Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Keep talking? I can do that.

You know this one. You were there.

Neither you nor I knew where the treehouse came from. It was considerably well crafted, especially if one were to assume that the girl was the one who made it. 

You thought the sockpuppet could have had something to do with it, albeit hesitantly. This was at least a little more advanced than arts and crafts.

Once she’d dragged you there, the girl then said your goal was to get up the tree. She had a rope ladder at her disposal, one you could see even from down here, but she refused to let you use it. She wanted to see you climb it.

This was a predicament you were not sure how to deal with. Your arms were still weak at the time, and even now a light brush on the shoulder can cause considerable pain. She wouldn't budge, though, even more of an insistent little thing at the time than she is now, and so all you could do was try.

You made an attempt. It wasn’t your worst, but your hands still only worked as directed when they felt like it, and they certainly didn’t feel like it then. Your back hit the ground first. It felt like your entire body was on fire.

The following attempts only got more pitiable until they could hardly classify as attempts. At some point you gave up and pouted at the bottom until she’d let the ladder down. It was also a struggle to use it, clearly designed for children and not full size dudes, but you made it up there.

“Okay, this is top secret business, so you gotta swear you won't tell anybody else! Not a soul!” She said.

“What about N?” You asked.

“Okay, he gets to know too because I like him but NOBODY ELSE!”

“What are we going to do to seal the swear? Are pinkie promises still in style?” You asked.

“Uhhhh… I dunnoo… maybe we can pat each other on the head at the same time…” she said.

Suitably funny. Pats were exchanged. The promise was made. 

“So, what are we plotting?” You asked.

The girl threw her arms in the air and walked back and forth. “I need a name!! Justice said I got a week to come up with one,” she said.

“You know his time limits don't really mean anything, right? He'll just make it longer if you don't do whatever it is,” you said.

“Yeahhhh I knowww. I just want one also, okay? But I still have noooo idea what kind of name I want… All I know is that I think yours sounds really cool!”

“Well, I wouldn't say my name is cool , really,” you said, as though Ulysses is not the coolest name ever.

“Nope, it is. I like it a whole lot! So I’m trying to think of ones that areeee… like it! Like Alice… and… umm… uhh… Thaaaat’s all I’ve got,” she said.

She gestured to a little sheet of paper she's been writing on, labelled “ideas”. On it was your name, horribly misspelled — something like “ulissis” if I remember correctly — with arrows pointing to it that said it was cool. Then, an arrow pointing away from it with the name Alice similarly misspelled: “alis”, likely.

“Ehh… You don’t want it to sound too similar, or people are gonna mix us up,” you said.

“Oh yeah…! You're right. Do you have any other ideas?”

“Like, you want me to come up with names for you?” You asked.

“Yeah!”

“...That’s, uh, I’m not very good at that…” you said, all the time you spent without a name blipping into your mind for comedic effect, “but I guess I can… try.”

You thought of words that have positive meanings for you. 

All of them were related to water. Every single one. 

Lake, herring, marine… if you said any of those on their own, it would be obvious. Very, very obvious. So, you tried to shuffle them around.

Lake… Laker… uhhh… no, no dice.

Herring… herr… Harriet? No, people would say that’s like… reverse Baldi. Hair. Bald. Whatever. That’d be horrible. She doesn’t look much like a Harriet, anyway.

Marine… Marine…a… Marina? Maria. Maria? Maria. No one would suspect that.

“How about… I don’t know, Maria?”

“Oh, like marine?” She asked.

You put your face in your palms.

“...Yeah. Like– like marine,” you said.

“That’s really cool! I like that!” She said. 

She danced in circles around you.

I have to admit I have no idea what you were so worried about. There's no way she would judge you for something like that.

You realized this, too.

The worst she's said has always been for the sake of banter, quickly rebutted and laughed about. She looks up to you a whole lot, despite all of your shortcomings. The fear of acting as you are is entirely fueled by figments of imagination.

What was she to you, anyway, you had to wonder. 

Justice described you as her “primary caretaker”. This might sound like it assigned you to a fatherly role, but if it were trying to, he'd say it outright. He just calls Law his son, no dancing around the point with fancy words.

You don't really see yourself as her father. Any reason you list isn't too conclusive, since technically a father could do all of those things as well and still be a father. Just because a daughter is adopted later into their life doesn't make them not a daughter, for example.

Yet, when you ask her, she says she considers you a brother. Mutually, you think of her more like a sister as well.

It was odd to you that it was something you were thinking about at all, too. Caring about specific people was something you weren't very familiar with. It still isn't, really. You thought it strange that you'd fallen into it without realizing, though perhaps it was more strange that you thought it was something that you'd have to give a go-ahead on before it could happen.

It confused you that she cared in turn. You’ve always thought of yourself as not worth anyone's time, someone who nobody would be inclined to worry about or give the time of day. Despite this, here you were, personally invited to a treehouse because some kid thinks you're funny.

Before anything that happened you don't think you would've considered this being a possibility at all. At the time, you hated children. You hated people in general and wanted nothing to do with anyone. Now you'd probably kill someone to protect this little guy who waltzed into your life. 

It's stupid, you thought. I've been played for a fool. Conned into having a nice and partially normal life. Torture, truly.

—

You don't know this one? Huh.

