Lighter and Lace

CHAPTER ONE: Wine and Roses

...

It looks like I'm writing again, for the first time in…what? A few months? Longer? Half a year or so, I think. And again I've shown how difficult it is for me to stick to one story for long periods of time, since it looks like I'm starting another fanfiction here without continuing from previous, unfinished ones. Oh well.

Well anyway, after recently playing through "Ib", I was touched by the endings of the game, specifically the Promise of Reunion, and felt I had to write a story logically continuing the ending, seeing Garry and Ib try to fit back into their respective lives. Unlike a few other fanfiction I've read, please not this is not a 'sequel' to the game, and I'm not intending at this time to put Garry and Ib through another horror-filled painting romp. This is simply the two of them moving on, meeting again, and helping each other, and seeing their bond grow.

I'm dabbling into a casual 'stream-of-consciousness' style in this fanfiction, as you will soon see, a kind of step-by-step first person view of the world around the characters. I'm not sticking to it rigorously, but you'll see its influence, and information about the characters and their situations will be unfolded as the chapter (and story as a whole) moves on. Note that I'm TRYING to use simpler language whenever I write from something that could be considered Ib's Point Of View, since, as the game shows, she's a nine year old still learning advanced language.

Anyway, I'll stop babbling now. I hope you enjoy the first installment to "Lighter and Lace".

...

The rug was warm. The room was warm. He'd put all the lights on, opened one of the bottles of red wine that his parents had left him so long ago, and had open folders lying around where he leant against the apartment wall, all of them filled with photographs of him and his family at different stages of their life. Garry rested his head against the wall, putting aside thoughts of how he was going to pay for actually using the apartment heating for the first time in months. Money seemed so pointless, now, but life? Life was good, it was glorious. He was in comfort, drinking the finest wine ever to pass his lips, and surrounded by photos of happy times. He hadn't even taken his coat off, yet, he didn't think he could bear to do so. Only a few hours ago, before the sun set, it was all he had alongside his lighter and his rose. Well, before…that little girl.

That's what else he had on the floor in front of him. The lace handkerchief, 'Ib" embroidered on it, though a deep red-pink spot marred the otherwise pure white sheet.

"…..There's so much more I want to talk about, but I've to get going."

Why had he left? Well, it was to meet a schedule for a job interview, but it was a terrible reason. Not that he didn't need the job - for he certainly did - but that it was hardly important that he was alive and past that nightmare. And Ib; she was out of that nightmare, too. But that was part of the reason. He didn't think he could stay, he knew she wanted to see her parents again, and he wasn't sure how he would explain that he was….friends with their daughter. Friends. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth…

He slowed his pace as he turned the corner. He'd seen a red-eyed woman pass. He'd seen her before, at a painting which Ib had stared into. One of her parents. "Ib? It's time to go, sweetie. So what did you think of the exhibit-" The woman's voice was quickly lost in the layers of conversations as Garry resumed a normal walking place, smiling as he left the building.

Yes, he couldn't have approached her parents. But he could find her again…how many red-eyed girls called Ib are in the city? Maybe it won't be that simple, but still…

Okay, maybe there was some doubt in his mind.

But if she wanted to be found, then they will meet again. That's what he told himself.

He took another sip of wine. He didn't feel the need for a cigarette, surprisingly, but he leant forward to leaf through the photo albums he'd brought out. He'd spent a good hour staring at the handkerchief, and it might be unhealthy. It just brings back flashes…

Frantically grabbing the doll. Oh god he didn't want to touch the hideous thing, it felt so sickening, but its stomach, it bulged! It was it! Thank god! He tore at the cloth, through the cotton and a… "A pebble!? What is this? What are they-" No, no time to ask, no time to yell. The painting was growing. Oh God it was reaching out… Another one, another doll! Tearing it, a tiny clang of metal. He didn't even look at it, he just scrabbled at the ground, hoping to everything, grabbing the metal and thrusting it in the keyhole in desperation. It turned! The key! He opened the door, slamming it behind him, and ran. Ran.

