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This is the story of a man with very limited purpose in this world.
Every need that could be assumed from an average man has been met without him needing to lift a finger. He does not hunger nor does he thirst, yet at the same time, he could be prized with the finest food humanity has to offer if only he finds in himself the humility to politely ask for it. He has no need for sleep, yet he is not deprived of the ability to chase after such intoxicating releases from reality should he so please. Most importantly of all, he has no need to fear the stability of his future.
It is far too scripted to leave room for disaster.
The man’s world is created with incredible care, hand-crafted to perfection. Therein lies the problem. It’s safe, predictable, and far too secure. Despite achieving heaven, he yearns for more, his desires becoming more and more abstract as they grow and spiral and consume. He yearns for entertainment. Perhaps a purpose. Perhaps a companion.
This is the story of a man who wants and wants and wants.
“This is the story of a man named Stanley.”
[Is it really?] Bouncing to life at the sound of his name, Stanley spun around in his office chair with all the fervor of a newly-appointed pastor laying out his first ceremony. That said, it was a wonder the poor piece of furniture remained intact. Throwing a wry little smile up at the ceiling, the unusually destructive man tilted his head innocently. He had no idea whether the Narrator was actually up there or not, and he came to a pointed realization a while ago: who really cared? The disembodied voice always seemed to see him anyway, so at least pretending that he was in a certain direction allowed Stanley to daydream about dragging him down from the heavens and really giving it to him someday. For the time being, though, verbally (er, motionally?) tormenting The Narrator would have to suffice. [The more I hear that one line, the more I think the story’s about you.]
“Well, I-! Perhaps I need to script a scene where you get your hearing checked. I’m certain that I’ve said it before: it’s always been about you, Stanley.” Grumbles that couldn’t quite be deciphered filled the air rendering his pause hardly such. “Aren’t you getting all antsy a bit early today?”
“You bet.” Stanley flashed another irked grin at the heavens. His mind was no different from a cathedral; it was full of nothing but decorative thoughts that hardly took up enough space in the far-too-large rooms, not to mention how every incomplete thought echoed in a desperate yet futile attempt to fill the void. What to fill it with? Anything other than his own thoughts. Anything other than his own anguish. The Narrator’s anguish— yes, that was preferable. The office worker left his desk, making a beeline for the pair of doors that stood as the clearest thing among the sea of muddled memories he kept packed far, far away from his conscious mind. Before his unasked-for companion could even find his place on the script, Stanley dove through the one on his left. Judging by the slight sputter that faintly sounded around him, such antics were extremely effective in bugging The Narrator.
[The last ending bored me, so I’m going to entertain myself.]
Bored was an interesting choice of words. On the contrary, the last ending horrified him. Scripts and control and pointlessness were all ideas that had been shoved into the man’s head again and again by this twisted world he lived in, yet nothing wrapped it up in such a nice box quite like the Confusion Ending. Perhaps aimlessly throwing himself down the same path again and again was starting to wear on his mind.
“Hm? The ‘last ending’?” The Narrator practically purred out those words. The man must’ve thought this was Stanley’s weak attempt at a trick— yes, the Narrator must've been mocking him. Perhaps Stanley truly had become the boy who cried wolf if the mere mention of their countless restarts was enough to elicit such a smugly suspicious response. “What last ending?”
[Nevermind, forget it. The point is, I’m gonna do your job as an entertainer since you’re not doing it yourself. Now, what’s fun around here? There’s always…]
“Really, Stanley, what has gotten into you?”
Ignoring the voice’s hardly-restrained pleas for enlightenment, Stanley simply plowed through the meeting room and entered the next hallway. Though scattered across a thousand lives and fragmented beyond recovery, he had a few faint memories intact, one of them a distinct glee of the agony he’d drawn from his nemesis by going off path. If he recalled correctly… “Right here!” Flashing one more smirk to the heavens as the final warning of his master plan, the office worker dove into the broom closet and firmly shut the door behind him.
