey stick she made at the beginning of it all- fashioned using only a kitchen knife and her numb fingers in the middle of winter. She found it in the closet of a caved in house that she felt she recognised. But the cracked family photos didn't bring back anything kind.

She moves on through the broken city like its nothing- when in actuality it's everything. What she'd give for a hug of a familiar, to go back in time and smother them with endearments. Not that she can remember who they were: be it their faces or their identities, she just sought comfort in this never ending night.

Everything is gone except for her.

She re-ties her laces and prepares herself for the next step with a reluctant exhalation.

Not a literal step; that would be pointless because Sin makes a habit of leaving no footprints where she walks. She might as well be a ghost in this world of gravel and fire.

Phase eight. Time for some fun.

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