I can see why you think you might not be Ulysses. I’m not sure you’d just forget something like that.

It was a while ago, but… 

How’s about one more, assuming you are the same, and we’ll see how you feel about it then?

Something personal. I think it'll be easy to tell, then. And, if it turns out you aren’t the same, well… you can make fun of him for all of this later.

—

The air was crisp, chilly but not to an uncomfortable degree. The sky was a blank white, only ever briefly interrupted by the texture of clouds. It was my favourite kind of day. You preferred it darker, though you still appreciated it. 

Last year's snow was over, but the green hadn't come back to everything yet. Most of the world was still a wilted colour. The winter kissed grass was yellow. It had a pathetic texture to it. 

You liked it like this. The cycle of life and decay was something you found especially important. I preferred when the plants were alive.

You lay down in the field and watched the clouds pass, almost imperceptible with how bright the sky was. It hurt. Your eyes watered. I asked you to do something to get the water out, rub your eyes or something, but you kept watching.

“I still can't believe this can happen,” you said. “I can stare at the sky until I feel like poking my eyes out. Isn't that awesome?”

Don't poke your eyes out. You need those.

“Says who?”

Well, I suppose you don't need them, but you'll want them.

“Fine, I guess I will. It just makes me so happy that I can irreversibly damage them.”

I don't like it when you talk like being hurt is such a good thing. You can feel alive with your eyes safe and closed, you know.

“Right, right.”

You shifted, slowly, to your side until you weren't staring into the light. It was reluctant, but it happened.

“You know, I don't understand you,” you told me.

What about me?

“You're like… gosh, I don't even know what you are. But you're supposedly like me. You supposedly are me. And there's so many differences, but I still can't say you aren't me, even in the moments where we do the complete opposite thing, where we think totally opposed to each other…”

What do you think I am?  

“...I don't know. A ghost?” You said. It wasn't a real answer, hardly thought on before it was said and nowhere near the mark.

Hahah. Not even close.

“You sure look like a ghost…”

Where do you see me?

“I don't – It's not really seeing , it's more, like… A very vivid thought, one I don't really control.”

Ha ha ha. 

“Do you even know what you are?”

Not exactly. I know what I'm not. I know I'm you, sort of, kind of.

“Are you going to tell me?”

You’ll find out when you need to. Keep looking.

“And supposedly I’m the one who’s always keeping things from people… whatever.”

What do you think of me?

“I already told you, I don’t know–”

Not what I am. Of me. What’s your opinion on me?

You paused.

“Now, that's just– Come on,” you told.

Ah, mortal nemeses, I see. 

“THAT'S NOT–”

When do you want to fight to the death? I'm free tomorrow.

“Look. I just… It's really…”

You chuckled. 

“I don't know… how to say it,”

You're very funny when you're flustered, you know.

“STOP THAT.”

It was very difficult not to laugh.

You exhaled.

“Okay. Fine. I'll be direct and straightforward or whatever. I … oh, this will sound really stupid. I…”

You stalled.

“...value and appreciate your company…”

…

Is that all?

“Well, I guess there's a little more to it.”

It was not all.

You first explained that you are by no means a touchy guy. Your elbows are blades that would make the fiercest skeleton warriors quiver, and you used them. Often. You didn't even like it all that much when Maria would latch to you, and in time, she came to respect that.

You then sputtered an incredibly roundabout confession that would take forever to recite. It was very embarrassing. I will spare you the details. 

In short: You thought, often, about being intimate with me. It was something you'd never really thought about before. You wanted to hold my hand. You were upset that this was physically impossible, because I only exist in your mind… sort of. 

Generally, you’re the one who maneuvers the body. I can also do this, I just prefer not to. I like being an overseeing entity. 

You also lamented that it was strange. Very strange. You can't say you've ever met anyone that has this split view of themselves, and you can't say you've met anybody who has feelings for the other side of that split, either. Even if you were to tell yourself there was nothing weird about it, it would be difficult to believe with such little to compare it with.

I told you you know one who does.

“...You know, I… kind of didn't think about what you might say if you didn't feel the same. I just assumed you did. Hah.”

I laughed.

I've probably been more obvious about it.

“...And I wouldn't have to refer to you as, I don't know, my boyfriend or anything, then, right? It just… I don’t know, it doesn't seem correct here for some reason.”

I think it's very funny that you don't know what to call me aside from name when people ask about me. Please, keep making it stupidly complicated to talk about me in any way.

“Great, thanks, you're so helpful.”

Hahah. Seriously, though, it's not like we even can get married, so, whatever. It doesn't matter to me.

“Hey, don't knock it ‘til you try it.”

I'm sure you'd love to explain all of this to the government.

“Nevermind, you're right. Not happening.”

So, do you want to hold hands?

“...How?”

You know, like this.

I took control of one of your arms and waved it around in front of you. You jumped.

“You– you can just do that?”

If I couldn't, how would I be doing it right now?

“And you're telling me you're not a ghost…”

Ghosts wish they could do what I can do.

“Hah. Of course you'd know what ghosts think.”

Oh, shush. Answer the question. Do you want to hold hands?

You sighed.

“The answer was so simple and the opportunity is right in front of me…”

Will you take it?

Take it you did. Your fingers clasped into the gaps in mine, tendons cradled by palm. All of your worrying washed away in a moment. For once your thoughts felt bearable to you. 

