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The reset had come about like any other. Stanley had reached a stopping point in the story, like he had a million times before and then he was back, sitting in his office like nothing had happened. Stanley had even started to name these 'endings.' If only to sort them in his head. Make this utterly confusing world just that little bit more understandable.
Of course, unbeknownst to Stanley, Narrator had already named all the endings...well almost all the endings. A few escaped him still, foggy memories of a yellow line and button. A staircase...
Narrator shook his head. There was no point trying to chase those memories down. Holding on to them only made them slip further from his mind — a thread he could never hope to unravel. All that really mattered though, was that he had the endings all assorted in a list. One he kept a tally on, keeping score of how many times Stanley had done a certain ending. Of course, this wasn't something he ever shared with Stanley. As far as Narrator was concerned, Stanley wasn't even aware enough to understand where he was — let alone comprehend something as complex as a tallied list of endings.
Stanley, by Narrator's design, didn't have a mind. Shouldn't was perhaps a better word. He shouldn't have one. This didn't mean there was nothing in his head, Narrator had made sure there was something. Something he could read the thoughts of, something that would pilot the model he'd made. It could make Stanley walk and talk, give him very limited thought but it was nothing like the mind that sat between the ears of a normal human.
Well that had been the intention.
Narrator had never been very good at keeping a handle on all things parable related. It had worked at first, Stanley had been more or less a blank slate. The only thoughts to be found in his head were things such as:
'WALK. FORWARD. DOOR. LEFT. RIGHT?' And when Narrator had told him to go left, he did. 'LEFT. WALK.' It had been thrilling at first, watching a puppet he'd made do exactly as it was told. Stiffly walking through the office halls, letting the story play out to perfection.
But Narrator had started to grow bored. Which puzzled him and then frustrated him. How could he tire of this? It was working exactly as intended, Stanley did what was asked and Narrator got his story — just as he'd written it. Narrator had sighed, rather loudly into his mic. This...it didn't feel right. How was a story about something escaping mind control to mean anything if the protagonist was nothing but a mindless puppet? His story meant nothing without a little resistance, surely.
Perhaps it was Narrator's growing frustration and biting insults (ones that provoked no response as Stanley could not respond) that helped Stanley develop his first thoughts. Real thoughts. Ones Narrator had never put in his head. Ones that surprised him, gave him pause when he tried to read his mind.
'RIGHT.' It was the first sign of resistance and Narrator had watched in wonder as Stanley marched through the door on the right. No longer moving his limbs like a robot, his actions flowed — freer and smoother than ever before. Narrator was so blown away that he almost forgot to complain and really, he couldn't quite get into it. At first at least.
Eventually, Stanley's one word thoughts became longer, smoother and less purely direction focused. He no longer told himself to walk, instead he started to ask questions about the colours of the walls or the paintings Narrator had decided to hang on them. He was becoming something, someone with a mind.
This all landed them back in the present. Stanley, to the uninitiated, thought like a regular person. He bickered with Narrator, joked, wondered, smiled, laughed, felt sorrow, and had occasionally cried. It was clear to anyone that there was a fully formed mind sitting in the head of Stanley's model. A real one, not just one Narrator could project whatever he wanted on to.
Clear to anyone but Narrator perhaps. Narrator, while enjoying the fact that Stanley had a little more going on than before, was still sure that Stanley was his. That, despite all his thoughts, Stanley wasn't aware — much less human. He could toy with this Stanley just as much as before, and when Stanley refused his directions, he grew angry. Forgetting where he'd come from, Narrator sometimes felt himself missing the more mindless Stanley.
But he was stuck with this one. The one that was very slowly waking up from a reset. He watched Stanley open his eyes, one at first, sleepily checking his surroundings and Narrator couldn't help but jab at him.
"Yes, believe it or not, you're still in your office, Stanley." Stanley opened the other eye, shaking himself a little before glaring up at the ceiling.
[Har. Har.] Stanley didn't need to sign, Narrator could literally read his thoughts, a fact that Narrator often reminded him of but Stanley seemed to like doing it. It was ridiculous and a waste of time to Narrator but he let Stanley do it. Wasn't like he could exactly stop him.
