Mmph, not yet.
Edgar, wake up.
Nnnno.
Knowledge that his dreamtime was now limited and temporary. Already visions, ideas, people and places, all vanishing with the knowledge that consciousness was approaching. Grasping at straws, at feelings there are no words for.
"Edgar."
Voice scratched the inside.
Nnn, just a little longer, jus' let me...let me remember this, just...just wait...
"Edgar, wake up."
He wanted to remember, he wanted to remember what he had seen, what he felt, what had happened. The things he had done, what he said, what he accomplished, the vistas and falls and the spiral downwards and upwards and all of it was fading. He struggled to hold onto the few scraps that lingered, those glimpses that spoke of depths sliding out of his grip.
"Wake up, Edgar! This is important!"
Gone. Waking up, even if his eyes were closed. He knew that voice. It was an easy target for his resentment.
"Nnngh, leave me alone..."
"For god's sake-! Edgar, wake up. There's something important you forgot about."
As if to spite Scriabin, Edgar deliberately turned away and reached out to pull the blankets over his head.
"I don't have to go to work today, leave me alone."
"Okay, one, that's not true. And two, this is more important than that anyway."
His hand couldn't grasp anything. He reached around a bit more in confusion, woke up a little more. Where are my blankets? Did I kick them off?
"Edgar. Edgar! Fine. You know what you forgot last night?"
Edgar made an irritated noise, but knew he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep now. He began to move, push himself up onto his elbows and orient himself, then burning pain spread through his lower back.
He hissed in surprise. He moved his arms, forced himself to sit upright through the aching. Questing fingers did not find anything on the skin, but felt the heat that he was sure came from...something.
"What the...why am I so sore? What is this?" Edgar wasn't talking to Scriabin, and he knew that.
"Edgar, you left the front door open."
It took a few moments for the full implication of that to sink in.
"No I didn't."
Scriabin sighed in annoyance. "Yes, you did. You meant to close it, then you forgot."
"No, no..." Edgar felt around his desk for his glasses. "No, I wouldn't have done that. I'm sure I must've closed it at some point...maybe before I went to sleep, I can't remember..."
"You left the door open, Edgar, end of story. If you can't remember, then I certainly can."
"Where are my glasses?" Again talking to no one in particular. They weren't on his desk. Where did he put them? What did he do last night, anyway?
"They're by your side. You're lucky you didn't roll over on them when you two were sleeping."
That woke Edgar up.
Two...us. Nny.
"Is he still here?" Edgar felt for his glasses with increasingly quicker motions. "Is he still here?"
"How should I know? I'm not telepathic. Wouldn't want to be, considering who we're talking about."
"Did you see him leave? Why am I wearing this?"
Scriabin didn't answer for a few seconds. Edgar found his glasses in the meantime, ran a finger over the cracked glass.
"How, exactly, do you think I would have seen Nny do anything?"
"Going to have to get these fixed..." Edgar sighed, then turned to his desk. His neck protested the motion with a thick and dull pain. "Where are you, anyway?"
"Where's your toy."
"Where are you," Edgar said with more anger than he intended.
"Where's your toy," Scriabin responded in the exact same way.
Edgar tried to move and found that the ache was not going away any time soon. Maybe a shower would help, but that would come later. He leaned over the side of his bed, checked the floor. He saw a blank sheet of paper lying beside his bed at what looked like a curiously intentional angle.
Nny, probably. More investigation later.
Not beside the bed. Edgar turned to the desk, looked between it and the mattress. He saw Scriabin lying on the floor with one arm twisted backwards.
He reached down and picked up the action figure, set him back on the desk. Fixed the arm.
"The door, Edgar." Scriabin's voice was filled with hate, and Edgar wasn't sure why. Then Edgar nodded, and that was something he couldn't readily explain either.
He forced himself to get up. As he stood, adjusted his clothes, he glanced back at the bed. The sheets were rumpled and there was a solitary blanket kicked near the foot of the bed; the fleece one he normally kept beneath the main comforter. How did that happen?
Morning amnesia. Well, you've only been asleep a few hours. The real fun won't begin until you start to remember things.
His entire body ached all over. It hurt to walk. Why? He hadn't engaged in any strenuous activity. Although, on second thought, he had been in his share of tense situations lately.
Do you want to know what happened last night?
Couldn't remember much of anything. The last thing he could recall was the sound of Scriabin yelling at him, drowning out everything else, and after that everything got blurry. He remembered talking with Nny about something, but he couldn't really remember what.
You two talked about solving problems. The hatred was slowly fading into amusement again. Scriabin knew how Edgar would react. That was how he sounded. You were side by side on the bed, talking. He said he wanted to be you.
Edgar groped for the doorknob of his room and kept missing. Needed to wake up more, maybe coffee. It was still fairly dark outside. He looked back and saw that outside was a dark gray. Rain? That's right, it had rained the previous day. It must still be raining now. No lights...that's why it was dark.
You fell asleep while he was talking. Scriabin's voice got softer. He watched you for a few minutes. Started crying. Babbling on about you, about how he was going to hurt you. Just like I said.
Somehow I don't believe you. Finally managed to catch the doorknob. His fingers felt clumsy.
Said he wanted to be you. He got closer to you, and he raised up one of your arms and put it around him, and then he curled up right against your chest. He put his head beneath your chin, closed his eyes, wrapped his arms around your body. He cried into your shirt while you slept. Want to be you. Want to be permanent. Want this to be permanent. Don't want everything to disappear. Don't want you to disappear. To break.
Still don't believe you. Edgar yawned and took a few steps out into his hallway. The carpet felt cool...from the water from their clothes before, that must be it. He walked towards his front door, rubbing at his eyes. Why should I believe you.
He touched your hair, and your face. Those scars beneath your eyes. And then he slid a hand underneath your shirt-
Oh stop it. Edgar thought with irritation. You try too hard.
Then why are you so sore? Could hear the smile in Scriabin's voice. Can't tell me that, can you? Unless, you were awake that night, and you did something you don't want to remember...
Almost to his front door when he realized it was closed.
And denial is what you do best. Easy to erase memories. Easy to pretend it never happened if you regret it. Why is your lower back sore in particular? Are you curious?
It's not working. I know he'd never do that. He'd never want to do that. Nice try though. Edgar felt strangely calm as he stared at the door that he now distinctly remembered not closing. He'd never want to do that to me.
With you.
To me.
Is that it? Scriabin said slowly. Is that where the real crux of the problem lies? The fact that Nny's feelings are a certainty for you, that they could never lead to him touching you, that he could never ever feel any kind of sexual attraction for you, that that's real? And therefore, the real issue, the real reason you deny and insult and divert, all of that is because you don't know how you feel, you can't trust yourself? Is that it, Edgar? If I changed the story around, if I changed it just that bit so that you were awake, and while Johnny lay across from you, you reached out a hand and brushed the hair from his eyes, that you reached out and pulled him close to you, would that make the difference? The thought that you, you of all people in the world, wanted it? Is all this fear of yours the fear that you could want it? Not even that you do, necessarily, but that you could?
Not the same rhythm, intensity, biting venom from last night. But it still hurt.
He closed his eyes? When?
A loud noise caught his attention. Edgar turned towards his kitchen. Kneeling on the counter, hands hidden inside of one of his cupboards, was Johnny. He was staring at the dropped can with some measure of resentment.
"Oh, Nny..." Edgar yawned again. Johnny turned to stare at him and his eyes widened. Had he really not noticed him before?
