Well, this sucked. Here I was, at a camp in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but a duffel bag and a pesky vulture who wouldn't stop following me, feeling similar to any normal teen who was dropped off at a summer camp they didn't want to go to. That is to say, I was annoyed. More than annoyed. Especially considering that now the vulture who was sitting next to me was beginning to peck at my duffel bag, probably looking for food.
I should probably explain about the vulture. Her name is Mortia - or, at least, that's what I call her - and she's been following me for the last year or so. I'm not quite sure why. Most animals don't like me, but, the way Mortia looks at me, I'm probably covered in rotting flesh or something. I've tried scaring her away, but she always comes back. Always.
I sling my duffel bag over my shoulder, and walk over to the camp entrance, a thin folder clutched in my hand. Apparently, this camp is for 'troubled' teens or something of the like, and I have to go here because people think I'm schizophrenic. I'm not schizophrenic, just to make that clear. It's not my fault that the ghosts are too proud to talk to other people. It's amazing how proud someone can be once they've died. Yeesh, even the suicides - which, in my opinion, is a horrible way to go, just to let you know - think that they're better than anyone who is alive. Still, most people never believe me when I say that I can speak to the spirits, and just try to feed me all sorts of pills.
The pills do sometimes work, though. Maybe I am actually insane? I just don't know anymore, and I really don't care.
I arrive at the gate, and see a person standing there, a woman who is clearly a camp worker. "I'm Sylvester Dvorak, I believe I'm supposed to be going to summer camp here?" I ask, my voice soaked in a bored drawl. Upon seeing her shocked expression, I lazily add, "I'm a guy, by the way." It was amazing, how many people thought I was female. Seriously, peeps. Long hair didn't automatically mean I was a girl. Sure, my face was a bit androgynous, but I had a deep voice, and more importantly, I had muscle. What girl had a build as muscular as mine? Apart from body-builders, that is. And, anyways, even if I didn't have muscle, I still had a chest that was flatter than a wooden board. No eighteen year old girl would have a chest as flat as mine.
The woman takes the folder I handed her, quickly looking through it with a rather shocked looking expression on her face. Was I really that scary? When she glances up on me, she looks rather terrified, but her voice doesn't betray any emotion. It is cold, clipped, and professional, just like the voice of every psychologist I've seen. "Ah, yes, Sylvester," she says quickly. "We've been expecting you." Was I the only one who was immediately reminded of just about every cliche spy movie that there is? "Come along."
I nod in response, a quick jerk of my head, and quickly follow after her form. Soon, we arrive at a large wooden cabin, one made of an orangey wood with a dark green trim. It looked rather Christmas-y, in my opinion. Of course, my opinion never mattered to anyone, so I didn't bother saying that aloud.
"This is Cabin One, this is where you'll be staying. If you have any questions, contact one of the staff." The woman briskly walks off, as if she wants nothing more to do with me.
I walk up to the cabin, and notice that there are already a few people standing inside. A girl, and two guys. Two handsome guys, might I add. Hopefully they were to be my roommates. That would be nice. I love it when I have someone to stare at, even if that someone doesn't exactly want me to stare at them. I suppose I could be a bit of a stalker, but, hey, I never hurt anyone.
"Hey," I say lamely, walking over to the small group, not really having much more to do. "I'm Sylvester." It was a rather lame introduction, but, hey, it worked. At least they would know who I was now.
