Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He sees the symbols all over the house. He shudders to think what they mean, even as the familiarity comes back to him in small bursts. There’s a hole in his head the same shape as yesterday, and he doesn't know why. The symbols on the walls seem to be the answer, if he could just remember.

He shrugs it off, trying to ignore the way the symbols follow him. It was an eye, with the pupil crossed out. Despite its blindness the crossed out eyes seem to follow his movements to the kitchen, where he tries to make coffee. Tries to aim for any semblance of a routine. The dirty mugs by the sink clue him in to being on the right path, so he makes coffee and settles at the table, notes haphazardly scattered across the surface. There’s a familiar slanted handwriting, and many crossed out sentences, there’s blue prints stacked on top of research stacked on top of old mail. He doesn’t quite know what to make of it and so he doesn’t shuffle through it. On some papers there seems to be two types of handwriting, and his brain shies away from that just like the ominous symbols scratched into his walls.

The man shudders again, and stands to leave. Maybe a breath of fresh air would do him some good. He goes to grab the jacket and keys hanging by the door, somewhat amazed at the semblance of order in the otherwise jumbled mess of a house, and walks out into the bright afternoon sun. Apparently he awoke much later than he thought.

His home was in a row of small apartments, near what looked like the edge of town. Following the signs, he came into the town proper, recognizing buildings like the diner and a grocery store. People he’d seen around before and chatted with in line for bread. He breathed a sigh of relief. I know these people. Maybe it’s less strange than it seems.

He walks to the edge of town and turns, gazing into the forest. Its dark but inviting. Something about it pulls him in, asking him to take a chance, to dive in, to go crazy.

The man shakes his head and takes a step back. It’s all in my head, he tells himself. The forest couldn’t really be speaking to him. Yet the man still felt the dark pull, and it scared him. A nearby copse of beech trees marred the grander oaks and pines surrounding it, and for a moment the white knots of the tree turned sinister, appearing as a hundred eyes, staring at him.

“No!” He yelled, turning and running back into the town. But the image of eyes, hundreds of eyes, watching him, pulling him in, waiting to tear him apart stayed with him. He ran and he hardly knew what direction he was going. His feet carried him haphazardly to the museum, pounding up the steps and knocking past exhibits.

He finally paused for breath and looked around him, confused at himself for choosing this destination. While he stared at a grim portrait, a firm hand found his shoulder. He yelped, jumping straight into the air, but the man didn't let go.

“It is okay. We can help you.” The other man said. And, turning, he saw it was a guy in a red robe, the same symbol as in his house appearing on the robes.

“Who, who–what?” He couldn’t articulate his thoughts, fear kept his heart pounding and his empty head a swirl of emotions and thoughts. But the other seemed to understand. Hand still clamped to shoulder, he was led into the recesses of the museum, down to some sort of secret basement. He was scared, but this, too, was a familiar fear, and he embraced it over the unknown fear of earlier.

“What have you seen that you wish to unsee?”

He stuttered out his answer, heart hammering at the mention of it. “The-the eyes…the eyes, al–all the eyes a staring, waiting…” He shuddered again. He couldn’t see the other’s face, but he heard a smile in the voice when he next spoke.

“We can help with that ”

“Do ya, uh , do ya help me often with this sort of thing?”

“We help you every day that you need it, Fiddleford.”

Fiddleford, that must be my name, he thought. He liked it. He wished he’d remembered it this morning. But he hadn’t remembered the eyes this morning. He supposed a name was a small price to pay for losing the memory of all those eyes.

“Thank you. I wish to unsee what I have seen.”

The robed figure seemed to be smiling again, as he brought a gun out from beneath the folds of his gown. He shot Fiddleford, and as the beam hit him, for an unknown amount of times, Fiddleford fell unconscious under it. The man in the robes was used to this reaction from him. He lifted the slight man easily and took him home, leaving jacket and keys by the door, placing him on his bed and scratching another symbol of the blindeye into the wall before leaving.

The next morning the man woke up, stretching his arms and feeling his stomach growl. He gets up and starts at the strange symbols carved into his walls. They seem familiar and not at the same time. Shrugging, he ignores it. If it’s important, he’s sure he’ll remember.

