Dwight woke up to the steady beat of the heartbeat monitor. The buzzing of the florescent lights filled his ears and gave him a nauseating headache. The obnoxiously bright light was hanging right over head and made its mission to burn a hole directly into Dwight's eyes. He looked around, startled. He was use to waking up in strange places and that's what made him nervous.
Dwight struggled to get his head together. He looked down to find that he was tucked in a clean white bed. A crowd of white lab coats and blue scrubs. Medical devices stacked up to him on both sides. A shallow IV drip hooked directly to a vain in his arm giving him god knows what. Everything was so clean, so bright. Dwight shielded his eyes. The room was blurry.
He pieced together the series of events that brought him here like a scattered jigsaw puzzle. There was the snow, the generator covered in broken boards and splintered wood, the sharp toothed man, cracks in the ground, a void of light and… and…
Dwight's eyes widened with a mixture of fear and bewilderment. He got out. The words bouncing around his head were made of rubber. The believably of the whole thing was doubtful at best. The very concept slipping through his grasp on reality. There's no way he did that. There's no way he escaped, right?
For so long he'd been running around in that otherworldly prison. He and countless others spent every waking moment studying, theorizing, searching and dreaming of a way to escape -not just back to the campfire, but a real escape- and now here he was smothered in bright white lights and smelling like a janitor's mop bucket. Whatever they used to clean the wound burned Dwight's nostrils like some fiendish prankster decided to set fire to the tip of his nose hair.
He put a hand to rub the blur from his eyes when he realized something was missing: his glasses.
Dwight looked up and down, greeted only by a nondescript blur and every present glimmer of polished floor tile. The heartbeat monitor's once steady beat picking up the pace. He can't see, he can't prepare. Countless times have his eyes saved his life. One of the vital senses that kept him alive when the very world around him was so devilishly designed to end him. Without his glasses he would have been dead meat; and now they're gone. The machine beeped faster and faster. Dwight griped his chest, so his heart didn't fly out of it. His glasses, where were his glasses?
Dwight reached past the little plastic fence built into the side of the bed and to what might be a shelf or a little table. Everything being either paper white or clear plastic didn't help Dwight's already impaired vision. He felt around the small glass jars and even smaller plastic tubing that some genius thought was perfect to keep next to the half blind patient having a panic attack. He felt the cold glass against his fingertips followed by the sound of glass splitting and shattering into tiny little pieces on the floor, scattering like snowflakes fresh from the storm.
"Sir? Sir are you okay?" The voice was warm wrapped with a compassion. The woman in white appeared at Dwight's bedside, sweeping up the broken glass while looking over the machines dug into him.
Dwight gripped the sheets between his fingers. Nervous sweat ran down his temples.
"Sir?"
The nurse wasn't the same nurse he knew. She didn't float a couple inches off the ground nor did she have that trademark bag suffocating what little air she had left. Even without his glasses Dwight could see that this nurse was very much alive and not dangled between life and death like a broken yo-yo. No, this was just the run of the mill ordinary nurse or at least Dwight hoped it was.
"Sir!"
There was always the slight chance that she was a shapeshifter. It wouldn't be the strangest thing he encountered. Trying to lure him into a false sense of security then run him through with a rusty blade. Then how would that explain everyone else. Illusions? A mirage caused by blood lost? Claudette might have said something about that a while ago. Claudett-
"Sir! Did you need something?" The woman was basically shouting on Dwight, pulling him out of his tangled thoughts and back to reality. He stared blankly at her and blinked.
"My umm…" Dwight found his words weak. The general roar of the hospital staff drowned out any thoughts he could muster. A wave of exhaustion washed over him. "My.. my glasses… Wher-"
"There right here, sir." The woman reached to the table by the bed and pulled out Dwight's glasses. Even without them, Dwight could see the use and abuse they've taken in the trials. One of the lenses was completely cracked that looked like an insidious spider spun its web inside the glass. The bridge between the two lens is bent, held together by a dirty bandage and a sticky twig. Dwight tried raised his arm to grab them and found that they felt heavy as lead. He only managed to raise his arm a few inches off the bed sheets with what little strength he had left.
