"Out" didn't really require a follow-up, and probably shouldn't have had one; but apparently there's something wrong with me.
KEPT
by rueyeet
Halting footsteps trailed slowly down endless stairways, echoing in the dark and empty rooms at every landing like the screams that used to give those bloodstained spaces vitality and life. Gone were the moans, the whimpers, the angry threats, and the pleas for mercy. The devices of torture stood unoccupied, neglected. All of the myriad basement chambers of that house, like the cells of a tumor multiplying out of control, were empty now.
Except one.
Johnny made his reluctant way down flight after flight of stairs towards that one room, his shame and his fear hidden as deeply away as the expansive prison of his house would allow. He didn't really need the flashlight he carried--the way was so familiar that he could have traversed it in the pitch darkness. He'd switched off all the lights. They didn't seem appropriate anymore.
Finally he reached the door at the bottom of all the steps, the torment and treasure at the end of his obscure and convoluted personal rainbow. It just went to show what one got for believing in fairy tales. In ideals. In perfection.
He juggled the flashlight with the container of food he carried--experience had taught him that a plate was too easily overturned--and got the key from his pocket, turned it in the lock, opened the door. Just beyond the dim circle of light provided by the flashlight, a figure stirred, soft clinking sounds disproportionately loud in the silence. Even the voices didn't seem to be able to reach this far down.
"...Nny?" The voice was hoarse with disuse.
"I'm here." As always, Johnny had to take a moment to steady his voice. "I brought some food."
"Food...yes. I must be hungry. Aren't I?" came the query, as if grasping at something forgotten.
Johnny couldn't bring himself to answer. Instead, he cautiously advanced a few steps, bringing the light closer. Shadows resolved into a lowered head, shaggy hair falling to hide its features; light glanced off the buckles of the straitjacket and off the links of the chains that trailed from neck and ankle back into the darkness. When there was no further reaction, Johnny settled himself cross-legged on the floor and opened the plastic container.
"Here," he said softly, offering a piece of bread at arm's length. There was no movement in answer, and he called a little louder, "Edgar."
Edgar raised his disheveled head, neat goatee grown into an unkempt beard, madness in his eyes. "Should I be hungry?" he asked again.
"Yes. It's been days." Johnny continued to hold out the bread.
"But I can't die." The slyness in Edgar's tone reminded Johnny uncomfortably of Scriabin. "I don't need to eat, do I?"
"Edgar...don't. Please. Just...we've been through this. You're hungry, you know you are. Here." Desperately, Johnny leaned as close as he dared.
Gaze fixed on Johnny, Edgar leaned forward as far as the neck chain permitted, and took the bread in his teeth; chewed and swallowed it. Silently, Johnny gave him the rest of the food in the container, piece by piece. Edgar's eyes never left him, staring out between the wayward strands of his tangled hair.
Johnny wished, not for the first time, that he had done something--anything--differently. Would they be here now, would things have unraveled so unbearably far, if he had never taken Nailbunny's advice and called Edgar that first time? If he had never told Edgar what he intended, had never allowed Edgar to touch him? If Edgar had not followed him to Heaven and to Hell, if the Devil had never singled him out for the fate that should have been Johnny's? Maybe he should have killed Scriabin when he showed up on his doorstep, wearing Edgar's body like a favorite coat; maybe he shouldn't have let Edgar kill Scriabin when the two of them came apart before his eyes, Edgar's own rejection and denial so strong that he was finally able to amputate the hated figment like an infected limb, casting away that piece of himself forever.
Ever since he had become aware of Scriabin's existence, Johnny had assumed that the voice in Edgar's head was like the voices in his own: something to tear him down, wear him away, steal his sanity until nothing was left. Edgar never did talk about it much, but Johnny was sure he felt the same way. No one--not Johnny, certainly not Edgar, and perhaps not even Scriabin--had been prepared for what Scriabin took with him, away from Edgar. Sanity. Rationality. Control.