Something you told me later was this strange quality there was to holding a hand that partially belongs to you. You can feel yourself holding it, and at the same time, you can feel it being held. These feelings register separately, overlapping but not the same. It reminded you of me.

—

…So, that also isn't familiar to you at all. I figured. I don't think you're actually Ulysses.

Wait, you knew? Did you just want to gush about how much you like that guy?

It has practical applications. I think it's important context you'll want, and it's a good way of recognizing if you're the guy being talked about or not. I also just wanted to gush about how much I like that guy.

That's… um…

I know.

I don't… if I'm not Ulysses, then why am I here? What am I doing? What's happening? Who am I?

One at a time.

I— okay. Who am I?

I don’t know, but I have a guess. 

Something odd about Ulysses is that I figured he would know what happened before all of that game nonsense. I remember it sort of, but I don’t feel emotionally connected to it, like there's something missing. When I ask him about it, he has… no idea what I’m talking about. Sometimes it sounds like he doesn’t even care about it, like it’s not something that concerns him at all. Does that sound familiar to you?

You know… it kind of does. My memory is kind of foggy, but I remember getting… really mad at something, then…

If you remember it, do you think you’ll get mad at it again?

Oh, yeah, probably. Don’t think that’d be very useful. Which… Why am I here?

You seem like a survivor, from what I know about you. So, survive.

That— I… I don’t know if I can just do that on command.

I’m sure you’ll be able to figure it out.

Just… Okay. That's what I'm doing, isn't it?

You'll find out soon. I don't know what's going on out there.

…So you wouldn't happen to know what's happening, then.

I… well. I know a little. 

Can you tell me?

…I'm sorry. I don't think anyone would know how to deal with this. You're just going to have to do what you can and hope that's good enough.

What? No— no, no, I thought you were supposed to be the calm and collected one? Don’t get all cryptic on me, tell me something! Please!

A maimed body cannot find meaningful camouflage even in rooms it has painted red because that which wants to find it is looking for blood.

What?

Good luck.

Chapter Text

My eyes open.

It's dark, but I can focus my vision if I blink enough.

I'm in a building. I recognize the room I'm in, and I can even imagine the layout of the rest of the… house? I think it's a house, my house, but there's still a feeling of unfamiliarity to it. I feel like I'm not supposed to know what it looks like. I can't remember ever having gone through it, I'm just able to envision where things supposedly are.

I’m wearing a jacket. Why? I don’t like jackets, I’ve never liked jackets. I…

I notice the fresh blood seeping through the sleeves.

…probably shouldn’t take it off.

It doesn’t make me any warmer, though. It’s like there’s a chill stretching out of my bones, wrapping around all of my skin. Like there’s something wrong with my being itself that keeps me from retaining heat.

My arms and legs sting like I’ve been scratched all over. My heart races when I move at all. I can feel each individual blood vessel.

I look again at my bloody sleeves.

Did I do this to myself? Or, should I say Ulysses? Do I have to take responsibility for things I feel no connection to doing?

Whatever, that's not important right now. I’m hurt and I need to do something about it because I know there's no gauze on any of this.

I attempt to stand. In no time I am about to fall over again. Lightheadedness and a perpetual falling feeling attack in unison. My vision blurs.

I can manage it if I keep my hand against this wall. I can manage it. I can stand. I have to stand.

I am yanked down by a small hand. Maria. I didn't notice she was here before, though it seems like she's hiding.

From…

I look across the room.

A gleaming pair of eyes, fixated, bloodshot. 

All wind leaves my lungs for a moment. 

What is that? How long has it been watching? Why is Maria afraid of it? Can it see me? It can absolutely see me. It's looking right at me.

I stumble into the wall I previously supported myself against. I keep my eyes fixed on it like it'll pounce if I look away.

It either doesn't blink, or it only blinks when I do. Either give the impression of an unwavering stare. I don't know which is scarier.

I motion for the girl to come closer. She hesitates. I know it's because it means it'll see her. She trusts my judgement and approaches, though it isn't earned. I didn't even know that thing was there until a moment ago.

It doesn't move when we move. It doesn't move at all, only its eyes, watching as we retreat into the next room.

This room is dim, but it has light. I can now see the disturbed expression on Maria's face. 

It hurts to look at. She shouldn't look like that, ever. It's wrong. She should be happy, not… not like this. She shouldn't be here. She buries her head in my jacket.

Okay, what are my options?

I could try to call someone, but I don't know any numbers, and I don't think I have time. I need to be on guard in case that thing in the other room pulls some kind of stunt.

I could try to fight it, and I want to, but I'm not in shape to. My skin breaks when I move too much. I need to be careful.

If I had a weapon, maybe I could defend myself at least, but I can't find anything. It's like the place has been stripped of anything that could be used as a…

Ah.

I look again at my sleeves.

It probably has been stripped of weapons.

Pockets? Anything in these?

Yes, actually. A pair of pink safety scissors. They can't cut skin, but maybe I can convince the intruder that they can. Or, maybe I can poke it really hard… I don't know. It's the best I have.

This must be someone else's jacket, then, too, since I can't imagine a reason Ulysses would be carrying these around. Especially if he's supposed to keep away from sharps. I'll have to apologize for the mess, later—

The lights go out.