"Allow me, sir." The woman slid the broken glasses on Dwight's bruised face. She tried to adjust the broken lens to fit over his eye but gave up when it was clearly futile. "You need to be more careful. You could have hurt yourself on the glass."
With his vision somewhat returned to him, Dwight scanned the room. No cracks in the ceiling, paint peeling off the walls or the haunting song of crows in the distance. Did he really escape, finally?
"Um… sorry about that. I just needed my glasses."
The nurse smiled at him. Her smile was white and bright, like freshly polished pearls. They were so shiny and bright that Dwight could see his dim reflection in them.
"I understand, sir. It looks like you've been through a lot, but don't worry. You'll receive the best treatments Week's has to offer." She gently slipped her fingers beneath Dwight's arm and held them in the light.
Dwight never bothered counting the scars. After awhile you stop noticing them and just accept the reality that it was a part you. Another small, distinct feature that was grievously given to you by some twisted, blood thirsty monster. Because of this he never truly took the time to realize how many he had obtained through his time in the fog.
If asked, Dwight wouldn't be able to recall where he got half of scars that covered nearly every inch of his arm like a sleeve. Lines both smooth and sharp melded and mixed with cuts that were crude and twisted. He noticed a few. There was one cut at the palm of his hand that he remembers being the first. You never forget your first. Your first love: Carly from second grade. Your first day of school: Quite and awkward. Your first scar: Masked man with metal hooks plunged into his flesh, snuck up on you while your head was still spinning, wondering where the hell you were. If he thought about it, he could still feel the blade cutting through the skin as if it happened just moments before.
A few he could tell just by the size and shape of the cut. That ever familiar chainsaw teeth left their mark. Dwight took a moment to recall which chainsaw manic gave him the mark that ran to his wrist to his elbow, before he decided that they were practically the same and that it didn't matter. He could make out the rough shape of claws that took a chunk of flesh out right below his wrist that never grew back even after the trial. Dwight never understood that. Maybe It decided that the feral swamp thing that took it deserved to keep it or it could be a reminder that no matter how much he lost, It could always take more.
There were other noticeable exceptions: Some bits of glass embedded snug in his skin, a few bits of bones that wasn't his, and one or two metal splinters for good measure. He'd been through it all. His friends dragging him through every step along the way and now they were gone, and he was here. Alone.
He didn't have time to ponder however. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the nurse switch the empty IV bag with a fresh one. Dwight couldn't find the strength to protest. His eyelids were heavy curtains begging to be let down. He could feel the dark bags hang under his eyes gain another fold the longer he remained awake.
"You need your rest, sir. The doctor will come by and ask for your medical history. Try and contact your family so they can come see you."
His mind grew numb. Family. He clung to the word like a rat on a sinking ship. At first, he only thought of them. His friends he fought so hard to protect. They're bright faces all around the campfire as they siked each other up for the next trial. Then it got hazy. The mysterious medicine had a direct line to his bloodstream. He saw other faces, blurry and half remembered.
"My.. family…" He muttered.
Dwight didn't want to go to sleep. The last time he remembers sleeping was right before It dragged him away to Its own little corner of hell. He didn't get a say in the matter and drowsiness drowned any fight he had left in him.
The campfire was oddly silent. No friendly banter, no heroic speeches, nor long winded rants about stuff that -in the grand scheme of things- didn't matter. Just an atmosphere of utter bewilderment. The confusion hung in the air so thick that you could choke on it. Everyone was accounted for. Everyone was in their usually seats all around the burning flame; all except for him.
Meg didn't like the empty seat next to her. She didn't like the vaguely Dwight shaped imprint left on the log. If she squinted she could barely make out the outline of what he would have looked like sitting there. She wanted it to be real more than anything.
She was there when it happened. The cracks of light, the world shaking and ripping itself apart. The masked manic diving after her friend in the light. It was all too much and after the dust had settled everyone was sent back to the campfire as if nothing ever happened.
Meg could see the confusion written on everyone's faces, that and the shock. For god knows how long they've been here, no matter how many times they've been cut, stabbed, ripped apart, or eaten alive they've always came back here. It was one of the few certainties of this strange place. One of the few things they clung to as the truth.