What was left of Edgar had attacked his other self viciously with one of Johnny's own knives. Johnny could still remember the surreal feeling of seeing Edgar explode in the violence so foreign to him, and so familiar to Johnny; like looking in a twisted mirror and seeing another face on his own reflection. That, more than any concern for Scriabin, had motivated him to try to stop Edgar's second slash. Edgar had struggled and fought, twisting and refusing to let go of the knife, until Johnny had finally had to resort to knocking him out yet again. By that time, Scriabin had vanished.
Shaken and bruised, Johnny had restrained Edgar in a sub-basement before he set out to look for Scriabin, just in case. He was unsure of his motivations, responding more to a need to nail things back down, to try to impose some control over the situation, to keep the pieces of it from slipping away, than to any kind of concrete plan. He had searched the rain-soaked streets, sure that Scriabin couldn't have gotten far. Once he had all the pieces, maybe it would be possible to put them back together again.
Too little, too late. By the time Johnny tracked him down, Scriabin was dead, bloodless corpse already stiffening, that piece of Edgar's mental puzzle irretrievably gone. It somehow seemed entirely appropriate, Scriabin's last laugh, that Edgar should be abandoned by his own self; that responsibility for Edgar should fall to the only other person he had left.
Johnny reached for another chunk of food, carefully reduced to manageable pieces, before realizing it was all gone. He uncovered the water bottle, flipping out the attached straw, and offered that as well. Today, Edgar took the straw without complaint, sipping the water without once breaking that watchful stare. Then, as per routine, Johnny set both containers down near the door, and went to unfasten Edgar's neck chain from its ring on the back wall.
"...Nny? Nny! What are you doing?" Edgar's voice took on a tinge of panic.
Johnny made no reply, the flashlight held in his teeth as he unfastened the heavy lock, then hoisted Edgar to his feet. Immediately, he backed away, flashlight in one hand, chain in the other, towards the other corner of the room where a rusty sink and toilet stood. Edgar shuffled anxiously after him. Another ring adorned the wall there, and Johnny fastened the chain to it, making sure the lock clicked soundly home. Then he approached Edgar and started to undo the buckles of the straitjacket.
"You're not letting me go, are you?" Edgar pleaded. "You're not making me go away, are you?"
The last buckle came loose, and Johnny tossed the straitjacket back into the corner from which they'd come. He avoided Edgar's stricken eyes. "Of course not."
Hands free of their restraints, Edgar reached hesitantly towards him. "I'm yours, aren't I?"
Johnny marshaled all his courage and stood his ground, shuddering as Edgar clung to him desperately, the touch making his skin crawl. "Yes. Mine."
"Forever?" Edgar asked eagerly, looking into Johnny's face for reassurance.
The word reverberated in Johnny's head, bringing with it a vision of them both old and withered and white-haired, still caught up in this routine. His reply came out in a whisper. "Forever..." Gently but firmly, he removed Edgar's searching hands and turned to go.
"You're leaving?" Disappointment colored Edgar's tone, and he stood forlornly in his chains.
"You ate. You have things to do. I'll be back, you know I will." Leaving the flashlight on the floor by the door, its light reflected from the ceiling dimly over the whole room, Johnny closed the door and leaned against the other side for a minute, eyes closed, fighting off the urge to burst either into tears, or perhaps crazed, hysterical laughter. He began the long journey back up the steps, finding the railings automatically in the dark, not missing the flashlight's feeble glow, knowing that as soon as he neared the top, the voices would be waiting for him, just as Edgar waited below.
They always were.
END
What is it with me and practical details? I was always the one watching Edward Scissorhands and wondering how the hell he copes with the bathroom.
This story can also be found at Zarla's site--www(dot)ashido(dot)com(slash)igtky--under Fanfics.
Aaaand that's all she wrote for this little divergence in Zarla's continuity, folks. Hope you enjoyed the ride.
