Wrong

Once upon a time I wrote a blog of my own. I lived in a place that does not exist, called Michigan on a continent that does not exist, North America.

I mostly wrote out of boredom. When you are in hiding with the same fifteen people and can't really afford to go to places with other people, then it makes a little sense to get bored.

Eight little cabins, a place that used to be a summer camp, families in about four, singles in the other four. I was one of the singles. I was a broke-ass college student (“college” is not actually a word here. They all use “university”) that dropped out and moved up state and hid away from the monster under his bed. Well, that's not true. Never really was under my bed, was it?

Thing is, before I knew I wasn't alone with seeing It, I had an excuse to write off strange behavior in others. After, I had no excuse. I should have recognized the signs in my little brother, even if they were just in my memories. I should have gone to see him long before I did. I should have done all of these things differently. My brother was into another guy, my douchebag parents threw him out. About the long and short of things.

Except its not.

The same nightmare I was in, he was too.

I think I saw him once, I think we were huddled together on cold stone, a ragged, nasty blanket, open sky overhead. I think he said something.

I don't know.

Everyone I talked about in the commune voice, the ones vanishing... I became one.

Thing is, I don't remember much after the door to my cabin got kicked in.

Stone, dirt, cold, outside.

My brother's face, a stranger's face, the blonde's face, the no face.

The metal music, the light, the dark, the cold, the wet.

Not knowing, not wanting to know, lost and confused.

Ruya stomping back into the den yelling at me, why didn't I hear her? Why didn't I help?

All of that.

Then this. Then now, then who I am.

And of course everything I remember... none of it's real... or none of this is real.

Right?