Venturing into the Darkness

By Erna J. Weissman

Venturing Into the Darkness is a fictional novella about an albino named Jonathan. He embarks on a journey to escape the Underworld. But on this peculiar quest, he makes some shocking discoveries about not only himself but his family as well.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erna J. Weissman
• Release date: Jun 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201803506

Book preview

For all who wish to follow their hearts and live their lives to the fullest.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First, I want to thank my grandparents. They gave me the help and encouragement I needed to create my first book. I would also like to thank Ira-Rebeca for designing the cover for this book. If I hadn’t reached out to her, I never would have had such an amazing cover.

My name is Jonathan, and I’m an albino. I was born with pale skin, white hair, and pinkish-red eyes. And because of my albinism, I am more sensitive to the sun than an average person. Honestly, I’ve never fantasized about being out in the sun all day anyway. I’ve always liked the moon better. It’s so beautiful and lights up the night, especially when full. At least I can appreciate its beauty without the risk of going blind. The moon was always more loving than her brother, the sun anyway.

I don’t have a surname like Smith or Anderson because I never had one. I am and always have been an orphan. I arrived at an orphanage when I was a newborn. I never knew my biological parents nor have I ever found out whether they died or just put me up for adoption. I had always believed that it had something to do with what I am. The other kids always picked on me because of my appearance. One of them said that my albinism is the reason why my parents didn’t want me.

The orphanage I grew up in was called St. Peter’s Orphanage. It's located in the countryside in Missouri. It was a Catholic orphanage meaning that everyone had to be Catholic despite how America was supposedly a land of religious freedom. I’ve spent every day in St. Peter’s Orphanage reading the Bible, singing hymns, and, of course, being teased by the other kids. Even the nuns would whack me with a ruler over every little thing. The only person who was ever kind to me was Sister Phoebe.

Sister Phoebe was an old nun who brought me to the orphanage as a baby. She first told me this when I was seven years old. According to her, her car broke down in front of the house she found me in. An angel then appeared before her telling her that she must enter the house because a child was inside needing her aid. Sister Phoebe obeyed the angel and approached the house. To her surprise, the door was unlocked, allowing her to go inside. She found me in my crib, crying with no one else in the house.

What Sister Phoebe never told me was why I was home alone in the first place. Occasionally, I’d ask her the same question. She will always respond by claiming that she had no idea why. Every time Sister Phoebe says that she would always sound nervous with the look of worry in her emerald green eyes. Eventually, I stopped asking because I knew she'd never tell the truth. Sister Phoebe was like a mother to me scolding the kids who bully me and comfort me when I’m sad. I once called her Mom by mistake, but she didn’t mind one bit.

When I was fifteen, Sister Phoebe got sick and went to the hospital. I visited her every day and snuck poppy seeds into her room for us to share. Poppy seeds were her favorite snack. Back in the orphanage, we would read the bible together while enjoying some poppy seeds. I was never a dedicated Catholic despite the kind of lifestyle I was exposed to. I just didn’t feel that this faith was right for me. The other nuns weren’t too happy with my independent thinking.

Unlike Sister Phoebe, every nun in St. Peter’s Orphanage was strict as they were religious. I remember this one kid named James who argued with one of the nuns. He was about a few months older than me. James complained that the Bible is lame and doesn't want to read it anymore. Of course, the nun was upset and smacked James on the arm with a ruler. I didn’t feel any sympathy for him. He wrote the word Freak on my forehead in my sleep a couple of days earlier.

I was around the age of thirteen when I was punished for the first time. All I did was say that the Catholic faith doesn’t feel right for me. I got smacked because I wasn’t religious. After a couple of weeks in the hospital, Sister Phoebe died in her sleep. The only person whom I ever loved was gone. On the day of her funeral, I couldn’t look away from the casket that contained my dead friend. I dropped a red rose onto the casket after it was lowered into the grave.

That night, I’ve decided that I’ve had it with society and how it has treated me. I ran away from the orphanage still in my pajamas and with a bag full of sunproof clothing. As I ran from the wretched facility that’s tortured me for so long, I heard a voice calling my name. It sounded gentle and feminine. I almost thought it was Sister Phoebe and my grief was getting to me. But as I listened closer, I realized that it wasn’t her voice. My stomach churned as I wondered if this was a nun from the orphanage.

Who are you? I demanded. If you’re here to stop me, I won’t go down without a fight! The voice stopped as soon as I spoke. I paused for a moment, continuing to scan my surroundings. After about a minute of silence, I assumed that it was all in my head and pressed on. That’s when I saw something unusual. A black silhouette was standing not far from me.

It was so dark that I was uncertain whether this person was facing me or not. As I got closer, I could make out a woman’s physique. I stopped right behind her, not exactly sure how to handle this situation. The woman was facing away from me so I could only see black hair and a black dress. Suddenly, she extended her arm, pointing in front of her. I walked next to her, looking in the direction she was pointing. All I could see was a road with a black jeep pulled over and someone standing near it.

I turned to the woman, but she was gone. I didn’t even hear the sound of grass being crushed against my feet. It was as if she vanished up in thin air. I had no idea what happened to her, but I felt confident that she wanted me to notice the jeep and its owner. I walked towards the road and saw a pale boy around my age was dressed in leather with red streaks in his black hair. He was leaning against the jeep smoking a cigarette when he spotted me. I approached the strange boy as he observed me.

Running away from home, pal? the boy asked.

Yes, I replied without shame. I don’t know where I’m going, but I always have the moon to guide me.

I’m guessing that it has something to do with your condition? the boy inquired. I nodded as a response to understanding the implication. That took a lot of guts. the boy commented. My name is Chris.

Jonathan. I introduced myself as we shook hands.

Nice to meet you, Johnathan. Chris greeted. Since you have nowhere to go, maybe you can come to stay with my brother and me. We live in Lawrence, Kansas and I was on my way back home from Kansas City when I decided to stop for a smoke break. You can stay with us for as long as you want. I had just met Chris, but going with him would have to be better than living in that dungeon I’d escaped from. I agreed to go with him.

We entered the black jeep and Chris drove us off into the night. While we were on the road, Chris told Jonathan more about himself.

I'm goth, Jonathan. he explained. I wear black and have streaks in my hair. A goth is someone who embraces his dark side and sees the people as the lame conformists that they are. We listen to bands like Zombie Oil and Nine-Inch Nails because their music practically demonstrates how we feel. You seem fed up with society already, so I’d say you would make a great goth.

The more Chris told me about the goth