Time's up. 

The invader enters the room. I can tell it has a humanoid frame by the way the shadows move as it passes, but that's all I know.

Maria shuffles behind me. I point my scissors like they mean something.

“Now, look… You don't wanna come over here! I… I've got some of these…” I say.

Not even the slightest bit convincing. It steps forward.

”I'm only a little afraid to use them! No, I'm really afraid to use them! That's… That's why you don't want to come over here. Because it'll be really scary. For both of us!”

It comes closer. I'm not very good at this, am I?

Then, something completely unexpected: it speaks.

“You were going to be so interesting”

Its voice is loud, but breathy. 

“You had to go and ruin everything”

It sounds like a whisper at full volume.

“I loved to whittle you down to your last resort over and over and over again it is just so entertaining to watch”

It sounds like it's in my head, not a part of the world around me, even though I know it isn't true.

“Why is my most interesting subject so slippery”

…I think it isn't true.

It steps closer.

“Why must you ruin my plans”

Closer.

“Maybe that can be the fun part”

My arm shakes.

“I take hold of everything you care about everything you love everything you hate and you fight to stop me over and over” 

Even closer.

“over time you break into tiny little pieces until you are more of a concept than a person”

My outstretched arm is now close enough to touch it.

“A mirror shattered so many times it’s no longer made up of ‘pieces’ instead it is only a glittering dust”

I should be trying to strike, but instead I curl my arm back towards me.

“I want to drive you to hate me more than anything over and over and over and over”

What is it talking about? Why does it talk like I know who it is?

“Wouldn't that be fun”

My voice is quiet, but at this range, it doesn't need volume to be heard. 

“I— I have no idea who you are, I don't…” I say.

It laughs.

“Let me show you”

It shoves me aside and reaches for the girl who thought she'd be safe huddling behind me.

No. No no no no no, nope, nope, no, that's not Going to happen that's NOT going to happen GET AWAY FROM HER

I COMMAND MY BODY TO DO EXACTLY AS I SAY EXACTLY WHEN I SAY IT. IF YOU WANT TO PRESERVE YOURSELF YOU’RE GOING TO LISTEN TO ME BECAUSE IF YOU SCREW THIS UP, NOTHING ELSE MATTERS.

WRAP YOUR ARMS AROUND ITS NECK. DO NOT LET IT TOUCH HER.

DRAG IT TO THE FLOOR WITH YOU. HOLD IT IN PLACE. DO NOT LET IT TOUCH HER. DO NOT LET IT GO.

IT WILL FIGHT BACK. IT WILL CLAW AT ITS CONFINES. IT WILL TEAR AT ALREADY MANGLED FLESH. YOU WILL FEEL UNEARTHLY CHILLS IN YOUR BONES BUT YOU WILL NOT DIE. YOU WILL IGNORE IT.

THE BLUNTEST BLADE IS STILL A WEAPON OF PIERCING TO THE EYE. 

RAISE YOUR SCISSORS. 

PLUNGE THEM INTO THE FACE. 

i don't know if i can do this

YOU’RE DOING IT RIGHT NOW. KEEP GOING.

oh my gosh

SHUT UP. THIS IS YOUR LAST SHOT. DON'T SCREW IT UP.

IT WON'T DIE. YOU COULD SUSTAIN WORSE THAN THIS. THIS WILL JUST GIVE IT SOMETHING ELSE TO WORRY ABOUT.

IT WILL RUSH TO THE NEAREST SINK. THIS IS NOT THE KITCHEN SINK, IT IS A BATHROOM. IT CAN BE A CELL.

LOCK IT IN THE BATHROOM.

IT HAS EVERYTHING IT NEEDS IN THERE TO PATCH UP, BUT IT WILL SCREECH AND CLAW AT THE DOOR INSTEAD. IT DOES NOT CARE ABOUT SELF PRESERVATION BECAUSE IT IS ONLY DOING THIS TO HURT YOU.

i don't know if i believe you

LOCK IT IN THE BATHROOM.

IT IS A CAGE.

THERE IS NO REASON YOU SHOULD BE ABLE TO LOCK A BATHROOM DOOR FROM THE OUTSIDE. THIS LEVEL OF ARCHITECTURAL STUPIDITY BORDERS ON PROPHETIC. LOCK IT IN THE BATHROOM RIGHT NOW BEFORE IT REALIZES YOU CAN DO THAT.

fine 

IGNORE THE SCREAMS.

IT HOWLS LIKE A BABY BECAUSE IT WANTS TO SCARE YOU. YOU CAN HEAR IT. I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR IT. DO NOT ENTERTAIN IT. IGNORE IT.

DO NOT LET IT GET TO YOU.

IGNORE IT.