"Edgar," Johnny said with some awkwardness, then picked up the dropped can. He put it back into the cupboard without a sound. "I'm surprised you're awake."
I'm surprised you're here.
"Mmm, yeah, I was going to...check the door for...check if the door was closed. Did you close it?" That was a stupid question. Too late now. "Just wanted to make sure..."
Johnny kept staring at him and nodded slowly.
"Make..." That's right, the power was out, and therefore making coffee was not an option. Not making instant. "Nnh, sorry. Never mind."
"What, are you hungry?" Purely clinical question. Johnny got down off the counter.
Was he? Maybe. Could probably go for something. "I don't know, sure. Yeah, fine."
Johnny stepped away from the cupboards, but made no further move.
You didn't really think he was going to make you breakfast, did you Edgar?
I don't think so.
"I'd suggest the eggs in that case." Johnny held his arms behind his back. "The power still hasn't come back. They may go bad."
"Okay." Edgar nodded at what he hoped was Johnny's general direction and walked towards the fridge.
That's right, all the perishable food...God, how much longer will this outage be? This is so irritating.
Glinting. Edgar turned and noticed there was broken glass in the kitchen sink. He looked back at Johnny, who just stared at him in return.
Probably won't get an explanation for that.
Unless you, you know, asked. But I have a feeling you won't do that.
Normally, he would have felt a little more self-conscious as he gathered utensils and such from various parts of the kitchen, but he still felt exhausted. The aching didn't help any. He thought his muscles were twitching for a moment, but then realized that the motions were too rhythmic. His heart. He could feel his blood beating through his skin.
Thankfully, he had a gas stove. The previous tenant had been less than careful with it, which is what probably led to their eventual eviction. The landlord barely gave Edgar a second glance before handing him the keys. At the time, Edgar thought it was because he appeared responsible.
Now.
Shook his head.
Now...the white sign with the white letters.
I keep hearing words, faint words not in a voice that I recognize. From somewhere deep, somewhere very deep. A threat. Themselves. Quiet. Do you know anything about this?
Too tired to think too hard. Was probably going to eat then go back to sleep, if that was okay.
If it's okay.
Johnny left the kitchen at some point. Edgar wasn't sure when. One moment, he could feel his eyes burning into his back, then the next he could hear the television. He didn't hear him turn it on, then guessed that maybe it had been on the whole time. He wasn't exactly paying a great deal of attention.
An obligation. Something, something biting at him. Had to do...something. What was it? Had to...
Ah, that was it.
"Nny, do you want anything while I'm doing...cooking?" Edgar felt around in his cupboard for the matches. "I can make you something, if you want."
"No." Very brief response.
Was that aggression?
It was too early for this. Late. That in itself was annoying. What time was it? Again, the wish for a watch.
"Mmm, okay."
He taught himself to cook. Why not? Nothing special, but enough.
It's not like you had anything better to do with your time.
The burner click click clicked, wanted the match to stop the gas flow. A flick of the wrist and it was done.
How long can eggs last unfrig- unrefrigerated anyway?
Got the impression that he shrugged. Somehow. Scriabin didn't have a body, what was he talking about?
Too tired. God his back hurt.
A real quiet death would be to just leave the burner on. Block up the windows. Let the gas fill the room.
Where did that come from?
Could have happened last night. Nny could have just carefully blocked all the entrances, then left the gas running and left. Or stayed. Maybe he'd die with me.
He was losing track of who was talking.
Stop imitating me.
Ha ha ha.
I mean, stop imitating my voice. He narrowed his eyes. It's, just cut it out.
Yes, such a vicious and cutting remark will surely stop me in my tracks.
That's better.
Eggs. Edgar wasn't sure why he had so many eggs. He couldn't eat this many. Had he made a cake at some point, was that why he had almost a dozen eggs in his fridge? When on earth would he have made a cake? Why don't they sell eggs in packs of six?
It would have been convenient if Nny wanted some eggs. Less of them spoiling. Even if he never would have had a use for what seemed at the time an unreasonable amount of eggs, he didn't like the idea of wasting them.
That's why you never throw anything away.
I do too, I just don't like wasting food.
I present as exhibit A, your hall closet.
He tried to think of anything else he could put on eggs that would help empty his potentially spoiling fridge, but all he could think of was cheese. He was pretty sure the cheese would be fine.
Something fell down in the closet.
"Nny?"
No response.
It was probably him. Edgar turned back to the frying pan as if he was more involved than just poking the eggs with a fork occasionally. Maybe...that's right, maybe putting the lamp away.
I don't think so.
So tired. His body hurt so consistently. He wanted to get a chair and sit down, but that would make watching his eggs somewhat problematic.
Oh God, that's right. Did you say I had work today?
Well, technically I did. But-
Uhf, I'm probably late anyway. Not going. I'm going to sleep.
...Okay.
It wasn't a sarcastic response. It was more like surprise. More clarification needed.
Is that what you wanted me to do?
...Yes, actually, if you're curious.
Okay, that explains that.
Another short pause like the one before.
Not going to attack me for that? Not going to say something like "See Scriabin, see what you do, you always want me to listen to you and then when I do, you're shocked!"
Nah.
Edgar stared at the yolk of the eggs. Could he eat this much? He probably could. Did he...yeah, there were definitely three eggs. Probably fine.
He got the strong impression that Scriabin was somewhat disconcerted by the conversation.
Tired.
He poked the intact yolk and watched as it began bleeding over the tines of the fork. Thick yellow fluid pooled and the yolk disintegrated, disappeared. Now just yellow-white.
Scrambled now. Some quick motions of the fork, and what he'd done was quickly erased. No harm done.
He looked over to the television, caught sight of Johnny and his hair backlit with flashing colors. It looked like antenna from here. He was probably done with the closet, whatever he'd done in it.
He rubbed at his neck. What on earth had he been doing last night? He didn't remember anything. Then again, the last time he had slept was before the phone call, and after that...too much stress and tension. That was it.
Too much sex. Scriabin ventured cautiously. Definitely more bothered by Edgar's current state of mind than he was letting on. Consciously letting on.
No, don't think so. Edgar let the thought cross his mind more as an obligatory objection, poured eggs onto a plate. No.
He seemed a bit more comforted by Edgar's resistance, no matter how lifeless. Do you think he's eaten at all?
Who-, no. Probably not.
Glass in the sink?
Probably dropped something.
He considered going to join Johnny by the television, but he didn't like eating over the carpet. Kitchen table instead.
How much sleep did I get?
Are you seriously asking me?
Yeah. Bland. Salt.
I don't know exactly.
Were you sleeping too?
...Do you think I can? Dismissive.
How long?
Not sure, I told you. Only a few hours before I remembered about the door and decided to wake you up.
Huh.
He found a glass of juice on the table. He was pretty sure he must have poured it. Made sense, that was perishable. Didn't exactly remember the motions or the mental decisions to do so, but there it was. Tasted fine, if a little warm.
Are you going back to sleep after this?
Yeah.
Good.
Making his way through the fluff on his plate. Maybe he should have added the cheese.
You know...I'd tell you how strangely you're acting, but I don't think you'd really...appreciate it in the mood you're in.
"Mmhmm."
Don't do that.
He put the fork in his mouth then focused on the sensation of metal against his lips.
Just like-...ugh, I can't even do it when you're like this. It's like kicking a dead man.
Could feel the metal slowly warming. Wasn't sure how long he left the fork in his mouth. Time was pretty relative now. Still raining. Well, if it had only been a few hours...
Eyes closed.
Get that fork out of your mouth before you fall forward and stab your brain.