“Oh for H—”
An abrupt cut-off made it clear that The Narrator had gone so far as to bite down on his tongue in a feeble attempt to pretend that he hadn’t just gone off script. Grumbling to himself then finally squeezing out a sigh, he began reciting the age-old lines. Neither man paid a bit of attention to the uttered words. They were as worn as the words “once upon a time”; though his memories of it might have been quite blurry, Stanley was faintly aware that he’d heard them multiple times before. The Parable had a way of plunging him into a mental state far outside the stretch of sanity yet not quite reaching insanity. Who knew what happened when anymore? Not him. Now that he thought about it, though, it had been a long time since Stanley chose the broom closet. Soaking in the neverending horror of Confusion had robbed him of much free time.
“It was baffling that Stanley was still just sitting around in the broom closet. He wasn't even doing anything, at least if there were something to interact with he'd be justified in some way.”
The Narrator's ‘autopilot’ mode droned on and on. Oh how heartless their daily life had become, victim to endless automation of the human mind— well, no, Stanley highly doubted that The Narrator was a human. Truthfully, he’d given up on finding out what his unwanted companion was a long time ago. He was certainly sentient; though he’d almost doubted it at first, they’d come far enough that the storyteller would go off script quite often.
“And yet we’re back here, repeating and repeating and repeating.”
“Maybe to you, this is somehow its own branching path. Maybe, when you go talk about this with—”
Stanley sighed and looked down at the ground- he could actually see his legs. That had also changed somewhere along the line- some unpleasant oily substance had spilled on the ground, soaking itself into the mop that had never been properly hung after its last use. Did he do that? Or did someone else fail to put the mop away? Stanley despised the world rich in small details that suggested life other than his own yet presented no such thing. It was such an unfair tease.
“Stanley was fat and ugly and really, really stupid. He probably only got his job because of a family connection; that's how stupid he is.”
Stanley jolted to a freeze, torn away from his mental daze without warning. So, too, did the Narrator.
[Oh, haha. I forgot about that part.] The man absentmindedly signed those words as his head slowly began to drop like a pitiful dying flower. [I forgot how… strongly… Wow, it really has been a while, hasn’t it? Uh…]
Trailing off as they expended what little energy was left, Stanley's hand movements died off, along with any will to hold his limbs up. The Narrator was hushed as he watched reluctantly, slowly bringing himself to the realization that he too had forgotten. So heavy-handed— no, they weren't even lines. That was it; they were a gut reaction, the words of a man peeved by his companion with whom he had not yet grown fully familiar nor fond. The few times that Stanley had veered into such a useless room were worthy of such a reaction, at least that was how he'd felt back then. Things were different now, though. The situation had changed. Time had passed. Stanley was—
“...Stanley?” The Narrator tumbled out of his inner monologues in time to witness the man slide against the wall, carelessly jamming trembling hands against his ears. If he hadn’t known any better, the Narrator would have been led to think the gesture blocked his voice from being heard, given the office worker’s total lack of response to the call. He was usually so responsive no matter the circumstances, yet now, he was nothing more than a stiff cardboard cutout of himself. “Stanley, what's the matter? You aren't having your brain melted by the broom closet, are you?”
A light-hearted jab, a gentle plea to return to the status quo— a pleading “Haha, you didn’t forget that we always do this, did you? That we’re good friends who joke wonderfully?”— and it did absolutely nothing.
Stanley sipped in the heavy dust-ridden air, gulping it down like a thirsting soul desperately drinking ocean water even with the full understanding that it was useless in bringing satisfaction. This— wasn’t he fine just a moment ago? What happened? He wasn’t sure, but it was settling in his fingertips and agonizingly eating away at his hands. Unrestrained, suffocating, energy he never asked for slipped up his veins and he hated it. Feared it. Wanted it to stop. The closet’s walls seemed to close in on him as he stepped back, carelessly slamming against the wall in a desperate attempt to gain support. A curled fist with whitening knuckles seemed to spell it out for him. He was mad (was he really?), furious, at… He’d decide why later. Stanley choked out an angry sputter that was half-directed at himself and half-directed at The Narrator before sliding down the wall, legs sprawled out on the floor. They could touch the other wall, reminding Stanley of what a small space he had chosen to stuff himself into, and for what purpose? To antagonize the now-silent voice of his one and only companion? To drive him mad till he left Stanley alone— he was alone, wasn’t he? Back to the never-changing, never-ending, never-growing, never-developing, inhuman, unnatural hallways that knew no such thing as time as they swallowed up every single thing that was human except for him —
“Stanley. I’m still here.” So restrained, yet dripping with authority. That man’s voice never changed. The Narrator must’ve been digging into his plaything’s thoughts again. Stanley had forgotten he could do that in the moment; the other man rarely commented on it, he’d learned not to after the frenzy of cursing it often earned. After all, what human wouldn’t be defensive over their own thoughts? “What’s happening? Do you want to come out of the closet now?”
