Author's note: My life's getting busier so chapters might be coming out a little slower from now on, though I'll still try to get at least one out a week. I think I'll probably wrap this up at around eight or nine chapters maybe? Anyways, enjoy Stanley's suffering till then. Oh, and there's a special guest making himself a bit more obvious in this chapter. I won't outright say who he is till the end of the story, but it should be pretty easy to guess ;)

Chapter 6

When you get into a tight place, and everything goes against you till it seems as if you couldn't hold on a minute longer, never give up then,

for that's just the place and time that the tide'll turn. - Harriet Beecher Stowe

Stan's head was aching. Each pulsing wave of agony in his brain was in perfect synchronization with the beating of his heart, and the steady, joined rhythm seemed to reverberate throughout every fiber of his body making all other feeling dull or muted in comparison. It hurt. It hurt a lot. The space behind his forehead might as well have been a car that was repeatedly backing up, and then slamming full throttle into the brick wall of his eye sockets; over, and over, and over again. Stan could feel every single second, and half second, and millisecond ticking by in a lethargic, stagnant torture. He just wanted it to stop. He just wanted a reprieve, just a small reprieve, that was all. How could he focus on getting out of this death trap when he was like this? When his limbs were stiff, clumsy, and weighted, nearly impossible to move?

He couldn't. He couldn't do this on his own. He needed help. Any help.

But there was no help. No one else was there. He was all alone. He was always alone nowadays.

It was enough to make Stan whimper and then start sobbing dryly.

"Help… please. Somebody, anybody….. Help me. Please….. please… please" His mouth was too dry to articulate the words properly and his voice was a croaking whisper barely even audible to his own ears. It had no chance of being heard outside the trunk of the car even if there'd been anyone out there to hear him.

What was he doing? What the hell did he think he was doing?! Since when had begging, or saying please, ever gotten him anywhere in his life. It hadn't, and it certainly wasn't going to start now. He couldn't count on anyone else to come to his aid. He hadn't been able to do that for quite a while now. He had to figure a way out of this mess on his own. He needed to figure out what to do.

But… did he really? Stanford had said he was coming for him, hadn't he? He'd said that he was trying to locate Stanley. Maybe… all he needed to do was sit tight long enough for his brother to find him.

No, he wasn't thinking clearly. He was confusing fantasy with truth. That had just been a dream, all of that had just been a dream. And besides, the two of them had parted ways over seven years ago. How naïve did he have to be to believe that his brother would actually come looking for him now? He had no way of knowing what country Stanley was in, let alone what had happened to him or what was happening to him. How could he have? Not once in all this time had Stanford even bothered to check in on his twin and see how he was doing; at least not to Stanley's knowledge. Surely, if Stanford had known about some of the lower points his brother had hit in his life, he wouldn't have just stood by and done nothing. He would have come to Stanley's aid. Right?

Stan's train of thought ground to a sudden halt. He'd heard something moving around on the outside of the car. Something had scraped against the metal exterior leaving a long, shrill whisper of screeching and groaning as it passed.

Had that just been the wind, or…. was… could that be? No it… no. It couldn't but… but what if it was? Something had to have made that noise, wasn't that proof enough! And he'd said he was trying to find Stanley, he had said that! Stanford wouldn't say something like that if he didn't really mean it, dream or not. Was it possible that he had somehow found Stanley already? Was he out there waiting for him, right now?

"Ford…. Ford, I'm in here. Stanford!" Tears of joy would have been leaking out Stanley's eyes if he'd had any water left in him to spare. A small, terrified smile started to stretch its way across his face. The inside of his head felt thick, but the back of it tingled in a way that made the rest of his body feel weightless and floating. His brother had come for him! He'd really come for him! He did care.

Stanley lifted a shaking hand and knocked it against the metal ceiling that rested mere inches above his face. The echoing clang trembled frailly in the darkness around him like the last low note of a sad love song. "Ford, over here….. please…. hurry."

He was hot. He was incredibly, unbearably hot. He just wanted something to drink. He wanted to be free again, and for the throbbing in his head to stop. He wanted to be out there with Stanford. He wanted to hug Stanford and hold him close, to rest his miserable aching head upon his brother's shoulders and just cry into him. He wanted to tell him how much he loved him, and how much he'd missed him for all these years. He wanted that more than anything. He'd missed him so much. He'd missed him so, so much. What was taking so long?

He waited.

But the trunk remained closed.

This didn't make sense, why wasn't it opening? Stanford was there, he was right there! Didn't he want to help Stanley get out? Why wasn't he saying anything, why wasn't he doing anything? Was he really just going to loiter around while Stanley suffered? Did he really want his brother to die in there?!