He complied without arguing.
This worries me, Edgar. Scriabin sounded vaguely nervous. Maybe. Maybe this is just something I'm unfamiliar with, but I don't think so. I have memories to go through, references, a whole card catalogue and yet, nothing like how you're acting now. Maybe you forgot, that's understandable. Doesn't make it any less unnerving.
"Mmhmm."
Stop doing that. I'd tell you to wake up, but I want you to go back to sleep as soon as possible.
He felt something very lightly touch his shoulder. Normally, he would have been more alert, would have heard someone coming or at least would have reacted with a jump or something like that.
He turned his head.
Johnny stood behind his chair, hands resting on the back. Must have brushed by him by accident.
"Are you awake?" Delivered with more intensity than Johnny probably intended. Edgar couldn't tell. He wasn't good at this, particularly now.
Stabbed eggs. "Not really."
Johnny took a seat next to him.
"Are you going to go back to sleep?"
"What time is it?" He blinked at Johnny. He thought he did. When his eyes were open he found his hand had drifted and he was stabbing the tablecloth.
Johnny did not look pleased.
"I'm not sure. There's no power."
No power...
"Right..."
No power, no power. EDGAR. EDGAR, SHIT.
What? What, Jesus.
No power means no TV!
Edgar blinked. Very slowly coming through. He turned around to where he had seen Johnny watching the television and saw it was off. Blank. The VCR he had never managed to program correctly blank.
But...
Oh shit.
Nngh...
"Edgar...?"
Eggs half gone. Not hungry anymore.
"Uhhn..." He pushed the plate away, rested his head on the table on folded hands. "Nny, what were you doing?"
"Nothing." His voice was very quiet. "I wasn't doing anything. I organized your cupboards."
"No I mean...ugh God. God I need to sleep. Everything's getting all..."
But we heard it, and he was watching it, if it wasn't on, then what was he doing. Fuck this shouldn't be affecting me, I shouldn't have seen that, I- shit. Shit shit SHIT
"The door..."
"Yeah, the door."
You shouldn't swear so much. The problem with thinking is that it can be so hard to control. Scriabin completely ignored him.
What were they talking about?
"God, why does my back hurt...ugh!" Edgar felt a sudden intense burst of rage that he couldn't even begin to explain. He ended up slamming a clenched fist into the table once sharply before he realized what he was doing. Rage gone as quickly as it had come, and he automatically checked to make sure that his glass was upright. Hadn't spilled. He liked this tablecloth.
Nny. He turned and saw him staring. Johnny looked hurt somehow.
"It's not you, it's just...uh, I'm tired. This doesn't make any sense. I'm just...going to sleep. I'm going back to sleep."
"How much do you remember from last night?" His voice. Suddenly unfamiliar, grating. Piercing. Hate-
Edgar! Edgar, go to sleep! Stop thinking about it!
Shut up, don't tell me what to do. Frustration quickly diverted towards Scriabin.
"I...I don't know. I don't know right now, I'm...tired. Tired." Not in the mood for answering questions. Mild resentment at the implication that he would know the answer to those questions anyway.
No reply from anyone.
"You didn't sleep, did you?" Edgar wanted his arms to move, wanted to lift his head back up and at least get back to his bed, but nothing. The aching didn't exactly motivate him.
"No." Johnny smiled weakly.
"Uh-huh. Makes sense..." Pushing muscles. His heartbeat shook his body. Burning. "Maybe I'm...I don't know...just tired."
"Your back hurts?"
"Yeah...okay, getting up now." He hoped saying it out loud would motivate him to move. His arms still refused to comply. Still had his head on his hands and the pain in his back was spreading steadily up his spine, through his shoulder blades. Crawling up his neck. Had to get up before it got too far had to get up
Johnny gently shaking his shoulder. "Don't fall asleep here. That won't help."
His eyes had closed again. His back still hurt. Body hurt.
"Right..." Edgar blinked hard, focused on the pain to keep himself up, keep himself awake. Pushed at his muscles, pushed but nothing happened. "Getting up now." Not getting up now.
Pause. No movement.
Eyes still open. Followed Johnny's thin wrist. Protruding bone, veins and white. White.
"Hey...you put the gauze in then...put the gauze on I mean." Edgar thought maybe he smiled, although he couldn't think of any reason why that wasn't stupid at the time. Johnny blinked then stared down at his bandaged wrist.
"Right...it burned a little."
"Haha yeah...that's why I got it." His voice was drifting. He was drifting. "Got the gauze, I mean...thought you should but didn't say."
Pause again. Johnny tapped a thin finger against the cloth, watched tendons flex beneath the gauze.
"Why not?"
"I don't know...um, you seemed angry I guess. Didn't want to bother you."
Another pause. Edgar fell asleep again, he was sure. The crawling pain was back, moving over his scalp. Spiders.
Claws on his shoulder. "Edgar, don't sleep here. Go to bed."
"Haha, I can't move."
Edgar wasn't sure why he sounded so nonchalant and it scared him. First real emotion he could remember. Automatic unconscious explanation, logic, excuse, cover-up.
"Guess it hurts too much. I'll get up though, I will."
Johnny looked concerned.
He could feel Scriabin's concern, although he didn't say anything.
"I-I just can't get started. Can I ask you for help?" He wasn't quite sure who he intended the question for. There weren't any other sentient beings in the house that he was aware of, yet he somehow got the impression that he was asking the juice glass he was staring at so intently. That may have been why he was so surprised when he got an answer.
Johnny didn't say anything, but he did move. He reached out and pulled Edgar's hands out from beneath his chin. The motion was enough to get Edgar moving somewhat. He leaned back in the chair, and his body screamed in response.
Stronger than he looked. He remembered thinking that a long time ago when he woke up in the machine. Frail-looking but terribly strong. Johnny pulled him out of the chair without much grace, quickly looped Edgar's arm around his shoulders. The chair might have tipped, Edgar wasn't sure, there was a lot of noise at the moment.
Memory of strength broke through that frail image. He should have felt scared, should have remembered what happened, what could happen, what would happen to him at Johnny's hands, but nothing. No fear, but quite possibly because no coherency.
"I'm sorry, I know you hate being touched..." Guilt and pain all at once. Couldn't really see where he was going.
Stumbled through to Edgar's bedroom.
God, he hated making pained noises. He hated doing that. It seemed self-indulgent. He hated it. Self-pitying. Surely Scriabin would approve of such criticism. Couldn't help it though, the aching made it hard for his legs to move at all. Occasional soft grunts of pain that he tried to hide.
"I don't like touching empty things," Johnny finally said.
You won't remember that. I'll keep it in mind for you, though. He doubted it was for beneficial purposes.
Ache in his back working its way through his chest. When Johnny rested him on the bed, he curled up on his side immediately. Instinctual self-protective position.
Closed his eyes.
Pain but he was afraid to move, afraid to stretch. Afraid that might make it worse. Curled up into a miserable ball and wished and prayed it would stop.
Not sure how much time passed. Without much warning, he felt a sudden onset of warmth across his back, from his shoulders down to his waist, and he gasped. Couldn't turn or move though, the pain was fading. He kept himself as still as possible, feared that any kind of motion would ruin it, bring the pain back. Heat would make the ache go away and make sleep possible...
Something scratched his cheek, fabric, then he was asleep again and gone.
When Edgar woke up again, it was natural. The gradual disappearance of his dreams was not something he tried to fight. His body wanted to move, wanted to do things again, and he came back to consciousness without struggle.
