Chapter 14: Dark, Sacred Nights
After spending some time with his friends throughout the day, Flippy headed home in good spirits. He'd judged that everyone's mindsets and health were just right. All seemed well.
Close to home he noticed something in the road and stopped, feeling a painful twinge in his heart. There was a puppy, or the remains of one, lying in the road.
A familiar buzz filled his ears. His hands tingled. He forced his head in a bow and stood there for a moment in silence.
Without thinking he opened The Book of the World. He glanced around before pulling out the Writer's Quill; his hand shook as he rewrote the poor doggy's fate.
A few seconds later something lightly tread on his toes. He lowered the Book and found the resurrected puppy at his feet, panting up at him. The blood and entrails on the road had been reversed back into it.
Flippy felt overjoyed at first, but then…something dark and odd infected his emotions, turning them sour. He picked up the puppy and carried it home in a trance.
Ooh, can we keep it?! The Book asked, overjoyed. He, she, it, has blue fur, so let's name it Bluey! Wait, isn't that an anime or something? What about B-L-O-O-E-Y?
Flippy shrugged, cringing. As he watched Blooey begin to chase the Book around the living room, a tragic realization came to mind. He could finally place why he was feeling the way he was.
None of his friends were in danger of some malicious actor writing disaster into their lives, but what about them still dying from other accidents or natural causes? Yes, he'd had that sort of conversation with the Book yesterday, but had now recognized something new.
Flippy's stomach did flips as it sank lower than ever before. From this point, if any of his friends died, that meant he would have to write them back to life again…right?
…but…over and over?
That…that wouldn't…be...right…
That's what those worms had been doing to us…
His chest was painfully tight and he felt sick. From the moment he'd found the Book, things had been trying, but tolerable. Up until now—now, the full weight of his new responsibilities crushed him.
Was it really his responsibility now to write his friends back to life every time one of them died? That'd make them immortal, in a twisted sense.
And they wouldn't be privy to know, ever. A mercy for them, but it was the worst violation of consent Flippy could ever think of. As a friend, and as a solider—you were only supposed to have one natural life to live on earth. His friends would never get rest.
It didn't matter if he wouldn't do it out of malice and amusement, like the Bookworms had. It just was not right. His heart couldn't take bringing his friends back to life, and he feared if he were tempted that he would start and be unable to stop.
Regardless, no matter how he looked at it now, they no longer had control over their own lives, he did. He didn't want that sort of authority. But now there was really no way out of it.
He nonchalantly excused himself and went to the bathroom, locking it behind him, and turned both faucets on to drown out any noises. Then he lifted the toilet lid and vomited up nothing but bile.
Later that...
...night?
Flippy woke with a start. He jolted up, startled to find himself in his dark bedroom.
He blinked incredulously. How?
And where was Blooey? He could've sworn he'd fallen asleep with the puppy in his armchair.
Flippy's ears twitched and he listened hard. His heart skipped a beat.
...no, he was not imagining a noise. A quiet, gusty kind of sound reached him through the crack in the bedroom door, like the darkness itself was exhaling constantly.
His entire coat was on end as he slipped out of bed. The door creaked slightly as he peered into the hall. His home was sapped of light and unnaturally dark even given the time.
As he crept along he looked out a window. A giant hole of darkness hovered where the moon should've been. No lights—from porches, streetlamps, or from the busier parts of town—could be seen. He could feel the deathly silence blanketing the streets. The entire world was like a snapshot of old, dead and gone.
The airy gusts of wind grew, pushing harder against him. He paused at the corner before quickly jumping out, ready to come face-to-face with an intruder. No one was there but his office door was cracked, swaying back and forth slightly. A dim glow came from within.
As he got close the ghostly wind surged and pushed him back a few inches. He held an arm over his face, squinting as he forced the door open all the way.
The Book of the World was hovering over his desk, flapping its pages and apparently the source of the wind itself.
SLAM.
The door shut suddenly, silencing the heavy wind. The Book of the World reared up to Flippy.
I'm sorry. Did I wake you up? it asked. Nice night, isn't it? I think you'll join me…right?
Flippy only moved his eyes as he slowly, cautiously examined the Book. It looked the same, but felt terribly different...
It's time we had a talk, anyway. I've been putting this off for a little too long…maybe you can say it's from Our amusement.