"Ford… Ford!" Stanley pressed his palms and knees to the top of the trunk and started pushing desperately against it using every last ounce of strength he had left. The roof didn't budge in the slightest. Why wasn't it moving?!

'Maybe….' A smooth voice in his mind accused, 'Maybe he couldn't lift it because it was being held down by something. Or someone.'

For a moment dream and reality blurred. The spot on Stanley's forehead where he'd been struck by the compass earlier started pounding hard again as if he'd only just been hit. Before, the pain from his injury had roused him from his sleep, and now it brought a kind of wakefulness to him for a second time. A clarity, and focus, and courage. A sudden realization.

It wasn't Stanley's own inner voice that had made that accusation, though the imitation had been pretty uncanny; and it wasn't his voice of reason, the one that tended to sound a lot like Stanford, either. No, but to his surprise he found that he still recognized it. This was the same voice from earlier, the one that had been arguing against him and pushing him to just give up right before he'd lost consciousness. The one that had convinced him of the hopelessness of his current situation, of just how much Stanford wasn't interested in seeing him again, and of how worthless and pitiful all his life's accomplishments were, and ever would be. It was the one that had given the surprised gasp as the fog had retreated at Stanford's approach in his dream.

And now it was here again, quiet, yet echoing oddly, as if it were trying to shout at him from behind a thick glass wall.

Stan didn't like it, and wasn't in a state of mind to even try to begin understanding what it was, or why he could hear it, or how he'd ever been duped into thinking that the voice belonged to him in the first place. His best guess at the moment was that he was simply losing his mind and that the voice was some kind of product of his own messed up imaginings, but even that didn't feel quite right. This thing seemed more like it was separate from him, an outside force.

Still, whatever it's origins were it had brought up a pretty valid point; and even though listing to it, taking its bait for a second time, probably wouldn't lead to anything good, Stan found that he couldn't really help himself.

After all, Stanford was right next to him, just outside the car. Stanley knew, he knew that he was there. He felt Stanford's presence all around him like he felt the heat of the sun all around him. It was like the voice had implied; if he wasn't helping his brother to get out of there, then there was really only one other thing he could be doing. Stanford must have been sitting out on the hood of the trunk, holding it down and trapping him inside.

Stanley thought he could almost hear his twin scoffing at him, at how incapable he was of getting out of there without his help, of getting anywhere without his help. Probably wondering idly if he'd have to help his poor stupid brother out of another bind.

Stan felt the beginnings of a white-hot inferno start to spark up in his heart, and catch fire to the breath in his lungs.

It was obvious. It was so obvious now. Why couldn't he have seen it back then!

Stanford had never cared about his opinions, had never cared about what Stanley had thought of him. He only ever cared about being everyone else's favorite. About being the perfect golden child whom everyone loved and adored because he was just so smart. He was just so important and successful. He was going to go off and make big scientific advancements that would change the world. He was going to make millions without even trying. He was just so great, and so amazing, and HE DIDN'T CARE!

He didn't care that he'd neglected the promise that the two of them had sworn to ever since they were children, ever since they'd first laid eyes upon the remains of that old ship in the hidden cave. He didn't care that he was going to abandon Stanley to a dead end job, spending the rest of his life scraping barnacles off the docks below the saltwater taffy shop while he went gallivanting off to some prestigious university on the other side of the country. He hadn't even offered any encouraging words, a ray of hope, or a helping hand for Stanley to grab onto and pull himself out of such an abysmal future. He didn't care at all that he'd had to leave Stanley in the dust to achieve this new dream of his. This dream that had seemed to suddenly spring up out of nowhere and burn all of Stanley's dreams to a pile of soft gray ashes on the ground.

If anything, he had practically jumped at the opportunity to get away from Stanley. He'd had no desire to stay by his brother's side in the slightest. And why would he? Stanley was stupid. Stanley was useless. Stanley was just a stumbling block that tripped him up and got in his way.

That was what everyone had always said, and Stanford agreed with them. He knew that. He knew that Stanford agreed with them because whenever someone had said something like that about him, Stanford had never contradicted them. He had never disagreed with them, or argued with them, or told them how wrong they were. H-He hadn't…. he hadn't told their teachers, or the principal, or even their own parents just how wrong they were.

Stanley had always done that for him. Whenever someone had made fun of his extra fingers, or called him a freak….. Stanley had always made sure that they knew just how wrong they were. He had always made them pay for those comments.

Stanford never had.

Stanley had been played.