He could not remember anything in great detail about the last time he had woken up, but he got the distinct impression that he may have done or said something foolish in the process. That he had been less than lucid at the time. Understandable. Edgar tended to get the regularly recommended amount of sleep, even during work days, and therefore he had little experience with sleep-deprivation.
Interesting explanation, but lacking some vital factors. Scriabin's voice slowly faded into his mind. That was Before.
Edgar thought for a moment to ask what exactly Scriabin meant, but found he knew. That's right, Before. I remember now...I had trouble sleeping back then as well. But nothing like...whenever it was that I last woke up.
How much do you remember?
Not a lot, although even with the vague memories I do have, it's enough to feel embarrassed. Do I always get like that when I don't get enough sleep?
He didn't answer.
Edgar turned over slowly, remembering that, if nothing else, he had been in a lot of pain when he had woken up before. The aching had subsided a great deal, lingering tinges but nothing major. He felt resistance against his back, something brushing up against him.
With some confusion, Edgar pushed himself up into a sitting position and looked. There was a towel on his bed.
Odd...
Edgar ran a hand over it, felt something underneath the fabric. He unfolded the towel and saw three water bottles, much like the three he kept in his fridge.
What the...?
Do you want to know?
Edgar glanced over at Scriabin and saw light glinting off his glasses folded at the action figure's feet. He reached over to put them on. I don't think I trust you.
One of these days Edgar, you're really going to have to ask yourself about what you think my intentions are. Why you think I'm constantly lying to you.
I think it may be because you always have lied to me.
Tell me one time I lied to you that you proved without a shadow of a doubt.
Edgar noticed that the cap on one of the water bottles hadn't been screwed on all the way. It had leaked and soaked through the towel and subsequently, through to the bed. Not too much though. It'd probably dry by itself.
You don't lie about those kind of things. You lie about me and who I am.
Aaaand, where's your evidence? Still haven't given me any evidence.
Well for one thing, I'm not gay. Edgar glared at Scriabin as he moved the towel and bottles off of his bed, slid them onto the floor.
Did I ever say you were, exactly?
To be honest, Edgar was surprised. Are you denying that now?
No, you're not looking at it the right way. Did I ever say, outright, that you were gay? I don't recall doing so, unless it was in some facetious fashion.
Edgar shook his head. Yes you did, you have. That's all you've been doing for the-
There's that trait that makes Christians so lovably endearing to others. The complete inability to see things in shades of gray. I never said you were gay, Edgar. In fact, I never said you even had feelings-
Yes you did! Couldn't exactly remember something specific, which added to his frustration because he knew, he knew-
No I didn't.
Yes you did!
No I didn't. Is it just me, or is this getting a bit childish? No. I presented you with evidence. With questions, and you answered them for me. The fact of the matter is I have never outright said you were anything, unless it was a hypocrite or something of that nature. The facts, Edgar, the facts are that I raise questions that you don't like, that you read into, and then you shut me out. I question you, Edgar, and you can't answer me. That's what you hate about me, isn't it? That I ask too many questions.
You're a liar. That's not true. Edgar got out of bed and stood. He stretched, took a step, and heard a loud crinkling beneath his feet. A sheet of paper. You've always been trying to make me something I'm not.
I've been trying to make you face up to what you are.
See? There, that's what I'm talking about. You think that, you think that I have those feelings, and you're wrong.
You're putting words in my mouth. He almost sounded amused. That's a change.
You're wrong. You think I am, don't you? You do. You wouldn't make all of your stupid double-entendre laden comments about Nny if you didn't.
I don't think, Edgar. I know.
There! That's exactly what I was talking about!
I know you'll never accept it. That's why I ask you those questions. I hope that someday, maybe you'll realize what you've done. Doing. What you're doing. Besides, do I have to remind you about our fun time in your mind? About what you said there?
I didn't say anything, anything that you can prove. You forced me to lie with fantasies.
And you never answered my question back there. What does that make me, then?
God, I just...ugh. Edgar rubbed at his forehead. What did I even want to ask you in the first place?
The water bottles. It sounded as if he was smirking somehow. I don't mind changing the topic, I know we'll go over it again, and again, and again until you-
So why were they there?
Nny put them there.
Edgar paused for a second.
"Why?" It was a question that he somehow felt deserved physical voice.
"Because your back hurt, basically. He filled them with hot water. Heat alleviates pain."
He looked back at his desk and saw his clock was blinking at him. 12:00.
The power was back.
He looked down at the piece of paper he had stepped on and found something written on it. He leaned down and picked it up, went and flicked on the lights. Black words in a tight scrawl he found familiar.
Maybe I've been too close to you.
Maybe that's been the problem all along.
I'll talk to you again.
"Too close..." Edgar sat back down on the edge of his bed. "Too close...?"
"You don't really remember what happened the last time you were awake, so I guess this may seem strange to you."
"What, do you know what this means?" Edgar rolled his eyes.
"What makes you think I wouldn't? I would hazard to say that in most scenarios, Edgar, I'm a great deal more perceptive than you are."
"You-"
"Otherwise you wouldn't ask for my advice so often, would you?"
"Well then, what does this mean? I didn't do anything to him...I'm not sure why he'd leave me a note like this. I remember...I remember explaining that my frustration last night wasn't his fault. I don't want him to think that I was angry at him by any means..."
"You don't remember, and that's what makes this the most pitiful thing. Although I doubt it will be unusual in days to come...at any rate, I do remember what you did in your sleepy haze some twelve hours ago."
"Twelve hours!"
"Yes, this time I tried to keep track. That's not important though. I think Johnny is worried about his influence on you, and I think your sleep-deprived episode earlier on may have given him the wrong impression. After all, he does have a tendency to jump to conclusions."
"But..." Edgar stared at the note. "It wasn't..."
"Yes, that's what makes this so deliciously ironic. It wasn't his fault. You were just tired. But it could be that those half-started sentences, your broken thoughts and nonsensical connections, he could have thought that was him."
Edgar couldn't think of anything he wanted to say in front of Scriabin. Muffled his mental words. He could hear a soft laugh.
"I know what you're trying to do. The garbled noise itself can tell so much. This is beautiful in so many ways. Think about it, Edgar...been too close. Maybe he's been too close all along. Do you think this is it, Edgar? Do you think that maybe Johnny has finally realized that this relationship isn't healthy, that he will and is hurting you, and he's going to end it, not with a stab, but with a letter?"
"No..."
"Your last connection, your last shining thread connecting you to anyone, anywhere. What has it been all this time? Threaded through your body, through your mind, through your tongue and through your brain, and now it's gone. The puppeteer has left."
"No, that can't be true..." He could feel the beginnings of anger, but it had no direction. Not that he could discern just yet.
"He'll talk to you again, but it will be to say good-bye. Your sleepiness finally got through to him when nothing else would. He knows now and, oh, this is so beautiful, and now that he has a good look, that he's really seen what a farce this whole relationship is, he's horrified. He's going to put an end to it, something you never could. Tell me, Edgar, although I know the answer, did you ever think that you would be the one dumped?"
Scriabin was laughing, but there was something odd about the tone of his voice.
"That can't be true..." Edgar covered his mouth with one hand. "This can't be...no, not after last night." Anger quickly being refocused, rethought. "This doesn't make sense."
"It doesn't make sense because you weren't here last night. Or rather, when you woke up. The only justification you have is what you can't remember!" Still laughing.