BREATHE IN.

breathe out

ignore it.

breathe in.

breathe out

breathe in

my weapon leaves my hands, though it doesn't go very far

i collapse against the nearest wall

this is horrible

i think to myself again and again that this is horrible and it shouldn't be happening and i need to make sure maria is okay

blood mixes with stomach acid like they belong together 

mental and physical torment dance like a loveless couple

i need to get up i need to make sure she's okay but i can't stand no matter how hard i try

i'm going to crawl

what if she doesn't even want to look at me

what a nightmarish thing to witness 

my actions and my unravelled body

my sleeves are torn 

holes in borrowed fabric give brief glimpses of flesh

i need to apologize to her i am so sorry

i slink forward most feeble

i can't tell if she was looking at me when i did that

when i…

i'm not going to repeat myself

would it have more meaning if she was looking or if she wasn't

girl who could not see what was happening who still cannot bring herself to see

or

girl who could not see what was happening now forced to see what a twisted situation she is in

the truth is whichever the author finds more interesting 

i hate that everything is a story this is such a weird way of thinking of someone who needs glasses this is stupid 

and it doesn't even matter because she probably doesn't care

she steps toward me 

i can't help but hear reluctance even though she's probably just as shaken up as i am

“she's stalling in shock not in disgust”

that's what i keep telling myself

i don't believe it

she sits by my head and wraps her arms around

i think it's a hug albeit a strange one

it hurts. i don't have it in me to tell her to stop. i don't even think i want her to it just hurts

i tell her i'm sorry

she says she doesn't know what i have to be sorry for

i think about what might have happened if i didn't

didn't 

i don't 

am i still holding the scissors 

what did i do

tears stumble down my face at a horizontal angle

awkward, but they fall

maybe it was the right thing to do. i hate that it could've been the right thing to do. 

i try to hug her back. all i can think about is how obvious it is that i don't know how to do it right. how i'm doing it wrong

it doesn't matter to her. i don't know why i'm worrying about this so much.

i ask her if she heard what it said

she nods

i tell her she can tell whoever she wants but please

please

i sob

don't make me talk about it 

don't tell anyone to ask me about it

i'm scared

she pats me on the head

i pat her back

the promise is made

she tells me she's going to call for help.

i beg her to stay safe. i am completely unintelligible

she tells me it's going to be okay.

i don't know if she believes it but i believe her

the howling has stopped

she lets me go

—

Someone knocks, then enters without waiting for a response. I don’t need to look to know it’s Justice. He always does this.

“How are you holding up?” He asks. He’s brought a glass of water.

I drink the whole thing in a matter of seconds. And, when I regain my breath,

“I don’t know.”

I say this any time anyone asks. It’s practically its own routine at this point. I wonder if I would say anything else if I did have a different answer, or if I’d say the same thing by accident.

Gosh.

These past days have been a blur. 

I hardly understand what happened. Yes, I was there, it happened to me, but I don’t understand it.

When the house was searched, the intruder couldn’t be found. Her trail of blood, definitely. But when the room she was contained in was unlocked, there was no one there.

The only logical answer anyone could come to was that she somehow got out through the window, but there were no handprints anywhere near it.

Maria knows who the intruder is, but isn't able to elaborate.

I have no idea who she was. I only ever saw her eyes.

Justice knows all of that. I’ve told him already. I’ve told a lot of people already. Multiple times. I keep running over it in my head again and again to see if I can remember anything else. 

According to Maria, the intruder knocked me out. The way it was described made me think of how N described Ulysses being hit against the blackboard.

This part I haven't told anyone about. I don’t know if anything N was talking about actually happened, or if it was just some kind of post-consciousness delirium.

I do know that N and Ulysses exist, at least. One of the first things Justice asked me was which name I was using right now.

…I don’t know. So he just calls me Ulysses.

I guess it’s close enough.

We don’t know who the intruder was, we don’t know where she came from, and we don’t know what she wanted. We don’t know how she got in, and even though Maria says she doesn’t think she’ll come back, we don’t know if we should believe that. So, Justice has set up a policy that at least one other adult has to be with me in the house at a time, but preferably more than that. And it has to be this house, so that she can't set up some kind of trap if we were to leave it empty.

I don’t enjoy this very much, but I’m hardly in a shape to take care of myself, anyway, much less anyone else. I’ve heard Justice rant about how I already wasn’t and this should have been the policy before any of this happened and blah blah blah. I don’t know what he’s talking about, really, and whenever I ask he thinks I’m either joking or mocking him, so I’ve stopped trying.

So, I’m stuck in a present I hardly know anything about aside from potentially fictional moments recited to me while I was unconscious.

I don't know how to feel about it. I never know how to feel about it.

“As usual,” Justice says. “I'll leave you to it, then.”

There’s not much else either of us can say. 

He leaves the room.

There’s only one other thing I think I could say that I haven’t yet, but I… really don’t want to.

A thousand times over, I could explain the panic of seeing unfamiliar eyes at the other end of a dark room. I could describe the way she reached for Maria. I could explain why I thought stabbing her over and over was a good idea, and everyone would understand, even though I don't. I could describe the mortifying crawl I did covered in blood and vomit. But not once could I bring myself to talk about the way she spoke to me, much less what she said to me.

I still don’t know what it meant. All I know is that it felt like having a knife pointed directly at my soul, a deep horror that I cannot shake. A long, horrible chord played through my muscles.

Maria never told anyone about it, either. Our promise was just that I wouldn't have to talk about it, so I don't know if it's out of respect for me or if she's just as scared as I am. I couldn't blame her if she is.

I just…

don’t need to worry about it. Forget it happened at all. Wounds will heal. It doesn’t matter.

…That’s horrible advice. Why did I think that?

You didn’t.

Wait. Are you Ulysses?

Yeah, I guess so.

What happened?

Quit looking for answers.

What?