[You’re still trying to have your way? No.] Stanley could feel himself panting, recoiling at the burning heat of the air around him. Just like that time when he’d been blown to bits not that many restarts ago. The Narrator wasn’t truly trying to help him. Why bother? An office worker with nothing to offer wasn’t worth his time, no, and it was oh so clear that Stanley was nothing than an ugly, stu- [It’s alright. I’m fine. I’ll continue your story later, can I have a minute?]
“Hrm.” The Narrator paused for a moment before reluctantly answering. “Okay, Stanley. I’ll back away, just do tell me when you’re ready for me to come back.”
[Sure.]
‘Sure’? Seriously? Why, of all times, considering he was just finding a sliver of comfort in The Narrator’s presence— but was that inability to understand even himself just a further testament to his own stupidity? It must have been. Stanley was nothing more than a pitiful waste of the other man’s time. Oh, how laughable it was that someone of his power even bothered to keep a useless office worker around. He’d always wondered why. Ah, but wasn’t it just like the last people that Stanley couldn’t even form a picture of within his mind anymore? The very same ones who he’d been oh-so connected to that he could obtain a job. Connections? Hah. It was all so laughable. That’s exactly what she said— Had she been right? Who was she? He didn’t remember. It didn’t matter, that’s what they all said. Of course, when multiple people all agree— Clearly, it was the truth.
Desperately clinging to his hitched breath lest the exhale make a noise that could be heard by his protagonist, The Narrator quickly shut himself off of Stanley’s spiraling thoughts. Where he had hoped to find answers for what had set him off, there was only a bottomless pit of frantic screechings and confused ramblings. Powerful as he might have been, even The Narrator could only take so much before promptly regretting his decision to tune into the spiraling madness. Though he had to say… The all-consuming silence was hardly better. Stanley had fully shut himself up now, staring blankly at the closet’s wall and allowing the buzzing racket overhead to consume him. The Narrator had long since become adjusted to the unpleasant sound to the point he could barely even hear it unless he truly chose to focus on it. But focusing meant—
“ -MAYBE THAT’S WHY. See?! That must be why! That’s why they left and that’s why I’m here and that’s why no matter what I do not a single bit of it matters, it’s all useless, just like everything I’ve ever done! Erased, erased in the blink of an eye just like any bit of respectability I ever could’ve held, it’s all gone at the end of the day when all it takes to undo every single pathetic breath I’ve ever taken in is press a single blasted button. Or better yet, blast ME! TO HIGH HEAVENS! And not even that will matter when it’s all undone with only one-”
“Stanley.” No longer could the prominent worry lacing his tone be hidden. The office worker looked up at the ceiling— thank God his head fell quiet at that— and shot a questioning glance up. “Stanley, are you fine?” What a stupid question.
“Broken [ ] record.”
[Yes, Narrator, I'm fine. Won't you please just…] Stanley inhaled sharply, a rare noise on the office man's part. Neither male was sure what the other warned, forget what they themselves wanted. Stanley stood, reeling from the buzzing. [I'll be back, just give me a bit. For real. Let me take time for real. Vanishing for a moment doesn't count. It NEVER counts. Just… Just.]
Deprived the time to retort, The Narrator was left to watch his twisted invention throw open the closet door, declaring the open air as his to take and leave as desired. He tore through the halls as if expecting to outrun a voice nesting in his head. Stanley wasn’t sure what he was thinking, but maybe that was the point; there’s no knowing without the ever-present nagging occupying his frail head also knowing. Maybe it was just easier to stop thinking entirely. He could feel instead— because why would a thing like The Narrator be able to feel? Stanley could become love, he would be hate. He was rage and he was joy, he was a child screaming and wailing for no reason other than to simply hear their voice and know that they were alive. He would be everything that this soulless world couldn’t be. Triumphing against this disgusting façade of a living world, he would bring it all burning down before the feet of his god until such ire had been collected that Stanley could finally cash in on sweet release. Stretched out and bleeding, he couldn’t suffer any more after finally being smitten like the wicked abnormality to this world he was. He didn’t belong here. The Narrator reminded him of it every day. Stanley veered into an office, practically tearing the door open to make The Narrator’s control over the building slip even if just for a moment. Truthfully, it was a bit odd that the door gave so easily but Stanley didn’t have time to think about that.