This whole time, this whole time! The person he'd thought he cared about, the one he'd thought had cared about him, had lied to him. He had just been using him to make himself look better, so everyone could see just how superior he was to the dumb twin. How much more exceptional he was than the spare. He was mocking him, probably laughing at him. Laughing at poor stupid Stanley. Poor stupid Stanley who had fallen for such an obvious trick.

He could just see Stanford's condescending sneer in his mind's eye. He was standing far up above him, looking down on him. He thought Stanley was pathetic. Gullible. Weak.

Stanley would show him just how wrong he was. He would show him. He would show his father. He would show everyone!

Stan was so consumed by his own distraught outrage at this point, so lost in his own inner hysteria, that he'd nearly forgotten he was locked in the trunk of a car at all. He had only the barest impression of where he was and what he was doing at the moment. A fiery hurricane of absolute and overwhelming contempt had completely overtaken his mind, and any string of rational thought, or doubt, or self-awareness was incinerated long before it ever had a chance to leave the eye of the storm. Stan felt as though he wasn't even in control of his own movements anymore. It was more like he was sitting somewhere in the back of his skull and watching someone else puppeteer the hot bloody mess of his body around. As if his consciousness was being snuffed out and smothered by a searing blanket of mindless, boiling rage.

But his consciousness and clarity of mind weren't the only things that were burning up. Whether the voice had intended this or not, it too was being devoured by the out of control blaze. Its quiet hissing drowned out by the roaring within Stan's ears. He wasn't sure if he'd just imagined it, but Stan thought he could almost feel the voice acquiescing to this; accepting its need to retreat for now, though it made sure to offer one last parting taunt on its way out.

'Good choice there kid.' It whispered to him in a tone that was becoming increasingly grating and high-pitched, completely dropping all pretenses of pretending to be part of Stan's natural thought process. ' He was never any good for you anyways, and besides, it's not like brotherly love is really going to grant you the strength you need to get out of here. Hatred on the other hand... Well that worked pretty well with the taillight, didn't it.'

"Shut up!" Stanley ground out lowly between clenched teeth. "I don't need your help." Even though he hadn't really done anything particularly strenuous yet, his breathing was already ragged and heavy. He felt as though he was fighting something off, but he wasn't quite sure what it was.

'Who says I'm here to help you.'

Utilizing the energy from his newfound anger, Stan set to work. His fingers numbly fumbled around the trunk of the car till his hands closed upon the lock that had been holding the chains together earlier. He watched his arm pull back like a snake about to strike, and then viciously jam the top of the lock into the small gap between the latches that held the trunk closed. It stuck fast on the first try, bending and warping the metal around it to accommodate its shape. Stan's body then crammed itself as far back into the corner the trunk as it would go, giving him every inch of space possible to wind up for a powerful kick; one that would hopefully force the lock even further into the gap.

Stan was just about to slam his feet down, when the muscles in his arms and legs suddenly, and without warning, froze up. He couldn't move them. At all. Something that sounded a lot like laughter echoed from somewhere far off in the distance, and yet, within his skull at the same time. Stan's heart began to race.

The stiffness held Stan in its grasp was unnatural and chilling, and he was more than a little startled by it. He didn't think it was a symptom of dehydration or heatstroke, but then what was it? A horrifying mist of despair began growing in the back of Stan's mind. It occurred to him that the blow he'd received to the back of his head last night might have done more damage than he'd initially thought, and that all his thrashing around earlier could've somehow made it worse and completely paralyzed him.

The spot where the compass had struck his forehead was pounding.

No, that couldn't be it. Every other part of his body was just fine, just as mobile as it had been before. It was only his limbs that were immovable. It was as if his arms and legs had been tied up again. As if his wrists were still cuffed and his legs still chained together. As if all of his efforts to free himself before had merely been a hallucination or a figment of his weary tormented mind. Yes, he was hearing voices, but could he really be that far gone already? Had all of that just been a dream too?

Dream and reality were blurring.

But that couldn't be either. His thumb was aching with its dislocation, and his nose was cracked and hurting. The skin on his face was tight with dried blood and stinging with cuts and bruises. That was real. That was all real. So his efforts must have been real too. Whatever this was, Stan wasn't going to let it stop him or hold him back. There was no way he could, not after all that he'd been through already.

Clarity. Focus. Courage. And now he added something of his own to the mix, something that was all Stanley. Determination.

Stan grit his teeth and started twitching the muscles in his unmoving legs. As slowly and sluggishly as ice melting on a sunny winter morning they began to respond, and he let out a relieved breath. He must have just psyched himself out or something, that was all. There was absolutely nothing wrong with his limbs. He had no real reason to worry about them. No, it was just everything else he had to worry about at the moment.

