Author's Notes: This is my first SP fanfiction in a while, and was co-written with SnuffSnuff. I will not be writing an FAQ for this fanfic unless one is specifically requested; you'll just have to figure out all the hidden references yourself. Be warned. If you don't like pithy philosophical musings, then you probably won't like this story.
"When I consider this carefully, I find not a single property which with certainty separates the waking state from the dream. How can you be certain that your whole life is not a dream?"
-Rene Descartes
Stan crashed shoulder first through the decrepit wooden door, legs flailing to keep his balance as he stumbled into the next hallway. Gasping with labored breath at the cold musty air, he pushed further into the inky blackness ahead. A trail of dark crimson steadily drizzled onto the moldy wooden floorboards in his wake.
He's going to kill me. If I look back, he's going to kill me—or worse.
Stan cinched up the grip of his left hand even more tightly around where he had it clenched on his right forearm. His brown jacket sleeve was drenched through with a viscous stain. Above the ragged edge of exposed muscle protruded bone sliced clean through. A crescent flash of steel, and everything from halfway down his forearm was gone, cruelly severed at a sharp angle.
The hallway seemed to have no end in sight, twisting and reeling underfoot like the bowels of a giant serpent as the disorientation set in. Stan could almost taste his pulse in the back of his throat, throbbing along with the pounding in his eardrums and his heavy reverberating footsteps. Some distance behind him, a splintering crash resounded through the hall, and a deep rattling moan heralded the rapid approach of his pursuer.
Stan had no choice. If he continued to strain his leaden limbs to carry his weakened frame along, he would burn himself out in little time, and his chances of escaping would still be slim. If however he gave in to the numbness that sought to drag him down like metal chains, he would stand no chance at all. He almost found himself crying out to the uncaring nothingness, but there wasn't a soul in sight to help him.
The rattling moan drew closer, and Stan could almost feel the remainder of the blood in his veins turn to ice. A large ebony pair of double doors loomed at the end of the hallway. With a desperate lunge, Stan tumbled through the doors and into the large circular room beyond.
As the doors creaked shut behind him, Stan found himself in a large ballroom, consisting of tall elegant windows that stretched the full three-story height of the far side of the room. A pair of curved staircases flanked the room on either side, leading from the opposite end of the room to landings above the doorway. Outside, a thunderstorm rumbled across the night skies, pelting the windows with raindrops like bullets, and briefly sending strobes of lightning throughout the room.
Stan ran for the nearest window and drove his left fist into the lowermost pane, leaving a bloody smudge in his futile attempt to break his way out. There was a high ringing clash of steel against wood, and then another in immediate succession, as his pursuer aggressively slashed the double doors into pieces. If Stan were to escape, his only way out now would be up one of the two flights of stairs.
No sooner had Stan come within a stride's distance of the right hand staircase than the entire flight of stairs suddenly rose up into the air, as if the first step had stretched itself out vertically to twice Stan's height. His eyes darted across the room, where he saw that the other flight of stairs had followed suit. As perplexing as this was, he soon came to the stark realization that he was trapped. The dark figure blocked the doorway, and Stan could see that the hallway behind it now tilted upwards at an impossible angle. He could not get back out that way even if he wanted to.
The figure was cloaked in long robes, which melded with shadows and floated on the air like tattered wisps of darkness. A hood covered its face, though the heavy bloodstained scythe it wielded was a dead giveaway to its identity. "It is futile to run. You must know that by now." Its voice sounded like a spoken whisper in the back of Stan's own mind, with no discernable tone or character.
Stan turned so that his throbbing injured arm faced away from the figure, out of instinctive reluctance to ever show any weakness. The words slipped out, "What gives you the right?" sounding more forceful and defiant than he had intended. A spark of anger had found its way into Stan's mental fog. "What if I don't want to go along with you?"
"Then I'll just have to take what I need," the voice resonated again, as the figure pointed the gleaming blade of its scythe at Stan. Lightning flashed throughout the room once more. "It doesn't have to be this way. Make it easy on yourself."
It was then that Stan caught on. The terror in his heart was being exploited, purposely exposed like pages of an open book. He wasn't going to give the Reaper what it wanted, either way. "Easier for me or for you?" Hoping his gambit would pay off, he tried to buy himself some time by addressing the figure on equal grounds. "What are you hiding anyway? Or is that your job, to never show your face?"
"We can do this informally if you want." The Reaper held the scythe out in front of itself, causing an unfelt wind to rush over it and sweep back its hood and robes. The figure stood revealed as a young, yet decrepit looking man, with a pale face, sunken blue eyes over rounded cheekbones, ebony hair under a blue and red winter cap, and red gloved hands clutching its scythe. Stan found himself standing face to face with a taller, older looking version of himself.