"No...no, that can't be right. Everything, everything Johnny has done so far has been to attain his ideal." Easy to slip into measured speech and thought. "Last night, that was all he talked about. Everything for him relates back to that ideal, back to what he wants me to be. For him to suddenly decide that he's giving up...no, he wouldn't do that. Johnny's nothing if not tenacious."
"Johnny's nothing if not capricious." Scriabin tried to catch his breath. "After all, your life hung on threads too thin for you to even think about now, and it just took one word or one lucky instance to change that fate. Who's to say that your peculiar behavior earlier could have been one of those unfortunate triggers?"
"No, no." Edgar had decided what to believe. "This means something else..."
"Oh does it now? Is your resistance because this misunderstanding is your fault?"
Ignored him. "Too close...he talked about how he was afraid of something happening to me...wanted me to stop being afraid of him...distance, maybe...no. Change...he talked about change."
He set the sheet of paper to one side, looked around his room. "If he's serious about changing, about becoming a better person, then maybe that's where he's gone now...maybe that's why he left."
"Wouldn't that be perfect?" Scriabin snorted. "You're still believing in lies, after everything that I explained to you, you still believe in lies. You're such an optimist."
"I wonder if he left any other papers around here..."
"Yes, mangled some of your other property. Wrote on your mirror with lipstick or blood perhaps, spray-painted a message on your wall. What marvelous disrespect for your things could Johnny have shown this time?"
Edgar stood and ignored Scriabin's voice. He glanced out the window and saw that it was still raining, although not as hard as it had been earlier. He could see the glowing halos of streetlights out in the darkness. Twelve hours...it was sometime in the evening now. Exactly when he wasn't sure, but regardless of the hour he was sure this would ruin his sleeping schedule for the next couple days.
His bedroom door was open. He looked into the hallway. The hallway closet door was open and the lantern sat beside it. Bathroom door was open...any door that Edgar could see was open at the moment.
Well, except the front door.
Do you honestly think he'd change for you? Scriabin did not appreciate being ignored. This tone was familiar. For you, of all people? When his precious Devi couldn't motivate that change?
A minor revenge of non-attention.
Pens scattered across the carpet again. No surprise there. Edgar expected Johnny to have written something somewhere, and assumed that maybe his new books were the victims.
Imagine what Johnny would think if he saw those. I'm sure he'd appreciate being referred to as irredeemably insane. Probably as much as he would about being your spouse.
His cheek itched and he remembered. The bandage had stayed in place overnight, a good sign. He'd pull it off later.
He hadn't thought of his books...
What, are you worried that Johnny will think you think he's nuts? Come ON, Edgar. He's told you that himself countless times. How could that offend him? As it is, you're the only one who's denying what everyone knows is true.
A sheet of paper tucked underneath his couch. He could see glimpses of black and blue lines.
What'll it be this time?
Edgar picked up the sheet of paper, but before he could read any of the writing on it, he caught another glimpse of a sheet caught beneath his coffee table. More writing. He pulled it free and sat down on his couch.
Familiar black writing, blotches and dark hard lines. On one sheet, the pen had actually stabbed through the paper, leaving an indented tear.
want is the problem
control answer
desire destroys
potential for change
cold - wall - blocking
emotions are the food
learn how
Then Edgar's name, crossed out several times and at one point scribbled over with what looked like a vengeance.
"This isn't like the others..."
These aren't diary entries, you moron. He probably resented how Edgar was too far away for a verbal conversation. Remember what you said about solving problems?
Next sheet written with quick and sharp lines, the limited text peppered with obscenities scrawled with obvious anger.
extension of what I was meant to contain
contain - insanity
definite downward spiral
prevent unpleasant situations
no anger no fear no hatred
careful watch - protection
divert hate flow?
Scriabin hummed for a moment in thought. In the hospital...
"Divert hate flow...?"
You're doing a very good job at hiding something from me, Edgar. I can feel it. More importantly, I know why. Whatever this thing is, it will hurt you. Or you assume that, if I knew about it, I would hurt you with that knowledge.
Stared at the sheet of paper.
You've tried to hide things from me before and failed, but this time, you're working quite hard. The conversation in the hospital, however, is my key.
Feeding a delusion...
You may say that, but I don't believe you. I don't believe you. There are too many coincidences for me to believe you were just playing along. It'd be one thing if you two had differing visions of...whatever this is, but your visions worked together, and that's the piece, the part that matters.
It wasn't anything...nothing happened. I don't know what happened.
A very badly knit sweater, and I just have to find the thread that will cause the whole thing to unravel. You aren't as good at this as I am, Edgar. When I find the one question, that one question, everything will fall apart.
"I don't want to talk about it."
Haven't heard you say that in a while.
"I don't!" Edgar stood up, found his hands were clenched into fists. "I don't, I don't want to, leave me alone!"
He stared at the floor, tried to find any other pieces to the puzzle that Johnny left him.
Another sheet beneath a pillow on the floor. He knelt down, pulled it free.
Just his name. His and Johnny's, scrawled over and over. Letters on top of one another, blotches and rips and what looked like distortion from water. Johnny must have spilled something...
Johnny's name written with jagged, sharp capital letters.
Edgar's written in lower case.
"Leave me alone!" Preemptive, or so he hoped.
A moment of silence.
Make me.
"I don't have to listen to you!" Rising emotion and his voice was changing pitch. He dropped the sheet of paper, saw it flutter to the floor. He felt his hands against his forehead before he remembered moving.
Is that so? Infuriating calm.
"Nothing happened! Shut up!"
Nothing happened.
"Nothing happened!" His voice cracked and he started coughing. Once he started, he found he couldn't stop. As his breath became shorter and more difficult, he felt the brief onset of panic. Every short expulsion of breath made him want more, want it faster, air rushing in too fast and burning and out again and tearing. He was desperate to breathe, but he kept coughing longer and he could feel the back of his throat bleeding.
Desperation forced him to his knees, one hand to his throat as he gasped for air. Couldn't hear, and watched his glasses fall across his name, shattering the letters through cracked lenses. Finally it stopped, the spasming stopped and he took a deep and long breath.
His throat felt fine, no bleeding then, just a little sore...
Well, that was an impressive tantrum. Accomplishes nothing, though.
"Nothing..." His voice sounded strange.
Has it occurred to you that that's less than convincing? Ah, the irony of it all. If only you hadn't chatted with Nny at the hospital about whatever it was that happened, then this thread would never have come to light. May I ask you straight out, or would you prefer another seizure first?
He put his glasses back on, but closed his eyes right afterward. He gripped his upper arms, felt as though there was no flesh on his bones.
I just, I'm not sure, I don't know, nothing...
Edgar, did you go to "Heaven" after our chat?
No.
No? Then just what were you and Johnny talking about in the hospital?
Some kind of...shared delusion I don't know. He felt his fingers digging deeper into his skin, felt it cool as blood was forced out by pressure. It wasn't real. It couldn't have been real. None of it, none of it happened. It was a dream, some kind of sick dream, some kind of...some...you.
I'm sorry, what?
You. He opened his eyes, felt his hands shaking from the pressure he was exerting. It was you.
I... He sounded genuinely surprised. I'm not sure what you mean.
It was you, it was you, it was you. Edgar clenched as hard as he could, frustration that this was as much pressure he was capable of through his hands, pressed harder, shaking furiously. "It was you, you're the one that did that to me."
I...what? What are you talking about?
"You, you liar. You've always lied to me. You've lied to me about everything." Edgar's voice was low and dark. "You've always lied to me, always presented those pictures, those scenarios of possibilities and maybes that can never be true, can never happen. It's always been you, you've always been here, you've always lied to me. It was you."
