They moved like snakes beneath the surface of the water. 

I always hated the skeletal hands. Even so, watching them had become all my death amounted to. Sometimes I'd sit back and observe as fresh, idiotic souls flooded to the river and splashed about, a pathetic and desperate attempt at rekindling that life-like joy, no doubt. I'd never warn them about the skeletal hands lurking beneath, I'd only watch the color vanish from their ghastly faces as soon as they'd feel the bony fingers close around their still fleshy ankles. 

It wasn't enjoyable by any means. I never found pleasure in seeing the terror in their eyes. But I wasn't repulsed by it, either. Indifference is the correct word, I suppose. 

I lost count of how long I had been waiting. It could have been anywhere from ten years to half a century. There were no seasons, no clocks, no sunrise, so keeping track of time was practically impossible.

I brought my hand to my half-masked forehead and wiped the forming beads of sweat aside.

Burning in Hell, that's where I was if you didn't pick up on that yet. Trapped in the fiery pits of doom with nothing from my life to accompany me but the dark half of my mask. Everyone I remembered; Bleck, Nastasia, O'Chunks, Mimi, Mr. L, they all must have been still living their long, happy lives because I had yet to see any of them. I highly doubted any of them would be bound for the Overthere, except potentially Mr. L. He was part of Luigi, after all. If anyone could qualify for the Overthere, it was him. He was so pure and good that it was annoying. Nastasia had to do more than her fair share of digging to bring the darkness out of him, and even that darkness wasn't all that evil. Mr. L simply wanted to be seen and acknowledged. He didn't want blood until we told him to want blood. It's funny how by tapping into Luigi's natural follower instincts, we could get him to do practically anything we wished. 

Grambi surely wouldn't damn him for that, though. Luigi was a legendary hero, one of the fortunate. One of Grambi's favorites. And, though I hate to say it, he was perhaps one of only two people I had ever met who I'd describe as truly "good." 

He wasn't the oblivious kind of good, either. Well, he was oblivious to some things, but his goodness came from the efforts he made to accomplish things that often frightened him. He'd jump into fire for a stranger. It was laughable, really, yet also fascinating. 

I grasped a small pebble and tossed it into the murky purple water. Ripples started to spread, growing bigger yet less intense until they faded into nothing. Skeletal hands fought like starving trout, desperate to grab the insignificant rock. It wasn't souls they were attracted to, (I had learned through years of observation,) but movement. They'd snatch anything that created ripples in their precious river.

I wondered how long that pebble had been waiting on the shoreline before I picked it up and sealed its fate. Had it been days or centuries? The rock seemed slightly damp, so it very well could have washed up from the shore.

I wondered how long the skeletal hands had been down there. Where did they come from? Did they have a soul bound to them as I did, or were they more closely related to the pebble? Were they capable of thought? How old were they? 

How did I die?

I dug my fingernails into the soggy soil. It was squishy and warm, yet slightly uneven. Some grains of the sand-like sediment were larger than others. I didn't like it.

There was no point in pondering what did me over. Not a single soul in the Underwhere could remember what caused their demise. Many would go insane while desperately trying to remember. 

I wasn't going to be one of those souls. 

The sediment was warm, like bog water in early August. 

It was always hot. Not overwhelmingly hot, but just barely too hot for comfort. I didn't dare go in the water to cool down, though. I hated the cold, and I wasn't dumb enough to sacrifice myself to the skeletal hands. 

They wouldn't "kill" me if they grabbed me. People like me, the forgettable kinds of deceased beings, we can't be killed. But an afterlife above the water was preferable to one trapped beneath the river. 

I wanted to shed a layer, but I couldn't. My body only bore a thin purple cloak with a black tank top that was just barely cropped and some slightly puffy black pants to go with it. The outfit was probably made for children or young teenagers, with their silly crop-top trends, but I didn't care. It was the most comfortable outfit I could find. 

Though my hair wasn't long enough to be completely tied back, I had the top half secured with a small hairpin to keep loose strands from falling over the exposed half of my face. My old cap and poncho didn't traverse to Hell with me, so I had to come up with other means of keeping my hair up. I would have liked it if it would grow an extra inch so I could just use a hairband to keep it all back, but our hair and fingernails stop growing in the afterlife. If you break a nail, that's it, it's never growing back. 

I brought my hands together and forcefully bent my left ring finger forward until I was met with a satisfying crack.

The crack was followed by an involuntary shiver, though I was not cold. 

The surface of the water started to ripple and wave as the ground shook slightly. Shouts began to arise from behind, though I knew well they had nothing to do with me. 

