OBLIT

This is me. My name is Oblit. It's odd, isn't it?

I live on an island. Well, at least I think I do. I haven't seen anyone else in a long time, so I assume I do. I live inside a little house - it's quaint. A five-windowed bungalow, built on a street with only half-constructed houses all around. The lights don't light up at night - and the various concrete and plaster walls that decorate the plain green field only serve as props to my living. I live inside 1557 Rangolin Street. One front door, one back. A modest little backyard with benches and various plants sprouting from scattered pots. Two sets of gardening tools, one for me, one in case I forgot the other.

As for people... I'm alone. Kind of. The neighbors are an odd lot. Oh, yes. The neighbors.

Dve is a 47-year old who likes to cook. They live in the framework beside my house, constantly going through the motions of preparing ingredients, cutting vegetables, and serving food, though it's odd that they often cook portions for 4, 5 people, despite being alone.

Amnda is... probably 16. Or 15. Or 21. It's hard to tell. They're young, and they have long, black hair that skirts down the back of their head. They're kind of pretty, I guess. And they kind of just... sit there. Notice how I didn't mention where they live. They just walk past my house once in a while, usually around 1 or 2 in the morning, kind of just... walking. I don't really leave the house at this time for this reason. I just find it kind of weird.

There are more... people. Half-complete people that is. They don't really have full bodies like Amnda or Dve. They're just... limbs. Torsos. Maybe heads. Just moving as if part of a whole body. I should be scared, but I'm not. When I look down, I can see long, vertical holes in my torso, after all.

Anyway, I go about my day normally. I wake up in a bunk bed, always on the lower bunk. I walk past toys that I never put away - they’re for a toddler, and I don’t know why, but they always seem to resonate with me. It’s part of the decor at this point. Then, I walk to the bathroom, lock myself inside, do the usual stuff, wash my face, brush my teeth, and get out. I go to the kitchen and look out the window. It’s almost mesmerizing watching those half-finished people go about their lives. I like drinking chocolate milk over it. I then get something to drink and eat, and sit down.

I take my walk outside afterwards. I put on my coat, and walk outside where the wind blows warmer. I turn left, and pace forward. The road is paved, all the way. All the way until these figures… these scaffolds… They disappear. They don’t start to distort along the way. They simply disappear. And as I walk, I spot the ledge.

You don’t see it until you’re there. Your brain tricks you into thinking there’s more ways to go. But the moment your senses find themselves here, or rather, find the absence of something here, that illusion disappears. I come here everyday, hoping one day that someone will come back for me here. I do not hunger or age. I do not thirst or lust. But I do long and wallow. There are no tears, but my movements are a dance of sorrow.

There is nothing more here. I look behind me. The neighborhood is still there, but I don’t see the figures anymore. The houses are long gone. But I know the neighborhood is there. I know because without it, I would no longer exist. It is the absence of existence. The wind blows warm from here. It is why I never grow hungry.

It is why I never age.

It is why everything here is shorter. It’s why Amnda always waddles around, their arms swinging in and out almost, trying to remember the motion of walking.

It’s why Dve only ever uses two ingredients: graham crackers and marshmallows.

It’s why the figures here almost never, ever do anything beyond inch and flail and waddle around. Time here does not pass. But somehow, something outside always changes this. Amnda used to be named Amanda. Dve was Dave. I look down at my hands. They begin to dim, their colors not fading but simply unbecoming. The edge of my being. The very being that only exists in the Interval. This very interval that is the center of my peril.

I would continue, but there are more pressing matters to tell you.

I am aware that this isn’t normal. I am aware that everything I told you sounds weird, and it is weird. It’s not something I know of, but it is something that I am sure of is anomalous in its entirety. I just don’t know what.

So you need to know. My name is Oblit. It is Oblit. It wasn’t. It was Mark.

And this reality that was carved out for myself? It crawls in the back of your mind, it aches when you’re alone and daydreaming. It sometimes appears in your dreams. It periodically appears in your hallucinations. I am not the whisper in your eyes and ears but the silence in them.

Lest to say, you are not alone. I am the one that doesn’t make you alone.

All these other figures? All these other half-souls? They’re fine. Their souls half-baked into this world. But they have another. Where their faces are clearer. Their movements more purposeful.

Their purpose is whole.

Anthony. It’s Mark. I haven’t forgotten me. But you have.

Do you think those pictures were just you and your family?

I was me too, Anthony. They took me away.

Those holes in my torso.

You knew.

You remembered.

But you never told anyone.

Where am I in your mind, Anthony? Why is my name Oblit?

And why did you live, Anthony?