Edgar, what are you talking about?
"I don't know how you did it, how you were able to create an illusion so perfectly horrible...no, I do know. It was because you knew me, you said you read my thoughts. You knew what I was scared of, you knew what I wanted Heaven to be, and you made it, you made it all up, you did it all, trying to trick me..."
No response. He knew it.
"Trying to fool me, trick me, I knew it. You must have, I don't know how, but you must have gotten to Nny somehow, someway, maybe related to...you're not a part of me, you never were. You're an intruder, an invader, a parasite, I know it. I know it, I know you can't be me, you can't be any part of me, you can't be, and you have power. You have power, I saw it last night, you tried...you tried to do something to me. You tried to do something and I don't even know what, but I fought you off, Scriabin, I wouldn't let you take me." Edgar started laughing softly. "I wouldn't let you win, and I won't let you win. You hurt me but I wouldn't let you win, I wouldn't let you. This is all, this is all an elaborate set up, another play, another role for me to take, another web of lies to justify your obsession with Nny. All of it, all to feed this obsession, all of it lies."
Laughing harder now with relief.
"I should have known, I should have guessed. He said he hears voices, maybe he heard yours, maybe you told him what to say, maybe you fed him the same lies, the same scenario, and watched as we played into your hands. All lies, this is all lies, this is all your fault. This is all your fault. This is all your fault."
Slipped into a mantra, didn't notice when he started rocking back and forth. Smiling.
"This is all your fault."
No response.
"This is all your fault."
The words were comforting, familiar, and so real. Couldn't lose them, let them slip away.
"This is all your fault."
No response.
"This is all your fault." His hands loosened their grip and they shook as he peeled his fingers from sticky skin. A dull kind of burn as he moved his arms, flexed his muscles. Still rocking back and forth, and his hands found their familiar home in his hair. What was he staring at?
"This is all your fault."
A very soft voice in Edgar's mind, almost lost in the comforting cycles of repetition.
No it's not.
"Yes it is."
No, Edgar. His voice was still soft. No it isn't.
"Yes it is..." Whispered to match his tone.
I...I don't even know what to say. I don't know what's going on. It's hard for me to say that but I don't know what the hell just happened. I was trying to get at that memory, that dream thing you hid from me, and all of a sudden everything just...I can't even begin to describe it. Everything's falling apart, I'm seeing things blending and changing and the dream thing is multiplying. I'm there, and I don't remember. It didn't sound like he was talking to Edgar. I'm in your memories when I didn't exist. It's like everything suddenly just collapsed, just...I can't even begin. I don't know where to begin. These are your memories, Edgar, these are your facts, without them you have no life, you have no you, and they're...you're changing them. This is you, isn't it? It has to be...
"All your fault..."
The rewriting of history... Scriabin almost sounded afraid. I didn't do this. I didn't make this fantasy. I didn't do this. I wasn't there.
"Yes you were." Gradual calm and cessation of motion. Edgar let his hands fall to his sides and watched his fingers curl again, brief physical memory of the grip on his arms. "I know it, I know the truth."
This isn't real! Scriabin shouted and at the sudden change in volume Edgar winced. This isn't real, Edgar! You can't just, just edit me into your memories and pretend it was my fault! I didn't do this!
"I understand now." He stood. "I understand. Everything makes sense. It was all a lie."
No! I wasn't there! What are you- this wasn't my fault!
"Denial?" He turned towards his bedroom, took a few steps with a crooked smile. "And you said you hated that."
"NO!" Physical voice, a desperate scream. "No, Edgar! This isn't real! You can't pretend like this, you can't do this! It's not real! You can't make reality like this, you can't do this! I wasn't there! Edgar, I wasn't there! I didn't do this to you!"
"You've done so much to me already, and now you won't admit it?" Edgar walked into his bedroom. The action figure was pointing his gun across Edgar's bed, as he always had.
"For the love of GOD!" Scriabin sounded deeply upset, and Edgar wasn't sure why. "I didn't think this would-...Edgar, listen to me. There is a reality, Edgar, a very clear reality and a very clear line that defines that reality-"
"My memories, isn't it?" Edgar sat on his bed, picked up the little action figure.
"Your memories, Edgar! You can't edit those, you can't do that, you have no idea how bad this is, you have no idea what you're doing-"
"You're just upset I caught you. And you wanted proof of being caught in a lie earlier. Well, here we are. All a scheme, a clever deception, isn't it? You've always hated my religion, you've always wanted me to become my own person and renounce God, you've always wanted that, wished for it. I never thought you'd go to such depths, to such lengths-"
"No, Edgar! Stop it! Stop- I..." He paused, struggled with his words. "I didn't do this to you. I asked you a question..."
"So all this...Johnny and his talk of decay...it was your fault..."
"Oh god. Oh god." Sounded increasingly desperate. "Reality, Edgar, reality, think about it please. Think for a moment about what you've done, what you're doing. This isn't real, you just wish it was. You wish I had done this to you, but you can't make it so."
He moved one of Scriabin's arms down to his side. "I knew it."
"God, Edgar, stop! I don't know what to- fucking Christ! You can't do this to me, you can't reconstruct your memories and your life! This is all I have! Shit! This is our reality, Edgar, ours! You can't change it!"
Moved his other arm down.
"I can't believe- I can't- I-" Short words with short breaths. Almost hyperventilating. Edgar imagined the plastic in his hands moving. "I've got to, I've got to calm down, this has gone too far. This is gone way too far, this has gone way out of your depth. That's it, this is it. I need to calm down, because shit! Shit, you're not going to help me!" Fear turned to anger, familiar anger. "You're too weak, you're too weak to pull yourself out of this! You're too weak to stop something that feels so good, you goddamn coward! It's up to me, I have to take control. I have to calm down, I have to do your 'detaching' routine." Lingering deep sarcasm, fierce resentment on an emphasized word. "I can't believe this, I can't believe you did this, I can't believe you're doing this and you don't even think anything is wrong. I can't believe this."
"All along, all along-"
"Shut up!" Scriabin shouted and Edgar dropped him. The action figure fell between his legs, hit the carpet and bounced once. He expected silence and for a moment a cry of pain, but was disappointed on both counts. "Just shut up, you stupid BITCH! I'm trying to think!"
"That's a first." Edgar smiled down at Scriabin. "You want me to shut up?"
A frustrated sound. "I can't believe you're making me do this. I can't believe this. I know it, I know later on, you're going to deny it happened, that you ever needed me. You're going to deny it, going to deny that you were wrong, going to deny everything because that's the only thing you can do anymore because all logic works against you." A familiar sarcastic rhythm, and he sounded less panicked now. "You fucking bastard, you hypocritical son of a bitch, I can't believe you're making me do this. I can't believe you need me to pull you out of your stupid hidey-hole. You need me, you need me and you'll never say it, not now or not afterwards. I get those tinges of regret, but what good are they to me?"
"What, exactly, do you think you're going to do?" Edgar leaned his head on his hands, stared at the action figure on his floor. It didn't move.
"Ugh, your voice...your- just shut up. I've got to appeal to that part of you that can still think, can reason through this, but I'm becoming increasingly concerned that that part is me. Listen to me, Edgar."
"I'm waiting."
"Shut up and listen to me..." A few seconds pause, harsh breathing. "Think about it. If I could talk to Johnny, if I could somehow communicate with him, don't you think I would have done so already?"
"Maybe you've been doing that all along, and I just never knew."