Once his legs had loosened enough, Stan resumed his previous task and forced them to curl up closely next to his thudding heart. He took a few seconds to readjust himself, and then abruptly slammed his legs forward. A bang as loud as a gunshot echoed all around the trunk causing the metal frame to shutter and ring with the excess energy.

The door to the trunk remained firmly closed.

But if there were a word to describe Stan aside from hotheaded, it would have been stubborn, and he was far from ready to call it quits. He repeated the process again, and again, and again. He brought his legs to his chest again, and he kicked forward with as much force as he could again, and he stuck the edge of the lock with the heel of his foot again, wedging it in further, and further, and further. The fire in his chest served as fuel for the rest of his body, and it pressed him forward relentlessly. Endlessly. The metal surrounding him moaned and groaned sharply as if offended by the treatment, and his legs started shaking severely with exhaustion. The lock had been almost completely embedded into the gap by this point. Only a strip of metal at the bottom, no thicker than a nickel, was sticking out anymore.

And yet, throughout it all, the trunk stayed closed.

Now came a problem even Stan's boiling-over energy couldn't solve. Realistically, he was only going to get one more shot at this. One last, good strike to bash the lock in and hopefully break the latch that held the trunk in place before it would be forced in too deeply for him to affect anymore. If he failed at this, if he screwed up, or if it just wasn't enough, then he really would have no choice but to throw in the towel and surrender to the inevitability of his death. There would be no getting the lock in any further. The latch would remain intact. There would be no getting out.

He absolutely could not fail at this.

Stan's arms moved behind his head and braced themselves as solidly as a pair of rooted trees against the back of the trunk. He closed his eyes and waited while the frantic racing of his heart calmed somewhat, trying to gather every last ounce of strength left in his body for one final, concentrated assault. The muscles in his legs were drawn up so tightly with anticipation that they almost started cramping, and he was forced to release them a little for fear that they might relapse back into paralysis. He let out a breath through his nose and opened his eyes again, making sure to take careful aim at the small rectangle of metal that was glinting smugly in the darkness. Tiny particles of dust hung in the beam of sunlight that was leaking in from the busted taillight, and it angled itself in such a way that the warm splash of bright yellow was washing directly over the space between the bottom of Stan's throat and the top of his chest. He was close. He was so, so close to freedom.

With a forceful grunt, Stan threw himself full bodily at the target. His arms shoved hard against the back of the trunk at the same time that his feet smashed into the lock, and the resulting shockwave of vibration raced its way from the base of his heel to the very tip top of his fingers. It was so astoundingly violent and jarring that Stan felt as though all of his joints had been shaken loose by the impact. A terrible sound like a stifled thunderclap reverberated throughout the enclosed space, and the whole of the vehicle gave a sudden lurch in response to the assailment. Any loose debris in the trunk clattered around noisily and slid along the bottom. The lock was now completely overtaken by the metal frame of the gap.

But sometimes even determination just isn't enough.

The trunk was still closed.

Stan let out a deep bellowing scream, one that tore down the back of his throat and dragged its barbed claws deep down into his chest. He had no idea why he'd screamed; he just knew that doing so felt good. So he screamed again, his voice petering out toward the end and twisting itself into a silent heaving laughter. His whole body was shaking.

He was losing it. Even if he hadn't been delirious with heat and pain before, he knew for sure that he was losing it now. But at his point he was too far-gone to know what to do about that. Was there even anything else he could do? That was his last chance of getting out of there, his last hope, and he had failed. Just like he always failed. Stan's head lolled to the side aimlessly and his breath came out in small trembling gasps. The inferno that had taken hold of him before and focused his energy, was now a spiritless haze of smoke and embers. His thoughts were skittering wildly around in his mind like a handful of marbles dropped onto a glass table.

The voice from before seemed to sense this weakness and descended upon Stan again like a vulture on a fresh corpse, its delighted snickering rattling around cruelly in his skull. Then, it slowly began to change. It wasn't the voice that was enjoying his misfortune now, it was… Stanford.

Stanford was snickering outside. He'd been out there this whole time. He had been there throughout all of Stanley's struggles and had done absolutely nothing to help him.

"I don't need you! I. DON'T. NEED. YOU! And ya know what?! I don't WANT you either! I don't want anything to do with you. I never want to see you again! Just go away. Just go away!" Was that really him yelling? His voice had sounded almost inhuman. The words had been so incredibly choked and garbled that they were barely understandable, even to himself. Besides, Stan was pretty sure he'd only said those things in his head. Right?

The vehicle shifted slightly as Stanford adjusted his sitting position on top of the trunk outside, and he began to drum his fingers in an idle impatience across the surface of the metal.

