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YOU: One evening in late March you hurt yourself.
VOLITION: You don’t do it on purpose.
HAND-EYE COORDINATION: No, but you *do* do it. Stupid, clumsy.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Hey, don’t look at me!
YOU: You’re drunk, of course. You’ve been back from Martinaise for three weeks now. Rattling around an apartment that feels at-once familiar and strange. You’ve been focusing on cleaning out the rooms. Trying to rediscover what kind of man you were.
PERDITION AND MAIN: A hoarder, apparently. A drunk. By the evidence around you, a violent one.
VISUAL CALCULUS: Albeit one primarily restricted to property damage.
RHETORIC: *Fuck* your landlord.
EMPATHY: Also, according to the clutter of tapes - SAD FM recorded off the radio - and the tear-stained postcards form Mirova, and the cast-off middle-class women’s clothing, a very sad one.
SUGGESTION: How do we know those aren’t *our* women’s clothing?
VISUAL CALCULUS: They wouldn’t fit.
SAVOIR FAIRE: Hey, skintight is *in,* baby. Don’t think we haven’t seen Lieutenant Kitsuragi eyeballing the very tight crotch of our disco flares.
RHETORIC: Okay. These clothes are clearly nicer than anything you would ever buy for yourself, even if you scrounged and saved everything you had. Your taste is cheap. You’re Jamrock-trash, baby. Just like she always used to say.
PAIN THRESHOLD: Also, the clothes are necrotic. They’re evil. They’re actively trying to kill you, like that one green watered-silk dress -
INLAND EMPIRE: The one you said made her look like spring, the one she wore making love to you on that picnic in the Pox, and the one, years later, you made her cry in.
PAIN THRESHOLD: It nearly drove you to suicide one night, attempting to hang yourself with the belt.
VOLITION: You’d gotten rid of all of her clothes one afternoon, taking them to a local flea market with the assistance of Kim Kitsuragi.
HALF LIGHT: The green dress, however, you had cut into scraps and thrown in a dumpster three streets over.
EMPATHY: You were not going to subject anyone else to that.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim has stopped by a handful of times since your return. You had debriefed twice on THE CASE OF THE HANGED MAN. After, you’d convinced Kim to play a game of Suzerainty.
SUGGESTION: It *had* been raining pretty hard.
KIM KITSURAGI: Once, you’d gone to lunch. Today, he’d driven you to the precinct to get your stitches removed, and to pick up your first paycheck.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Apparently, the *real* first paycheck had been absorbed into the C-wing as some step towards your repayment for the Coupris 40 damages.
ENDURANCE: Gottlieb had released you to start back at the precinct next week.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: It will be good to get back to work.
HALF LIGHT: There is a sense of dread swimming up inside you. Sloshing all around your guts.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: No. That’s just the booze. You’d gone out tonight to celebrate, and now you’re drunk.
PERCEPTION: Hoooo, are you ever! The room spins around you in a dizzying swirl.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: It’s easy enough to get drunk. Any Tom, Dick, or Harry - heh - can do it. It’s hard to *stay* drunk. It takes a lot of work. If you don’t drink enough, that awful spine-creeping feeling sets in. The bright gauzy veil that obscures just how fucking horrible life really is is torn down. Drink too much, and you’re a bumbling, vomiting, clumsy mess.
DRAMA: Everyone looks down on the drunk, but they should really be applauding you! It’s a tightrope, a beautiful performance. *Extremely* disco.
YOU: I don’t feel so disco.
VOLITION: That’s because you’re too far over the edge. You’re the breaking-shit kind of drunk. See, now - you drop your glass - one of the few left in your apartment - and it breaks on the floor.
HAND-EYE COORDINATION: You get down on your hands and knees clumsily, picking up the pieces -
PERCEPTION: Wow! Look at that red on your fingers!
CONCEPTUALIZATION: What a bright, vivid color. A color like that ought to *hurt,* shouldn’t it, Harry-boy?