"Well now that we've been reminded of that very simple fact, maybe you could get a move on? Chop chop, the story awaits and we don't have time to dilly dally." This was a lie, they had quite literally all the time in the world. Stanley was no stranger to Narrator trying to rush him, especially after resets. He'd seemed to grow more and more impatient each time — never once thinking about how Stanley felt after each one.
Stanley started to stand, a noticeable...ache in his head. It was small all things considered but it was a new kind of pain, one Stanley hadn't felt before. Not even after a particularly long fall from the top of a staircase. No, this was different. Stanley rubbed his temples a little, his legs shaking as he rose out of his chair. It ebbed into the corners of his vision, and all at once, Stanley felt himself crumple a little. His vision swam before darkening and—
Stanley had to grab his desk to stop himself from toppling over. As quick as it had come on, the pain stopped and he blinked a few times. Straightening up, Stanley looked around. Had— Had Narrator seen that?
"What was that? Don't tell me standing up is proving to be too difficult of a task for you now." Ah, yes. Narrator had seen that. Stanley just shrugged, he wasn't sure what it was. Putting it down to reset fogginess, Stanley left his office. Following his usual path and it wasn't long before he was faced with an all too familiar choice. Narrator's usual gripes and insults as Stanley chose the door on the right nearly made him forget all about that headache.
The pain returned as Stanley stepped onto the cargo lift, and as it was going over the walkway Stanley had intended to hop onto, he had to grab onto one of the ropes keeping the lift suspended. His body swayed and Stanley closed his eyes. Something wasn't right, that much Stanley could tell. The pain increased, the sides of his head throbbing and it felt like his skull was too small. His brain pushed and bumped at the edges of his head and Stanley grimaced. What was this?
Narrator watched as Stanley clung to the cargo lift. He'd stepped onto it with all the intention of jumping off it halfway through, no doubt but here he was, clinging to one of the ropes like he'd developed a sudden fear of heights. His face was twisted in pain and Narrator hesitated, an insult close to marching off his tongue.
Instead, he tried a much nicer;
"Are...are you alright, Stanley?" Stanley tried to nod but any movement of his head hurt. "Well clearly you aren't." Narrator couldn't help but sound annoyed, as much as he tried not to. "If you don't tell me what's wrong, I'll just figure it out myself." It's not quite a threat but Stanley shakes his head, sliding to the floor of the lift. He tries to sign something, anything but he can't make his hands let go of the rope and thinking anything hurts. It hurts so much and Stanley crumples into himself a little more.
Narrator huffs, his annoyance growing as he stares at the squirming figure of his protagonist. Well, he said he'd figure it out himself and he would. Tuning himself into Stanley's thoughts, he tries to search his head for an answer.
'HURT.' It's the only thing Narrator can find and it eerily echoes how Stanley used to think. Narrator immediately disconnects himself from Stanley, as if that thought had chased him right out of his head. He shifts a little, clearing his throat and looking back to Stanley. Stanley...wasn't meant to be hurting. Not this early on and Narrator is sure it isn't possible for his model to feel pain at random. Stanley isn't human and as an extension, is not at risk for the whole host of random aches and pains associated with a human body.
But, that line of thinking hardly mattered when Stanley was very clearly twisting in pain.
"Alright. Alright..." Narrator repeats to himself, trying to figure out what to do next. "Um...where does it hurt?" It feels odd to be asking one who shouldn't be able to hurt where it does but in the interest of getting this cleared up as quickly as possible, Narrator does. Stanley manages to free a hand, pointing quickly at his head before clinging to the rope once again. Narrator nods.
"Probably just a headache. You'll be fine." It does little to calm Stanley's shaking figure and of course doesn't answer the why.
Why did Stanley have a headache? He shouldn't. By all laws of the parable, it should not be possible. But he did and it upsets Narrator greatly that he doesn't know why.
"Do you remember hitting your head recently?" It's the most logical question and Narrator checks his list. Stanley hadn't done any endings that'd put him at risk of that in quite a while but still, perhaps Stanley had slipped somewhere and Narrator just hadn't noticed. That sounded like something Stanley would do and Narrator can't help but chuckle to himself.
