STLTH 100

March 3, 2024 (2:11 am) :

I've been gone for a long time. Enough time to finally look back and wonder how many friends I still have here on the site, much less readers. Enough time to think about years gone and whatnot as well as re-read everything I've written on the site and cringe (in a nostalgic way). There's also the consideration of what to rewrite from the ground up as well as what to leave alone as a reminder of growth, and whether I can find the time even if I wanted to.

It's not easy to find motivation anymore; it'd have to become less about the reviews and followers and more about closure because at a certain point, even the writers want to know how the characters develop and how their story ends.

Regardless, thank you for reading with me.

13.

Marco sat on a tree stump with his unzipped backpack in his lap and peered inside. The late evening sun off to his right provided just enough light to break up the shadows within and reveal what he was looking for, conveniently on top of everything else. He retrieved and opened the snack pack of cookies, sliding out a waxed paper tray of eight chocolate chip cookies. Despite his advanced hunger, Marco restrained himself long enough to count the cookies to make sure they were all there before he started eating.

He didn't slow down until his fourth, and it dawned on him that he'd eaten half. He idly thought that if Star was around, he would have shared the rest with her; she liked chocolate chip as much as he did. He turned over the plastic wrapper to the nutritional facts: it listed the calories and indicated that the package held two servings. He didn't need the reminder that he was alone. Worse yet, more often than not, Star was brought to mind on his own volition and Marco remained both instigator and victim of his torment.

He sighed before he finished the rest, balled up the wrapper plastic in his fist with more force than necessary and placed it inside his backpack, intending to toss it when he next saw a bin or at least a rubbish heap.

He had spent another long fruitless day in a Mewman village searching and inquiring about Queen Moon, and he felt that he was wasting his time. It had been four days since Higgs's confession; three days since he since left his home on Earth. He still felt hungry and wondered where to stop for the night. He could go back home, return to the castle, stay at Eclipsa's, or perhaps stay in the village at some cheap inn room. Pondering them, he accepted that some of the choices were however out of his comfort zone. Deciding to go back home to Earth for a pit stop, he checked his bag but didn't find his dimensional scissors.

"Crap," he muttered. He rummaged around further, digging with his fingers through the pile of aquarium gravel and loose silver pieces, and still couldn't find what he was looking for.

The question as to what happened to his scissors was that he'd spirited them away via his kleptomaniacal curse, and the answer to bringing them back was in the village: there was a tavern there that he had passed through earlier inquiring for Moon. The walk back was easy and his pace was eager. He was still hungry; maybe he could even get something to eat there.

Although Marco was disappointed that he'd lost his scissors again, the blow to him was numbed this time. With a bit of thought between his parents, Marco had substantially lengthened the amount of time he held onto his prized possession and had measures in place to bring it back safely.

When he returned home a few days ago and explained his situation to his parents, they didn't take it very well. They were particularly angry at Higgs, even more so than at Tom when he'd been the one who created the curse in the first place. His father was counted on to make his proverbial remark that he would rather trust a thief than a trickster, and he repeated himself even after Marco had somehow stolen the kitchen chair from under him minutes later.

"A thief will only get himself into trouble," a bruised Rafael said, "but a liar will get himself and his entire family into trouble." Marco had wondered if he meant that literally, but a moment's thought clarified that a liar would do the wrong things and cast blame on others, while you could count on a thief to only steal for their own benefit. Higgs had proven over and over in the past that her lies would only keep him steeped in problems.

His parents were disappointed in him once they found out that he had been drinking alcohol. They believed when he admitted that he'd believed it had been harmless like grape juice, and his mother explained to him that wine and grape juice were as different as having either mushroom or pineapple on a pizza. As always, they were patient and understanding with him and explained the dangers as best they could, but his thieving problem throughout his stay became too much to ignore. When he lost his sweater later that evening, they started brainstorming solutions. The best idea was to surround himself with useless items to reduce the risk of losing his more precious belongings. That had led to him lugging around some aquarium gravel; they were numerous, light, and easy to clean up after.

The other idea – while one of the best – was a distant second. His parents wanted him to drink Nyquil instead of alcohol. His mother remarked that it would be less 'habit-forming', and he could easily guess what that meant given the earlier lectures. They thought his problem could be sleep-related, and he admitted it was a good guess. After all, he'd been sleepwalking when he stole everyone's underwear the first time the curse took effect.

It didn't work at first. He eventually took so much that his father worried out loud that he could end up overdosing on the sleep aid before the items came back. When they finally did, however, it was obvious that it was inherently because he'd imbibed enough of the Nyquil's alcohol content for him to reach a state of drunkenness.

"Thank goodness he's a lightweight, at least," Angie had said.

"But for how long?" Rafael muttered worriedly. "It's a slippery slope."

Marco asked, "What does that mean?"

"The more often you drink, Marco," his father explained, "the more you will have to drink to become drunk. And the more often you're drunk, the more often you'll want to be."

It quickly dawned on him that alcohol had been a topic during his class's drug education. More and more often, in increasing quantities, each returning less effect until he couldn't live without it.

He was more than ready to swear off the stuff, but his parents denied this, and instead established rules. He could only drink to restore essential items. The only item that qualified was his scissors to not end up stranded alone in a dimension; even if he ended up naked in the street, his clothes were better off gone and they meant it.

The second and third rules stipulated that he could only drink in private or safety, such as a solitary bedroom, and it had to be a single dose he would have to down all at once to guarantee drunkenness as cheaply and quickly as possible.

The fourth rule limited him to once per week, and only if he absolutely needed his scissors at that time. No exceptions.

I'm not sure if I need them right now. Besides, if I drink now, I can't drink anymore until at least next week. What if I need the alcohol later?