PAIN THRESHOLD: Ow! Ouch! What is that?
YOU: You attempt to focus your blurry eyes on your cupped hand, which is rapidly filling with blood.
LOGIC: You’ve cut yourself on the glass. Three fingers.
PERCEPTION: Your fingers are coated with blood.
ENDURANCE: You feel a little faint. You sway, and put your injured hand down on the dirty carpet to steady yourself.
YOU: What should I do?
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: You should quit being a baby. It’s not like you cut anything off.
HALF LIGHT: They’re going to have to amputate. And that’s your jerk-off hand.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Things can’t get much worse than this.
YOU: You stagger up and go to the phone with the vague idea of calling for help.
AUTHORITY: With a little cut?
PAIN THRESHOLD: Blood drips on the floor from your mangled and useless hand.
YOU: I’m going to call for help. Someone will come help me.
PERDITION AND MAIN: The dirty telephone stares silently and uselessly at you.
1) Call Gottlieb.
2) Call Kim.
3) Call Jean.
4) Call Mirova.
5) Call the Whirling-in-Rags.
6) Take care of it yourself.
YOU: You call the Whirling-in-Rags.
LOGIC: What? Why is this your first choice for medical care?
INLAND EMPIRE: The Whirling-in-Rags brought you back to life once before. It can do it again.
WHIRLING-IN-RAGS: “Whirling-in-Rags, Martinaise’s premier hotel, this is Garte speaking, how may I assist?”
1) “Garte! I’m dying!”
2) “Aren’t you Martinaise’s *only* hotel?”
3) “How’s it hanging, Garte?”
YOU: “Aren’t you Martinaise’s *only* hotel?”
GARTE: “Oh. It’s *you.*” The man’s voice loses some of its professional polish. “Well - we’re the only *official* hotel. The washerwoman down on the coast runs an entirely off-the-books operation. I hear she doesn’t even have *running water.*”
1) “Garte! I’m dying!”
2) “Aren’t you Martinaise’s *only* hotel?”
3) “How’s it hanging, Garte?”
4) “Who needs running water?”
YOU: “Who needs running water?”
GARTE: “You do. Why are you calling? We don’t have any vacancies, you know.”
DRAMA: He’s lying.
1) “Garte! I’m dying!”
2) “Aren’t you Martinaise’s *only* hotel?”
3) “How’s it hanging, Garte?”
4) “Who needs running water?”
5) “I know you’re lying. Give me a room.”
YOU: “Garte! I’m dying!”
GARTE: “What? Really?” He sounds suspicious. “You sound fine to me.”
1) “It’s true. I cut myself and I’m dying.”
2) “It’s okay. I just wanted to say goodbye.”
3) “I think I might be exaggerating a little.”
YOU: “It’s true. I cut myself and I’m dying.”
GARTE: “Maybe you should call someone else. I’m not a doctor.”
HALF LIGHT: He’s still traumatized form the last time you bled out in his establishment. He had to charge the RCM for three pairs of sheets.
GARTE: “Should I call someone? I have your partner’s number here.”
AUTHORITY: Kim can’t know.
1) “It’s true. I cut myself and I’m dying.”
2) “It’s okay. I just wanted to say goodbye.”
3) “I think I might be exaggerating a little.”
YOU: “It’s okay. I just wanted to say goodbye.”
GARTE: “Goodbye, officer,” he says, and then, “if it’s really that serious-”
YOU: But you are already hanging up.
1) Call Gottlieb.
2) Call Kim.
3) Call Jean.
4) Call Mirova.
5) Call the Whirling-in-Rags.
6) Take care of it yourself.
YOU: Adjusting the receiver in your sweating hand, you dial the lazarteh. You hold your injured hand upright before you, watching blood drip down between your fingers and down your wrist.
NIX GOTTLIEB: “Gottlieb.”
YOU: “Gottlieb, I’m dying.”
NIX GOTTLIEB: His voice sharpens. “Where are you? What happened?”