What minuscule part of his brain managed to retain some semblance of awareness distantly noted that he had never been inside this particular office before. Why would he have been? On top of the doors seldom being openable in the first place, Stanley knew all too well that when The Narrator said a door or a button was useless… Well, he wasn’t lying. Regrettably. This office wasn’t unremarkable as he would have expected, though; while it was perfectly average in almost every aspect, there was a singular oddity that perhaps would’ve aroused more panic in him if he hadn’t been so disoriented to begin with.
A hole, it was a hole. A hole where there certainly should have been none.
Desperately, he pushed down the memory of a certain quip made in relation to the topic. Stanley reluctantly wandered further into the room. The hole stretched across a large portion of the wall and some of the floor, revealing nothing more than an unnatural glow through the unending darkness that spanned below. Perhaps there was a hint here, perhaps each carefully-placed puzzle piece could be put together to answer the question of what it all meant. However, Stanley had long since abandoned thought. He leaped into the hole without a moment’s thought, embracing the abnormality in which he could perhaps find himself no longer the sole oddity in a world of perfection and artificiality.
Strangling, suffocating, all-consuming. Even the strangled gasp escaping the deity-like being merely grazed against Stanley’s ears, unable to secure a place in his mind and simply rolling off like rain against a window. Disappearing, sound and everything else that stood as a mark of the outside world vanished as if an airtight door had been closed. The implications of that impression were something Stanley wasn’t all too certain he enjoyed, but it was too late to go back now. Hitting the ground unsteadily, he stood and brushed himself off.
“Is this escaping? Is this freedom?”
Alone. Stanley felt a soundless laugh build in his throat. Unlike the recycled oxygen of the broom closet’s closed space, the Parable’s purlieu was vast and unknowable, darkness obscuring its mass. If not for the rising tide of lucidity, perhaps his mind could have twisted these circumstances into evidence of his death. Total darkness. Total silence. Total solitude. It was a state, Stanley noted, that had long since disappeared from the “outside world”— if such a thing had ever existed, let alone if it still did.
The Narrator listened intently, clinging to his breaths as if they would disappear if he let go. His focus lingered over the hole that Stanley had fallen through, yet never proceeded past it. He couldn’t, and the heavens know he tried. All The Narrator could do was listen for his protagonist’s thoughts from the outside, occasionally hearing the scattered “what’s this?” or a “not here.”, all simple phrases that left little reason for concern to develop. Surely, then, he would be fine— and rather annoyed if any attempt to drag him out was made. Surely, surely, surely… Yet the storyteller simply could not find himself at ease enough to tune out the faint, delicate sound of Stanley’s thoughts. It was his only companion now.
“Dark. Maybe I should find the exit before I explore, just to be safe.”
He found liberation in the space— this must have been the case because he had found the closet suffocating— but Stanley was a man of caution. As of five seconds ago, he was a man of great care towards the delicacy of everyday life, and— he’d been walking for at least a minute, but nothing changed because nothing was there. But that’s okay! Because this was space, and this was solitude, and this was freedom, and wasn’t that the sole desire that had directed the only frail and pitiful little life that could be called “human”? Was this not just the granting of his desires? Stanley wanted this, he screamed in his mind, seeking to destroy his body for the tremors that highlighted a contradiction with that hopelessly indecisive brain of his.
“Did I go in a wrong direction? There has to be a door somewhere, right? A path?”
