He was still in the art museum, Garry knew for sure. He had stared at this single painting for what felt like hours, or maybe it was only a few seconds, he couldn't tell, his mind was fuzzy and he couldn't put a finger on why.
Blinking a few times, Garry decided he was probably just tired and needed to go home. He patted himself down to make sure he hadn't dropped anything, but noticed something on his hand. Examining it, he found it wrapped in a handkerchief (not to mention that it was bloodstained, how unnerving...). It couldn't be his, he couldn't afford something with such high quality fabric. He had only recently flown the nest, after all. "Ah, there's a name! The owner of this handkerchief is called Ib-"
It took a moment to connect, but once it did, Garry covered his mouth to suppress the screams that came as a force of habit for someone like him.
He hastily unwrapped the makeshift bandage and stared at the fancy lettering.
It was the only thing left of her.
He wasn't sure why she walked away from him. She saw something, obviously more promising than himself - no! That is a ridiculous thought! He mentally slapped himself for keeping an adolescent mindset. It wasn't that he wasn't enough - Ib had grown very close to him - it was that he didn't do enough. He couldn't convince her that it was safe, and that the world beyond the painting would lead to the real world.
Garry considered himself responsible for her safety until she could return to her parents. He promised her, "No, we will make it out!"
He failed himself.
More importantly, he failed her.
After she left, and the painting closed, he had punched and grabbed and screamed and cried for her... It was useless, but he screamed anyway. Despite being a man of many fears, Garry had never felt more afraid in that moment. He still felt a sliver of hope that she might make it back, that his laments might reach her, but of course, this wasn't a fairytale, so they didn't.
He wanted to burn that painting. But he couldn't, Ib was in there.
Would it be better for her if he did? Ib was probably still encountering monster after monster, would she be happier-
Garry stopped thinking about it.
Maybe he shouldn't have come in the first place. No, Ib shouldn't have come. He could have handled it better than her, though that place wasn't good for his sanity... for a young girl, it must be ten times as worse. There was no way of stopping her from coming to the gallery, as they had not met until after they were both inside.
He could have protected her. He could have helped her in first, before it was too late.
Garry was now 100 percent sure this was entirely his fault.
Ib, a bright, adorable nine year old girl with so much potential was left eternally in a realm of torture.
Garry, a useless, weakling man going on twenty, who had wasted his life doing nothing of importance, was given the blessing of a life in the real world.
If this was fate's form of a joke, Garry wasn't laughing.
He was now patting lightly on the corners of his eyes with the handkerchief. Garry didn't realize he was crying. He must have looked idiotic. Then again, he also wore a beat up jacket out and talked like an old woman, so appearances shouldn't have mattered at this point.
Looking around the museum, there weren't that many people around. Perhaps if he spent the night no one would notice. There was a part of him that hoped Ib would jump out of the Fabricated World and he wanted to be there to hug her. She had done the same to him after he saved her from Mary.
There was a family passing him, a mother, father, and daughter. Garry almost reached out to say goodbye before realizing that wasn't Ib. His hopes were too high for his own good, and his sobs were too loud to be ignored.
"The Fabricated World," A different man with dark hair put an arm around him, reading the sign. "I wouldn't want to go in there, I would have nightmares for weeks."
"I agree wholeheartedly, sir."
After a pause, the man noticed Garry shaking, still feebly attempting to hold back tears, and patted his shoulder. "You're okay."
Garry broke down.