YOU: “I’m in my apartment. I cut myself and it’s really really bad.”
NIX GOTTLIEB: “How long ago?”
INLAND EMPIRE: You’ve been bleeding out for ages. The first death is in the heart, Harry.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: Twelve minutes.
YOU: "Twelve minutes.”
NIX GOTTLIEB: “And where are you hurt?”
PAIN THRESHOLD: Everywhere.
YOU: “My fingers. I was picking up a glass…”
EMPATHY: BZZZT. Wrong answer.
NIX GOTTLIEB: “Can you feel your fingers? Are they still attached?”
YOU: You flex your fingers.
PAIN THRESHOLD: They hurt.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Fresh blood spills out, catching in the creases of your palms, running down inside your sleeve.
YOU: “I can feel everything.”
NIX GOTTLIEB: A sigh on the other side of the line. A rattling sound.
ENDURANCE: He’s given up on you.
NIX GOTTLIEB: “Have another drink. You’ll be fine.”
ENCYCLOPEDIA: Alcohol thins the blood, causing increased blood flow. It is not recommend for injuries.
HALF LIGHT: He’s trying to kill you.
1) “You know what, that’s a great idea.”
2) “Are you trying to kill me?”
YOU: “Are you trying to kill me?”
NIX GOTTLIEB: “Yes. You caught me. You know, why don’t you come in?”
DRAMA: Finally! Someone is taking us seriously.
AUTHORITY: Treating us with the respect we deserve.
YOU: “Really?”
NIX GOTTLIEB: “Yes. I’m afraid we’re going to have to cut it off.”
1) “Is that your professional opinion?”
2) “You’re full of shit.”
3) “You know what, I’ll do it myself.”
4) “On second thought, I think I will have that drink.”
YOU: “Is that your professional opinion?”
NIX GOTTLIEB: “Yes.”
1) “Is that your professional opinion?”
2) “You’re full of shit.”
3) “You know what, I’ll do it myself.”
4) “On second thought, I think I will have that drink.”
YOU: “On second thought, I think I will have that drink.”
NIX GOTTLIEB: “Of course you will.”
1) “Is that your professional opinion?”
2) “You’re full of shit.”
3) “You know what, I’ll do it myself.”
4) “On second thought, I think I will have that drink.”
YOU: “You know what, I’ll do it myself.”
NIX GOTTLIEB: “Good luck with that, officer.” Then he hangs up.
EMPATHY: Surely Kim will be more sympathetic. Try him!
LOGIC: He will not. What he ascertains you’re fine - which you *are,* by the way - he will be worried about you, because you’re drunk. Again.
EMPATHY: This worry means he loves you.
PAIN THRESHOLD: Be careful not to wear it out.
LOGIC: If you would just go wash the blood off, maybe you’ll see it’s not that bad…?
DRAMA: No. It hurts. We’re dying.
1) Call Gottlieb.
2) Call Kim.
3) Call Jean.
4) Call Mirova.
5) Call the Whirling-in-Rags.
6) Take care of it yourself.
YOU: You call Jean, leaving bloody fingerprints on the number pad.
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “What?”
YOU: “Jean, it’s me. Harry Du Bois.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: He sighs heavily in your ear. Even his sigh sounds grumpy. “I know who it is. There is only one person who calls me this late at night, and only one reason they call me. What is it, where are you?”
YOU: “What? I’m in my apartment.”
INLAND EMPIRE: You can’t bring yourself to say home.
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “A likely story. It’s Friday night after payday, you are drunk somewhere, you don’t remember how two get home, is that it?”
1) “Yeah, that’s right.”
2) “Listen, actually, glad you’re here. Do you know any places to meet - you know - *babes*?”
3) “No, that’s not it at all. I just wanted to say hi.”
4) “Jean, I’m dying.”
YOU: “Listen, actually, glad you’re here. Do you know any places to meet - you know - *babes*?”
PERCEPTION: The sound of him snorting into your ear like a horse. “What?”