Garry took in a deep breath, closing his eyes, then deciding that that was worse, and instead gulping down several mouthfuls of the wine, the powerful sensation to him, not one prone to drinking, forcing his mind away from the vision of the nightmare again. He shook his head furiously, as ridiculous as an image he was sure it must create were someone watching him, and actually spoke aloud.

"Okay!"

He could hear his voice. Phew. It centered him, kind of. Suddenly he looked at his empty wineglass, wondering….wondering what Ib is going through, what she went through when he wasn't there. God, even what she went through when he WAS there….

Well, it was 11pm. People her age would be asleep by now, right? He wasn't really sure. He didn't have that much experience with children, he guessed, now that he thought about it. If she could sleep at all, of course. The thought of her alone in a dark room, scared, made something in him twist. She was a smart girl, she probably knows that her parents would never really believe her, if she decided to tell them. Sadly…

He tried to push Ib from his mind. At least for now. He went back again to the photo album, looking over images of when he was young. Maybe even Ib's age. Ib was about nine, so if he was her age in these photos that was - what? – thirteen years ago? He turned a page in the album, coming across a series of him playing the flute at Christmas with the family around. He hadn't seen most of them in a while, since mum and dad died. He hadn't played the flute for a few years either. He used to be pretty good. Very good.

He still had the old thing, right? Probably one of his most valuable possessions at this point. He may have to pawn it and the rest of the wine his parents left to him if he was going to be able to pay his rent, since the way that job interview went leaves him certainly jobless and this moment of quiet celebration is eating into the last bits of money he has for his bills.

'I wonder…', did his fingers still remember the notes? Still remember how to play? His lungs probably aren't what they used to be, considering his unfortunate smoking habit, but… He stood up, stepping over the objects littering the floor of his tiny apartment, going over to the closet where he thinks he'd stored his flute…

'Even if I don't, re-teaching myself will give me something to do for the night.'

He doesn't know about Ib, but he's certainly not ready to sleep yet.

...

"Your daughter appears to be suffering from a severe case of shock, and is responding to the world like a victim of an intense panic attack." The doctor softly explained with brutal honesty to the father, worry and pain written in the lines of his face. The mother was with their daughter; Ib hadn't stop crying since she had been put to bed and the light turned off, and even after her parents turned it back on and tried to comfort her, she just never stopped sobbing herself dry, and still dry weeping beyond that. She hadn't said a word, not so much as a 'mummy'. When nothing they could do could comfort her, they eventually called a private doctor in during the middle of the night.

"Mr. Hope." The doctor stated in a manner to draw attention to himself. Anton Hope looked up. His mind hadn't been in the present. His daughter, his flesh and blood, was sobbing and he wasn't there, he couldn't do anything about it. He was her father.

"Yes, yes. Sorry."
"Mr. Hope, I know this must be hard for you. Your daughter hasn't had any previously existing phobias? Beyond the fears all children have?"
"No. She was always very…." He swallowed, "Very….brave. She rarely cried even when she hurt herself, and never needed a light on to sleep..." How could this happen? How could his brave little girl be in so much terror?
"And you said she hasn't been alone all day? Save for a few minutes in an art gallery?"
"Yes…"
"Then I can't give any accurate cause, but until I can get a complete psychological evaluation, the symptoms would lead me to think that your daughter may have developed a panic disorder."
"I…see…"
"I will prepare a psychological evaluation, but such a disorder is most commonly treated by cognitive behavioral therapy over time. Your daughter should be fine, just try to avoid stress and crowds, and spend as much time with her as possible, or as much time as she would like. Perhaps take some days off work and school both."
"I think we will, thank you. Is there anything we can do until then? Is there anything you can do?" But the doctor was already shaking his head.
"I'm sorry, but this is beyond my area of training. Help her through the panic attack, calm her down and reassure her. Sleep in the same room, at least. She may have several throughout the night. With your permission, I know someone who is exceptional at her work who can come around by dawn and provide both analysis and necessary therapy, but her services are highly sought af-"
"Price is not an issue. Please contact her for us."

The doctor wisely said nothing, merely nodding and quietly taking his leave. The wrenching cries had stopped, thankfully, from what he heard as he passed by. Hopefully the poor child had finally cried herself to sleep.