Mumbled words for a brief moment. "If that's the case, Edgar, then what does that make your current relationship? You're so intent on protecting Johnny from my attacks, you almost had a seizure last night when I told you exactly what was wrong with him. If I made him that way, why do you argue with me about it? What would I have to gain by doing that to him? What would that do?"
Edgar got up and walked out of the room.
I've got to find a way- look around, Edgar. The voice back in his head, although it sounded strained. Look around, find something else. Find a note, find something.
"I don't have to listen to you."
You don't have to, Edgar, you never have. But you should.
Another sheet of paper, this time peeking out from beneath his television.
satan - waste lock
wasn't meant to be a lock
no more voices
quiet introverted people
alone - can't be alone
edgar - candidate, not sure
system can be beaten
have to find way to beat the system
won't let this happen
prevent hate and anger
collapse must be prevented
sanity - logic
logic - safety
safety - security
keep him safe
must be clear at all times can't be clouded
must learn how
Heard something in the back of his head, a soft whine of pain...it had to be. This-, this is-, have to-...look, Edgar, look. I- You were right. Scriabin's voice was quiet, but not calm. Look, see, you were right. Oh god, get off me- you were right, Edgar, look. He is trying to change. He's trying to change.
"I..." Edgar couldn't register what Scriabin said. "I was right...?"
I see, I- oh god thank you...yes, Edgar, yes you were. Soft, soothing voice. You were right. I was wrong.
"Wrong...you were wrong...?"
Yes, Edgar, yes I was. Johnny's trying to change for you, see? He wants to learn how to deal with this, he wants to learn how to protect you. I can see what you've created in here, where you've inserted me into this bizarre fantasy, and I don't know how much of it is real anymore. I can't trust what this memory tells me because I know some parts are false, and that throws the entire thing into question. His voice was still very soft, a quiet and comforting lull. Edgar sat down on the couch and closed his eyes. I have nothing to judge it against except what Johnny said in the hospital, and that only adds pieces. If this whole waste-lock business that I- ggh, Satan talked about is real, then this is a threat we have to consider, but Johnny already has considered it. He's attempting to change, to change himself to fight the system for you.
I was right...
Yes you were, Edgar, you were right. His voice almost sounded melodic. He never heard him talk this way before. I can admit that I was wrong, I can admit that I jumped to conclusions. I can admit that, all right? Calm down and think clearly.
It's nice to know you can be wrong at times.
It is, isn't it? Gentle words and the opposite of the reaction he expected. You already feel better, don't you?
I think so...
Good. This is much better. This thing in your mind, this memory of yours, it's not my fault.
But-
No no, listen to me. His voice still very soft, quiet and without any anger. I don't know what it is either, all right? I don't know anymore than you do.
You don't know?
No, I don't, Edgar, I don't know. I don't know what this is or what it means. I feel just like you do about it, I'm as confused as you are.
Confused...
That's right, Edgar, you don't have to attack me for it. I won't hurt you. Almost a song, words that rose and fell in a cadence that was relaxing, very calming. Familiar somewhere deep but he couldn't place why or where. I won't hurt you for it, because I don't know myself. I won't hurt you for not knowing. I won't hurt you for your doubt about this memory. Please, let it go. You don't have to justify it to me, to yourself. You don't have to assign this memory a motivation, a source. It's a mystery, isn't it?
I don't know what happened.
Neither do I. Just agreeing with him was so rare. I don't know. It wasn't my fault though.
But-
No, it wasn't my fault, Edgar. He almost felt something brush against his cheek, but saw nothing when he opened his eyes. Maybe it was his own hand. He felt slow in everything he was doing, in his reactions and his thoughts. He didn't want to go to sleep, but he felt that if he wanted to, he could easily do so. It wasn't my fault, was it? I didn't create this memory for you. I don't know who did. I don't know if it's real or not, just like you.
Just like me...
That's right, just like you. I don't know if it's real or not. But I know that I wasn't there, and that I didn't make it. I didn't make it, Edgar, you know that. He closed his eyes, felt something resting on his shoulders. Scriabin's voice near one of his ears. You know it, don't you? I wasn't there, was I? Think clearly, take a deep breath. Take as much time as you need to sort through everything. You're confused, you're not thinking straight.
I don't feel good... His body felt weak, as if there was some kind of weight in his stomach.
That's okay. He shouldn't sound this way, shouldn't sound so concerned, and Edgar shouldn't feel relieved, relieved for any open concern from anyone. That's okay. A lot has happened for both of us just now, a lot of things have happened that need to be fixed. I'm going to need your help. I'm going to need you to let it go. I'm not going to ask you for answers, I'm not going to ask you to say whether that dream was real or not, I'm not going to ask you for details, but I am going to ask you to stop blaming it on me. It wasn't my fault. You have to realize that, you have to let that go, you have to take this responsibility away from me, and then I can start to fix things...you have to take me out of this dream, out of this memory of yours.
Why should I...? A quiet question that came without thought. His breathing was slow and even, and again a light touch across his cheek. Maybe he left the window open. It makes so much sense...
It does, doesn't it? No condescending tone, no sarcasm, no hatred of any kind. I can understand why it would be easier for you, I can understand that. But that doesn't make it right. It will only hurt you, hurt us in the long run. It's better this way. It'll be better for you if you leave it as it once was, leave it in the corner of your mind. It'll be something that we can both work on together, all right?
Together?
Yes, together. I'm sure we can find a solution. We work well together, my boy, we do. I know that we can solve this mystery if we stay calm and we stay rational. But you need to take me out of it first, you need to do that.
We've...we've never worked together on anything, why would you start now...
We've always worked together. Something touched his neck softly, and Edgar found his fingers where his heartbeat was most tangible. I can't do this by myself. I can't do this without you, I can't repair this damage by myself. I need you to work with me. I need you to trust me, just this once.
Why should I trust you?
I'm the only one who can help you now, Edgar. Even if this whole thing never happened, I'm still the only one who can really analyze the situation, I'm the only one who will know what to do. You have to calm down, you have to realize this.
In the presence of something accepting, acceptance that seemed at the moment so unconditional, a tinge of fear and honesty brought a thought to mind.
If I am...if I am a lock, what does that mean for me...?
You don't have to worry. Something ruffled his hair. You don't have to worry about that now, Edgar. You don't have to, I'll take care of it. I'll take care of it like I always have, I'll take care of it for you. I'm right here, I always have been, and I've protected you from so much. I can protect you from this too, I can handle this. I know I can. I can take anything that they throw at me, I can take it and fix it and make sure it doesn't hurt you. I can protect you far more effectively than Johnny ever could. I will protect you, as long as I have to.
The shift of responsibility. Edgar did it so often. The shift of the responsibility of his death to forces outside of his control, his fate out of his hands, his decisions to outside influences, all of it, all of it. It always happened to him, never with him. To absolve all responsibility, all worries, to the hands of someone capable. It wasn't something he was opposed to, it wasn't something he was unfamiliar with. His immortal soul trusted to the all knowing and all powerful. Comforting, it was comforting to have something to rely on, something to trust. It was comforting to know that there was nothing he could have done, nothing that he could do. That external locus of control. You? You would take care of it?
Still almost singing. Of course I would, Edgar. You wouldn't have to think about it. Even if it is true, which we're not sure about. I'll take care of it. You don't have to worry. Just take me out of those memories. Don't rearrange your thoughts, don't rearrange what you see and what you hear. This is my reality, Edgar. My perceptions are yours, my senses are yours. You have more power than you think, my boy, you can affect more than you know. Don't do this to me, don't do this to yourself. You have more control than this, you're more intelligent than this, aren't you?