1) “Yeah, that’s right.”
2) “Listen, actually, glad you’re here. Do you know any places to meet - you know - *babes*?”
3) “No, that’s not it at all. I just wanted to say hi.”
4) “Jean, I’m dying.”
YOU: “No, that’s not it at all. I just wanted - ” You can’t do it. You falter.
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “What? You wanted what?”
1) “I cut myself. Can you help?”
2) “To know what happened between us. Why do you hate me so much?”
3) “To say I’m really looking forward to working with you.”
4) “Do you have any speed?”
5) “I really need to know about these babes.”
YOU: “To know what happened between us. Why do you hate me so much?”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: A noise like a teakettle whistling steam. “I don’t hate you.”
YOU: “No?”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “No.”
YOU: “Are you sure?”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “I am less sure every moment.”
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You know, you used to get high together before you went off the deep end.
1) “I cut myself. Can you help?”
2) “To know what happened between us. Why do you hate me so much?”
3) “To say I’m really looking forward to working with you.”
4) “Do you have any speed?”
5) “I really need to know about these babes.”
YOU: “Do you have any speed?”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “You are unbelievable. I literally can’t believe you.”
YOU: “But you don’t hate me!”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Did I say that? I don’t remember saying that.”
[-1 morale]
1) “I cut myself. Can you help?”
2) “To know what happened between us. Why do you hate me so much?”
3) “To say I’m really looking forward to working with you.”
4) “Do you have any speed?”
5) “I really need to know about these babes.”
YOU: “To say I’m really looking forward to working with you.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Save that shit,” he says wearily. “Save it for your new lieutenant. I don’t believe you anymore.”
RHETORIC: What *does* Jean Vicquemare believe in?
ESPRIT DE CORPS: The RCM. The importance of a good currying after a hard ride. Jazz musician Jazzbo Brun. You, once upon a time.
1) “You probably shouldn’t.”
2) “But I mean it.”
3) “I’m dying, Jean, and these are the last words you’ll have said to me. I hope you’re happy.”
YOU: “But I mean it.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “You always do. Goodnight, Harrier. I am leaving the phone off the hook. Don’t call back.”
PERCEPTION: The dial tone.
DRAMA: He’s lying.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Jean Vicquemare sits in a sad brown living room rubbing at his eyes. He holds the receiver in his hand, considering it. Then he very slowly cradles it.
AUTHORITY: Call him back. *Call* him on his bluff. No one ever gets away from you.
EMPATHY: Leave him *alone.*
PAIN THRESHOLD: Speaking of which. Isn’t it time to call someone else?
YOU: You take a swig of vodka straight from the bottle. Your fingers sting badly as they wrap around the neck.
INTERFACING: Your grip is slippery with blood.
1) Call Gottlieb.
2) Call Kim.
3) Call Jean.
4) Call Mirova.
5) Call the Whirling-in-Rags.
6) Take care of it yourself.
YOU: You call Mirova.
MIROVA: The phone rings.
[-1 morale.]
MIROVA: The phone rings.
[-1 morale.]
MIROVA: The phone rings. She is not going to answer you.
[-1 morale.]
MIROVA: The phone rings.
[-1 morale.]
YOU: When you hear her voice on the answering machine, you hang up.
REACTION SPEED: Too late. You slide to the floor, clutching the phone in your bloody hand.
PAIN THRESHOLD: Your heart seizes in your chest.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: The soft chiming voice of Dolores Dei. The complete and utter lack of forgiveness.
SHIVERS: A few dozen meters below the surface in Coal City, ugly gashes in the ground ooze coal. In an alley three streets over a man lies beaten and bruised, groaning to the stray dog sniffing his leg. In an apartment in Villalobos, a man hits a woman. The woman hits back.
PAIN THRESHOLD: Your hand twinges in sympathy.
1) Call Gottlieb.
2) Call Kim.
3) Call Jean.
4) Call Mirova.