What do you mean ‘what?’ You don’t need to know. Again: just forget about it.

What’s the worst that’ll happen?

Do you want to get hunted down again?

Well, clearly it happened anyway. Do you even know what she said?

I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know anything about her. I don’t want to hear about her, I don’t want to think about her, I want to forget she exists forever and never have to think about her again.

…So she must have been talking about you, huh.

Don’t tell me. You don't want to think about it either.

Do you think forgetting about her will keep you safe if she shows up again?

She WON’T show up again if I don’t know anything about her.

Are you sure?

You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.

Well, can you tell me?

No. Just stop where you’re at and let it go. You’re so much safer and it’s all because you don’t know what’s going on. Keep it that way.

What, are you just going to hide away forever? Are you giving up?

…I guess. Sort of.

So you were trying to kill yourself.

What? What— no! Of course not! I was trying to… I don’t know, it was a bad idea but I didn’t realize it would…

Didn’t realize it could kill you? How did you even get to that point?

NO! It’s something else entirely! You really don’t know what you’re talking about.

Then why can’t you explain it?

You're no “better” than I am! You were just wailing about how you never want to tell anyone about that spooky message or whatever. Why can't you understand?

…So you know about it.

DON’T remind me I DON'T WANT TO KNOW. I CAN'T TAKE IT.

The glass is raised in the air by an arm I no longer control. 

BASH.

It's more of a slap sound, actually, but that doesn't convey how it feels. Webs of cracks spread across the glass. Over and over again you hit the other arm.

I stare in surprise, almost horror. 

CUT. IT. OUT. Why are you so persistent? Just stop! Just— just quit it! Just listen to me! Please. Please just listen to me.

How did you get to this point? Is attacking yourself your solution to every problem?

STOP.

I wonder what N would think.

…Have you seen them?

Have you not?

Well, no. I guess I’ve been… so…

So?

None of your business.

It IS my business! Of course it's my business! What is your problem ?

I KNOW how people like you work, now. You get a little hint that there might be more to something and you run to the ends of the earth and back to ‘figure it out’. I hate you. I hate you so much. I hate that I want to understand things. I wish I didn’t know anything at all.

I hate how dodgy you are. I hate how you never tell me anything and you expect me to be grateful when all you've done is make my life worse. What do I have to thank you for? What have you done besides getting hurt?

In WHAT WORLD is this MY fault when YOU'RE the one who decided we'd be involved in any of this?

Screw you.

I can't keep doing this. I can't keep doing this!

You raise the glass again. Your grip alone is enough to make the thing tremble, ready to explode.

I brace for impact.

Chapter Text

I slam the glass back down on the table. It threatens to shatter, but it doesn’t.

I watch myself move the fingers on my other arm for a bit before it hurts too much. It's definitely bruised. Great. This was a great idea.

Looks like I scared that other guy off.

Oops. 

My face feels like it's melting. I must be crying.

…Oops.

I'm so mad. I'm so, so mad. I shouldn't be so mad because I know I would be the exact same way if the tables were turned but I'm so mad.

I wish I were even the slightest bit convincing. I wish I weren't so vitriolic and mean. I vilify myself for vilifying myself and I expect it not to turn out like this.

There is no self awareness in hating myself so much. I don't want myself to get better. I just want to keep hurting because it's what I think I deserve, and because I get myself hurt I am only more justified in thinking I deserve it. I’m in a cycle I cannot break myself out of because I'm too stubborn to let anything go.

I look at the glass beside me, unbroken.

Why didn't I go through with it? I've certainly done worse before with less care for how it will turn out.

Did I think he was right?

Was he?

My eyes burn. My throat hurts. My fingernails dig into my scalp. My hands shake. There's a painful quiver in the deplorable sobbing noise that escapes my face.

How did I get to this point? I know I haven't always been so… explosive.

I get stressed. I do something to get hurt. I feel less stressed for a while, but then it's worse next time because I'm hurt. I build up a tolerance and so I have to do worse every time. Great. Real recipe for success there, genius.

…That's not helpful. That's just not helpful.

Again, I wonder how I got to this point. No mean spirited quips. Those won't help.

Deep breaths.

One, 

two, 

three, 

four… 

…

Five.

I don’t know when it started. Like wandering into a forest with your head down, only noticing you’re in a forest when you look up and see trees.

I was thinking about 99 again. Why? I don't know. Maybe it's because September was coming up. Maybe something reminded me. It doesn't matter to me now.

99 is something I never totally understood even when I was in the school. I had my theories on it, but I don't think it would be useful to revisit them right now.

The more I thought about it the less I wanted to think about it. This always happens. I try to figure it out, I get too close, I get really worked up, and so I resort to some weird strategy of “making it stop” that ends up going too far and then I’m miserable.

My latest “solution” is the most directly punishing one, though not on purpose. Thinking at all became unbearable, and the easiest way to stop thinking immediately is to get hurt. To shed blood was even more “effective” because it's harder to think when your brain is hazy.

It was only ever temporary. It never lasted. Each time I would have to do worse for it to do anything at all. Eventually it was the only thing I could think about, and so i’d do it just to escape thinking about it. What's the point, then? It wasn't working.

I knew it was a horrible idea. I knew it was unsustainable the moment I started doing it. I just needed to get the stress to go away, even if only for a moment, even if it would only be worse next time, because I could just “get rid of it” next time. 