You face the trials.
You escape, or you're sacrificed.
And no matter what you always come back.
Someone or something changed that. Something that Meg couldn't hope to explain without a lifetime spent crafting theories and speculating. Despite being held prisoner in Its realm for countless (Days? Weeks? Months? No. No it must be) years, nobody had the slightest clue the inner workers of It. Well, that wasn't true was it? There was one maybe two people that they knew in the faintest sense of the word if you stretched the meaning a couple miles long.
Meg stood up from her log. All eyes set to her. Silently, she walked over to the patch of trees bordering the fire and behind the first log was a big stone set against the arching roots. She pushed the rock aside and pressed into the dirt was a tattered journal still covered in mud and grit. The name "Benedict Baker" embolden in big black letters on the cover.
Meg couldn't remember when they first found the old book. She just remembered how happy that they found it. Inside was a detailed guide of the trials they faced daily (or was it hourly?). The rules of the trial, the killers that hunted them, and the being that imprisoned them was all written down by some unlucky soul trapped in his hell. Sometimes they would find pages missing, torn from the spine to be lost forever. Other times they would find new pages scribbled madly on the aged parchment, barely legible or coherent. Another mind lost to madness.
Meg began flipping madly through the pages. The pages were worn, and the writing became more scrambled and frantic the further you read. Furious holes stabbed through with an over eager pen. As fast as she was skimming through journal, she took great care to not rip anymore pages. Have to preserve what's left.
Meg glanced at a page, a familiar passage laid out before her. Words that will always burn bright.
"What defines reality? Is it just that you can taste and touch. Feel the pain as the blade slides in between your ribs. Taste the iron tinged flavour of blood in your mouth and the smell of death as the darkness takes you? Is it hope that drives you on? Hoping that the next time will bring your actual death, or hope that the next exit reveals a way back home. I yearn for some kind of escape. Be it death or life."
Meg frowned, she couldn't find the answer she was looking for or wanted. She refused to believe that her friend was lost to the cold grip of death. As much of a mercy that may be, it wasn't possible her. She took the page by the corner of its tip and proceeded to the next one. She looked for a sign about blinding lights, cracks in the ground that swallowed her friend. Nothing.
She returned to her seat disheartened. Her thumb was wedged to the page where she left off.
"Find anything?" Jake asked.
Meg shook her head.
Claudette tapped Meg's shoulder. "Mind if I take a look?" She held out her hand, waiting to receive.
Meg handed the old journal over to which Claudette cradled it in her finger with the gentleness of a mother holding her child. She flipped through the pages, stopping ever so often to scan it in greater detail. With each page turned the hope in her face drained away until she closed the book entirely, faced with defeat.
Meg slowly opened and closed her eyes. Drowsiness taking hold of her. How long have they been here waiting for? Waiting for Dwight to just pop up like nothing ever happened. His same silly nervous grin tittering on joyful and fearful. Will he ever come back?
They were a team. A tight set of gears in a well-oiled machine. Except now a gear has fallen loose and is lost in the tangled clockwork. Sure, it might still work, might work for a long time, so long that Dwight becomes a distant memory. But without him, there would always be that dent in the log where he would sit. That very spot where he would rally the team together, keep the fires of hope burning bright.
Meg couldn't keep her eyes open. When was the last time she willing slept? Months? Years? Decades? And she hasn't aged a day throughout all of that. The only sign of time passing were the scars she'd been collecting on her body.
She closed her eyes one last time and before she knew it she was alone. Dark trees loomed over her, twisted branches scratching at the sky at the whim of the cold breeze. She looked to left and saw a perfectly good generator resting against the bark. One thing was made certain: The trials will continue with or without her friend.
She knelt and got to work, trying her best to stay focus to keep her mind from wondering. But she couldn't help but be terrified at the thought that he was gone forever. He might not have even escaped. The image of Dwight's body plummeting in the void shook Meg to her core. She thought this even as the haunting ring of the bell echoing thought the trees.