A door? A path? Ah, yes, the very thing that The Narrator would have provided him if only he hadn’t inexplicably disappeared. Well, it’s not really inexplicable if the cause was obvious . Forget a door, Stanley would’ve been happy with any sense of structure in the wasteland of darkness that he found himself in. The boundaries of his prison were far off and illustrated in a dull grey, and around him, nothing but the neverending sea of darkness stretched out, introducing ugly cracks all around just enough to prevent the environment from becoming so repetitive that he could become used to it. He had not been deemed deserving of even a simple mercy, condemned to wander in the darkness of an unchanging yet unstable accumulation of nothingness— and never had he properly registered what it meant to be wholly without The Narrator until this moment.
“It’s fine; this is fine, I’m fine with this.” , even his thoughts carried an unconvincing whimper. “The hole is somewhere. I’m not trapped. I’m free, I’ll prove it by proving I can go back if I want because I’m FREE, and I can go if I want, I- I CAN. It’s somewhere close, I just kno-”
The Narrator tuned out Stanley’s thoughts.
It was spinning. Whatever equivalent to a mind that the sorry mess of an undefined, unstable being such as himself even had was spinning, leaving a path of unfinished thoughts and many more tears in its wake. A being of pride such as himself did not particularly enjoy self-blame, yet, the thought that this was certainly his fault was nigh-unshakable as The Narrator began to move and shift. Oh, how he had fallen from grace to obtain such an unshakable attachment to the unruly, unpredictable child of an office worker he called his protagonist. How his past self would scoff and throw a look of half-baked pity at the sorry excuse of a being he had become.
“The number of times I’ve refused to do this”, The Narrator spoke out, even if only to hear his own voice. Stanley couldn't hear him. He knew that too well. “And all it’s taken is a single temper tantrum and a tear.”
Hilarious. Utterly pathetic, The Narrator chuckled to himself as he got to work, the formless being flickering to and fro. To be ingrained in the Parable itself had always struck the man as a symbol of his own power, and yet whatever wicked forces refused to let him have his way found out how to use that very fact against him. That was fine, it was fine . He could break his own policies a time or two, inconvenience himself for a moment if that’s what it took.
“This one may very well have to end up as plant food like the last one if it doesn’t behave.”
A “blink” (which, given his lack of eyelids, was perhaps more akin to a momentary lack of focus), The Narrator saw everything around him. A second blink, and all he could see was what was directly in front of him. Ah, what a pain it was to lose the ability to see everything at once. Sighing solemnly to himself, The Narrator emerged from the Boss’ office, catching a glimpse of his own reflection in the door’s glass— and promptly ignoring it, anything but eager to face the newly-born reality of being confined to a prison of flesh after so long. There was no time for that.
Oh, how easily he had relinquished his own control, sealed his own fate.
Not even five seconds had passed and The Narrator could already feel an unnatural sickness settling deep into his gut. Dire situations, it was always dire situations that called for measures like these. With those dire situations came anxiety and panic. With anxiety and panic came an explosion of feelings and involuntary reactions and— and a spiraling mind that needed to stay focused. The Narrator took in an unnecessarily deep breath of air and marched down the flight of stairs without a second thought. Without the need to pay attention to the direction he walked in, he found himself in the offices before his mind even had the chance to catch up with his body, lagging behind yet simultaneously speeding miles ahead. Avoid his reflection, move forward. Don’t look at the windows, keep running. Just don’t think.
Ah, but that was impossible for a being who had nothing but its thoughts.
The Narrator closed the office door behind him.
How Stanley had seen this hole as anything remotely safe to enter would forever be beyond him. It swallowed the floor and wall, boring an uncomfortable gateway into a world that should never be touched by humanity. Maybe he was more akin to a lost little puppy carelessly wandering around than he was a human— that would have to be a thought for later. Ignoring the tauntingly cold nips at his skin, The Narrator stood at the edge of the hole and allowed himself to drop into the nothingness below.
A heavy weight far exceeding the sensation of gravity tugged down on the man’s body, filling his skin with a heaviness beyond what was “normal”, not that any of this was normal. His lost little puppy had quite the affinity for ignoring the obvious signs of abnormalities. Tears in the Parable were no laughing matter and yet here Stanley was carelessly diving into one. The idea of peering into his thoughts came and went in an instant; quickly, he decided he was not mentally suited to hear any more of the disoriented panic than he already had. Not until he could do something about it.