Flattery that he normally would have rejected. Its source was suspect, but now he wasn't sure. More intelligent...
Yes, you're more capable. You're stronger than this. You can handle more than this, you have handled more than this. This is nothing, this is a drop in the ocean. This is something that we can handle, something that we can deal with without collapsing into a catatonic trance, without resorting to screaming and childish behavior. You're more intelligent than that. You're more controlled than that. You know better than this, you know better than to change your thoughts to justify your reality. You know better.
You're right... Edgar sighed softly, felt air brush against his skin. You're right, I shouldn't be doing this...
That's right. Scriabin said gently. That's right, you're better than this. You can do better than this.
"I shouldn't have done that." Whispered words. "I don't have to do that. I don't have to resort to something like that. I don't have to do that at all. I can overcome this. Whether or not it's true, I can overcome this. The idea of it all...if it is true, then I can deal with it. I can overcome it. I shouldn't be afraid of it. I shouldn't be doing this. I can handle this."
Yes, Edgar, that's right. I wasn't there, was I?
"No...no you weren't." He was right. "You weren't there...I kept wondering where you were, I kept waiting for you to say something, but you didn't, not once. You weren't there...you weren't there."
No, I wasn't. I told you I wasn't.
Emotions dampened, buried. "This is something I can handle. This is something I don't have to be afraid of. Maybe it did happen, maybe it didn't, but it doesn't matter. I'm still who I am, I'm still capable. I can think things through. I can beat this."
The pressure on his shoulders lifted. Yes you can. We can beat this, Edgar. Now, stand up.
He stood, gathered the scattered sheets of paper in his hands. He felt calm, at peace. It was difficult to remember what he had been experiencing not too long ago, what he had felt and what he had thought. It seemed so irrational now, so...almost impossible.
Thoughts quieted, fell into logical patterns without emotion. Normalcy.
You know, Edgar... He didn't flinch at his voice. I'm just thinking...if you do turn out to be one of these waste-lock things...that means you can't die.
We don't know that for sure yet. Didn't notice his use of the word "we." It may not even be an issue.
True, but it's something I think that should be kept in mind... He sounded vaguely distracted. You realize now, realize what you were doing and what you shouldn't do earlier?
Yes... He set the sheets of paper on his coffee table and carefully aligned them, matched edges to one another. Then he realized he wasn't sure why.
Good. Now maybe we can actually get to work. His voice hardened just that little bit, and that was enough for Edgar to remember exactly who he was talking to.
You...why did you do that?
Do what, exactly?
Why were you...nice to me, like that?
Oh, that's no fun, Edgar. Back to condescension again, familiar territory. Let's play a different game. Why do YOU think I acted like that?
I...I don't know. You've never done that before.
Well, surely I must have had a reason! Like he was talking to a child. Edgar hated that. Go ahead, throw out a guess or two. I can't constantly work through your problems for you, you know.
There was an unspoken sentiment there, and Edgar realized why.
...Because you might not always be there.
Silence.
He thought that maybe Scriabin's lack of response was just to motivate him to guess.
I somehow doubt you care about me...it's hard for me to believe that with the way you phrase your words and your advice...it often seems deliberately to hurt or belittle me, just like the tone you were using earlier. Even if there is some level of concern within you for your host, for me, it's hard for me to find, trust, or appreciate it when it's hidden in such hatefulness. I don't think you really care about me, unless your way of showing that is even more twisted than Nny's.
Still silence.
Scriabin?
He heard something like rapid breathing in the back of his mind, so close that he almost turned around to make sure someone else wasn't in the room.
Scriabin?
His voice was almost a whisper. I won't always be here.
Edgar's life was routine, it had always been routine. Even before Johnny had entered and changed his life, it was simple routine that got him through the motions of each day. The same time waking up, the same schedule, the same motions and words and actions every day. That repetition that made his life tolerable, and again shifted responsibility for his decisions onto his internal schedule.
Even after Johnny entered his life, he had struggled to work him, work his plans and his behavior, into that internal schedule. He had worked at planning things, working his life around him, finding a routine.
Scriabin's introduction to his house was a set place, a set place for the action figure to sit, and a set position for it to be in. Scriabin had settled into the routine of Edgar's life without any trouble, naturally and without effort. It seemed he had always been there.
And the voice, the voice in his mind that he found helpful and distracting and harmful, had started so quietly and so subtly that he couldn't place when it had begun, when Scriabin had begun to work his way into the routine of Edgar's life. Even as Scriabin had gained, or perhaps been given, more of his own emotions and feelings and opinions, it had always been worked into the routine, into the automated machine. Required no work, no maintenance. He had accepted Scriabin, he had accepted his growth, he had accepted his development by simply adapting to it as it happened.
Now although he hated Scriabin, hated his insistent insulting commentary and his comments that were all too true at the worst times, he had never thought of Scriabin leaving, in a way.
Even during his stay in the afterlife, if that's what that was, he had expected Scriabin to be there. He had grown used to his voice, accustomed to his insight, and the thought of losing that, even if he hated it so much, was...
He wasn't sure how he felt about that.
Can you die?
Before... Scriabin sounded vaguely distracted. Before, I would have said there was no chance. Now...after all this, after everything you've done in here...I don't know.
Are you scared of me?
No. Quick, steady answer in a level voice.
Well, why not? Edgar ran a hand through his hair.
Because you're a coward. It wasn't a challenge, just a simple statement of fact. You're a coward, and you don't want someone's blood on your hands, even if they don't really exist. He sounded bitter. Maybe you can kill me, maybe you can. I don't think so, but this whole...whatever just happened threw an unpleasant light on what you can potentially do. But you don't know how. More importantly, you don't have the motive.
What? What do you mean, no motive? Of course I have a motive, I hate you-
I know you do, but that doesn't change anything, Edgar. You have no drive for that motive. It's not real. It's a thought, a comforting thought that erases anything more subtle, or more meaningful. Simple hate, and that's all. But not enough to murder, never enough to seriously want to kill, want me dead. Never enough and you know why? You need me. I think what just happened, what I just did for you, is ample proof of that. You need me as your balance, as your logic.
I don't need you-
You can't even think of what it'd be like without me. His voice was still level. You're so used to me being here, so used to me antagonizing you, that there's no other reality for you. I am your reality, I'm real. Well, to you anyway.
You're not real. Just felt the urge to say something, something damaging. Wanted to hurt him. You're just a voice in my head, a voice gone out of control. You can never be real. You need me, Scriabin.
That-
You need me because I'm the only body you'll ever have. I'm the only way you can ever interact with the physical world, I'm your only link. That's why you were frightened before, when I began changing things. I'm your last chance. I'm your only window, I'm your only connection to anyone or anything! You need me! Maybe even more than I need you!
Y-
I'm real, I'm more real than you'll ever be, than you'll ever hope to be! You can never be better than me, you can never be more than me, because I'm real! You're just a figment pretending at reality! At least I have a physical body-
He felt something white hot in the back of his mind, something that flared and burned like he looked at the sun and cut through his eyes, went through and burned and rage he could feel the rage and pain the intense burning vengeful hatred and something screaming and howling and
He was sitting in his car, and the car was parked in front of his church.
Author's Note: God I hate reformatting things here. I tweaked some minor grammatical errors for earlier chapters. I don't wanna fix them all here just yet. Maybe when this is done. But I did fix them at IGTKY, so you can check them there if you like. www ashido com slash igtky as usual! Again, another exclamationpoint-questionmark lost in this one.