These trials weren't a race, they were a marathon and Meg wasn't eager to meet the end. She snapped herself out of her mournful state. But there was a creeping thought in the back of her mind. Why? Why did the world split open? Why did Dwight decided to crawl inside? Why did he leave them behind?
Meg tried to dash the idea away before it went any further. Focus on the task at hand: survive. You're still in this race. She told herself. You're still here. And you're going to make it!
Meg went to work untangling and reattaching broken strips of greasy wires. The engine purred to life, a flash of light pushed away the fog. Then the bell toiled, and Meg heard the distant cries of her friends. She ran through the trees in a mad sprint, digging her cleats into the ground for that extra burst of speed. She will survive, if not for her then for the sake of everyone else.
The hospital's halls were dirty and decrypted. Several windows were cracked open or missing entirely letting in a faint breeze devoid of cold or warmth. Wires hung from holes the ceiling. A few naked wires dripping with hot sparks. The florescent lights flickered as they struggled to fed off the dark.
Dwight knew his way around, at least enough to hide. He knew of the treatment theater that was vaguely at the heart of this labyrinth and the Doctor's office that was somewhere by that. The exactly layout may shift in any number of directions, but a general rule was established.
He cursed under his breath as the fog rolled in. He was already devoid of the view gifted to him by the wide-open spaces he was accustomed to running though, now It decided that wasn't bad enough and added a blanket of fog on top of that. "Of course." Dwight sighed.
Dwight peeked carefully around every corner, not just keeping an eye out for whatever monster of the week that'll be hunting him, but for those precious generators. He was so use to watching the tall tower of lights that sprouted from them that it was his main way of finding them. The receptivity design of the halls made navigation a difficult. Carefully he inched deeper and deeper in the sterile white halls.
He began to panic when his hair stood up on edge. The faint feeling of static pulling at what little arm hair Dwight had. He already knew who it was a began to run.
A wave of lightning lit up the floor beneath him. The energy piercing his feet, bouncing up and down his legs. Shooting further up his body until he could taste the electricity on the tip of his tongue. A scream gathered in his lungs. Dwight closed his month to hold it in, covering it with his hands to form an airtight vice grip. It didn't matter, by his own will or Its, the scream slipped from his lips.
It was the giggle that came after that terrified him. That childish glee from the suffering of others. It was human only in shape. Its mind crushed only to be reformed under a new master. The thing's eyes were held open by two metal wires stapled to the side of its face. The wire snaking beneath its blood eyelids. Its mouth formed a smile under the medical vice. Blood drooling down its chin. That innocent giggle gargling in its mouth.
It raised its charred hand and released another bolt of electricity that struck the floor. Dwight took the jolt and screamed again. The thing laughed as he did so, relishing the twisted joy.
Dwight turned to run when another jolt twisted his legs into a pretzel knot. He fell face first on the cold concrete floor. The white robed figure towered over Dwight's frail, feeble body. His burnt, flayed smiling face and his unblinking eyes as he grabbed Dwight by his temples. Sparks flying from his black fried fingertips and then-
Dwight woke up screaming at the top of this lungs. All the machines that he was hooked up to were blaring with beeps and alarms. The doctors and nurse rushed to his bedside. They held him down against the chemically smelling sheets as he thrashed wildly at them.
"What happened? What's the situation?" One of the doctors demanded.
"He just woke up!" The nurse explained.
"Well, give me a sedative! We have to calm him down before he hurts himself."
Dwight watched in horror as the doctor was handed a clear syringe. He placed his hand on Dwight's forehead and pushed his head into the pillow. He put on a brave smile, unnatural smile like behind held by invisible strings. "Now son, you're going to feel much better in just a moment's notice. Right as rain."
Dwight could only focus on the smile. That same, forced smile. He couldn't see metal and wires holding it open, but he knew it was there. It was the doctor's touch against his temple that set Dwight over the edge. Half expecting to feel the sharp jolt of electricity flow through him and half expecting to walk up from yet another nightmare.
"No! Get away!" He screamed before the needled plunged into arm.