Chapter Text

You see the symbols all over the house. You shudder to think what they mean, even as the familiarity comes back to you in small bursts. There’s a hole in your head the same shape as yesterday, and you don’t know why. The symbols on the walls seem to be the answer, if you could just remember.

You shrug it off, trying to ignore the way the symbols follow you. It was an eye, with the pupil crossed out. Despite its blindness the crossed out eyes seem to follow your movements to the kitchen, where you try to make coffee. Try to aim for any semblance of a routine. The dirty mugs by the sink clue you in to being on the right path, so you make coffee and settle at the table, notes haphazardly scattered across the surface. There’s a familiar slanted handwriting, and many crossed out sentences. There’s blue prints stacked on top of research stacked on top of old mail. You don’t quite know what to make of it and so you don’t shuffle through it. On some papers there seems to be two types of handwriting, and your brain shies away from that just like the ominous symbols scratched into your walls.

You shudder again, and stand to leave. Maybe a breath of fresh air would do you some good. You go to grab the jacket and keys hanging by the door, somewhat amazed at the semblance of order in the otherwise jumbled mess of a house, and walk out into the bright afternoon sun. Apparently you awoke much later than you thought.

Your home was in a row of small apartments, near what looked like the edge of town. Following the signs, you come into the town proper, recognizing buildings like the diner and a grocery store. People you have seen around before and chatted with in line for bread. You breathe a sigh of relief. I know these people. Maybe it’s less strange than it seems.

You walk to the edge of town and turn, gazing into the forest. It is dark but inviting. Something about it pulls you in, asking you to take a chance, to dive in, to go crazy.

You shake your head and take a step back. It’s all in my head, you tell yourself. The forest couldn’t really be speaking to you. Yet you still feel the dark pull, and it scares you. A nearby copse of beech trees marred the grander oaks and pines surrounding it, and for a moment the white knots of the tree turned sinister, appearing as a hundred eyes, staring at you.

“No!” you yell, turning and running back into the town. But the image of eyes, hundreds of eyes, watching you, pulling you in, waiting to tear you apart stays with you. You run and you hardly know what direction you are going. Your feet carry you haphazardly to the museum, pounding up the steps and knocking past exhibits in your panic.

You finally pause for breath and look around, confused at yourself for choosing this destination. While you stare at a grim portrait before you, a firm hand finds your shoulder. You yelp, jumping straight into the air, but the other does not let go.

“It is okay. We can help you.” The man says. And, turning, you see it is a guy in a red robe, the same symbol as in your house appearing on his robes.

“Who, who–what?” You can’t articulate your thoughts, fear keeping your heart pounding and your empty head a swirl of emotions and thoughts. But the other seemed to understand. Hand still clamped to your shoulder, he leads you into the recesses of the museum, down to some sort of secret basement. You are scared, but this, too, is a familiar fear, and you embrace it over the unknown fear of earlier.

“What have you seen that you wish to unsee?”

You stutter out an answer, heart hammering at the mention of it. “The-the eyes…the eyes, al–all the eyes a-staring, waiting…” You shudder once more. You can’t see the other’s face, but you hear a smile in the voice as he speaks again.

“We can help with that.”

“Do ya, uh, do ya help me often with this sort of thing?”

“We help you every day that you need it, Fiddleford.”

Fiddleford, that must be my name, you think. You like it. You wish you had remembered it this morning. But you hadn’t remembered the eyes this morning. You suppose a name is a small price to pay for losing the memory of all those eyes.

“Thank you. I wish to unsee what I have seen of this day.”

The robed figure seems to be smiling again, as he brings a gun out from beneath the folds of his gown. He shoots you, and as the beam hits you for an unknown amount of times, you fall unconscious under it.

 The man in the robes is used to this reaction from you. He lifts you easily and takes you home, leaving jacket and keys by the door, placing you on your bed and scratching another symbol of the blindeye into the wall before leaving.

The next morning you wake up, stretching your arms and feeling your stomach growl. You get up but startle at the strange symbols carved into his walls. They seem familiar and not at the same time. Shrugging, you ignore it. If it is important, you are certain you will remember.