from the bottom of my empty heart

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I honestly don't know what the heck this is

There isn’t always a reason for doing something bad.

Sometimes a bad decision is fueled by annoyance, grief, or just plain sadness. People aren’t great with non-tangible things like emotions—least of all me. I guess if someone were to describe me, they would call me resistant, apathetic, and emotionless. But people can’t be emotionless; they always have some sort of feeling going on in their meager little minds. Including me.

I was two when the aliens took my dad away. I call them aliens not because that’s what they are, extra terrestrial beings from outer space, but because they aren’t humans. And the word aliens doesn’t even mean non-human either; Merriam-Webster says its definition is: not familiar or different than what you are used to. So aliens could be anything really. But these aliens weren’t the green creatures with huge eyes and antennas, they were monstrous.

From the stories I’ve heard over the years, they were rocky and huge, like living, breathing boulders. Covered in black cracks that spread on their gray skin like stars, tiny beady eyes that could turn you to ash when they glared at you. They would usually show up around midnight, drawn to the eerie darkness that settles around that time. Legend says that they used to live along with humans, connected to the earth in physical and spiritual form. My grandmother always tells me that whenever there was war happening on the planet, these creatures would come and rip the enemies to shreds, shaking the earth to its core.

Then they disappeared, and whoever was still aware of them believed they lived underground. Sometimes they came out and showed themselves briefly, but never longer than a few hours at a time. My grandmother thinks it’s because they loathed the humans and how they advanced into the economy of today, but I disagree. I think they disappeared because a newer, more powerful force hit the planet, aiming for these life forms. I think this force made them susceptible to the effects of time. After all, they had been around for thousands of years. My grandmother claims their species is called Granites, but I don’t believe her. I’d rather just call them creatures—creatures of the earth. Over time, they never came back out because of their growing weakness, up until eighteen years ago. Eighteen years ago, my father vowed to find the truth of what happened to them. He was unsuccessful, and the day he came home was the day they made the earth rumble. That was the day every country in the world reported of a global earthquake, caused by untraceable pieces of a meteorite. That was also the day nearly every household with a working television watched the news.

Until I turned fifteen, they were still talking about that earthquake. Since the “national catastrophe”, as everyone called it, there had been complete silence from underground. Even the believers of the so-called Granites stopped believing, falling into the twenty-first century way of life. The rhythm everyone followed.

Except me.

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