Chapter Text
The night sky looks beautiful today. It's nice to look at, if you can believe it. Peaceful .
The atmosphere is bitter and cold, and yet the starry sky tonight contrasts the bitterness. It's comforting. Almost.
The grass that was once completely hidden beneath the snow is peaking out as if to see the moonlight, the snow melts around it. But small flowers still manage to grow through them as if breaking the laws of nature. Winter is supposed to be over now, spring is supposed to come.
Anya stands, wearing her sandals with socks as the freezing water seeps into the fabric, her legs starting to grow cold.
There's screaming coming from a distance. She can't understand what's going on but the noise sounds as though the source of it is in pain. She can't locate it. She can't even see too far into the distance.
All she sees is the night sky above and snow melting over the green grass below. She sees the moon glowing with the stars that surround it. As she stares into the sky she notices a black dot, a dead pixel.
“Don't see it.” Curly says, sitting next to her on the couch, as he narrows his eyes leaning towards the screen.
“In the back of my mind, it's always there.” she replies.
“Now I'll go bonkers looking for it.” he continues.
She looks over at him and notices how red his eyes have gotten, and how there's dark circles forming around them.
Anya looks back at the screen.
“Cheers,” he chuckles, as if at his own inside joke.
The pixel starts to multiply by itself, forming all over the screen as it all goes dark.
Anya wakes up to crying noises. The noise is too shrill to be of an adult, it sounds like it’s coming from a baby.
She rubs her eyes and sits up in the living room couch of her apartment with a searing pain in her stomach. She groans as she sits up.
She sees the half eaten popcorn bowl on the table. The television is on, some soap playing on it, she notices that’s where the noise is coming from. Anya grabs the chip dust covered remote and shuts the TV before getting up and going over to the bathroom still feeling the ache growing.
“Stupid junk,” she mutters while picking up the toothbrush, “Why did I have to experiment with new flavors?”
As she looks for the toothpaste, she accidentally knocks over something. She looks down as she starts to brush her teeth and sees it's a bottle of mouthwash.
Dragon's Breath. 99.9% kills.
She hears static noise. “Shit, did I forget to turn the TV off?”
She walks over to the living room and looks at the screen.
A cooking show seems to be on.
“Today we will show you the recipe for wartime cake.” the host says. His voice sounds husky and english. The host sounds familiar but she can't quite place him.
“This recipe was made during the second World War when the folks had very limited resources.”
The host continues to tell the origin and after finishing starts to name the ingredients.
She can't quite comprehend all of what he says, her mind too groggy.
“Let's have some fucking cake.” another voice chimes in.
Finally he starts to cut the cake.
It's slow and awkward. The painful silence makes the atmosphere oppressive.
Jimmy stares at Curly across the table while Anya looks down, freaking out over the news that Curly had just announced.
The Pony Express is shutting down permanently.
Anya can't afford to lose this job right now. She has no savings. She can't afford to wait around and look for a new job. She can barely afford rent.
All of the crew sits in silence as Curly cuts into the cake.
I CAN FIX THIS
I CAN FIX THIS
I CAN FIX THIS
I CAN FIX THIS
I CAN FIX THIS
I CAN FIX THIS
I CAN FIX THIS
I CAN FIX THIS
I CAN FIX THIS
I CAN FIX THIS
I CAN FIX THIS
I CAN FIX THIS
I CAN FIX THIS
All the kids sing happy birthday loudly. Too loud. Their voices are off key and it brings discomfort rather than any joy.
The words start to blur into laughter. Painfully loud laughter. Her ears feel like they might start to bleed out anytime soon. She feels a searing headache like a mallet hitting the skull from the inside.
She feels small and helpless. She kneels on the ground as the cobblestones start to scratch her knees.
Tears stream down her eyes.
She can hear chatter in the distance. Those voices sound different from the laughter. They sound mature.
The adults stand in the distance talking about something like budget cuts in the school, ignoring the ruckus going on not too far from them.
The laughter continues, though not at the same intensity. It's different. It's far in the distance. It's a lot less loud yet the knife twists her insides more cruelly than ever.
It's the adults that are laughing about something she wouldn't understand.
She lays on the open sleeping bag, the zipper slightly cracked from being opened forcefully.
She curls up into a ball and starts to cry. She grips onto the edge of her sleeping bag as tightly as possible, her knuckles turn white and the palm of her hand reddens with the mark from the zipper.