So, The Narrator walked. His search was a short-lived one. A series of pitiful, strained whimpers wrestled through the wasteland’s all-consuming air, giving the storyteller his much-needed sense of direction almost immediately. How long it had been since he had heard a thing from Stanley; his voice demonstrated its infrequent use, gravely and coarse to the point that even the structureless whimpers were more than enough to reveal its flaws. Void air swallowed up the click of his inappropriately dressy shoes as he walked on, leaving nothing but a muffled sound that surely wasn’t loud enough to reach up far. Noise, rationality, souls— this place wanted to have it all. The Narrator could feel it chewing away at the frail body he’d crafted with every passing second.
Stanley was there, in sight now, though he clearly didn’t see his rescuer. Thought-spying was no longer necessary to understand that the office worker was very not much enjoying his choice to leap down. Huddled against what looked to be an unfinished building covered in textural inconsistencies and glitches, he was pressing his back into the wall as if daring it to eat him whole. Digging into his face, the man’s fingers were perhaps the biggest giveaway to his state, consumed wholly by trembles that typically would have been kneaded into anger had Stanley been just a little more capable of controlling himself. He looked scared , more scared that The Narrator had seen since they had become so acquainted with the world around them and each other that nothing came as a surprise anymore, not even the deadly rumble of a collapsing building.
Now was not the time to be thinking about endings or stories . They had long since cast those frail structures away.
“Stanley.” The Narrator spoke loudly to combat the all-consuming void’s tendency to mute such cries, hoping that it would not become grating against the panicked man’s ears. “Look, Stanley.”
Stanley jolted up, whipping his head towards The Narrator with a force that would have been concerning if not for the most pressing sight of his puffy eyes and tear-worn skin. Oh, what a mess he was. Shoving aside his pride, The Narrator quickly fell into a performance, though perhaps more in voice than in body like he was used to. He stooped to a kneel and grasped Stanley’s face gently, cupping his cheeks to leave behind undeniable proof that he was real and everything was okay . That would be the extent of his physical abilities to comfort; quickly, the older-presenting man realized that this was far outside of his experience and instead opted to weaponize his most powerful asset, which was none other than the voice that he had used to make and break each of these worlds they stood within. Gentle murmurs of “What a mess you are”, “Good thing you didn’t wander far”, and “Really, you shouldn’t be so hasty to jump into the unknown” all fell on deaf ears but he provided them all the same. Stanley, the poor fool, was too busy staring.
Time, no matter how important it may have been to Stanley’s kind, had long since betrayed him. Never had he understood that as thoroughly as when he realized that The Narrator’s voice was jolting, almost unnatural in his ears; as if the countless number of years that he’d spent with nothing but the same voice playing up in his head had been erased by his little voyage into the unknown. Once again, time danced its elusive waltz as he came to realize that he’d been staring at the physical form of his presumed creator for quite some time. Realization and action were not one and the same, however. Stanley did not stop, he simply began to perceive. The Narrator’s appearance fit his voice perfectly— he was short (something that Stanley would certainly tease him for later on), featuring all the marks that suggested age including the greying of his formerly-brown hair. That wasn’t enough, that was never enough. The ill-fitting streaks of yellow peppered throughout his appearance from his hair to the handkerchief nearly folded into his suit’s breast pocket screamed that it was simply unacceptable to dare forget he was more than a mere man. But his expressions, his worry. It was the most human thing Stanley had ever seen in his life. “How arrogant” , the man thought, “How like him to barge in and play the hero. To change everything.” Yet at the same time, he was so—
“Stanley, snap out of it. Please focus on me.”
[Huh?] Oh, he was focusing on the Narrator, alright. Stanley nodded his head slowly, doing his best to avoid shaking off the hands around his face. He was not ready for that blissful warmth to go away yet. Just a little longer, he just needed a little more time to process this change of situations; the way what was once a mere voice now kneeled in front of him, touched him, provided him with the feelings he had long since been deprived of. Stanley leaned in closer with a shaky exhale. [Can’t you see me staring? I’m focused.]
A breath of relief exited the storyteller’s lips at his little quip. How strange it was to see this incomprehensible, ungraspable force of something far beyond human understanding be affected by the things Stanley said and did. His fingers twitched, nearly caressing the younger’s face and swiftly destroying any trace of reluctance he might have had about this being a good thing.
[What’s happening? Why are- how are you here?]