Red liquid dropping down a pane of glass. Two vast red eyes, staring, laughing. Awful ladies clawing at the glass, cracking it. The door not opening. Sounds from behind her. Walking headless creatures. The head staring at them through the mirror. Mary's palette knife swinging, advancing, giggling. Watching her burn, screaming in pain as her skin burnt in seconds, those eyes no longer showing happiness, confusion or anger, but just pain. All of it burnt in pain."LEAVE! NOW NOW NOW!"

A choked scream suddenly came from the girl's room, the doctor rushed in to see her mother and daughter clinging to one another, the mother trying to whisper anything to calm down her daughter as Ib clutched at her expensive dress. The mother rocking her, slowly, telling her everything was alright.

The doctor moved aside as Ib's father came rushing in immediately afterwards. Feeling suddenly unwelcome as both parents held their daughter between them worriedly, he left the room, and the significantly sized home; the Hope household. Walking across the path to his car, he stopped as the edge of his coat caught on the edge of something. Turning, he gently pulled it free of the lovingly crafted steel 'vines' that surrounded the sign proudly displaying the property's name. Rose Manor. An image of a rose was carved into the bronze plaque.

...

'Mmmh…' Slips of consciousness returned, thoughts entering his head. His head ached. He turned his face so the stained pillowcase covered his eyes from the sunlight now streaming through the window, the glare aggravating the pain even through his closed eyelids. What day was it? His mind wasn't really working yet. Did he have work? Nah, he hadn't had a job for a while, he'd been waking up to nothing for a while. Never with a headache this bad, though. Eh, it hurt to think. Where'd the headache come from?

'Think back…'

Suddenly Garry sat straight up, the speed of him almost jumping from the mattress causing a twinge to spring in his neck.

"Ah!" He clutched the sprained neck with a hand, trying to cover his eyes from the painful light with the other. He wasn't tired anymore. He remembered now. He could almost dismiss it as a dream, but he remembered it all too well. After a few seconds, he took the hand away from his eyes, blinking rapidly and staring through blurred vision to look closely at the palm of his right hand. Yes, yes. There was a scratch, a scar really, barely healed, right there across his palm.

He took his other hand away from his neck, trying to turn his neck until the pain diminished. It didn't really work, and the movement of his head reminded him of the headache, which suddenly returned full-force. He looked at his small bedside table with the drawers that didn't really open properly, seeing an empty wineglass and equally empty bottle of wine probably worth several days' salary, if he had a job. Well that would explain both the headache and how he got to sleep. Scattered across the floor were the photo albums - some closed, some open – of the night before, a silver-tinted flute across the carpet and Ib's lace handkerchief. It too, reminded him, alongside the scar.

Ugh. He wasn't good with alcohol. But a bottle wasn't too much, right? He checked the bottle. 9 standard drinks? How long did he get through that? He didn't know he could drink that muc-

Oh. He needed the bathroom.

After a short dash and back, his headache had at least been pushed to the back of his head, and able to be put aside for the most part. He went to pick up his flute; he shouldn't have left it just lying on the floor, not when there's its case sitting only a few feet away. Holding its weight in his hands, he recalled last night. Was it his drink whispering to him, or was he actually still able to play a few of his tunes competently still? Lucky. He was always a good flautist, but after a few years he knew he was exceptionally fortunate to even still be familiar with the instrument.

Kneeling down slowly, cradling the flute in his hands, Garry pulled the case close, about to put down his flute. Funny. A few days ago he wouldn't have even thought of his flute, or that he ever played it. It just seemed like a talent that he never made use of, and one where he just found no care for anymore, when his friends and family trickled away by chance. Death, necessity or ambition drove almost everyone he knew elsewhere, and without sharing the music, it grew hollow. Or maybe that's what he told himself.

He didn't put it back in the case, but a memory, drifting from the back of his mind, made him remember something. Moving his fingers to the edge of the velvet blanketing the foam mold for the flute components, up to where it meets the leather-bound hard external casing, Garry pushed his fingers through, lifting the entire inside mold out with ease, seeing some of his old sheet music below. Last night he had just been trying scales and a few pieces from memory, but here were some of his more treasured, and more difficult, writings. Easily carried around within the case, and unable to be simply blown away by a stray gust of wind if the case is opened for any reason, he'd chosen to keep some sheet music there some time ago, and it was a miracle he didn't forget about it entirely.

