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The uneven rhythm of the gramophone looped and looped all over again, drilling it’s way through his skull. Willson felt the noise fill his head, clouding his mind, forcefully vacating all other thoughts. He couldn’t think properly, the noises wouldn’t let him.
Wilson was a scientist. To him, to think was to live.
The infernal gramophone wouldn’t let him think.
It was torture. A slow, agonising death of the mind that nonetheless lacked the finality of physical decay. It was rotting his brain with mockingly cheerful music. It didn’t stop. It wouldn’t stop until his psyche was finally so broken it stopped registering anything in his surroundings. Until the decay of his mind finally let him slip into the sweet embrace of oblivion.
Being stuck forever would have been just a little more tolerable it he could spend the time thinking. His muscles would have still atrophied beyond use, silence wouldn’t change that. And yes, he would have still lost so much weight his bones would gradually begin to scrape directly against his pale skin from the inside. And maybe he would still be losing his mind from the dark and the lack of sleep. But at the very least he’d be suffering dignified in blessed silence.
How he loathed being idle. If he could just think, maybe he could at least spend the time productively. It pained him to think how much he could have accomplished in the eternity he’d spent trapped on the throne. How many discoveries had been denied him.
Though, in a way, he supposed that perhaps it was a cruel mercy he couldn’t think much. Time to think was time to contemplate the hopelessness of his situation. Furthermore, without a way to record his thoughts, any theorems and conclusions would just eventually be lost to time. His work would do nobody any good. He could do nobody any good.
Perhaps that was why it had long since ceased to bother him that he was doing evil.
Wilson was suffering, but he wouldn’t suffer alone. They had made sure he didn’t have to. With a gentle nudge in the right direction, he could bring others into this world. He’d been hesitant at first. But the nagging voices of them had eventually won out. In time, he had embraced it. He didn’t feel quite so helpless when he had the fates of others’ in his hands.
Each survivor he brought into the Constant offered something new. A brief respite from the endless monotony of his existence. He’d appear to greet them, not physically, his physical body never left the blasted throne, but at least he could project himself. He’d follow them, watch them struggle and triumph, and eventually die. They offered entertainment of sorts. It wasn’t like he had anything much better to pass the time with, and they wanted amusement.
That was the only reason he was still in charge. The creatures and situations his brilliant mind concocted amused them. His power was absolute, as long as they let it be. And they would let it be as long as he gave them a good show.
The gramophone’s unyielding tune looped again as he watched yet another adventurer meet their fate. The poor sap had been torn to pieces by the claws and teeth of monsters manifest from their own mind. Unfortunate, and somewhat anticlimactic. It was nearing dawn. Had their sanity held just a bit longer they might have lived.
Oh well.
Soon, sunrise would come. Wilson had waited patiently through the night, and soon he’d have his reward. Because the survivors and them weren’t his only company. No, God forbid. Had that been the case, he’d probably snapped even worse and much sooner. Night was nearly over, and that meant…
A mechanical screech of grinding cogs silenced the music. Wilson weakly looked up, feeling the faintest renewal of hope. The night had taken a toll on his sanity, as it always did. But it was over now. He’d made it through once more with his mind still mostly intact. The comforting silence was a testament to that. He looked at the gramophone as the funnel was crumpled up by wisps of shadow. The crank was snapped in two, the cogs torn out and scattered across the floor as if by a beast tearing the intestines from a downed animal. Finally, just for good measure, the splintered remains of the wooden box combusted.
Willow.
Wilson sighed in relief as he felt the comfortingly familiar presence behind him. Warm hands landed on his shoulders. With what strength he could muster, he weakly turned.
A sympathetic face greeted him. His one true companion in this purgatory was leaning around the side of the throne. Her dark, clawed hands moved as gently as they could from his bony shoulders as she rounded the uncomfortable chair and settled in front of him, ever careful to not scratch his withered frame.
She was beautiful. Her pale face perfectly contrasted the flowing darkness that enveloped the rest of her body like a dress. Her long dark hair moved like flickering flames, soft and entrancing. Her large eyes looked at him. There was a sadness to them, though whether it was for him or herself Wilson could never tell. She smiled sweetly.
