Chapter Text
December of [Year Redacted]
I never would have fathomed the life I have to live with. I can never imagine this to happen to my worst enemy. The town was supposed to offer adventure, and a new breath of fresh air – an answer to a big mystery, but at what cost? It was never supposed to be this way.
“It’s okay, Fidds. You’re okay.” There was a shake in my voice, exhaustion lacing through it as I surrendered my hands to a friend I had known my whole college life, spent the night studying with and playing the guitar just to annoy a certain smartass. Fiddleford “Fidds” Mcgucket was - is - an extraordinaire, a sweet man living his life to give his family a good and comfortable one. He is a good man (I will forever describe him as that). However, now, the man looking at me with fear and nervousness in his eyes is far from the man I knew. Never in a million years can I imagine a friend turned unexpected cult leader pointing a gun at me, eyes blown out of proportion and as if he, too, surrendered his life to the memory gun.
How did this become my life? That’s right, I forgot that I met the anomaly. Worse, I followed him.
Fidds loses his grip on the gun, almost dropping it before fixing his tightened grip on it with a haphazard move. I nearly yelped at him. “No. No! Do you think this is easy for me? I don’t even know who you are!” I hold a deep breath at his exasperated scream. I can’t let my tears and emotions get a hold of me. I don’t have the assurance he won’t shoot. “F, It’s me. I’m your friend. We went to school together with - “ It is useless to bring Ford into this. “I’m the godmother of your son – Tate.” Change tactic. The name of his son seems to regain his reality. The tears in the corner of my eyes threaten to fall as I show him a small smile.
“Tate.”
“Yes. Tate, y-your son. We haven’t visited him for a while. I’m sure he misses you.” Carefully, I talk him through to calm him, he aims to lower the gun at me, but he acts absentmindedly as I slowly step closer in caution. My eyes wander to the makeshift workstation in his one-space place. Scraps of metal junk litter the floor, a worn-out work table behind him rested with a video recorder on the top of it, and the rusted whiteboard near the table presented undistinguishable graphs and a drawn crossed-out eye.
And then my eyes turn to examine F.
His brown locks lose their shine, and instead, bald patches continue to appear. He looks disheveled and unpolished – As if he is living like a stone made to wait. But, it was the gleam of his eyes that let me release a full sob – dead-like, cold, and unassuming. I wanted to hug him.
We did this. For the full price of glory, fame, and pursuits of never leaving well enough alone, we tried to destroy the world, lost a friend, and lost the love of my life.
With a quivering hand, I pushed the strands of hair out of his eyes. “I messed up, Irma.” I don’t know what to say, I said nothing. “Tate. I don’t think he’ll be proud of me.” Fiddleford was resurfacing, accent coming back and pupils turning back to their normal size. “We can still try to fix it. We can stop this.” I try to reassure him.
But we can’t, not on Stanley’s watch. Not until he gets his brother back. And, I can’t say that to Fiddleford, until I’m sure Stan and I can count on him to help us. The guilt is gnawing me. It is selfish of me to ask him, foolish to think that Ford is even alive on the other side, but I have to know. What choice do I have?
We talked, avoiding any stressful conversation instead we steered it to more nostalgic memories. For his sake, it is for grounding him to himself. For my sake, I don’t want to talk about the now. Thankfully, he dropped the memory gun on the table when he realized what he - the fear-induced, disoriented Fiddleford - was planning to do. He insists I distance myself from him, though, I couldn’t let him feel more estranged of himself than he is. At some point, he turns to the worktable to open a drawer and pull a photograph.
“This is the last photo Emma-May sent me of Tate.” A melancholy smile graces his lips, urging me to take the cherished photo. I always wonder why Emma-May and F insisted I become their son’s godmother, but never considered Ford for godfather, opting for Emma-May’s brother for it. I once suspected the woman never held a warm welcome for Ford, and I understand her.