He picked up the first few pages, taking them out and propping the paper up against a wall. He didn't know where his music stand was. Sitting in front of it with his flute, he gave the flute a brief clean and a test scale, before beginning the piece in front of him, the memory of his hands and lungs blending with his conscious reading of the music to recreate the piece, not without flaws, but competently.

Johann Sebastian Bach's "Badinerie", concluded with a coughing fit and a wave of concern for the poor young girl who had been so brave.

...

"Isabelle! ISABELLE! IB!" Yelled Genevieve Hope, calling her daughter's name in a panic, running after her little girl who had pulled her wrist from her hold and ran. She couldn't keep up with Ib through the crowds of people on the city street, as much as most of them tried to make room for her, and her heeled shoes ensured that every desperate, awkward step to her run threatened to force her off balance.

"IB!" Why had she run? She had been getting better over the past week, the behavioral therapy was helping her sleep, even if she was still being very quiet. "ISABELLE! Please, Isabelle!" She was looking ready to go back to school in a few days, and Genevieve had just wanted to take her little girl shopping for whatever she wanted… They had stopped for just a moment to look through a store window, what was there had slipped from Mrs. Hope's mind, lost in the sudden, intense terror striking her at the threat of losing her child in the streets. The tiny red-eyed girl lost among the adults, running.

Footsteps on the ground, weaving through the slow, unliving figures. Running from them all, from the knocking, the Lady in Red, the tricks of the mind, the things that are and aren't there. Blond-hair on a mannequin head and a yellow rose behind the glass, but not a plant, a fake. Fake. Not real. None of it. Only one person. Watching the door from the creatures. Letting her rest. Giving her peace.

Ib was crying as she ran, exhaustion not even entering her mind, her body filled with adrenaline and misplaced instinct.

It was noisy, unlike before. Sounds of horns, beeping, people, muttering, yelling, cursing. It was warm, sunlit. The smells weren't pleasant, but nor were they moldy and filled her nose with cold. There were people, talking and very much alive. Things staying where they should, the mannequins, or walking and talking normally, not hiding and whispering. She started to see the world around her, again, but it was all still so large, so warm and happy, but still so odd, so concerning and scary. Not a nightmare, but almost as alone. She turned, recognizing that nobody she knew was there. Where had her mother gone? Where had she gone? What had happened?

"Mum…?" Ib whispered, looking around, her lower lip trembling as she knew she was going to cry again. A man in a suit kneeled down in front of her, concern in his eyes.
"Are you okay, little girl? Where are your parents?"

She wanted to say something, but instead felt herself burst into tears and run away, leaving his stunned face behind. Running, running was how to solve any problem. She ran through crowds, crossed roads, drew looks and avoided people trying to talk to her or slow her down. One second she felt so hugely happy and glad, a single second afterwards scared and sad, and so scared, but then so warm and bright again. She didn't really know why, how it was happening, why she didn't know how to feel, what to do.

A park. She was entering a park, now. A huge one, but one she thought she'd been to before. She didn't know her way home, though, but she knew the park. Big, green trees and multiple paths through, and birds in the trees, and roses in some of the bushes if you look hard enough. But she heard something aside from the sounds of the city, a series of notes, a comforting chant of music along the air, drawing her to one of the paths, following the sound of the flute.

...

There you are. Note that italics in the story tend to represent memories being called back, specifically from the time in Guertena's 'exhibition'.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it so far. Please review, and feel free to criticize or make suggestions for improvement.

Also, in case you missed it (since I'm trying to make detail – dropping a bit more subtle in this story, as opposed to the over-detail I tend to use): Ib's full name is Isabelle Hope (I don't know of the accuracy of the source, but I did read somewhere that "Ib" was short for "Isabelle" and I liked the name), her mother is Genevieve Hope and her father is Anton Hope. Garry hasn't been given a last name yet in the story. Also, the last section is set about a week after the previous sections.

...Now why is REFUSING to let me 'underline' these ending notes?