“...You needn’t worry about all that, Stanley. All you need to know is that I’m here to get you out of here.”
[All I need to know? Seriously?] Stanley huffed, mustering up what pitiful amount of energy he could to furrow a brow and craft an expression somewhat consistent with the ones he would typically make when encountering such annoyances. How foolish he might have been to cling to any one behavior, but he couldn’t help it. What else could he possibly do? Cry more ? Not with an audience. Not when he could find some fragment of sense lingering in his mind. Not with the sweet warmth of another being ghosting his face. [Couldn’t you have just restarted the world?]
“Not- not exactly.” Trailing off, The Narrator released Stanley and leaned against the wall alongside him. The little scoff at the distance that had been created was not missed, but he chose to ignore it. “I may have lost track of you if I did. You never should have ended up here. It’s ever-changing, destroying and rebuilding itself within an instant’s notice. I normally can’t come here, let alone control the blasted place. I also think it to be extremely dangerous. Truly, just slamming ‘restart’ on a situation you don’t understand is a poor decision, Stanley.”
[Think? You don’t know?]
“Well, I certainly don’t come here exploring the place willy-nilly, so I haven’t found out! You might have come all too close to it for all we know!”
Stanley sighed. He was certainly beaten there. Placing his hands down in defeat, the office worker deepened his lean against the wall and allowed his eyes to drift shut, but only for a moment. He could only stand a moment without the Narrator in sight, tangible and real. Staring at him with a reluctant yet concerned look, tapping his finger nervously on the ground. It was so strange to see his raw expressions, even stranger to note how emotive he truly was. Obscurity and intangibility could not hide him now. He was an open book, his every expression singing the fine details of each emotion, laying it all out for the raw eye to perceive and dissect and consume. Stanley couldn’t help himself but release a wry little grin at the sight. His ever-mysterious, difficult-to-grasp, nigh-incomprehensible Narrator was now easier to read than the daily newspaper.
“Stanley.” Clothed in a nervousness that was so unbelievably human , The Narrator’s voice pulled the man back down to reality even if only for a moment— he truly couldn’t stay in any one place lest he find himself being dragged by its weight— and firmly grasped his stagnant focus. God, his every reluctant expression was like a Christmas feast. “I don’t really understand what happened back there. In the broom closet, I mean. Do you mind perhaps painting a clear picture for me?”
[Um. I don’t… Really know how to explain it to you. It’s hard to put it into words. It just happened, I guess, but the… I didn’t really like the script that time. It was a lot… I guess?]
“I’m sorry.”
[Ah…] Stanley blinked. Just sorry? Where was the grand explanation, the snark-filled justifications? A complete and entire submission to the idea that he had committed wrong was new— perhaps not as new as the physical form that he now donned, but new all the same. [It’s okay, it probably wasn’t all you.]
“You don’t need to fluff it up, Stanley. That was quite harsh. I’d forgotten how crude the script… Well, it was more of an improv that worked its way in, I suppose. The point is, even if I meant it that way once, I don’t now. Some of the things I’ve written are words I’d never say to you after everything, you see?”
[Aha. So you do remember everything.]
“Um! W-well, I thought that was obvious, but you kept believing me when I said I didn’t, so-”
[Yeah, I just wanted to hear you admit it yourself.]
“Ahem, well.” Pulling away slightly, the storyteller’s form swayed slightly, jolting at each new texture that brushed against his skin. Stanley relished the way his skin slowly became flushed under the humiliation of having been bested. That was a sight he would have liked to witness many, many more times. “Now that I know where you are just to be safe, I can just fix things with a little reset, I shouldn’t lose you now that I know roughly whereabouts you are. Although, I suppose it would always be safer to just walk you out… Hrm, faster or safer? Faster or safer? I'll figure it out, just let me put up a little fade out...”
[Wait. Actually, could we just stay like this for a little longer?]
“Hm?”
[Nothing, I’m just… Not ready to go just yet.]
God, Stanley wished he could devour the expression that settled upon the older man’s face at that simple request. It was like a parent seeing their child for the first time— it was like a lover watching their previous other half flail through life helplessly. It was shock, and oh how glorious it was to know that he was capable of something like shocking the previously-incomprehensible entity . Of all the things Stanley had broken and destroyed and torn to shreds just to prove that he was alive, never had he expected The Narrator to be among them. And yet here he was, floored, utterly baffled and staring in disbelief— because since when had Stanley learned to make a sincere request— due to something that he and he alone had caused. At least, telling himself that lent some modicum of control over his situation.