Dwight's arms went limp and his shoulder slackened. A blanket of calm wrapped around him in a tight nit cocoon of sluggishness. His arms decided that they would be much better laying at Dwight's sides then fend off any intrusive doctors. His heart forced to slow down and take in a shallower breath.
The doctor looming over him breathed a sigh of relief. "Nurse, I want you to watch this one for an hour or two. We're spread thin enough as it is, and we don't need him having another episode."
The nameless nurse nodded. "Yes sir."
The doctor gave one last worried glance at Dwight before leaving to attend to the neighboring patients. The nurse began looking over Dwight's machines again. Her perceptive eyes watching the lights flicker and her ears listened carefully at the beat of Dwight's heart. Her eyes drifted to the scars littered on Dwight's arm. Her cold, serious expression softened at the sight of them.
She carefully took Dwight's arm in her hands, going over every single scar. Her mind racing with how and what did this to him.
She gazed into Dwight's eyes with morbid curiosity. "What happened to you?"
Dwight choose his words with care. Each syllable finely crafted and refined to articulate what he meant.
"I went to hell." He muttered, his voice trembling with each word. Memories of running down endless hallways flashed in his mind. He started to shake. Despite the medicine's best efforts, Dwight's heart resembled that of a marathon runner than a sedated patient. The heartbeat machine lighting up like a Christmas tree.
The nurse had more questions lined up, her next sentence rising in her throat, but the look of horror, the absolute terror that persisted and thrived in Dwight despite being -by all means- intoxicated. Whatever but the fear of god made sure that it was rooted deep into his very being.
"Eh, on second thought why don't you tell me your name, sir? We need to know your emergency contacts."
"My family…" Dwight let out a sigh. "My name is Dwight."
"And your last name, sir?"
His last name. Fairfield, a name that felt so foreign on his tongue. Everyone just called him Dwight. Sure, they knew his last name. Everyone was just on a first name basis because shouting "Dwight!" was a lot easier and quicker than shouting "Dwight Fairfield!". Back there every second counted, and they shaved off anything that wasn't essential. "Fairfield. My name is Dwight Fairfield and my parents' number is-"
"Fairfield? Where does that sound familiar? Oh," The nurse reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. After a few quick presses and swipes on the touch screen she held the phone up for Dwight to see. The phone displayed a news article. The headlines written in bold Missing Person: Dwight Fairfield still not found.
"We know about the Fairfield family! Were you the boy they lost a while back? We'll call them immediately and let them know where you are." The nurse was avoiding looking at him as if the many scars and wounds will leap off Dwight's body and onto hers. She was staring at the clipboard tucked at the end of the bed.
"You're lucky to be alive, Dwight. It says here that you have almost every wound in the book."
Dwight looked down at his hands. Burns and scars collected all up his arms through countless trials. Claw marks, chainsaw teeth, and crude cuts ran up and down his body. It made Dwight tremble to think that his life is owed to that terrible, nameless thing stitching him up.
"With the amount of blood, you lost, you must have a guardian angel." Dwight put on a fake smile. An angel was a poor description for his 'savor'. More of a devil if anything. "Get your rest, sir. We'll let you know if you have a visitor."
"Ho… How long was I gone?"
"How long? I'm not sure, sir. Last time I heard of that was a year ago." She tied a loose strand of blond hair and pulled it back behind her ears.
Dwight shot up from his bed. The monitor exploding with a mad beeping.
"A Year!? I've only been gone for one year?"
The nurse woman nodded her head. "More or less. I don't know exactly, sir. You need to calm down."
"Nurse! Is something wrong with the patient?" A doctor called from across the hall.
"No, sir! Everything is fine!" The nurse put her hand and slowly lowered Dwight down into the bed. "Please sir, calm down. You need to rest and recover."
Dwight laid down to catch his breath. His reality shattered before him. "No, it's been years. I've been in that nightmare for so many years that I lost count. It couldn't have been just one. It couldn't have been."
"You need some time alone, sir. Get some rest and if you need me you can press the little button at the side your bed for assistance." The nurse quickly departed and vanished among the shift current of white coats and blue gowns. Dwight, left alone with this horrifying realization, laid there away. His eyes barely finding the time to blink. Ever vigilant.
