Pain is the fire that forges our souls into iron.
"No..."
Stanford's entire body trembled as he fell to his knees.
"NO!"
He lifted up his brother's limp head from the ground, his blood boiling. Every beat of his heart fanning the flames of his fury. It was a feeling that overwhelmed him, more than his human frame could stand. It made his very bones shake and his eyes glow red.
"No."
He laid Stanley's head back to the ground as gently as his quivering hands could manage. Even as his eyes blurred with tears and his breaths came in deep and heavy, he stood, facing the deliverer of his rage.
"AWE! LOOKS LIKE SOMEONE'S LIMBIC CENTER IS OVERLOADING! YOU SHOULD LEARN TO TAKE A JOKE, IQ," Cipher rose to float above Stanford's head, chuckling as he began to loom over Stanford's figure. The larger he got, the deeper his voice rang out. Bill took full advantage, his very laugh causing the ground to quake.
Stanford stood his ground, his will unbroken. He was going to tear Cipher apart, brick by two-dimensional brick.
"NOT TALKING? FINE. DON'T."
Ford growled, lurching forward at Cipher. He didn't have a plan, only an aspiration.
Bill didn't even pretend to be concerned. He snapped his fingers, emitting all the emotion of an exhausted mother, tired of her child's tantrums.
He was inches away from Bill, his fist moments away from contact, when he suddenly began clawing at his throat. He gasped, eyes wide. His sweater was tightening around his neck, choking him.
He tried to yell out, to do anything, but the improvised noose was unrelenting. The last thing he saw was a flash of gleaming yellow before collapsing into unconsciousness.
...
Stanford jerked up, falling off the couch as he woke up. He was shivering. Unfortunately, it had nothing to do with being cold.
Sighing, he pushed himself off the floor, dropping himself back down onto the couch. The nightmares were getting worse. He rubbed at his eyes, reaching out to find his glasses.
How much longer will he haunt me? Ford wondered. He located his lenses and shoved them on his face. They sat askew, but he couldn't have cared less. At the very least, he could finally see now. He stood and stretched out his back with another deep sigh. He was fit, but youth had left him long ago.
Running one hand through his ruffled hair, he walked into the kitchen. He was keenly aware of the lack of his brother's presence as he started a pot of coffee. He did his best to ignore the feeling as he made breakfast.
He sat at the table alone, eating slowly. Living alone in the past allowed Ford to do whatever he wanted. He used to skip breakfast and lunch often, living off coffee and whatever he scraped up from the back of the fridge. When he did prepare a meal, he would scarf it down, eager to continue working.
Yet now...it didn't seem quite so important. He finished his food then proceeded to clean the few dishes he'd used. Stanley had always kept a clean house-
Stanford scrubbed harder, unaware the dish was already as clean as it was going to get. He emptied his mind, allowing the work to numb away his thoughts. He got lost in the motions, cleaning, rinsing and drying until each dish was back in their proper places, glistening with cleanliness.
He nodded at his work, drying off his own hands just as methodically as he had the dishes.
Unwilling to let go of the mind-numbing feeling chores brought, he glanced the rest of the kitchen. The table was cleared and brighter than it had been in years. The counters equally so. He frowned. He had never lived somewhere so orderly, much less put anything in order. Unless you count putting together parts of a machine or even essay structures.
He didn't think those qualified.
He scanned the rest of the kitchen. Every surface had been tidied or scrubbed within an inch of its life. He left, his frown etched into his features.
The living room was just as tidy. He noticed his trenchcoat lying on- Stanley's -the armchair. He swooped it up, setting it on the coat holder beside the hallway entrance.
He stared down the hall, noting the stairs that led up to the second floor. He hadn't visited upstairs since the children had left. It was probably still filthy. He gazed at the steps, contemplating.
I can't.
He turned away, his feet heavy.
His entire life had been spent shoving things away. There were obvious things. Physical things. Like his family, his friends. Even food. But those were only symptoms.
The real problems lie within his mind, and that was one place Stanford never wanted to explore again.