"You're copying me," said Stan. It wasn't a question; it was a statement, and one with an accusatory tone. The fingers of his left hand trembled to remain gripped around his right forearm. Had he truly done this to himself? Had he been maimed by an outward manifestation of all the self-loathing built up inside?
"Don't act so surprised," the voice spoke, even though the doppelganger's lips did not move. "I am the last thing anyone sees before the end of their life, when it flashes before their eyes and the regrets of the past catch up. They always see themselves, and all the shame and failure within, even though it's far—too—late."
The Reaper swung immediately for Stan's neck, and would have connected had Stan not leapt back on seeing him lunge. Stan had neglected the fact that he'd been mired in debilitating pain and fear for his life. It was simply not in him to lie down and die. He leapt back again, and again, causing the Reaper to miss him each time, before Stan turned and broke into a run.
"There is no exit and no escape," sounded the voice. The Reaper raised its scythe over its right shoulder and brought it down at an angle, narrowly missing Stan's midriff. A thin slash mark was left in the surface of his jacket.
Stan glared and clenched his teeth. If he could somehow cause the Reaper pain, perhaps he could force it to back off. The scythe was an unwieldy weapon that would not work up close. He searched frantically for an opening among the wide, air-rending arcs of the scythe in missed attempts to separate his head from his shoulders. Swallowing hard, Stan pushed himself as close as possible, staring his doppelganger right in the eyes and feeling its icy breath brush over his face.
"Yes, embrace your fate," hissed the voice in the back of Stan's head, as the scythe was raised high overhead and brought down in a swiftly descending chop. Stan had no choice but to fall onto his back. The blade of the scythe had embedded itself in the floor through a layer of carpet, slicing clean through Stan's red poofball cap. The viciously sharp edge now rested tangent to Stan's scalp, as the Reaper struggled to liberate its scythe from the floor. "Give in to your true desire. You wish only to hurt yourself to make up for hurting others."
Stan felt a cold trickle run between his eyes as he lifted his head off the floor. "I'm bleeding," was the only thing that came to Stan's mind as he touched his forehead. He held up his wounded right arm to the light, and the sharp jagged edges of severed bone from which the raw flesh had begun to recede.
"I will not miss again," sounded the voice. With one final tug, the Reaper had managed to pull its scythe back out from the floor, staggering slightly.
"Neither will I," growled Stan, taking advantage of the second during which the cloaked figure was still off balance. He leapt at his attacker with the only weapon he had. The back of the Reaper's chest burst open from within, letting loose a torrent of blood. Stan stood with his left fist clenched, and with the bones of his right arm impaled right through the Reaper's heart to the other side.
The heavy scythe clattered to the floor, falling from the figure's grip. Its shoulders slumped and its knees buckled, while its chin and neck became soaked in vomited vermilion. Stan brought his foot up into the Reaper's chest and kicked himself off, driving the figure to its knees. Sputtering and gasping, it picked its head up one last time to sneer and gaze into Stan's eyes, only to fall without another word.
Lightning flashed throughout the room one last time. The heavy raindrops outside had abated. Stan breathed heavily, although he no longer felt on the verge of exhaustion. He looked down and kicked the dark cloaked figure with disdain. Turning his back to walk away, he wriggled his left arm out of its sleeve before slowly peeling his bloodstained jacket off towards his injured right arm, wrapping it around his forearm in a crude bandage.
His ordeal was over, for the moment. But where would he go from here? He was still trapped as far as he could tell. Stan tried to lift the Reaper's scythe with his left hand, thinking he might be able to use it to smash one of the windows and escape, but he could scarcely drag the massive weapon a short distance, let alone wield it properly. Attempting to reach the double doors or either of the staircases was out of the question.
"Nicely done," said a voice from somewhere in the shadows. This voice was different, jaded and deliberate, although sounding like it belonged to a small child around the same age as Stan. Stan turned in the direction the voice had come from and was a little surprised to see a blue-haired boy stepping into the moonlight. The boy had eyes almost the same color as Stan's and was dressed from head to toe in white footie pajamas. He gave a forced smile through a face as serious as his stiffly posed body, and stood with his hands held behind his back.
"What the?" were the first words that escaped from Stan's mouth. "Who are you? How did you get here?"
"I'm a friend," answered the boy. "Though I see you are still as lost as ever. I know how that can be."
"How do I know I can trust you?" Stan slowly took a few steps towards the boy until the two met at the halfway point. "What do you mean by lost?"
"Trust me, you can ill afford to turn down my help." The boy lowered his arms to his sides to reveal that he was carrying something in his right hand. "You have to be careful not to lose yourself in this place," said the boy, "Otherwise there's no telling what could happen to you." He held out the object and presented it to Stan. As Stan reached out to take it, he recognized it as the severed part of his right arm.