"There's no way I made it. No way in hell I escaped. I.. I couldn't have." Dwight griped his head to keep his thoughts from spilling out. Guilt festering into a twisted coil in his soul. "I promised. I promised we'd all leave together. There's no way I got out. I couldn't have left them behind."
The heartbeat monitor slowed to a more acceptable pace. The rhythmic beat pounding in Dwight's ears. His eyes glued to the corner of the room that was his blind spot. His body tensed up waiting for one of the doctors to turn around and reveal that forced mechanical grin and utter that childlike laughter.
Margret mindlessly washed the dishes piling up in the sink. Scrubbing the dried grit of yesterday's dinner. The morning birds were singing their same sad song as they did every morning. Margret wished they would add a few new singers to their stale choir.
Today felt like any other day. Jeremy was off at work. Hopefully he'll get that promotion he's always been vying for. He works harder in that office as anybody. Margret doesn't see why he should be left in the dust. Derik's big game was in a week. That'll be fun to see all that training go to good use. Quite afternoons throwing the old football around had become somewhat of a family pastime. Derik will be so proud when everyone-
She cringed quietly to herself. No, everyone wouldn't be there. She reminded herself. But Jeremy and her will be and that's what matters, at least to Derik.
Margret went back to dishwasher duty, washing the stubborn string beans off Derik's plate. Someone like Derik should be eating their greens. Margret marked that down as a mental note.
She heard a sudden knock at the door and Margret raised an eyebrow. Who could that be? She set the dishes down in the warm pool of water gathering in the sink, dried her hands in her napkin and walked to the front door. Her soft slippers barely making a sound as she walked across the floorboards.
The visitor knocked again, this time with more vigor. Margret was off put by this.
"Who's there? I have a gun! Don't think of doing anything funny!" She yelled behind the safety of a three locked door.
"Margret! Margret let me in! It's Jeremy! Let me in Margret I have to tell you something, now!" Margret reached over and undid the three locks bolted to the side of the door. Sliding the chains out of their sheathes before Jeremy jammed his key into the door lock and nearly threw the door open in Margret's face.
"Margret!" Jeremy fell through the door, tripping over his own excited steps. His face stretched to a wide goofy grin. His eyes red with tears of joy. He clutched his cellphone so tight in his hand that Margret thought he'd crush it.
Jeremy wrapped his arms around her and squeezed, pulling her close to his warm chest.
"Jeremy, what is it?" Margret asked. "Shouldn't you be at work? What's the occasion?"
Jeremy pulled back, raising his phone up to Margret's face. On the screen was a single picture of a bloody boy, barely man with slack features not to dissimilar to Jeremy's and her own. His glasses were broken beyond belief and his eyes were bloodshot cherries glued into his face. Despite looking like he'd been dunked into a woodchipper, pulled out and throw into a pool of razors; it was unmistakably him.
Margret cupped her mouth and slowly backed away in disbelief. "Is it really him?" She asked with choked words. Jeremy nodding madly.
"They found him. They finally found him." His goofy smile grew even wider. His whole-body trembling in excitement.
Margret whipped her eyes to stop the waterworks. Tears soaking her freshly dried sleeves. "Where is he? Where is out boy?"
"He's in the hospital in Weeks. Just a few miles down the road."
"The hospital!"
"They said he's fine. We can pick him up today!"
Margret grabbed Jeremy by his dress shirt and dragged him to the car parked outside. "Then what are we waiting for? Let's bring him home!" The bird's chirping no longer seemed monotonous. They were cheering. Today was a special day.
Dwight didn't wait for the static shock to hit him. He ran down the hospital's halls as that thing in the white lab coat gave chase.
"Jake! Meg! Claud! Anybody, help me!" He screamed.
A spotlight of crimson washed over him. The killer raised its instrument of punishment and slammed it into Dwight's back. The small metal pricks ripping into his flesh. Dwight was flung forward, reeling in pain. He struggled to keep running, biting his tongue, forcing himself to stay conscience.