The Book rose higher, visibly emanating a dark, heavy aura. Flippy was suddenly locked in a deep terror and couldn't move. A slight breeze brushed against the back of his head; he began hearing words tumbling into the back of his mind. The Book's voice was lifting off the page, blowing straight into his ears…
"Testing, testing, one! Two! Three! Do you copy? Stand at attention. Don't move. Don't blink."
As it barked orders the veteran moved without a thought or question; Flippy stood straight, staring ahead with a salute in order. The Book circled him, pulsing wickedly.
"Tell me, what did you think you were doing, kid? Going through all that trouble for yourself…meandering around in the business of others…thinking about how to make life prettier and fairer for them…all of that toil and trouble, really, just to have the truth of it all wallop you upside the head?
"At least tell me what narrative you think you're writing. What do you really want? What stories are you lookin' to tell? Or do you even know? I don't think you do. But it's too late. This is only the beginning of a story you never should have written, and life's about to hit you hard.
"To tell you the real truth, all you've done is put filler in these pages. All you've done, and can do, is delay the inevitable.
"You think it's your duty, don't you? You think you can keep erasing the bad and only maintain the good? Talk about disrupting the natural course of life.
"And how long can you keep your friends tethered down by lies? They live blindly, obliviously, never knowing you're controlling their lives. They'll live in this little bubble in your imagination, where you'll have no choice but to coddle and constrain them to your will. You can't do that forever.
"And you already know it. Even if you could live forever, you couldn't truly live with yourself in good consciousness if things were to progress the way they are now. Why do you think this book was maintained by four minds? Four minds who could at LEAST understand and comprehend the complexities of reality better than you ever could hope to, kid.
"Your sanity will dwindle. You'll be driven to madness. You'll be possessive of this book, and eventually convince yourself that only you should be its sole keeper. I can see into your mind...I know you wanna snuff out the other Bookworms and the Book's creator if the chance comes to you.
"Say you can get around to doing that. 'Cause it is possible, believe me.
"Then what after that? What does the end of your narrative look like?
"You've forgotten an important rule, and that's to know the ending of your story before you even make the beginning. That's why you're stuck like a pup.
"So lemme tell you this...We'll help you.
Just know from me that showing mercy doesn't equate to showing kindness.
The Book hovered in front of his face. Its voice went silent, but the words rolling out on its pages were red, dripping ink like blood.
REMEMBER THE WORDS: THE END HAS BEEN MADE FOR YOU, NOT BY YOU.
WORDS WILL STING. IDEAS WILL AGONIZE. YOU WILL BEAR IT ALL.
THERE IS NO RUNNING. NO HIDING.
YOU WILL KNOW THE MOMENT OF SUFFERING THE INSTANT IT BEGINS.
THEN, YOU WILL BEG, WISHING TO TAKE IT ALL BACK.
"THEN YOU WILL RUN," the Book suddenly thundered along with its written words, "THEN YOU WILL HIDE, WHEN THE ONLY THING YOU HAVE LEFT TO SAVE IS YOURSELF."
Flippy awoke with a scream. The confused puppy tumbled off his lap as he lurched forward, crashing to the floor.
His eyes were clouded in feral panic. But he had to move. He had to get away from the words, the feelings, the utter truth.
He crawled to nowhere mindlessly. The world was grainy. Familiar things were hard to comprehend. He dipped in and out of consciousness, eventually slipping up and hitting his cheek on tile.
Flippy ground his teeth and clutched his temples, moments from tearing his head off his shoulders. Anything to make it stop.
Something was bludgeoning him, over and over. The hits were hard, hard enough to pitch his head about, but Flippy didn't register the pain at first. He did vaguely recognize that the Book of the World was attacking him. The next time it got close he swatted it away, then pulled himself into the bathroom and slammed the door shut. He crawled into the bathtub and curled up into a ball. He was soaked in sweat and tears.
He finally began to feel the pain seeping into his skull. He had to focus on the pain. That was what he knew, had learned. Pain kept him grounded to reality like nothing else. There was chaos whirling in his mind made from the vile words and emotions from his nightmare. The only other barest feeling, not thought, that he had, was to burn the Book of the World to cinders.
