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“Well, isn’t-“ a shiver wrecked the Narrator’s form before he continued “isn’t this what you wanted, Stanley? It’s kind of fitting for you, in a way; the protagonist finally defeats the vile, evil Narrator and achieves his ending!”
“…Ah, but you’re not doing anything. Have I read this incorrectly, Stanley, or are you not holding the core of my being- which you so eloquently tore out of my chest the moment you met me in a physical sense- in your hands as a means of killing me?”
Stanley was, in fact, holding in his hands a part of the Narrator which wasn’t so functionally different from a heart. It did not resemble the shape of one, no, it was somehow… a cube. A cube, with a glow and hue so familiar, colorful lights shifting on it as he kept staring at it. The soft lights that had decorated that particular room, now in his hands.
In fact, the liquid leaking out of Narrator’s chest was the same. It felt like he was back there again, with the lights, if it weren’t for the colorful blood(?) splattered all over him. Seeping into his clothes, dripping from his hands…
“Don’t tell me you’re reconsidering, Stanley? You aren’t one for stopping when things get, ah, messy. Or do you want me to plead, is that it? Or perhaps you just wanted me to watch the destruction of my life’s work, then leave me here in nothingness? Did you just want to hurt me? Didn’t you get enough when you skipped-“
A sound akin to a hiss came from the Narrator as Stanley’s grip hardened. The cube shook. A reminder. Maybe he could shut up for a bit and let him think.
If this forsaken place was the Narrator’s containment, his cage, there would be no reason to keep it locked if the Narrator died. Right? It was the only thing he could try, the only thing he could think of, really. He’d made up his mind. So why was he frozen now?
(A voice on the back of his mind yelled, cried: But what if the guards are already gone, what if the only thing keeping them here is a damn mechanism set years ago, what if no one is there across the bars to check if their prisoner died, what if they leave him here with no Narrator, alone, alone, alone, alonealonealone-)
The lights danced in front of him. The cube kept shaking. If the Zending room was the same as the Narrator’s insides, what did that mean? He didn’t know what to think.
Your blood. It’s like the lights from the Zending.
“Yes, it’s great that you have eyes, Stanley.” Despite the sarcasm, his voice shook at the end.
Does this mean that the room was just… your insides?
“…Not just my insides, Stanley. Me. I showed you me, the most I could fit into that room, anyway. You had the power to hurt me just as you do now, Stanley, you just didn’t know it. And you remember what you did? That’s right; you rejected every fiber of me and threw yourself off the stairs, just to really nail it in. So go ahead. Kill me, Stanley. Just know that it will mean nothing-“ a short gasp of breath, as if he was holding in tears “nothing compared to what you did.”
Oh, I hurt you, did I? I’m the one who’s put you through countless loops of the same parable, the same endings as you desperately look for a way out over and over and over-
“It’s not like I take delight in my entrapment either, Stanley!” The Narrator snapped. “I wasn’t the one who put you here and-“ The cube was shaking.
But it’s your fault, isn’t it?
“And-“ The cube was shaking.
If you hadn’t existed, they wouldn’t have needed some plaything to throw in your chamber to keep you from lashing out! I would have kept on living my unsignificant life, kept on going to work and pushing buttons, kept on leaving daisies next to the tombstone for…
“…” The cube was still shaking.
I can’t.
“Huh?” The cube froze.
I can’t. I can’t kill you. You win.
“Stanley…” The cube stopped shaking.
Stanley slowly let the cube (heart) of the Narrator slide back into his chest, his hands letting go. The Narrator let out a shaky sigh.
They stood still, Stanley on his knees, the Narrator clutching his chest. Stanley’s hands still dripped with the Narrator’s blood, his clothes still soaked. A moment passed, then another. His empty gaze kept watching the blood glow, the lights move. The more he looked, the more a sharp, stinging sensation grew in him. His breath hitched, now.
“I’m sorry, Stanley.” (I’m sorry you’re stuck with me. I’m sorry I couldn’t make you happy. I’m sorry I can’t help.)
I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry. I hate you. I hate you, so, so much.
The thoughts sounded so much emptier when Stanley was sobbing, embracing the Narrator so tightly it would have hurt if he were a human, burying his face in his chest.
The Narrator said nothing, for once, and held Stanley. They had all the time in the world, after all.