“Good morning.” She greeted him as always.
“Bad night? You tore that gramophone to shreds as if it had insulted your mother.” Wilson faintly gestured to the smoldering machinery.
“No kill like overkill.”
“I suppose.”
Willow gave him a vaguely amused giggle. He loved it when she laughed, her voice crackled like fire. She lifted a hand and slashed at the air besides her. A portal of sorts opened, much like the ones she’d use to silently travel the night, or the doors survivors would use to traverse The Constant. Swirls of dark and light chased each other in an endless spiral in the gash she’d torn through reality itself.
Wilson had long since stopped questioning how they worked.
Instead, he simply watched as she reached into the tear and rifled around a bit before producing a plate with a cooked green mushroom on it.
“Here.” She reached the plate over to him.
It wasn’t uncommon for Willow to return with food, and occasionally a few other trinkets she’d found in the night. Most survivors were smart enough to get a fire going, after all. Willow’s “shifts” weren’t always that eventful either. Nonetheless...
“I don’t need food.” He reminded her, attempting to decline. It wasn’t like he could starve. They wouldn’t let him die. They weren’t done toying with him. But Willow insisted.
“You need sanity.” She shoved the food into his hands, and Wilson relented.
Her hands were warm on his. Not burning. She was never burning near him. Just pleasantly warm.
As he ate, his expression grew just a little less tired.
Honestly, he really didn’t understand why she stuck around. Why she insisted on returning to the dark and dreary depths of The Constant each morning. Why she still insisted on keeping him company. He was thankful, of course. She might be made of darkness, but she was still the last light he had in his life. She was his lifeline. And yet, her predicament was Wilson's fault. There was no denying it. Had he not built that machine they wouldn't have been trapped in this world. Willow wouldn't have been turned into a creature forced to flee her one comfort in life. Logically speaking, she should have hated him.
He’d been reckless, and she’d payed for it. But after a bit of initial resentment and quite a few ‘I told you so’s, she’d let it go. She’d stayed by his side.
He was a mess, mentally and physically. But she remained undeterred.
As he finished his meal, he felt a wave of relief wash over him. His tired mind began to pick up the slack again. The unfriendly shadows in the corners of his eyes melted away. Only Willow remained.
“I don’t deserve you.” Wilson muttered, managing a worn, grateful, smile.
Willow simply shrugged. “Monsters have to stick together.”
Monsters. Maybe they were. They certainly weren’t humans anymore. Wilson felt the definition suited him well, but it didn’t fit Willow. She could be harsh, occasionally caustic, but she was never cruel. Not to him. She wasn’t a monster. Maybe to the survivors, but it was her role. They all had to play their parts. They were just as much pawns as the survivors were. Powerful pawns, yes. But even the most powerful pawn was still at somebody else's command.
A warm hand touching his chin interrupted his train of through.
“You need to shave.” Willow noted flatly, rubbing her thumb across Wilson’s itchy stubble. He couldn’t help but laugh, it was such an absurdly mundane concern.
His true self looked nothing like the proud and regal image he’d project to the survivors out in the wastes. He was a sad shadow of the man he’d once been. He didn’t understand what Willow saw in him. Maybe it was pity. She’d try to make him look presentable, but it was a fruitless effort. He had no misgivings about that.
Sometimes, he wondered what their lives might have been like had he just listened to her so long ago. What discoveries he could have made with her by his side. How their lives would have been as normal, happy, people.
He wasn’t always easy to get along with, too caught up in his work, as Willow often reminded him. Distant. But he did care. He always had. He wished he’d spent more time with her on earth when he’d had the chance. There was so much they could have done and seen. So many chances that were now lost. Maybe he would have made some great breakthrough, and he’d been famous? Maybe he’d eventually decided he didn’t want that, and settled down. Maybe they’d been happy together, as normal people were.
Maybe they’d had a family. Lived in his remote house together, bickered over what to have for dinner, helped children with homework that seemed far to easy to Wilson... They could have been perfectly mundane, and glad for it.
Wilson shook his head.