I only realized it was exactly the kind of thing that would attract 99 when I was at a point where I couldn’t stop myself. I could only watch myself spiral further and further down. A spider curls up when it dies because it cannot stop its muscles anymore.

A repulsive cycle that leaves me worthless and potentially dead if I'm not careful, and one that draws in 99 like some kind of pest. I need to escape it. I can't keep chasing fleeting moments of quiet into catastrophe.

My mind, however, is not on the same page as me. It still views the world for its weapons: how I could break bone on outwards corners of walls, how I could burn skin on the carpet with the right resolve, how I could break that glass on myself like I should've done earlier…

I push the glass away from me.

Every sound is interpreted as someone coming to hurt me or kill me, alternating between how I wouldn't want that to happen and how I would and I'm horrible for it. None of it is true.

I try to cover my ears so I can't hear anything at all.

If I just don't think about it I will be okay. I don't want to get hurt anymore. I just need to ignore it. I don't want to get hurt. I just need to forget about it. I don't want to get hurt. I don't.

I've curled into a ball so I cannot experience the outside world and I’m still terrified of my own thoughts. I don't think this is going to work.

Why can’t my brain just shut up? Why is everything so dangerous? It isn't! It isn't. Stop telling me it is. How is this comfortable, perfectly normal room not “safe” enough? Why am I a danger to myself? Why do I keep doing this?

Why can't you just be nice to yourself?

I don't want to!

Yes you do. You've wanted it this whole time.

…Hi, N.

Hello.

If I wanted it I don't know why I would act like this.

Do you do this because you want to?

More because I feel like I have to.

Then why are you equating actions with wants?

…Guess that's true.

I wish you cared about yourself like I care about you.

I don't know why you do that, still.

It's better for us both to care unconditionally rather than shove each other aside if we're ever “not helpful”.

It's easy to say that, but it's harder to do it.

So how do you do it with me?

…Because – I don't… you don’t greet me with hostility and spite. You’re always glad to see me, no matter what.

So, treat yourself the same way, and you won’t be met with hostility and spite, hmm?

…I think I messed up.

Of course. But it can be amended.

I don’t mean, like… I mean… you know that other guy, right?

Oh, the mystery guest.

Yeah, that one. I think I need to apologize to him.

Do you want to think about it first? You don’t sound very certain.

That… yeah. I probably should.

How about I take your place for a while? Some days, maybe. You do what you need to. I’ll handle things up here.

I don’t— I don’t, really… I don’t really spend a lot of time in there. What if I get lost? What if I can’t…

You’ll know what to do. I know you will.

…Okay. I trust you.

—

My mind is a dark place.

…Not in the, I don’t know, the sad way, I mean there’s not much light. Not pitch black or anything, the lights are just… dim. Warm and soft. They come from below rather than above. I could call it comfortable if I didn’t feel so out of place in it. 

My mental form still has the skin missing, just how I looked in the school. I don’t dislike it, especially now that I can move my arms, but… It makes me feel like I’m from a less pleasant time. So, I don’t feel like I belong here.

At the same time, the place I “belong” sounds even less pleasant. I think I’d rather be out of place and content than in place and miserable.

The way time passes in here is strange because it exists entirely within my mind. While the brain is busy doing things that are actually important, it passes in a hazy manner, where nothing happens but I don’t notice it. Only during the down time do I experience thought and sensation. 

A few days pass without me noticing.

In the distance is a bright room, outside of what I would consider the “bounds” of this place to be. Because of course my mind has out of bounds areas. Of course… whatever. That’s where I need to go.

When I enter, I realize it’s only bright in comparison to everything else than actually bright. From the inside, it looks more like a shadow covers the thing.

It is much further from comfortable than everything else. In fact, I think it’s supposed to look like Baldi’s office. The walls have a similar lack of colour. The length of the room is exaggerated, but reminiscent of the layout of that room.

The other sits facing away from me. He wears the jacket I wore on the night of the break in. He has skin, though without any of the scars N sustains, since he never had to experience… that.

He turns to look at me and scowls.

“What do you want?” He asks.

Now that I’m actually listening to him, I notice his voice has a lighter quality to it. It’s not quite higher pitched, but it contains higher frequencies. It’s not as loud.

“...I wanted to… uh… apologize. Because, I don’t think I was very… understanding, earlier,” I say.

He doesn’t respond. His brow furrows a bit more, then he turns away.

“I guess, to start… is there something I can call you? I know you’re not fond of name having, but… it’s kind of hard to think about you when I can’t call you anything,” I ask.

“Herring would be funny,” he says.

…N must have told him about the marine thing. He chuckles.

“That– that works. Okay. Herring. I’m sorry for talking to you like that before. It was… uncalled for. Completely. I don’t think I needed to keep anything from you, either, at least not like that, I just… wasn’t ready to talk about it. I shouldn’t have been so harsh about it.”

Herring lets out his frustration in a sigh.

“That makes more sense,” he says. “I don’t really want to believe I’d keep a secret for no reason. I just couldn’t understand why you were doing that.”

“It’s something I worry too much about, and then it all… crumbles. And I don’t want that to happen,” I say. “I still don’t think I can tell you much. Or, well, anything.”