"The fountain! There's - hey you," a forgettable soul urged. 

I didn't have blood anymore, but if I did it would have boiled. Hey you. I wasn't even Dimentio anymore. Just a nameless nobody. 

I didn't correct them, though. There was no point. I was history and not the triumphant kind. I was what students would forget. Not even that, I was the history that wasn't even taught. I was the dusty book in the back of a dying library.  

I also saved some hidden rage for the mention of the fountain. There were few things I hated more than it. Never before had I seen something so relentlessly cruel. It was built not to serve the people of the Underwhere, but only the legends of great prophecies. Injured souls travel across the Underwhere to find it, only to be disappointed because it would refuse them. It was the destroyer of hope - a cruel reminder that life favors some, and we are not that some. 

"There's a ghost by the fountain," they said, and the air around me immediately shifted. 

I stood up in an instant and ran as fast as I could, fighting to stay ahead of the forgettable soul. I had to get there first. They were an idiot for spreading the word of a ghost's presence, but I'd be even more stupid not to capitalize off their stupidity. 

I reached for my belt and pulled out my dagger.

I was too late, though. 

By the time we arrived at the healing fountain, no ghost remained. Just a victorious shade, grasping her purple gemmed dagger as she grinned. It was a smile of many meanings. There was clearly an overwhelmingly taunting aspect to it. She got to the ghost first, she beat the rest of us. 

But there was also relief. She finally did it. She won the game. 

I clenched my fists slightly and allowed my ungloved fingertips to dig into my palms. I didn't press too intensely, though. I couldn't allow myself to break a nail so carelessly. 

An uproar of shouting came from the disappointed souls that surrounded me. I didn't join them in their cries, though, despite being ten times more upset than any of them could have possibly been. I simply turned away and returned to my place by the water. 

Hope is a fool's game. Yet we're all born fools. I spent years trying to toss hope aside and give up on it. I convinced myself that my efforts had led to success too. Yet every time I heard of a ghost's presence, all the progress would come crashing down and I'd be back to square one. 

I held my dagger in front of myself and allowed my eyes to fall upon my purple-tinted reflection. I couldn't recall how long it took me to get ahold of mine. That was probably the best time of my afterlife because I had something to do - a difficult yet achievable goal to reach for. But now I had it, and all that was left to do was wait to get lucky. 

Diamond daggers, specifically these purple ones, are made from a special kind of gem. The jewels are the only materials in all of existence capable of killing a ghost, hence why it took me so long to come across one. Practically every soul in the Underwhere would trade the lives of their living loved ones for a diamond dagger. Having one is what separated me from a good 90% of the other souls. I had a chance, a reason to hope. They had nothing. 

Still, my chances weren't good. That 10% of souls who do possess daggers may seem insignificant, but when one takes into account how massive the Underwhere is, it's easy to realize that the odds were still stacked against me. 

The diamond daggers weren't rare by any means. There was probably enough out there for half the souls trapped in the Underwhere to have one. The problem wasn't the rarety, souls were just selfish. If I were to have ten diamond daggers, nine other souls wouldn't have access to them, which would lower the competition. It's a math game, really. 

I didn't need ten daggers, though. Just one would suit me well enough. I didn't need to cheat to stay ahead. I was going to win eventually - not because of odds, but because of my quick thinking. I may not have been the most physically strong soul, especially with all my magic stripped away, but I was definitely one of, if not the most clever.

Hope was a difficult thing to grasp. Having it hurt, so much so that I had spent potentially decades trying to push it away, but I never could. It's a core part of my being. Without it, I'd have nothing. So, while exhausting to hold onto, I'd never completely diminish that spark. 

Prideful eyes stared back at me through the purple blade. One yellow, the other black. I didn't often allow my gaze to fall upon my own reflection. The Underwhere lacked mirrors for superstitial reasons and the water was far too murky to be reflective. I never wanted to see myself, anyway. I didn't look the way I remembered. I mean, it was still me, just broken. 

Still me, all the same, though. 

I'd still destroy anyone I had to for my perfect world. I was still plotting, still planning. Sure, much more time was spent feeling indifferent and bored, but that wasn't new. My youth was spent in a similar way. Boredom isn't as bad as one may think. If someone is feeling bored, it means they're in a privileged place where they're not being forced to feel anything like rage or fear. 

The light that blossomed within the shade's eyes as she held up her diamond dagger would soon be mine. I could feel it. I just had to be patient, which I was quite exceptional at if I do say so myself. There were very few areas where I didn't exceed. Lady Fortune had to be waiting just around the corner for me.