He stopped walking, suddenly lost in thought. If he didn't get his scissors back, he couldn't return to the castle tonight, nor Eclipsa's, either of which was currently at least fifteen or twenty miles away. Not to say that it wasn't a possible journey – after all, it was one that he'd made reaching these remote villages in the first place. Additionally, returning so quickly and empty-handed without even a hint of Moon's whereabouts didn't appeal to him.

However, it also meant that he once again needed to find shelter for the night. As was his recurring practice, he'd have to take up lodging in a local inn. The tavern was still his best bet. They might even have a bed upstairs for rent.

Just no drinking, he thought.

He got to the tavern just as the sun started to set, asked if they served food, and was promptly given boiled corn on the cob and a plate of bread and cheese. He paid with a few silver coins, some of the couple dozen that Eclipsa had provided him with for his expenses. In her wisdom, she had given him money that averaged into the middle-class currency and was just numerous enough to allow for redundancy in case he lost any to his curse. Despite this precaution, it was a poorer village and the bartender insisted that she couldn't make enough change at the time – it was only around fifteen minutes before their busiest time of day – and asked if he wanted anything else. He nearly asked for wine, thinking that he ought to carry a bottle of it with him, but bit it back and said that he'd prefer waiting for the money to become available.

At his table, as the evening waned into night, despite his becoming increasingly surrounded by loud coarse men who'd just knocked off work for the day to enjoy their evening pints, Marco suddenly felt lonelier. Halfway into his bread and cheese, his mind ran on the time he drank with Higgs. Their talk had been fun and interesting, full of her wit and inquisitive charm. Although he spent the latter half sliding into drunkenness, he remembered most of it. The conversation was soured by what she had revealed the following morning, yet he knew that he missed that night. To him, it was as though he missed who she was that night rather than the person she became the following morning; it was almost easy for him to convince himself that he spoke to two different people.

It was all overridden by whom she was now, a liar, nearly his murderer. She poisoned him with the curse, took something that was meant to be a passing triviality amongst the group of friends and almost made it lethal.

That's not right. The lie came first. She was a liar before. She was always a liar. Things changed after she told the truth.

Is that what it was like for her? Comparing differences between himself and Rocam? He imagined himself in her place and pointed at two Marcos in turn, this one, and that one, he thought. He reminded himself that there was some doppelganger of himself out there, vile enough to make a girl willing to murder him. Who was Rocam? Was he making more enemies? Where was he now? Most importantly, Marco thought, what do I do if I even see him?

The counterthought did little; he was still angry at the squire. He couldn't so easily forget it with pretense. She was the one who made him lonely now. No friends to keep him company, rugging it out alone in a nomadic journey towards the fringes of Mewni, and minus one pair of dimensional scissors that cost him sixteen years.

"That him?" a man said from nearby. Marco stiffened, his public insecurity was suddenly haywire, unsure if he was the one being singled out despite there being nearly two dozen males in the tavern. He wondered if he was about to be threatened or robbed. The money in his backpack felt heavier. "Yeah," another one said, "I hear he's been asking about the Queen. After she sold out Mewni to Eclipsa and the monsters. Couldn't care less if he found her face-down in Connerie river."

Marco bit into his bread and cheese, trying to exude an air of casualness, pretending that he didn't overhear the men discussing him. He could hear the irritation in their voices, dime a dozen and cheaper by the mile as he continued his journey into the Mewman countryside. Maybe they want to beat me up. He'd better look at them now, no use in getting caught off guard by numbers or identities. He turned and saw a middle-aged mountain of a man talking to a much younger but similar-sized man who had his hoe leaned beside him, nursing his drink. Maybe he was the former's son, there was enough resemblance. They noticed him looking at them, and he momentarily tried to imagine them as the monsters that used to harass Star regularly. The men would be easier to fight with that mental image plastered on them in his brain.

"So you've seen her?"

They ignored him. He was about to repeat his question but realized that it would be fruitless. For the first time, it dawned on him that many people resented Moon and likely Star for having ceded the throne to Eclipsa. The complication this caused exponentially increased the difficulty of finding Moon: if there was even a single person out there who knew where she was but didn't like her, they wouldn't tell him a thing.

"Hey."

They continued to ignore him.

"Hey!"

The tavern started to grow silent, and the ambient noisy conversations petered down, making him far more noticeable. The snubbing was getting too obvious, the atmosphere realized, and the men looked at him pointedly.

The younger one spoke up, spitting the words out one at a time, "What do you want?" – sounding one nerve away from assaulting Marco. Maybe all he wanted was an excuse.

Marco held his gaze. "I want to know if you've seen her."

"Piss off."

Marco deflated. "She's my best friend's mother. Have some sympathy. If your best friend's mother was missing, you'd want people to help you find her."

Nobody said anything. At this point, Marco wasn't sure what would happen, but the ultimate result was that everyone went back to minding their affairs and conversations and drinks, and Marco returned his attention to his bread and cheese. Everyone had lost interest. Maybe they had hoped for a fight, not a toddler's take on morality.

Maybe he lacked presence or intimidation or confidence or something! Nobody respected him, and he didn't know how to get it from them. Nothing would go his way. On their last morning together, Higgs had said that he was like a little kid who didn't know how to handle himself.

That can't be true. I can handle myself. I earned my dimensional scissors, didn't I?

He'd said the same thing then, too. Leaving his bag at the table, he approached the tavern keeper and inquired if they had any beds available for rent. Getting a favorable response, he made sure to make his way past the two men back to his table and back again on his way to the tavern's stairs that would lead to the bedrooms above.

He glanced back and was disappointed to see that despite his efforts, the man's hoe was still leaning against the bar next to him, and still had his other obvious accouterments. Fuming, Marco prepared for an early bedtime, hoping that the others were having better luck than he was.