5) Call the Whirling-in-Rags.
6) Take care of it yourself.
YOU: You call Kim.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Kim Kitsuragi sits at his kitchen table, cigarette in one hand, leaning his forehead on the other. He is looking over his case notes, but retaining little of what he reads. The ring of the telephone is a welcome interruption to him.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Kitsuragi.”
YOU: “Kim!”
HALF LIGHT: The relief you feel at hearing Kim’s calm and reassuring voice is palpable.
EMPATHY: Go on, unburden yourself. Kim will always help you.
VOLITION: No. You can’t go running to Kim to fix every little thing for you. He’s not your mommy.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Daddy?
SAVOIR FAIRE: If you call Kim that, he’ll laugh at you.
SUGGESTION: Officer?
AUTHORITY: That one might work.
INLAND EMPIRE: Now is not the time.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Detective,” he says. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
RHETORIC: He’s going for sarcasm, but he’s not quite hitting it. It *is* a pleasure.
HALF LIGHT: It concerns him how much of a pleasure it is.
1) “Kim, I’m dying.”
2) “I think you should come over.”
3) “I think I should come over.”
4) “How was your meeting with Pryce?”
5) “So let’s say a friend of mine cut himself on a piece of glass. What should he do next?”
YOU: “How was your meeting with Pryce?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “It went well. It seems my transfer is likely to be approved.”
YOU: A bright feeling swells in your lungs.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: It feels like it had felt when you had seen the phasmid.
YOU: “Kim, that’s great news!”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm. I wouldn’t celebrate before it is official, detective. There are still many barriers to a successful transfer.”
ENDURANCE: Kim Kitsuragi is used to barriers, especially at the RCM. Still, he persists.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Is that really why you called me so late at night?”
1) “Kim, I’m dying.”
2) “I think you should come over.”
3) “I think I should come over.”
4) “How was your meeting with Pryce?”
5) “So let’s say a friend of mine cut himself on a piece of glass. What should he do next?”
YOU: “So let’s say a friend of mine cut himself on a piece of glass. What should he do next?”
KIM KITSURAGI: His voice sharpens. “Are you alright?”
DRAMA: Careful. It’s not you. It’s your “friend.”
YOU: You tighten your bloody fingers around the phone. “Yeah, I’m fine, Kim. It wasn’t me, it was my friend. Like I said. A friend that I have. We’re friends.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Your friend. What friend is this, please? Officer Vicquemare, maybe? Or myself? *I* did not cut myself tonight.”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Officer Vicquemare did not cut himself tonight.
YOU: “I have…other…friends…”
KIM KITSURAGI: Silence. Across the line, he raises his eyebrow, but says nothing.
PAIN THRESHOLD: Ouch.
YOU: “No! It’s really my, um. My neighbor!”
PERCEPTION: You hear a faint voice coming through the apartment to you.
FAINT VOICE: You can do it yourself, detective….you have everything you need…
HALF LIGHT: You’re losing it, Harry.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Your neighbor.” His voice is flat.
YOU: “It’s not a big deal, Kim, I can handle it myself, I just, you know, you fixed me up so good in Martinaise, I thought you could walk me through it!”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Officer. Are you alright.”
AUTHORITY: His voice is steel.
EMPATHY: He *will* drive over here for you. Across the city.
VOLITION: Do not make him do this. Do not wear out your welcome.
INLAND EMPIRE: If you lie to him again, you will hear him knocking on your door in twenty-seven minutes.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: But it takes a full half-hour to get here.
REACTION SPEED: Yes. It does.
HALF LIGHT: Wouldn’t it be nice to see him tonight?
VOLITION: Harry - you can do better than this.
YOU: “I’m okay, Kim, really. I’m just…you know. Not great with blood.”
KIM KITSURAGI: A deep breath. Then, “not a very useful trait for a detective, no?”
EMPATHY: A note of softness to his voice.