“Suppose there’s not much I can do about that. I don’t know what you went through,” he says. “Not personally, at least.”

“To be honest, I… I don’t know what you went through, either.”

He looks back again, this time with a less resentful expression. It seems like he knows already.

“I wonder if that’s why we’re separate. You really don’t act all that different from me, but I don’t think you would’ve been able to deal with remembering what I do on top of… everything else.”

“...Then, if that’s over, why are we still separate?” I ask.

“No offense, but you don’t seem– uh… capable. Of managing, and… you know, living,” he says. “I know you said you weren’t trying to off yourself, but… it’s kind of hard to see it any other way.”

“Okay, to be fair, I’m usually better than that. There’s a reason you only showed up now , after several years,” I say.

“Are you sure you can’t explain yourself, then?” Herring asks.

“Unhealthy form of stress management caught up with me.”

“Oh. I don’t know why you didn’t just say that earlier,” he says.

I sigh. “Defense mode.”

“You’re actually pretty reasonable when you’re not all… I don’t know. Whatever you were earlier,” he says.

“Making terrible first impressions under pressure seems to be part of my brand at this point,” I say. 

Herring laughs.

“Come on, sit down,” he says, patting the floor to his right.

I take the invitation with reluctance. I really, really don’t like this room.

I ask why he exists here, of all places. He could go anywhere else. He could leave right now.

Herring explains that I can go anywhere else. He, on the other hand, is stuck. He can’t let go of the schoolhouse because he doesn’t remember anything about what happened to it. He can’t let go of the night of the break-in because he doesn’t understand anything that happened during it. He can’t process it. So here he stays, in clothing he cannot stand, in a room he cannot stand, as though his sole purpose is to hold onto these particular moments.

I get it now.

All of this is a mechanism to keep me alive.

Herring withstood the blunt of a traumatic event, and so this became his purpose. To slink away, only appearing to take mental hits and then hide away again.

And so I came into the picture, someone who conveniently didn’t remember the horror of the situation I was in. Someone who could exist in a state permanently bordering on panic and still do what was necessary.

N, ripped away by force, took on a supporting role because I’d need the support.

This works just fine for them, but as for Herring, wouldn't things be better if we were the same person again? He would understand the circumstances that currently chain him. I don't need to keep hiding from what happened to live. If anything, it only makes it worse.

I've been living his life for years, now. I want him to have his life back.

He says he never really enjoyed it, anyway.

I tell him he can enjoy it. It can be better than… whatever this is.

He says he's scared.

I know how it feels.

How do you stop being scared?

You don't. You just have to keep going.

I think I want to keep going.

Are you ready?

…No.

Do you want this?

Yes.

Are you ready?

I think I can be.

Do you want to think it over for a while?

I don't have anything more to think about.

Are you ready?

Am I?

Am I ready?

Am I?

Am I.

I take off this stupid jacket.

—

I stand before a vast mirror tumbling against itself. The waves take on the white colour of the sky they answer to, but here, at the shore, you can tell it’s really more of a brownish green colour itself. They crash against each other again and again. Constantly in motion, yet flat at the horizon.

Justice approaches me with hesitance, as though I’ll bite him if he gets too close. I glance at him for a moment before looking to the water again.

He stands beside me, silent. I know he wants to say something. His stance is awkward, jutting out against his environment. I don’t ask or motion for him to speak. I know he’ll say it at some point if he really thinks it’s important.

The wind howls like an animal.

“...I’m not sure why you like this place so much…” Justice says. He pulls at his collar.

“Why wouldn’t I?” I ask.

“Does it not bring back bad memories?” He asks in turn.

I don’t answer him for a while.

“If it does, they don’t really bother me here,” I say.

He shakes his head, and after a sigh, he says, “I don’t understand you.” 

“You don’t need to.”

This doesn’t sit well with him. He knows he doesn’t need to understand, but he wants to understand.

“Can you at least tell me what you think of this place? Does it make you happy?” He asks.

I kneel over and slash at the water with one hand. 

“I feel more like an extension of the world than a person. I don't understand people. I understand the water.”

He listens.

“That makes one thing make sense, at least,” he says.

“What makes sense, now?”

“Just last month you were practically on the brink of dying. Now you don’t seem to care. It reminds me of the way bodies of water will react to weather, moments of upset and moments of calm,” he answers.

“What’s the date?” I ask. “October 21st?”

“Yes, it is. It’s Friday.”

“I don’t like the number 9. There’s your answer,” I say.

“...I think I understand less, now,” Justice says.

“How many times do I need to say it? You don’t need to understand. You probably shouldn’t.”

He sighs. “I don’t think I can, to be frank,” he says. 

When he doesn’t get a response, he drifts away.

And so, I am alone with the lake again.

I do like his analogy. Maybe I am like a body of water. I’d like to think I can balance myself out like that.

In retrospect, all of my problems seem like tumultuous waves. They crash and ripple, but then they're gone.

Sand coats my fingers. I put my hands in the water again to wash it off. This will make them more disposed to getting coated in sand, so I’ll have to put my hands in the water again later.

It’s funny to me.

I wonder if there will always be water. I wonder if it will always tumble and turn. This planet won’t last forever, I know that, but I wonder if there will be water somewhere else. I can’t imagine a point in time without water without also imagining a point where nothing exists at all.