Stanley answers Narrator's question with another shake of his head — wincing when he does.
[Can't. Remember.] It's the first thing Stanley signs, as slowly and painful as it seems.
"Well the very fact you can't remember may not be a good sign, I—" Narrator sighs, realising rather quickly what he has to do. Stanley wasn't moving any time soon and it was holding everything up. "—I suppose I better come down there and take a proper look at you." If Narrator was trying to appear caring, he was making a meal of it. The sigh that followed every sentence offset any modicum of niceness in his words and he seemed begrudging at best.
Stanley just nodded, his eyes squeezed shut. Anything. He'd let Narrator do anything, just to relieve the pain radiating through his mind. The pain keeping him firmly rooted to the spot, unable to move, sign or even think.
With little announcement, Narrator materialised next to Stanley's crumpled figure. With a sigh, he hoisted Stanley up and more or less dragged him off the platform and to the concrete floor. The lift had reached the other side while they'd tried to figure out what was wrong.
Stanley, without Narrator's support, fell back to the floor. Narrator, suppressing another sigh, crouched with him.
"Alright, chin up and let me get a proper look at you."
Stanley can barely raise his head but he does his best and Narrator grabs his face when he does. It's not as gentle as it could be but Stanley hardly cares.
Stanley's vison swims as he tries to look at Narrator. The image he gets warps in odd ways, but he can make out some things. The way Narrator squints, peering at him over his glasses, an annoyed grimace starting on his face. Stanley had only ever seen him in person a few times, and never for long. But here, in his pain induced haze, Narrator appears as a sort of shining light. A beacon of hope, almost angelic in his presence and Stanley tries to reach for him. Maybe he'll take away his pain. Maybe he can use his powers— surely he has those right? Stanley hopes he does. God he hopes more than anything.
Narrator feels Stanley's hand grab for him and Narrator tries to squirm away but it's no use. If he moves away, he won't be able to get a good look at Stanley. So he lets his protagonist hold onto him, weakly grasping at his sweater. The closer he inspects Stanley's face, the clearer it becomes that something is not right. He's grown pale, blood drained from his cheeks as sweat rolls down his forehead.
Trying to ignore how that makes him feel, Narrator produces a flashlight from seemingly nowhere. It's small and based on the very limited knowledge he has about concussions, he plans to check Stanley's eyes with it.
"Look at me, Stanley." Stanley obeys, head swaying a little until Narrator tightens his grip on Stanley's face. "Eyes a little wider, please." Stanley tries to open his eyes, but they droop slightly. Figuring it's the best he's going to get, Narrator flicks on the light, shining it right into the man's eyes.
Perhaps the kind thing to have done would be to give Stanley some sort of warning but Narrator hadn't. Either not caring enough to think of it in the first place or just forgetting and Stanley whimpers. He closes his eyes instantly, pulling away from Narrator. Narrator doesn't let go and so Stanley digs his fingernails into Narrator. He scratches at Narrator, trying to push him off him and turn off that damn flashlight.
"What the—!" Narrator hisses, his own nails digging into Stanley's face. "How dare you scratch me?!" Narrator's tone rises, outraged before it falls a little. The way Stanley was squirming, seemingly terrified of the light gave him pause. Relenting, he flicked it off and all at once, Stanley stopped writhing.
The light hurt. It burned its way into Stanley's eyes, feeling akin to a red hot poker and he couldn't stand it. Every part of him screamed for it to go away, for it to end. He hadn't meant to scratch at Narrator but driven by pure, pain induced panic, he hadn't been able to help himself. He goes limp in Narrator's grip, face twisted in such fresh pain that Narrator dropped the whole flashlight idea.
"Alright, alright. No light. I promise. Just let me look at your eyes." Stanley seemed resistant to the idea but once he saw that Narrator had indeed discarded the terrible thing, he let Narrator try again.
Although Narrator rather wished he hadn't gotten a proper look.
Stanley's eyes, for the most part, looked perfectly normal. His pupils were a little dilated and they moved to meet Narrator's gaze. Narrator shrugged his shoulders, things seemed fine. Ready to put this all down to Stanley being overdramatic, Narrator's hold on Stanley's face loosened.