HALF LIGHT: He’s right. You’re fucking *useless*. You’re worse than a little girl. At least children are bloodthirsty and curious. You’re just sad, and drunk, and prone to vomiting at crime scenes.
1) “You’re right. I should quit my job.”
2) “I don’t think I’m going to throw up this time.”
3) “Can you come over? I need you.”
4) “No, but I really think I’m dying, Kim.”
YOU: “I don’t think I’m going to throw up this time.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “That’s good, detective.” A pause.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: He straightens his pen and his notebook in front of him. He ashes his cigarette.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Are you going to be alright?”
YOU: “Yeah, I’ll be disco, Kim. Finger guns’ll be back up in no time. Look, the bleeding’s already stopped!”
PERCEPTION: You do not look down.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm. If you’re sure, detective.”
FAINT VOICE: Come on, Harry…You can do it.
YOU: “Yeah, I’m sure. I’ll call you in the morning to prove it, okay, Kim?”
KIM KITSURAGI: A sigh. “Goodnight, detective.”
YOU: “Goodnight, Kim.”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Kim Kitsuragi hangs up very gently and then takes his glasses off, rubbing at his eyes.
INLAND EMPIRE: He will sleep poorly tonight. The detective is prone to bad dreams.
HALF LIGHT: You did this. This is your fault.
1) Call Gottlieb.
2) Call Kim.
3) Call Jean.
4) Call Mirova.
5) Call the Whirling-in-Rags.
6) Take care of it yourself.
YOU: You hang up the phone and go to step in the direction of the whispering voice.
ENDURANCE: You stumble, dizzy with the drink, and catch yourself on the wall, leaving bloody handprints.
FAINT VOICE: Oh, Harry…
YOU: Where’s that coming from?
VISUAL CALCULUS: The Calliou Circus poster on the wall there, barely hiding the hole in the plaster?
CALLIOU CIRCUS ’49: The white-faced pierre leers at you. Somehow, the black paint around his eyes and mouth makes him look cruel.
SUGGESTION: Maybe he was the one talking to you.
LA MAL PIERRE: Don’t look at me, bozo. You what some medical advice from me? Fucking kill yourself. That’s my advice.
LOGIC: It wasn’t him. His voice is the harsh grate of laughter behind your back as you stumble off the curb. The sound of breaking glass in a bar. The sound of a motor carriage engine grinding to a halt in the sea.
FAINT VOICE: Don’t listen to him. In here -
YOU: You follow the voice to the bathroom, turning on the switch. The bathroom fills with a weak light, all but one of the bulbs above you burnt out. “Hello?”
FAINT VOICE: In here, Harry.
VISUAL CALCULUS: The voice is trapped in the medicine cabinet behind the mirror. Separating the two of you is a monster, wild-haired and droopy-eyed. A beet-red and splotchy face. A stupid vacant grin.
INLAND EMPIRE: There is nothing behind that grin.
PAIN THRESHOLD: There is the pain of the entire putrid world behind that grin.
HALF LIGHT: It’s horrible. Vile. Monstrous.
PERCEPTION: The creature shies back from you, raising a bloody hand to defend itself.
HALF LIGHT: Kill it now. It’s weak.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: Harry - it’s *you.*
LOGIC: And your landlord will not supply another mirror.
YOU: You sway, putting your hand down on the sink to catch yourself. You leave a bloody print behind you.
HALF LIGHT: You should let yourself bleed out now so no one ever has to look at your disgusting self again.
LOGIC: Again - not going to bleed out - probably looks worse than it is.
FAINT VOICE: Harry - open up the cabinet.
YOU: You open the medicine cabinet.
MEDICINE CABINET: Inside the medicine cabinet are all the familiar suspects. A packet of cheap razor blades. A nearly-evaporated bottle of women’s perfume.
PAIN THRESHOLD: You know whose this is.
PERCEPTION: It smells like cigarettes, and the sea.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: It smells like the death of the heart.
YOU: You put the perfume back with a shaking hand.
