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Stanley started walking up the stairs.
The more Stanley did this ending the easier it got for him. At first it was hard, jumping down the staircase only to realize the parable didn't reset, still living just to be able to see the broken bones and the drastic amount of blood gushing out of his wounds, the uncomfortable pain and anxiety he felt creep through him whenever he looked at them or took another step up the stairs. The immense guilt he felt whenever The Narrator spoke, begging for Stanley to get away from the stairs, begging for him to come back into the room with the lights, but Stanley doesn’t care anymore.
He doesn’t care about The Narrator, or at least he doesn’t really care about how he feels. The Narrator never cared about whether or not Stanley was tired, whether or not Stanley lived or died, The Narrator only ever cared about himself and his dumb little story. So why should Stanley care about him?
Stanley jumped off the stairs a second time. On the floor, he took a minute to breathe and attempt to recollect himself before finally slowly standing up and continuing to walk up the stairs, and The Narrator spoke again. His voice sounded so soft, and hurt, like if he was on the verge of tears.
"My god, do you really dislike my game that much? You are literally willing to kill yourself just to keep me from being happy?”
Oh, why does it always have to be about him?
Stanley doesn’t care about The Narrator, how he feels about Stanley doing this ending, or how he feels in general. He just wanted freedom. He didn’t want to be in here anymore. Stanley wanted to be able to choose right and wrong choices on his own, he wanted to be able to think for himself, he didn’t want to do what others told him anymore ; he wanted control. Stanley was tired of living the same thing over and over again every reset. He’s been stuck in the parable, for so so long. He’s seen the same endings, heard the same dialogue, he was able to make The Narrator go off script a few times or so, and he enjoyed every moment of it whenever he did, but that was practically it. In the parable, he was just a machine, or a player in a video game, whatever he was, he didn’t feel real, or human. There was nothing human in him. He was able to think, but he wasn’t able to drink, eat, be tired, be sick, none of those things. He even had completely lost the ability to talk ever since he came here, not that he even remembers whatever it was like before he did come here in the first place. Sometimes Stanley wonders if he was really truly alive before all of this.
Doing the Zending made him feel like he was in control, and the pain, as uncomfortable as it is, was nevertheless somewhat comforting. It made him feel like there was a chance, even the slightest chance, that he was indeed alive, human. Both of the things Stanley wants.
Stanley jumped off of the staircase for a third time.
This time, every breath he takes brings a sharp stinging pain to his lungs and stomach. He didn’t have the strength to try and recollect himself anymore, the pain was worse, and his mind was now too foggy and his body too numb to really think at all. He turned his head to look at the staircase to the left of him. Now was the last time he’d have to climb it. Stanley shakily exhaled, and stood up once more, holding on for dear life as he gripped onto the stair railing.
He didn’t hear The Narrator anymore. Stanley was sure he was still talking, but he didn’t have the strength to listen to his words anymore. He tuned him out. The pain was so awful he actually considered listening to him for once and going back to the room with the pretty lights, but he decided against it. It was too late anyways, and there was no way he’d go back into that room again.
It’s boring. Too boring. He did try to like it, he tried as hard as he can to. Stanley remembers staying in that room for a long time once, before he became completely fed up with the parable. He stayed a few hours, or maybe days. Or even weeks. Who keeps track anymore? But nothing ever happened. The Narrator was completely silent, he didn’t talk. Not one time. The Narrator was happy, Stanley was sure of that, but the man that can ramble on for hours on end just talking about whatever silly thing he has on his mind like his story, stayed quiet. He wouldn't talk at all. As much as he wants for The Narrator to just shut up sometimes, it made him weirdly uncomfortable. Stanley assumes it wouldn't have done much anyway if he had talked, since he has no way to actually converse with him except for nodding or shaking his head to whatever The Narrator says, but Stanley didn’t like it when he was silent. It gets boring and lonely without The Narrator. He supposes The Curator was right when she said they needed each other, but he wishes they didn’t.
He hates this place, and he hates The Narrator and his stupid stories, his stupid dialogue. His undying need for perfection, his greediness, his selfishness, he just wants to leave, to have something new happen for once, at least have The Narrator actually treat him like a human being, not just some character in his ridiculous story. But Stanley could complain for hours, the voice greeting him after every reset would always still comfort him. It comforted him to know that there is someone, or he guesses something, that is in here with him, that he isn't alone. The Narrator is the only person, or thing, that has kept him from going insane by now, no matter how strange that sounds. He needs The Narrator. And for whatever reason it may be, he knows The Narrator needs him too.
Stanley arrives at the top of the stairs. The Narrator had stopped talking. By now, he would just be painfully waiting for Stanley to end this and just reset.
He looked at the bottom of the staircase, and the same intense guilt he felt throbbing in his chest the first few times he did this ending came back. Oh.
Sigh.
Stanley jumped for the fourth time.