Whatever their futures would have been like, it was irrelevant now. They had no futures. Just an endless cycle. Mindless repetition. Their futures had been taken.
He looked back at Willow, absentmindedly playing with a pitch black flame she’d set on the cold ground. Her future had been taken.
He’d taken it from her.
It was his fault. All evidence supported that conclusion.
Willow looked up from the dancing darkness, her face going from mild amusement to concern.
“Wilson, are you okay?” She asked.
He drew a ragged breath.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“Don’t lie to me, you’re bad at it.” She retorted in annoyance, then more softly. “You’re crying.”
He was? He managed to lift a hand to his face, and sure enough, his eyes were wet.
Willow stood, stomping the flame out, and came close again. She lifted one of his hands from the armrest of the throne and took a seat, gently holding him against the amorphous shadows that made up her body.
Her sympathy didn’t make Wilson feel much better. He didn’t deserve it. He almost wanted her to be mad at him, at least that way he knew he was getting what he deserved. He didn’t deserve the warm embrace and reassurance that he was still loved. He deserved to suffer. Willow might not hate him, but he supposed she didn’t have to. He hated himself enough for the both of them.
He had not just taken Willow’s future, he had taken so many people’s lives from them. Just to lessen his own woes.
The idea that one day one of the survivors might live long enough to reach him both comforted and terrified him. There was no way they’d be as forgiving as Willow. They shouldn’t be. The day a survivor reached him was surely the day he’d die. One way or another. He was a rational man, but after the years of torment he was also a pessimist. He seriously doubted the notion of some happy afterlife, that was the stuff of fairytales. Stories parents told frightened children to distract and soothe. Even if an afterlife existed, there was no way he’d earned a good one.
He didn’t want to die. The idea was terrifying. To never again think or work, to miss out on all the exciting discoveries yet to come. But at the same time, death was likely his only chance to escape. He didn’t know what to do. He wanted out, but he didn’t want to disappear. He couldn’t keep going for much longer, but neither could he stop.
He cried into the comforting, soft, darkness as it held him. He felt Willow’s sharp hands move slowly through his messy hair and over his shoulders, gently caressing his bony back. Her voice lacked the usual sarcastic edge as it softly cooed and consoled.
He was so tired of this. Even with Willow by his side, he didn’t know how long his frayed mind could hold.
The hours melded together into a blur of both sadness and comfort, to the point where he could hardly distinguish the two. He didn’t know how long they sat like that. He’d stopped crying at some point, but hadn’t moved. When they were together, it was the closest he ever felt to content. Willow calmed his racing thoughts, her affirmation that she still loved him chased the self loathing away, even if just a little. But eventually, she said the words he knew were coming, yet always hated to hear.
“The sun is setting.”
It was. Wilson couldn’t see the sun from the throne room that had turned into his ornate prison, but he could feel it. He was in tune with The Constant in a way only shared with Willow. Even in summer, the days felt far too short.
Night was coming, Willow had to leave. The shadows that stalked the darkness needed their leader. It was just another fact of their rigid cycle, one that couldn’t be changed. Willow had to leave him. He knew that, yet hesitated to let go.
“It won't be long.” She promised. “As soon as the night is over, I'll be right back.”
“You know, I think I'm starting to hate nighttime more than the survivors do.”
Willow got up with a small hop, and looked at him with a vaguely mischievous smile.
“What? Jealous I have to go watch them and not you?” Trying to lighten the mood. Wilson appreciated her for it, even if it didn’t make parting feel much better.
He answered honestly, with a sigh and a shaky smile.
“Kinda.”
Willows smirk dropped. It was obvious she didn’t feel like going either, but it wasn’t like she had a choice.
“ … Hang in there, love.” She had just enough time to give him a small peck, before her indistinct form began to lose shape and disappear into the darkness. As her pale face slowly faded, she gave him a last, supportive smile.
“It's not like I have much of a choice.” Wilson muttered to the now empty darkness.
Somewhere, in the edge of his vision, the gramophone pulled itself together.
The song resumed, in anticipation of yet another night.
Wilson sighed. One day, he’d get out of here. Alive or dead. He just had to hold out.