MEDICINE CABINET: There are also a few empty pill-bottles, a mysterious-looking pump, and a battered and well-used first aid kit.
FIRST AID KIT: Oh, Harry. You’re in a state, aren’t you, kid?
PERCEPTION: Its voice is soft and whispering. The rattle of paper-wrapped adhesive bandages, the bubble and fizz of hydrogen peroxide, the hiss of pain through gritted teeth.
INLAND EMPIRE: This is the voice you’ve been hearing.
YOU: You pull the first aid kit out of the cabinet and look at it.
1) Outside of the kit.
2) Inside of the kit.
YOU: You look at the outside of the kit. It is a battered and faded cloth bag. Once upon a time it was white. Now it is dirty, nicotine-stained, and smeared with rusty old bloodstains.
FIRST AID KID: Yours, I’m afraid. We’re blood brothers, pal, you and me.
VISUAL CALCULUS: You leave a fresh stain even now.
ENDURANCE: The zipper is broken and gapes open. There is a tear, inexpertly patched with tape.
EMPATHY: You could ask Kim to sew it up for you.
HALF LIGHT: Kim will just tell you to throw it away. It’s long past saving. Just like you.
INLAND EMPIRE: No. Remember Kim’s jacket? You noticed a line of neat stitching in his sleeve just this morning.
ENDURANCE: Kim believes in making things last. In taking care of them.
FIRST AID KIT: Me too. So how about you let me help you get fixed up first, yeah? Then you can tell me more about this Kim.
YOU: You breathing is slowing, whistling through your nose as you focus on the first aid kit.
1) Outside of the kit.
2) Inside of the kit.
YOU: The kit contains bandages, peroxide, alcohol, ointment, and a few blister packs of nameless medicine. There are also tweezers and a needle and thread.
LOGIC: It is more well-stocked than you would expect.
PERCEPTION: Taped to the inside is a card that says Get well soon. It features a cartoon of a horse on its back with all four legs straight up in the air.
PAIN THRESHOLD: It makes your lungs hurt.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Jean Vicquemare leans over you at the kitchen table, stitching up your arm. When he finishes, he reaches over to pluck the glass out of your hand and finishes your drink.
YOU: You run your fingers over the scar on your arm - seven centimeters long, white, with a turn at the end.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: Your body is a collection of scars. A testament to those who love you.
HALF LGIHT: The inside of your lungs are a jagged scarred mess. You are worth nothing to no one.
FIRST AID KIT: I’ve got everything you need, kid. Let’s get started.
YOU: “I don’t know where to start.”
ENCYCLOPEDIA: That is because you are stupid and unloveable.
YOU: “I’m not a doctor!”
SUGGESTION: You should call Kim and ask him to play doctor.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Hello, nurse!
EMPATHY: The same Kim who kept you alive in the Whirling for three days? Maybe you shouldn’t.
LOGIC: Why not? He’s clearly good at it.
EMPATHY: The man can only take so much more.
SUGGESTION: Besides, you don’t want him to cancel his transfer, do you? He doesn’t want to deal with your pathetic mess.
[-1 morale]
FIRST AID KIT: I know you think you deserve this, Harry. You don’t.
YOU: You thunk your forehead against the cool mirror and close your stinging eyes.
FIRST AID KIT: Come on. I’ll walk you through it. First you need to wash your hands.
RHETORIC: Why? They’re not even dirty.
SAVOIR FAIRE: *Everything* in this apartment is dirty.
LOGIC: Also, then you can see how bad it really is.
YOU: You turn on the tap.
FIRST AID KIT: Hot water. There’s a good boy.
YOU: You wait, avoiding the eyes of the monster in the mirror.
LOGIC: If you can’t see it, it can’t see you.
YOU: When the water is steaming, you run the dry and cracked bar of soap on your hands and wash them.
PAIN THRESHOLD: Ouch! What the *fuck*. This is a terrible idea.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: It burns.
PERCEPTION: An animal sound fills the small and mildewed room.