"Where did you find this?" asked Stan. The blue-haired boy simply nodded and gave an encouraging gesture. Somehow knowing what he had to do, Stan removed the bloody jacket from his right arm and lined up the severed wrist and hand with the ends of his bones. Right before his eyes, the bones clung and held fast, and the flesh surrounding the wound boiled like hot wax, swelling until it had molded itself in place. Mouth agape, Stan flexed the fingers on his right hand, and then pulled his jacket back on.
"I have been trapped in this realm for longer than I can remember," said the boy, recalling Stan's second question. His eyes drifted down to the right. "Perhaps a decade, perhaps a century, perhaps an eternity. I wish to help you because that is the only way I can define my own existence, to avoid fading like a long lost memory. If I can at least do that, then hopefully all the knowledge I've gained could be of some use to one who stands a chance of making it off of this world."
"This world. What is it exactly?"
"I can't answer that," said the boy. "Only you can discover that for yourself. I can tell you is that it's a place you've been many times before."
"A-am I dead?" asked Stan.
The boy shook his head. "Death is the end of thought, the end of the stream of consciousness. You have looked Death in the eyes without succumbing to it." He pointed to the dark cloaked figure, which now lay in a pool of blood, its crumpled body disintegrating into the shadows. "Most people gaze upon their own death and are afraid."
"I was," Stan admitted. "But I didn't…"
"You dealt with it on your own terms, rather than being a slave to fate," spoke the boy. "Most people waste their whole lives preparing for death. You however know better than that."
"How do you…?" Stan started. "You haven't told me. Who are you?"
The boy looked away again for a moment. "A fair question. I no longer remember my name. Names become meaningless after a while."
"Can you help me find a way out of here then?" asked Stan.
"There is always a door, if you know where to look," said the boy, passively gesturing towards one of the staircases.
It was then that Stan noticed a small solitary door in the far wall of the ballroom, hidden in the shadows beside the windows, at the foot of the left hand staircase. Why hadn't he seen this before? Had the door risen out of the ground along with the stairs? Half expecting it to be locked, he approached the new door regardless and tried the knob. The door swung open to an obsidian plateau that seemed to stretch out endlessly in every direction under the starry night skies. "This is all new to me," said Stan. "How do you know this place so well?"
The boy gazed off into the distance. "I once used to dream, like you do. I would visit fanciful worlds of magic and adventure, where my imagination was the limit. At first I was happy, being the Master of my own dreams." His brow fell and he stood with his side profile to Stan. "It was not meant to last. I have lived through my own demise, time and time again. That's how they all ended."
Stan was about to ask, 'What changed?' but decided not to press the matter.
"But I can't die here, because I have nowhere to return to," the boy continued, now facing Stan once more. "I don't want you to share the same fate. As much as I would selfishly like to have a companion again after all this time, I can't keep you to myself. You—do not belong here."
"Oh." Stan couldn't really think of much more to say at a time like this.
"For now, think of me as your guiding light in the darkness," said the boy. "Whenever you find yourself in this realm, rest assured I'll show up as needed."
"I still have no idea where we are," said Stan, slowly letting his eyes pass back and forth over the plateau.
"The places here cannot be found," said the Guide, "But they will find you when you most need them."
"What about the house I was trapped in? Are you saying I had something to do with what happened to me in there?" Stan turned and looked behind him. The large manor he had just escaped from stood in a magenta spotlight against the blackness, its image gently distorting and waving like seaweed in the tides.
"The house is always built from your state of mind," explained the Guide. "Large, complex, and labyrinthine, filled with doubt and uncertainty, sometimes holding you prisoner within your worst fears. Yet it can all be overcome."
"Maybe so," said Stan. "I'm still stuck here though. I just want to get home, more than anything else."
"I will show you the way," said the Guide. "That's what I'm here for." He took a step in a different direction. "Before you go though, would you care to join me for a bit? It's been so long since I've had a real person to talk to."
Stan gave the boy a confused look. "Join you? What do you mean?"
"I know this sushi bar that serves great fugu," said the Guide. "You won't find any other like it in this world."
"Uh, okay," said Stan, not wanting to be rude, even though he didn't care much for sushi. "I don't see how we're going to get there though."
"This way," the Guide beckoned him on, walking deeper into infinite void.
Stan strained his eyes to make out even the most remote details along the way, while trying to avoid losing sight of the boy. The next thing he knew, the plateau beneath his feet had given way to black asphalt. Stan took in his new surroundings, looking every which way to get his bearings. The glass and marble façade of a majestic Japanese restaurant stood before him amongst faintly visible surrounding buildings, which appeared as sketched white outlines against a grayscale background. It was still nighttime apparently, and the rest of the neighborhood resembled little more than a ghost town. "I—don't think I've ever been here before," said Stan.