The doctor gigglled manically at the sight of his handiwork. He patted his weapon in the palm of his hand. Congratulating itself on a job well done.
Dwight kept running, ducking and diving through windows and around corners, but the killer was always right on his tail. His heart pounding in his ears. His footsteps following the deafening beat. At last he found himself at the center of it all: The treatment theater.
A circle of electrical chairs surrounded him. Above him was this spark spitting machine with static screens ripped from the guts of televisions. Long, dark wires fell from the ceiling and wrapped themselves around the chair's metal straps. A shiny steel dome with flickering lights hungered for human heads to char and burn with fierce lightning.
Dwight was cornered. The exits were shut, there was no where to run. His friends had abandoned him to his fate. The doctor relished in Dwight's misery. Sending forth another bolt of lightning across the floor. Dwight twitched and convulsed as the electricity coursed through his body. The doctor struck Dwight down in this moment of weakness, giggling all the while to himself.
Shadow whispers poured into Dwight's ears. He knew. Nobody had to tell him that It was talking to him or at least it had the voice of It. Its unfathomable words awakening something dark locked away in his mind. His hope, his fears, his ambition were all set for the chopping block. Maybe It was mocking Dwight, bragging about how it could take just that little bit more from him. Or maybe it was looking for something else because it had already taken so much.
Dwight felt nothing but the cold. Even when the doctor bashed his weapon into his skull, Dwight only felt the chill of something colder than he ever thought possible. The chill of the void. He was slipping away. No hope, no fear, just an empty vessel to be tossed away and forgotten.
"Sir."
In his final moments, Dwight realized this was the only escape.
"Dwight!"
A dark, gentle place where he could never be hurt again.
"Dwight, wake up!"
Dwight awoke to the kindhearted nurse lightly gently nudging his shoulder. His eyes shot wide open. Images of his nightmare still fresh in his head. He jumped from his bed, cords and wires yanked free from his skin.
"Dwight!" The nurse cried out in panic.
Dwight dove behind another patient's bed. The nurse raced to catch him.
"Dwight, I need you to calm down!"
"Stay away from me!" Dwight pointed to the formless figure hiding behind her eyes. "I know you're watching me! Trying to make me think I got away!" Dwight snatched the terrified patient's bedpan from under him. "But there is no escape. Death is not an escape! I'm still here! I know it! You're just trying to trick me! Get away! Haven't you taken enough!" He wielded the bedpan like a weapon, spilling human waste all over the floor with each blind swing.
"Doctors! Doctors, we have a situation!"
"Where are they? What did you do to my friends? Give them back, you monster!"
"What are you talking about Dwight? What's gotten into you?" The nurse coward in fear. Dwight raised the bedpan over his head, ready to strike the monster down.
"Dwight!" The voice cut through the madness like a hot knife through butter. That tone of voice warm as freshly made soup. Dwight, feeling rather embarrassed at his emotional outburst, dropped the bedpan from his shaking grip and turned to the direction of the voice.
At the end of the hall stood two souls Dwight believed he'd never see again. Even in his darkest moments he remembered them, clung to their memory as a rat to a sinking ship. He did everything and everything to keep his head above water so that the fear and horror didn't drag him down into the depths.
One was tall and lanky, wearing a dress shirt and tie. His beard hanging off his face to give the idea that he was burly. His bald head emphasizing the oversized glasses on his face. The other was short and round. Her checks warm and red as the Sunday gown she was wearing.
"Mom? Dad?" He sobbed. Tears of joy streaming down his face as he ran in for a hug. They embraced him. Dwight had his doubts. The scrapyard, the hospital, even the sunlight. All of which could have been a ploy to get his hopes up only to be swept away as a cruel prank. But this, this wasn't a trick. This was genuine love, something that could never be replicated. Dwight squeezed his parents tighter. His tears staining his hospital gown. He was home.
Frank stood alone in the darkness. He floated aimlessly, no ground to stand on. The shifting shadows shrouded a dark ember glow. A small dark pocket of a much bigger bubble created just for him. Just another speck of dust in the uncaring universe. Frank had now power here and he believed that was the point.
