It always seems to rain on those days that you just want to end. It's as if the weather is a signal as to the tone of an entire day, some sort of warning sign from the start of the morning that can tell you whether or not you should even bother to get out of bed. Is it the rain that brings about the melancholy? Or is it the melancholy that brings about the rain? They say that only love can bring the rain, but then Pete Townshend seemed incapable of picking between the homophones rain and reign...

In short, it was raining.

I looked around, wondering what I was doing here. I'd certainly made worse decisions in my life, but this one ranked up there. I was determined, though. The trees all around me swayed in the breeze, the rain coming down steadily, turning the ground into a soppy mess of mud and leaves. It was dark too, the trees blocking out most of the sunlight that may have made it through the clouds toward the ground. Birds were swooping around, singing their song for all to hear.

I stepped through some plants, through a solid layer of brush blocking my path. I came out in a clearing on the other side. In the middle stood a ramshackle old hut with a sign above the door that said "What Remains of the Brotherhood." Underneath was a small bronze plaque that had engraved in it:

In loving memory:
Jamez
Jesus
Sticky
Timmy

I thought it had been funny at the time, but then Timothy came back. Timothy came and told us of the end of the world.

We couldn't escape it this time.

I stepped into the hut and glanced around. It had several shelves all stacked to the top with variously colored notebooks. One notebook sat open on a single, chairless table in the center of the hut. It gave off a blue, glowing aura.

"I'm sorry," I said to it, "But the story's over. The Brotherhood is dead." Anger bubbled below the surface of my head. Fury at what had happened. It was almost uncontrollable.

It sat there, mocking me, telling me I couldn't do what I planned.

"YOU KILLED HER!" I screamed at it, "I can do whatever the hell I want to you!"

Moments passed.

"How dare you?!" I screamed, "How dare you blame me?! You and that fucking shirt."

This hut had been my home for a long period of time. It used to be a haven, now it was a hell on Earth. It was constructed on the spot that formerly held the Erus Multus. Then the fortress fell, the forest filled the area, and I built this hut.

And now I would destroy it.

I had spent 30 years working at the hands of these notebooks. No more. Now I would cut the puppet strings. I would be free.

The rain kept the fire from spreading to the surrounding trees.

The terrible rain.

It spoke to me. "One, seven, three," it said. Then it laughed terribly, "You're still not free."

I kept walking.