"It's my favorite place," said the Guide. He pushed the metal-framed glass door open and ran eagerly inside, almost letting it swing shut in Stan's face, before hastening back to hold the door for him.
"Uh, thanks." Stan peered around the restaurant, which was likewise deserted, although the bar was still stocked fresh as though invisibly staffed. He and the blue-haired boy grabbed plates and began perusing the buffet. Stan picked up a few California rolls and took a seat at the end of an oblong table.
His Guide however had something more exotic in mind, as he set down the plates before taking a seat opposite from Stan. "Don't forget to try the fugu," he reminded Stan. "Oh yeah, I brought one back for you," he said, pushing the second plate towards his guest.
Stan picked up his own plate and moved to a closer seat to get a better look. The fugu, it turned out, were these strange inflated pink creatures with spherical bodies. They had stubby finlike arms, round nubs that resembled feet attached to their face, red dimples, black circular eyes, and large gaping mouths. "Uh…" He picked up his chopsticks, but could only stare at the fugu quizzically.
"Ah don't worry," said the Guide, "There's no risk of poisoning." He picked up a fork and stabbed the pink creature to deflate it, causing a 'thhppp-poyo' sound as the air rushed out, and then plucked out one of the eyeballs, using his butter knife to sever the springy connective nerve. "These are the best part."
"No thanks, I think I just lost my appetite," said Stan. He prodded at his rolls with his chopsticks before setting them down.
The boy shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said, jabbing his fork in and plucking out the other eyeball.
Just then, another voice called out from the darkness. "Stan? Stan, can you hear me?" It seemed to come from all around him. "Stan, wake up." Although he couldn't see who was calling him, he knew whom the voice belonged to right away.
"Listen, I'm sorry," Stan said to the boy as the light began to wash over his surroundings, "But I…"
The Guide nodded quietly. "I understand. You have to go now." Stan nodded back. "I'm sorry too, that we've had to cut our friendship so short," said the boy. "But I have a feeling we'll be seeing each other again." He rose out of his seat and waved goodbye, and then everything disappeared in an instant.
Stan's eyes slowly parted. He realized they were puffy and swollen. An oxygen tube rested under his nose, an IV needle stuck in his left arm, and his right arm felt heavy with a twinge of pain. The warm touch of a hand rested on his shoulder. He blinked and looked off to the right, as far as his neck brace would allow, into the familiar faces of his family.
"Stan, you're awake!" spoke Sharon, pulling him up into an embrace.
"How's my little trooper?" asked Randy.
Stan tried to speak, but his jaw ached and his mouth felt dry. "Where… When did you get here?"
"Try to take it easy, Stanley," said Dr. Gouache. "This is the intensive care unit. You've been in a car accident, and suffered a compound fracture to your right arm. I set the bones myself. Your arm should be fine, given enough time."
"My arm-" Stan noticed the plaster cast around his right forearm. "But they… Who were with me?" he mumbled half coherently.
"Your friends?" said the doctor. "They suffered some minor injuries and have just gotten out of surgery. Right now you need to worry about yourself and getting better, okay?"
"Oh, aright."
Sharon stepped aside to let Shelley by. "Shelley, isn't there something you'd like to say to your brother before we go?" she asked insistently.
Shelley rolled her eyes. She reluctantly reached over and gave Stan a pat on the shoulder, but then leaned in and whispered in his ear through clenched teeth, "Listen turd, if you ever let anyone know I have a soft side, I'll put you right back in the hospital, understand?"
Stan swallowed hard, tilting his head in a slight nod, in hopes that would be enough for Shelley. He let out a sigh of relief when she finally backed off.
"Your son appears to be in stable condition," the doctor explained to Stan's parents. "We'll have to run a few more tests. But for now, we should let him get some rest."
"Should I stop by the house and bring back your things?" Randy asked Sharon.
"Yes," she nodded. "I want to stay right here." She turned to Stan. "Don't worry, I'm not going…"
The rest of Sharon's words faded out in a resonating diminuendo. Stan felt a thick metallic-tasting stream welling up in his throat and trickling from the corners of his mouth, as the world became saturated with black fog. He did not notice his mother shaking him, or even hear her voice calling to him.
"Doctor, what's happening?!" shouted Randy, over the urgent beeping of the monitoring equipment.
Dr. Gouache leaned in and motioned for Stan's family to give him some room. "Blood pressure is dropping. His vitals are crashing!"
"Stan?" Sharon tried calling out again. "Stan!!"
But the darkness had once again taken him into its clutches.