The thing couldn't be seen, its presence was simply felt. It was everything to ground you stand on to the very air you breathe. It wasn't civilized. The parasite was a shapeless, gaping maw that lead to a bottomless vacuum of depravity. Its hunger could never be satisfied, its fantasies could never be quenched. It scratched and clawed at reality itself, clinging desperately to the foothold it made for itself.
And Frank made it angry. He failed it. It was his fault. The prey escaped because of him! And he had nothing to offer it. He was less than worthless.
Frank madly shook his head. Those weren't his thoughts. It had its claws on the driver's wheel, steering Frank's mind to its whim. Long, invisible spider tendrils dug into his brain to infect every thought and shred every semblance of self-worth. It wanted to drag him down to his lowest point.
It didn't speak or at least not in the conventional sense and rarely was it needed to send a message. Frank felt its wordless will, the rage seared his skin. Visible whiffs of steam rising through his jacket. The chill of the void crept out from under him, threatening to sallow him whole. The message was clear. Why shouldn't I?
"Wait! Wait! Wait! You don't have to do this!" Frank begged. The cold crept further up his legs, chilling him to the bone. It was colder than the snow back home. Colder than the looks on their faces when they looked at him.
"I can fix this!" He was so used to saying that. I can fix this. He really thought he could. The words so perfectly pronounced that he could have won one of those useless reward for it. Practice makes perfect after all.
The cold crept higher. Frank's body tensed as he struggled to wiggle his foot. His legs have gone completely numb. The void was taking him. A cold, quiet place. It was almost inviting if it wasn't for the burning desire to prove that he wasn't something that could just be thrown away like trash. He dug his nails into the palm of his hand. A small trickle of blood running down his fingertips. He was somebody! He was Frank fucking Morrison!
"I'll get him back!" Frank roared in the darkness. The echo of his declaration echoing off the darkness. The cold stopped just below his hips. The air became still. It was listening.
"I'll get him back, so you don't have to. Give me chance. I'll bring him back and prove that I'm worthy of you! I'll rip out his guts and strangle him with em! I'll tear him apart!" The feral fury was intoxicating. The need, the desire to rip and tear was something to hold on to, an anchor in the madness. Something that reminded him who he was.
It didn't make a sound. Not approval nor disapproval. Frank's eyes frantically darted through the shifting shadows, looking for any sign that his little promise made a dent in his fate. If not, then this wasn't a meeting, it was an execution.
Cold sweat ran beneath his mask. His own breath feeling heavy and burdensome. The silence was deafening. Frank wanted to crawl out of his skin and run away to curl up in some corner of the dark and be forgotten.
No! Frank Morrison doesn't hide! Frank Morrison doesn't run from nobody! That scrawny, four eyed twerp made a mockery of him! Made him look like a fool in front of everybody! Nobody gets away with that not without a few scars and bruises.
"I can find him, blend in. No one will notice. No attention brought to you! That's what you want right? Not being noticed? I can bring him back and no one will be the wiser. Face it, I look the most human out of all of them!"
It stirred. Red, hot anger lashed out. A steaming red mark branded over Frank's skin. A reminder of the reward cockiness gets you. I don't need you.
"Okay! Okay, you're in completely control! You're in charge! Just…" Frank wrapped his arms around himself. His lip quivered, and he began to shake. "Just please, let me do this. I need this, what we have. I have nothing else out there! I have no reason to stay out there. I belong here. Just let me prove that to you. I can do this, please." He pleaded. Every ounce of concentration spent to hold back the tears welling in his eyes.
Frank couldn't lie to the It. It chose him, it knew him better than he knew himself. Part of It was embedded into his very being the moment he walked into its neck of the woods. A constant reminder that It was the master and he was the servant. But there was something comforting about that. Never being truly alone.
It reached out a long, shadow limb with spots of orange thrown about on it and held Frank in place. The cold chill creaming up past his hips then stopping right before reaching his ribs. One slip and he'd be sent hurtling into the black nothingness. A clear warning of what's to come. One last message before he left. Do not disappoint.
Frank smiled beneath his mask, a twisted grimace to match his mask. "You won't regret this. I'll bring him home."