FIRST AID KIT: That’s good - wash all the blood away. There you go. It’s not so bad after all, is it?
YOU: Three of your fingers bear a deep gash. You can see the edges of the wound.
VISUAL CALCULUS: Is that *bone* I see?
ENDURANCE: No. It’s not.
ENDURANCE: You feel a little woozy. You grab onto the sink with your good hand to keep yourself steady.
FIRST AID KIT: Good boy. Now blot dry - wish something clean!
YOU: You blot at your fingers with a few scraps of toilet paper.
FIRST AID KIT: Now you’re going to want to sanitize it. Use that hydrogen peroxide there.
PAIN THRESHOLD: Harry - this is going to hurt.
HALF LIGHT: This thing is trying to kill you.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You should have a drink.
FIRST AID KIT: Oh Harry, isn’t that what got you into this mess in the first place?
YOU: “I’ll be careful. I promise." You go out into the living room, rescue your bottle, and drink. It burns on the way down, warming your esophagus. Then, you go back into the bathroom and pour hydrogen peroxide over your fingers with a shaking hand.
PAIN THRESHOLD: You howl, the sound absorbing into the walls of the apartment.
PERDITION AND MAIN: Saving it for later.
INLAND EMPIRE: Your neighbors say this apartment is haunted. They scare their children with tales of the monster who lives in the basement.
PERCEPTION: The fizzing sound of hydrogen peroxide. White bubbles foam on your skin like sea-surf.
PAIN THRESHOLD: Your pain is a deep and dark abyss, and you are a motor carriage sinking in.
INLAND EMPIRE: There is no depth to what you will find here.
FIRST AID KIT: Again. Come on. You can do it. I know you can.
VOLITION: You’ve been through worse and come through. You beat death three weeks ago and rose from the dead *five* weeks ago.
SAVOIR FAIRE: They ought to start some kind of religion after you.
RHETORIC: Sad-sack-ism.
YOU: You do it again, pouring more liberally this time.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: Bubbling all the dirt out. Washing you clean.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: That’s *not* actually how it works -
HALF LIGHT: You can never be washed clean.
INLAND EMPIRE: Except by the sea.
FIRST AID KIT: There’s a good boy. Very brave and strong. You only grunted once.
[+1 morale]
YOU: You look down at your fingers, the gash clearly exposed.
LOGIC: See? You’re not dying after all.
DRAMA: One of these days, I’ll be right. You’ll see.
FIRST AID KIT: Now go ahead and put some bandages on. One for each finger -
VISUAL CALCULUS: No - a bigger one.
YOU: You clumsily wrap your fingers up, hair hanging down in your eyes, hands shaking. Finally, you finish, holding your bandaged up before you.
SAVOIR FAIRE: You look ridiculous.
FIRST AID KIT: There you go! Harry, you did it!
[+1 health]
ENDURANCE: You are suddenly exhausted and weak.
YOU: Clutching the first aid kit in one hand, you stumble into the living room, turning off the lamp. You curl up on the floor beside the couch to stop the spins.
VOLITION: You’ve drunk too much, Harry. Again…
PERDITION AND MAIN: The apartment is dark except for the patch of light coming in through the small high window far above you and the streak of light from the bathroom.
ENDURANCE: Your heart is pounding in your chest with the old alcohol-beat. You will have a long and restless night.
PERCEPTION: You can smell the stale smell of your carpet, and the faintly medicinal smell of the first aid kit in your arms.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Your fingers throb. It is almost comforting.
INLAND EMPIRE: You are in your body, here and now. For better or for worse.
FIRST AID KIT: And I’m here with you. I’ve got your back. Now go to sleep. This will all be better in the morning.
HALF LIGHT: Don’t believe it.
YOU: “No, it won’t.”
FIRST AID KIT: Only one way to find out, kid. Now, let me tell you about simple fractures. In order to heal a simple fracture…
YOU: Curling up tighter around the first aid kit, you close your eyes and fall asleep.