He began sobbing as bits and pieces of rationality wheedled back. Everything that was said to him in the dream was right. He was drowning in a terrible combination of lucidity and insanity. He stayed put for hours, miserable and afraid, fighting every second to not lose his mind.
Something scratched and whined at the bathroom door. He couldn't recall what the noise was until he remembered the puppy.
He was fearful of it now. Every time he looked at it he had to be reminded of the moment where he realized things were much more complex than what he'd first realized.
Flippy held his head and bellowed, almost tearing his vocal cords. Blooey whined again.
He counted sixty beats of his heart but couldn't move. Sixty more. Blooey pawed at the door again. After the eleventh set of sixty Flippy exhaled greatly. He had never stopped crying and was now exhausted and dehydrated. It felt like he'd crossed two mountains and swam across an entire ocean without stopping. He was so tired, but still had enough terror and anguish to keep him wired into the darkest hours of the night.
He stood shakily, slipping slightly in the dark as he crawled out the tub. His throat was tight and swollen. He felt like he wouldn't be able to speak for months. He didn't even want to think that far ahead.
Months...he wondered, in a moment of self-awareness, about the passage of time. He felt like the Bookworms may've manipulated how the animals perceived time with all their plotting and mischief. He felt like he'd been in his mid-twenties for far too long.
They have...that's it. It's the only reason. It's the only way, Flippy thought hazily. His eyes were unfocused as he slouched towards the door. It's the only way. It's the only way. It's the only way.
He didn't feel like thinking anymore. His barest instincts were the only thing that mattered right now. He wanted to sleep. Not lie awake at night, but to just sleep, so deeply he didn't dream.
No dreams. No nothing.
Just…sleep…
Maybe he should've been doing that anyway…it was in his nature. Maybe if he would've been lazy and stayed in bed several mornings ago, he wouldn't have ever found that office or the Book. Then he would've kept dreaming on obliviously without a care in the world, along with the rest of his friends…
Flippy slowly looked down, not having remembered leaving the bathroom. The puppy was sitting on his feet. He picked Blooey up and hoisted him over his shoulder, heading towards the kitchen to give him something to eat.
He couldn't be afraid of Blooey. The pup was another innocent victim. And as of then, the only thing that would keep Flippy from losing himself to the worst depression he had ever been in.
The Book flew out of his office. Flippy stepped back quickly.
Hey, it said after an awkward pause. There's…something I should…make clear.
Sorry about the dream you just had. I know I was the cause of it.
A shiver rippled through Flippy's body and he held the pup closer to himself. The Book didn't move.
I…don't know how to explain it. I know what I was saying, but I couldn't stop myself. But I swear! Some of the stuff I said, I'd never say it like that! And other stuff…I have no idea where it came from.
It was like something or someone was controlling me.
I promise. You have to believe me, Flippy. I'd never torment you like that.
Flippy could not physically force his body to relax. His soul had been battered and struck to the core.
I guess…you don't want to talk? The Book asked. It drooped sadly when Flippy shook his head. Okay…how about this. I'll just hide myself in the attic. If you open the door, I'll go right in, and…stay there until you want to talk. That way I can't escape even if I wanted to, either.
With tears budding in his eyes, Flippy jerked his head dismissively. He pressed himself flat to the wall as the Book slowly hovered by. He sensed it was telling the truth and felt terrible treating it that way. He just could not stand to be around it anymore.
After he sealed the Book in the attic, Flippy didn't know how much later it'd be before he went to retrieve it again. He hoped that it'd be much later than sooner.
But that was a lot of hope, and very little faith.
A week later…
There was the screeching and the hiss of breaks as the bus pulled up to the stop. After a short pause it drove off, revealing what was formally its sole occupant: someone, or rather something, quite different compared to the world around him.
At the first long look, this someone-something was just a horrendously ugly moose in an argyle sweater and jeans. He was tall but built delicately, and had smooth, furless flesh. His ears were on the side of his head, though they were nearly hidden by parted locks of long, hazel hair. His eyes were graced by his only pair of prescription glasses that were held together with tape in the middle.
This something was a human, and the first to ever around those parts. Left and right he looked, growing more perplexed with each turn of his head.
"Oh, for all the…great," he sighed, dropping his bag to the ground. "I knew I shouldn't have taken that left turn at Albuquerque..."