"You think this is funny, do ya? You think I'm takin' too long to do this, huh." Stan gave in to another round of half sobbing laughter. "Well, I'd like to see ya do better. I'd like to see how long ya'd last if our positions were reversed. If I was the one out there while you were stuck in this hellhole. Or even better, if I'd been the one born with brains and luck, and you were the useless good for nothin' who couldn't do anything right!'

The sharp tapping gradually changed. It started to sound more like Stanford was trying to imitate the rhythm of a song now, one that sounded familiar to Stanley but for the life of him he couldn't place where he'd heard it before. The meaning of the tune was still perfectly clear, regardless.

Stan grit his teeth in abject fury. "Don't… don't mock me. Don't you dare mock me! Just leave me alone!" He gave the spot where he assumed Stanford to be sitting a good solid kick. "GO AWAY!"

The tapping persisted for a few more seconds then stopped abruptly. The trunk shifted again and gave a small creak as Stanford slid off its top. His feet lightly touched upon the ground below with a barely audible thump, and the noise so slight and so quiet, that Stan was almost able to convince himself that he'd just imagined it. A series of soft footfalls began ghosting over the sand, stepping in perfect time to the heavy drumming within Stan's skull. But while the pounding in his head was growing louder and louder, in an ever-rising crescendo, the footsteps were becoming fainter and fainter. Stanford was walking away. He was abandoning Stanley. Again.

"No!" Stanley wailed, his guts wrenching in agony, "No, no, no, no, no. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it! Don't leave. Don't leave me alone again. Please, please, don't leave me alone again." The air in his lungs was wheezing out in a breathy gale, desperately struggling to get past the hot lump of despair that had nestled itself stubbornly in the back of his throat. "I… I know I said I wanted to be alone, but I lied. I was lying, ok! Please, I don't really want to be alone. Please, please, don't leave. Please!"

The footsteps didn't return. Stanley shrieked.

He flailed about desperately, as though he were a fish flopping about on dry land. His limbs smacked and smashed against the confines of the trunk with a wild, savage brutality; hard enough to tear at his dry flesh and cause deep aching bruises to blot upon his skin like globs of ink haphazardly spilled onto a white page. His back arched in the burning torment of his misery as he repeatedly thrashed, and kicked at, and flung himself against the roof of his prison. The metal frame of the trunk was banging and clanking around as if a series of fireworks had been set off inside of it.

At this point, Stan wasn't even aiming to get himself out of the car anymore. In fact, the lightheadedness of his anguished desolation had completely removed him from his current reality. Now he was only focused on finding a release for the unbearable heat and pressure that was swelling in the dark corners of his heart. He was just trying to reach Stanford before his brother left him behind forever. He wouldn't be left behind, not again! Please not again!

Stanford's back was turned to Stanley. He was walking in front of his brother with an air of unhurried ease, drifting towards the shimmering expanse of the endless sea flickering in and out of existence on the horizon. But Stanley was trapped, paralyzed. He couldn't move at all. Stanley tried calling out, but his voice couldn't be heard over the roar of the ocean. He tried screaming, but Stanford just put his six fingered hands over his ears instead of turning around or stopping. His brother was moving further and further away. He was becoming a tiny speck in the distance, one that would soon be swallowed by the blinding white light all around them and disappear forever. The needle of the heavy compass cupped in Stanley's hands was spinning around wildly, faster and faster. There was no place for it to stop. No focal point. No focus. No north.

He was sorry. He was so sorry for everything he'd ever done, for the fact that he'd ever even been born. He was sorry for every bit of pain and inconvenience he'd ever caused his brother. He was sorry that he'd ruined his chance of getting into his dream school. He was sorry he hadn't made enough money to fix things yet. He was sorry for being so incompetent, and stupid, and such a colossal, unreliable, screw up. He was sorry that he hadn't bothered to send his brother a card on their birthday because he'd been too bitter and hurt about the fact that he hadn't received one himself. He was sorry that this ever-growing rift between them was his fault. It was all his fault!

Sometimes it's as simple as just wanting something badly enough that grants the perseverance to endure insurmountable obstacles, and makes the impossible, possible.

The trunk suddenly popped open, and Stan was forced to squint as his eyes were assaulted by intense light. It flooded over his bruised, broken body and every inch of the darkness he'd spent so long imprisoned in.

For a few moments a figure appeared within Stan's field of vision, a pitch-black silhouette haloed in blinding golden sunlight. He strained his eyes and stared up at the looming shadow, but the brief glimpse he was afforded didn't really allow him to make out any distinguishing features. He didn't need to. Stan already knew who it was.

His eyes opened wide. "Stanford?"

Then the hood of the trunk started to swing close again.