II

Dale brushed his palms against the seat of the park bench. Ol', ol' bench. How warm, despite the chilly night breeze. It is this bench which helps Dale retain memories about his daughter. People say memories are best retained in photos, but Dale thinks otherwise. Oh, how we used to spend time together, he thought.

Dale slowly landed his bottoms onto the seat and squinted as his back ached. I ought to get this back of mine checked out, Dale reminded himself for the umpteenth time. He shifted his body in an awkward manner and laid supine, eyes staring at the vast universe that God have built. Stars were lined at every corner of the sky. How beautiful, Dale admired. The moon was also as bright as the stars, once again displaying the true works of the creator of mankind. Dale felt an agonizing stab against his chest, and led out a hoarse cough. He pounded his ribs in hopes the cough would subside. Alcohol has played a major role in Dale's life. It has been a friend of Dale, saving him from attempted suicides more than his previous shrinks ever have.

But this intimate companionship only came about after the death of Olivia.

The pain.

Dale never wanted it to end up the way it did. A horrendous ending of a dreadful nightmare. A nightmare which last for two and a half years.
Dale sighed and tapped the side of the bench and hummed a tune. A tune so filled with calmness and halcyon that even the chirping nightbirds stopped to listen. It was a tune so familiar to Dale, a tune made by him and his most beloved--Miley.

It was a sultry afternoon in the park. The jubilant giggles and laughters could be heard everywhere. The scorching sunlight shone through the dense trees and casted a mosaic of shadows unto the park pavement. Smiling and grinning parents could be seen holding on to their children, teaching them the tricks and ways to conquer the monkey bars. Some succeeded triumphantly while the others failed miserably.

Dale was watching all these from a park bench. The Boston Red Sox cap he was wearing was shielding his eyes from the blinding sunlight. He shifted his gaze toward the ice cream truck parked under a shady oak tree. Mister Frost was what the neighbourhood called him. Always a jolly looking man, liked by both young and adults. The latter was probably due to the fact that Mr Frost was married to a fine looking Mrs Frost. The slim brunette, sultry as the summer air, gave up her career as a lawyer and married the love of her life, the neighbourhood ice-cream man. Mrs Frost was there too, giving out ice-cream and raking in dollar bills from either loving or perverted fathers. But Dale's attention wasn't on Mrs Frost's loosened apron, but on the love of HIS life--Miley. Dale saw her running toward him, both hands clutching the ice-cream cones, as clumsy as a Winnie the Pooh bear.

  "Look what i've got, daddy!" screamed Miley excitedly, licking the base of one of the cone.

  "Vanilla?" asked Dale.

  "They ran out of mint," explained Miley with a disappointing tone. "sorry daddy."

Dale couldn't help it but to laugh and pressed Miley against his chest, stroking her back. Miley led out a weak burp and they both burst into laughter.

  "Who's that daddy?" asked Miley, pointing toward a bearded man lying on the bench opposite theirs. He was clearly a hobo, judging by his outer appearance. The checkered shirt he was wearing was missing the right sleeve and flies(or so did Dale thought) were circling his head. 

  "That's just an ol' man, Miley," Dale answered. "just an ol', ol' man."

  "Ol' ol' man," Miley repeated, this time mimicking the tone of her dad. "ol', ol' man on an ol', ol' bench."  

Chapter One: Dale

I

Dale's head was spinning. Spinning so badly that he saw Miss Applefront not twice, but thrice around the same block within the span of a few minutes. In this state of mind, everything could be wrong. Dale moaned as his stomach twisted and churned under the toxicity of the bottle of Old Pulteney in his trembling hand. The sharp scent and taste of fermented prunes and spices rushed through his nasal cavity every time he raised the bottle to his lips. Dale slowed his pace and grimaced as he felt a gush of heat emerging from the pit of his stomach. Dale opened his mouth and led out an ear-shattering belch. The smell of spiced prunes filled the air and Dale led out a smirk. More like a grin, really. These are for you, grannies, Dale silently thought, then giggled dorkily at his self-proclaimed witty comment. Then the face of Miss Applefront appeared in his mind, and he burst out in laughter.

Drunk, definitely.

Dale ambled along Wenderstreet and ended up at the entrance of Neila Edih park. THE park. Dale frowned at the thought in his head and shook it vigorously.
Should he? He considered.
He should, he decided.

Dale tried his best to walk in a straight line, but failed miserably. He swayed in all directions like a piece of grass in a midnight storm. He accidentally kicked a rock and almost fell forwards. Fortunately his flailing hands helped him stabilize and kept him from landing on his face. The bottle of Old Pulteney, however, wasn't so fortunate. Dale flung his hand to the front and the poor bottle of liquor slipped out and landed on the pavement with a deafening shatter.

Dale stared at the broken pieces of glass, then at the rock, then back to the glass again. What a day, he thought to himself. Dale heaved a huge sigh and approached the bench. There were many things in the park that were nice, actually. It's just that no one really bothered to appreciate them. For instance, the lampposts which were engraved with such minute yet impressive designs; or the soul-calming greenery; and even the persimmons hiding in the bush.

Wait, persimmons?

Dale averted his attention to the bush next to the 'Evertree'(nicknamed after its impressive longevity). Dale swore he saw two bright yellow persimmons hiding behind the bush. For a second there he even thought that they were eyes. He stepped towards the bush in the slowest pace possible, then stopped. Dale pondered on this thought for a second or two and again burst out laughing.
He dismissed his silly thought and mocked himself for his stupidity. Dale then turned around and instead headed for the park bench.

After all, in this state of mind, everything could be wrong.

Prologue

Cold. What a cold, cold night. Or has it always been like this? It squirmed at the unfamiliar pressure constantly prodding its torso. Not good. Not good at all. Calm down, it told itself. It was trained for this. It heaved a long sigh, blinking so hard that veins started to appear at the face of its eyelids. Focus, it reminded itself. Focus.


It looked at the moon. So round, so peaceful. A little greyish, but still majestic. How it wished it could be--snap out of it! It cursed at its own short attention span and returned its gaze unto the park bench. Its been forever, and the chilly night breeze wasn't helping, neither were the prickly branches that were accompanying it. Such an important mission, this. It just couldn't afford to fail, nuh 'uh. Not this time.

Lightyears seemed to have passed and slowly, just very slowly, its eyelids began to fall. It was starting to get used of its surrounding-not exactly favour it-but still enough to induce slumber. Its sight dimmed and blurred and everything seemed to disappear...

'Crrrnnkkk!'

It opened its eyes as though something sharp was driven through its chest. Well, perhaps eardrums, in this case. It blinked several times to moisten its cornea and with the curiosity of a back alley cat, it scanned the area for the source of the sudden noise and eventually noticed a silhouette. A figure, shambling clumsily along the pathway, was approaching the shrubbery where it was hiding. And with natural instinct, its heart rate began to race like sodium in sheer, cold water.

Author's foreword:
Ahem, alright. It's been a long, long time since i've written(or more likely, typed) a blog. The last blog I had was about a millennium ago, which the password and even its title i've forgotten. If you were to ask me why start this, and why now, I would say, one: this story has been in my head for a couple of years by now, and i would love to write it. Two: just simply out of boredom.

This tale that i am about to bestow upon you, my readers, is one hundred percent original and I wouldn't promise you an unforgettable reading experience, or impeccable imagination and description(although i would love to), but instead, just a simple tale. A tale about the unidentified; a tale about the unknown.

Enjoy.