The 51st  (Chapter 1 and 2)

The 51st (Chapter 1 and 2)

A Story by Napoleon has returned
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The Renowned Classic on my profile. Read it again with a new chapter.

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 "Are you reading this? If you are, then you have woken. You have been in a coma for 23 years. Everything you've ever seen, felt, heard or tasted was a hallucination. Your friends weren't real. Neither were your wife, your children. Your family. The world had ended, and you were the only survivor. Chances of survival are extremely low for you in the next Century. You are survivor number 50. The last one. 49 have been killed, with no traces. Wiped from the face of earth. If I were you, I would stab myself immediately. What is the point of living in a wasteland? But I can't make you do that. I am just a voice in your head. The voice of Truth. Do not listen to the voice of Lies. Never." As you blink from confusion, your vision becomes clear. What is the voice of Lies? How do you tell between the voice of Truth and the voice of Lies? Impossible. You sit in an upright position on a metal cot, the metal brown from a thick layer of rust. All around you, there are pools of red and shattered glass. The side of your cot reads 'Survivor 50.' To your left are the same types of cots, each with the word survivor and a number from 1-49. Each cot has a body in it, with empty eye sockets and a half rotted away head. Half of the head is flesh, the other is bone. A filthy rat crawls out from one of the sockets. "Go ahead, find the exit of this slaughterhouse." The sudden voice in your head surprises you. You look around anxiously, only to find nobody in sight. Find the exit. Got it. But was that the Truth or the Lies? Only one way to find out. If you die, so what? There's nothing to live for. Not anymore. Your hallucinational life was perfect, kind glowing parents, a beautiful wife and playful children. 13 of them. None of them were real. They were just an image projected in your mind. You slip in a pool of red. Your back slams into it, causing a large red stain to form on your clothing. You get up, not knowing what the substance is. As you look around for an exit, you can see bodies hanging from nooses and people impaled by weapons of all cruelty. A dead body hanging from a noose suddenly jerks it's head, the action fading away as fast as it came. Finally, you sigh. A worn out door meets your gaze. "Gooooo back! The world outside is the real slaughter house!" Voice of Truth or Lies?! Should you exit or stay? You choose to exit. The metal doorknob feels cold in your hands, the chill stopping your blood. You twist. First, nothing but darkness. Then, a worn out light flickers slightly and stays still, enough for you to see. No. This can't be. More people are hanged, except only the head remains. More people were stabbed to death with blades. The sound of screaming, the sound of desperate cries of terror. There are heaps of skulls and detached limbs. The smell of rotten meat fills the air. This place reminds you of a butcher shop.You hear a whirring sound. A figure with no eyes and bloody scarred hands equipped with a chainsaw spots you. He writes in the air with his fingers: 50th victim. Now it all makes sense. Why you are awoken in a cot painted with the text 'survivor 50.' You are the 50th final survivor to die. The last. After you, humanity no longer exists. You scream, and run towards the door. You quickly twist the bloodied knob. No sooner after you hear another whirring sound from your left. The last thing you feel are 2 chainsaw blades cutting the flesh of one half of your face, then stabbing a knife into your stomach. Blood leaks from your mouth. As the blood drops on you shirt, you finally know what the red substance is. A grim voice of whisper fills your head... "You fool. Are you mindless? The world is a dark place. There are no Truths. Nor are there Lies. There is only one thing. Darkness." You are just living in a world of hallucinations. Because you are in a coma. The real world is cruel. Sometimes, only sometimes they slip in your hallucinations. Cheaters. Pollution. Murders. Crime. Soon, the army of Darkness will be released, and you will wake up. In a metal cot. Painted with the text in blood red, 'Survivor 50.' You will. Never trust anyone. Not even yourself. Chapter 2-survivor number 51 It was the Erie screech of the bloodthirsty thoughts that have awoken you from your reckless slumber. It was the lack of memory that you suffered so dearly. About from the darkness of Gates of Hell itself, a voice full of thunder and murder swallowed all humanity. 'Kill him, Kill him!' Your set of weary eyes are instantly pried from sleep. With cold sweat and a racing heart, your calloused fingers find their ways to your belt. A heavy feeling washes itself over your blood, and a cool breeze of death tickles the edge of your life upon your skin. A steel as shocking as the winter blizzard meets the tips of your fingers, and as your hand slices the blade over your index finger, a poetic drip of blood thunders to the ground. You light a match, and your eyes search the floor. Upon your horrid discovery, the blood has drawn a straight path down a dark, evil alley before you. The lack of your memory and logic has caused your demise, and your eager feet plant them ahead of each other, urging a fate to occur. Your pair of excited feet push you down the dark hallway, without a moments hesitation to stop your body. Suddenly, a pain strikes your neck. Stunned, you stand in spot, with much fear and regret. Your match drops to the cold, marble floor, and the direction in front of you instantly lights up with magnificent glittering chandeliers and velvet lamps. 'Kill him! Tis the clock that stokes your demise! Kill him!' An astounding luxury appears before your eyes, a residence with the most elaborate walls of pattern and, oak tables with shining dinnerware paired with jewels and all sorts of spoils. Your excited hands reach for support upon a table, and your heavy, tired body is instantly agreed with the moment of rest. Your heart converses you into a exploration of the house, and so your feet point you towards direction. A rich, heavy wooden door stands ahead of you. Your fingers reach upon the cool, steel knob and twist. To your horror, the blood not so moments ago mentioned have continued down the room. Your eyes scan your position. The room around you is dark, and seemed to be never ending. Your hands reach for what seems to be a wall, but is swallowed instantly by unimaginable darkness. Cold sweat rolls down your hot neck as your hands reach for the knife at your belt. You draw your weapon, and the lights once again come on. Instead of luxury, shadows of figures appear before your eyes on the ground. As you lift your head, a pair of feet bump to you face. Before you is a sight of rotting corpses, hung from the neck on twisted ends of tight strings. The flesh of their hands are slowly decaying, and bone peeks from the tip of their feet. Their faces are equipped with a deathly white grin. And are with black, empty sockets for eyes. Their eyes seem to bore down your skull, and their grin seems to be of a remorse for their actions. Their must have been hundreds or so people, all wearing the same clothes and accessories. From a dangling man in front of you, a yellowing paper peeks from his ancient pocket. Your hands quickly snatch it, aware of the grinning corpse and rotting flesh. You turn around to reach for a door, but instead you come a face with a creature that resembles evil itself. With inches and countless rows of hell splitting teeth, the creature stares you down with black sockets as the corpses. 'Who's here to play with me this time...?' It hisses with pure murder in its voice. You raise your blade, ready to defend yourself. An evil laugh rises from its throat, one of blood and ghastly death. 'Who are you to think that you are the first one come meet me?' The sockets of dead men bore you down, as you thrust your blade into the creatures shoulder and run down the hallway. 'Fool! There is no escape from reality!'

© 2017 Napoleon has returned



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Napoleon has returned
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Yes. I am definitely posting here for more stories.

Posted 2 Years Ago


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Added on October 30, 2015
Last Updated on June 27, 2017

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Napoleon has returned
Napoleon has returned

Toronto, Richmond Hill, Canada



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Some talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules Of Hector and Lysander, and such great names as these. But of all the world's great heroes, there's none that can compare. With a tow, row, row, row, ro.. more..

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