The laughter outside breaks off suddenly.
“Is that Anya crying?”
“Does it matter to you?”
“It's pretty late and… I don't know.”
“Probably the stress of the job, especially now. You really did a great fucking job delivering the fucking news like that.”
“I wanted to be honest with you all.”
“Well, Captain-Honesty-Is-The-Best-Policy, you really boosted up morale.”
“Oh fuck you Jim– Has… Has she been crying for a while?”
“How the fuck will I know?”
“I thought you…”
“What?”
“Nevermind. I just can't have my crew losing their shit when we barely started the voyage.”
“Look, we are all on the the same fucking boat that's sinking into the fucking dark lake and the captain is glad because it means he can go for a fucking swim.”
“I prefer snow sports.”
“Then why do you have your feet stuck in cement?”
“How many times will you tell me that phrase?”
“Till it finally gets inside the golden boy’s head.”
“Let's just go to sleep, alright?”
The voices die out, yet she still can't stop crying. She hugs herself tighter, her wrists bruising and presses her legs close. Her lower region aches as she looks over at the Pony Express mascot, Polle the horse statue, trying to understand what had just happened.
“Polle says,”
“TAKE RESPONSIBILITY.”
“TAKE RESPONSIBILITY.”
“TAKE RESPONSIBILITY.”
“TAKE RESPONSIBILITY.”
“TAKE RESPONSIBILITY.”
“TAKE RESPONSIBILITY.”
“TAKE RESPONSIBILITY.”
“TAKE RESPONSIBILITY.”
“TAKE RESPONSIBILITY.”
“TAKE RESPONSIBILITY.”
“TAKE RESPONSIBILITY.”
“TAKE RESPONSIBILITY.”
“TAKE RESPONSIBILITY.”
The ten year old girl with band aid covered arms and legs walks over to her classes. On her way she spots the older kids laughing it up with the teacher.
The laughter makes her skin crawl. They’re the same mouths that laughed when she bled and bruised on the cobbled ground. The laughter is different. The teacher spots and looks over at her. A concerned expression forms on her face as she stares at the girl for barely a second then goes back to listening to what the other kids say.
The twenty-five year old nurse sits on the dinner table with the rest of the crew, picking at her food with the fork.
The captain, Curly, looks at her. They both share a glance for a moment before he goes over to the kitchen. His co-pilot Jimmy looks over at her making her insides twist.
It's just him and her in the dark room.
She screams and she cries. She kicks and scratches. Yet her whole body seems to grow heavy as if being pulled down by some magnetic force.
She screams and screams into the dark void till her voice goes hoarse. Yet the screams are masked from the noise from the Polle statue IS MAKING standing right next to her.
The statue stands still next to her, watching the scene unfold.
Yet the noise it makes, oh the noise it makes is far worse than anything she's heard.
“Polle says”
“99.9% KILLS”
“99.9% KILLS”
“99.9% KILLS”
“99.9% KILLS”
“99.9% KILLS”
“99.9% KILLS”
“99.9% KILLS”
“99.9% KILLS”
“99.9% KILLS”
“99.9% KILLS”
“99.9% KILLS”
“99.9% KILLS”
“99.9% KILLS”
She stands still in the snow that has now started to melt. It melts into a sticky puddle under her feet. She can smell the listerine below her feet.
She starts to walk again, her body feels heavier each step she takes. She notices cyan blue liquid which looks like a darker shade of the listerine snow. The liquid seems to be spread out in an almost straight line, too specific to be melted snow. It’s as if it’s a trail leading to something.
She follows the trail then stops.
In front of her lies the broken and mangled state of Polle.
“I don't think it ruins the illusion though.” the voice box manages to say.
“It's peaceful.”
She stares at the broken thing, it stares back with a bright blue eye.
‘O Captain. My Captain.’
The same eye that had stared at her, pleading, when she tried to feed him his pain killers. It's the same eye that had looked away as she begged him for help.
‘Our fearful trip is done.’
The broken Polle says,
“I'M SORRY!”
“I'M SORRY!”
“I'M SORRY!”
“I'M SORRY!”
“I'M SORRY!”
“I'M SORRY!”
“I'M SORRY!”
“I'M SORRY!”
“I'M SORRY!”
“I'M SORRY!”