Liminality

This is just a small excerpt from a story of mine I'm planning on converting into a script-format.  It's unfinished (obviously) but I'd thought I'd share the prologue.

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Fingers curled in apprehension.  Lips pulled pin straight and eyes half-lidded, drowsy almost.  Fourteen centuries with your legs crossed and no one to speak to, look to, listen to.  You perched yourself on a hilltop and said you would never come down, who knew that we would forget about you.  On my sixteenth birthday you became conscious and watched from that hilltop.  Every day, observing the world.  You wanted it, so you decided to make one for yourself.  In that fine line between life and unconsciousness you created Liminality, became it.  When I turned twenty-three you snatched me up, told me your name, then cast me into your empty world.  I had to create this place from scratch, buildings, mountains, forests, and an ocean that expands for a lifetime.  You didn't think I could do it, but yet you took more people, snatching them away in their sleep.  You filled this stagnant hole in your being; filled this place then shut the door.

We can't go back, so this is home now.  The cities, projects I could never finish, slowly fell apart.  The ocean turned black and the sky melted, pouring down acid rain.  Clouds, coal gray, covered the white sun from our view; drenching us in a permanent gray twilight.  The ocean lapped at the shores with its viscous liquid, strewing the bones of animals that could not survive it across our shores.  The buildings I had been so proud of were now dilapidated and useless and the mountains became the home for the monstrosities of Liminality, so we left them alone.  I was thirty-seven when I died.  Died alone.  I held onto the belief that this place could be fixed, and I grasp it even now in death.  Those stuck here have lost hope, but I still haven't.  I refuse to admit that you won.