“Okay.” Ah, The Narrator truly was no good at this whole sincerity thing ever, which made perfect sense all things considered. “We can stay as long as you need.”
His words were so sweet that Stanley wanted to vomit. Or, better yet, wrap his hands around the oh-so-frail throat of his puppetmaster and see what other wonderful apologies would come flowing out as the pressure increased. So high and mighty, he’d been beyond such shows of sympathy but now it was all so very different. Why? Because he was masquerading as a human being? How practiced every word that flowed out of this man’s mouth was, carrying the energy of a father tenderly caring for his child— ah, if only an incredible absence hadn’t tainted that wonderful “care”. If only it was more than a mere obligation now. Yet, Stanley had to admit— “It’s all too nice to finally put a face to the voice.” — and at that new face, he would stare and stare and stare…
“What?”
[What do you mean, what? Can’t you hear what I’m thinking?]
“Well, er… Is it so surprising that some things would change while I’m tied down to a physical form?”
[Oh. I’m sorry, I’ll- remember that.]
“I’m not too used to it either”, The Narrator sighed, and for a moment it seemed as if he may have been about to provide an answer as to why he had chosen to take on a physical form. None came. “I will never understand how you can take seeing such a small amount at a time.”
[Well, it’s not like I’ve experienced anything else to have a preference.]
“Aha… I guess that’s fair.”
[I don’t dislike it. You being here, I mean.] And despite all the lies he spun to himself and everyone who would hear them, that was the truth. For now, at least, it was true. [Solitary confinement is a form of torture, y’know.]
“But you weren’t alone!”
[It’s totally different. Voices don’t usually count as anything more than an imaginary friend.]
“I… See.” He leaned back, gazing off into the crumbling void wistfully. Stanley could picture that expression being framed and hung, displayed to be worshiped and praised and crucified. The Narrator truly was a being out of his element. “I’m sorry.”
Stanley wanted to cry.
[You can make it up to me.]
The Narrator may have been powerful, but Stanley was a human. Subject to the freeze of being thrust into a situation he simply did not understand, the older man was merciless to the spontaneous actions of his human companion and had not even a moment to react before the brunet leaned against him. Though he jolted at the sudden contact, Stanley distantly noted that he did not attempt to pull away. “Good” , this was punishment; this was a reward. This was everything he deserved and everything he wasn’t good enough for. Ah, what detail The Narrator had put into this body. It almost felt human. Stanley held up only a single hand now.
[Is it fine?]
“Y…Yeah”, Such an endearing stammer nearly caused an ill-timed giggling fit on Stanley’s part. He’d never get tired of seeing this unthinkable force devolve. “I’m just not- It’s fine.”
“Good” , this was all Stanley had truly needed to say goodbye to his insecurities for the time being. Condemnation and forgiveness came in the same breath for any good human, any true human, “And I am a human, and I am warm.”
“Well! We, hrm, should really get going before this place drives us any more insane than we already are. We can pause the story for just a little longer when we get back, so bear with me, okay? I won’t push you when you’re unfit to handle it. Shall I restart?”
[After everything you’ve said, I’m kinda against staying here alone. It’d be better if we both tried to get out of here together, I think.]
“That seems logical.” Standing, The Narrator cast his eyes in any direction other than Stanley’s and held out a hand. “Right! Then! Er, no time to waste, let’s hurry out.”
[Yeah.]
Stanley took the hand and didn’t let go.
This is the story of a man who is crumbling to pieces.
It is the tragedy of a man riddled with flaws and sins, babbling on and on to himself like a helpless toddler who has become intoxicated with the idea that he is in control. It is the cautionary tale of a monster in the flesh of a man who surely deserves to be ripped into fine shreds by everyone in his life— perhaps that is why there is no one in his life. They all left, didn't they? Abandoned him, turned their backs, and went to be more productive with their lives. He had no one now.
No one but a man named Stanley.
This is the story of a man who refuses to let the only human in his reach go.