As soon as my fingers grasped the photo, a flash of memories ran through me. Tate was a baby, red in the face and sucking his thumb as his mother placed him on her lap. In the corner, I held a tray of disaster-looking cupcakes that spelled the baby’s name. “I remembered this. I baked the cupcakes and bought Tate his little llama, right there.” I point him to the stuffed animal the mother held as if to show to the camera. F was no one in sight, and if he remembered why he wasn’t around his son’s christening party, no one mentioned it.
“Little Llama.” he hums in delight, relishing in thought. “I held Tate once, he cried. Sadly, you got to carry him more times than I did.” I placed my hand on his shoulder. “Believe me, If I get to transfer all that to you, I will. It’s not too late, F.”
“But, it is.”
“What?” His eyes darkened.
“I heard you, Irma! You..a-and..t-hat - You’re trying to re-open it! You’re going to destroy us all!” He jumped to grab the gun behind him and just like that, we found ourselves exactly where we left off. The gun lit into a blue hue before shooting a ray toward me, luckily It missed inches away from my face. I clung to the photograph. “Give me the gun, F! You don’t want to do this!” I shout as I force my strength to stop him. I hit his hand and the gun flew away from his fingers, dropping with a clank on the floor.
His body slams into me, and I find myself on the grimy floor. “Why would you open the portal?” Fidds grabs my legs and pulls me to him, pinning me by my wrists. “F, you’re hurting me! Let me go!” I scream-sob, struggling for release. I start to scratch for something, something that I can use to release myself, but even the memory gun is a couple of distance from me. My knees are bruised from kicking, aiming to get him off me.
He grunts when I do, only urging him to keep me contained harder. I can see his snarl form on his lips. “Did Ford put you up to this, huh? Did the fool hit his head and realize he couldn’t finish the portal without me?!”
“Ford’s gone!”
He froze. “What did you say?” The look on his face told me it was like his life was shattering before and around him, one that I could understand, completely. “ I-I..” I swallow my cry. “I don’t know what happ-ppened, we fought and I left the house. The portal…He’s gone. He went in. H-He got pulled in.” I closed my eyes, sleep and tiredness dawning me in full force. I don’t want to cry, my body can’t take the decline of my mental plasticity and emotional upsurge.
“I’m sorry, Fidds.” No, my body can take one more cry.
“I’m sorry, I-I know you love him.” There is a pause in the air, and F shakily lets go of my hands, he stares at his fingers with his eyes closed. And then I hear him cry like a howl of pain. All I could do was look at him and rub his back in comfort. “No, I’m sorry, Irma!” He continues to spew apologies in remorse, not looking at me.
We both wailed on the ground, grasping each other for comfort. The memory gun long forgotten, fight surrendered into grief.
Before blacking out.
I didn’t know I passed out until I found myself in Ford’s bed. Apparently, Stan was the one who brought me home when he found me in - as he said - an ‘abandoned hillbilly shack’. I tried to search for Fiddleford’s whereabouts but he didn’t want to be found. I asked Stan whether he saw a gun-like laying around where he found me, even a photograph of a baby, but he said he had no clue what I was talking about. I can only imagine F snatched the memory gun and photo with him. I don’t know what I feel about that.
What I know is that F neither confirmed nor denied my statement. I know that Emma-May cried to me amidst her drunken state that she was losing F to Ford’s academic pursuits. I know that Ford left me in our home to go monster hunting with F. I know that ‘Papa’ was the fifth word Tate learned compared to “Llama” being his fourth and “Ihma [Irma]” his third. And I know that I will love Ford no matter what. Even if something happened between them – It is irrelevant to me. The problem that I keep thinking about is whether he truly loved me or if it was because he was afraid of himself and what he was learning about himself.
Talking about Ford hurts my brain, and my insides, but I still dream about Ford, sometimes in a matter of nightmares, so, I dreaded sleeping. Most times, Stan would stay up with me - whether he just wanted someone that understand his situation as a company or he pitied the partner his brother left, I didn’t know. Ford’s case is like Schrodinger’s cat - both dead and alive, both in two states at once until someone peeked into the box – in this case, the portal.
I feel dumb. I am writing this paper when I should be in therapy. I should be sleeping [note: Stan snores].
I’m just tired of it all, but I don’t want to give up.