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Tw - mention of suicide.
Stepping onto the tattered boardwalk was a heartache of its own, seeing the destruction of the City was another.
I knew the place hasn't the prettiest anymore, not the warmest, but I didn't expect it to have fallen apart this badly. There were holes all along the wooden planks under my feet, rubble that belonged to houses and buildings that once stood high and proud within the border of Dream's land. Where there was once small farms, were now nothing more than over hydrated dirt, forming muddy ground instead of healthy plants. Where there was once clear streams and small lakes, were now clouded, dry cracks in ground filled with rubble and debris, no longer was there stretches of clear blue that looked more like glass than water. No longer was there the uncontrollable need to jump in the clear water for a swim, no matter the season. No longer was there the place I once called home, but instead a distant memory of what was once in its place.
How I had gotten here? I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure about a lot of things, nothing seemed real as I walked through the tattered city, arms folded across my chest at the cold air nipping at my skin. My eyes followed every rotting curve of the wood that still held to the few trees, the clouded sky hitting the bark to show every impurity that the wood had to show. There were chunks missing from each tree where someone had tried to cut it down or threw an axe and missed, like someone was letting out more anger then what their body could hold. Like years of rage let out onto the harmless trees and landscape of this once beautiful land. I couldn't help but cringe at the sight.
L'Manburg was nothing special really, but it held more green plants and full trees than I think this place ever will, even after the whole nation was blown up by its founder. Maybe Dream was following in Wilbur's footsteps, in hope that this barren wasteland would turn into the nation over the hill.
There were no birds above in the clouded sky, and no sun peaking through the heavy fog. The only indication that it was even day was the brightness. You were able to see in front of you, in the night I bet you won't be able to even see your feet. I saw more abandoned shops and stalls as I walked through the main part of the City, I was nearing a familiar area, a place that was hard to forget. Nearing the rubble, nearing the foundation that I called my home, I couldn't help but stare at the remnants. If I tried hard enough, I could probably still be able to remember the old, wooden walls I slept in.
I closed my eyes, imagining the way the doorway had two small plants at the foot of the door, how when the door swung open it would always rub against the flooring, creating a semi circle right at you would walk in. I imagined the pictures I had on the walls, how one stood alone on a little table by the window. I remember the kitchen off to the left of the livingroom, the smell of freshly baked bread filling the house after a harvest, how a certain brown eyed man would help cut and butter the bread before toasting it lightly. I remember the bookcase and the livingroom, the couch and low laying table I would always have books and papers spread about without much care, I remembered how four, sometimes five, people use to sit at the table and share stories while eating a dinner I prepared. I remembered the stairs at the back of the house, how they were, more often than not, layered with thick dust and papers I dropped on my way to bed. I could see the ledge that overlooked the house, how the armor stands in the closet would hold my chipped sword and armor, a barely touched bow slung across the shoulder. It was hard to think of this house, of this home, and not remember the smoke that took a hold of my lungs and held them hostage in their deadly arms. It was hard not to remember the fire, the smell of burning fabric and paper, of too much smoke and not enough air.