That was until he saw Stanley's pupil split. It divided in half like amoeba, two dark halves swimming in his left eye. They morphed and wobbled, before rejoining into one. It happened with such little complaint from Stanley that Narrator had to wonder if it had happened at all. That maybe his nerves had been rattled by this whole ordeal and he was now seeing things.
It happened again, this time in the right eye. Splitting to two, and then reforming. They moved in way that shouldn't have been possible and Narrator felt his stomach start to swirl. This was...
Oh dear. To say it was not a good sign would be putting things lightly. This was a horrible, terrible sign. Something was very wrong with Stanley.
"You look fine." Narrator pats Stanley's face. This wasn't something he could bring to Stanley's attention. No, he had to fix this himself. If Stanley realised the gravity of it all—
Well he wouldn't want to keep doing the story, that was for sure. Narrator couldn't have that.
Stanley whined a little as Narrator got up, his hand leaving Stanley's face. Whatever was going on didn't feel fine. He didn't feel fine and he wasn't far gone enough to have missed the dawning look of horror on Narrator's face. But whatever it was, Stanley was in no state to do anything about it. His head hurt so greatly, and he couldn't move anymore — clinging to the floor like a safety blanket. Narrator chewed on the inside of his cheek. This wouldn't do.
The end is never the end is never the end is never the end is never—
*
Stanley woke up, back in his office. His headache was mercifully gone. The memory of it, however, had not been wiped and Stanley shuddered. Whatever that had been, he never wanted to repeat it. Hoping it was just some sort of glitch, Stanley stood up. This time, he didn't wobble. Alright, things were already off to a better start.
"Feeling better, Stanley?" Narrator asked, a little more hope in his voice than intended. He was banking on there being a little truth to the joke of "have you tried turning it on and off again?" Maybe that had just been a fluke, a mistake in Stanley's model — one made worse by whatever had caused the headache.
[Much better!] Stanley signed, full of renewed vigour and Narrator smiled. Yes, that was the Stanley he knew. Whatever had happened was over.
"Well let me be the first to say, I am very glad to hear tha—" Their celebration didn't last long as Narrator watched Stanley's movements shuffle and then stop. His hand was back to his head, holding it and wincing in pain. Narrator felt fear prick the back of his neck. No, no, no! He'd reset, that should have fixed it!
Fretting, he started to play with his sweater. As if fiddling with its hem would do anything but further his anxiety.
"Stanley?!" It was a worried cry and Narrator cursed himself for how obviously upset he sounded. He'd been trying to not let Stanley know how grave of a situation this was turning out to be and sounding like that was not helping.
Stanley felt a cry of his own bubble up in his chest. Why was it back? He didn't want this, god anything but this. Although all he had were memories of the pain, that was more than enough. His body started to shake again, the pounding in his head increasing until he nearly fell to his knees.
[Narrator...] It's all he can weakly sign before his hands fall to his sides like heavy weights. Static starts to fill his head, buzzing and consuming all other thoughts. It ebbs into his vison, the office around him becoming blurry.
'HURT.' Narrator doesn't even try to read Stanley's mind, his thoughts jump directly into Narrator's. 'HURT. HURT. HURT. HURT' Narrator tried to push Stanley's thoughts away but they droned on, loud and immovable in his mind. Yes, yes alright, Narrator got it. Stanley was in pain. What was he meant to do about it?
Narrator supposed he could....well he could try to search the parable for something. Some sort of cure, maybe somewhere in all his piles of books there was a quick fix for parable related headaches. Or a how to guide book on Stanleys. He wasn't exactly keen on the idea of leaving Stanley's huddled and shaking form on the floor but what else should he do? If this was going to happen every time, they needed a solution. It wasn't just going to hold up the story, it'd completely ruin it.
'STAY.' It's a loud thought, one that comes the second Narrator tries to move away. How Stanley had any idea that Narrator was even going to boggles his mind but it's enough to keep Narrator firmly in his chair — watching over Stanley as he twists and writhes in pain.
"Yes...alright. I'll stay with you Stanley. For however long this takes." Narrator doesn't sound as caring as he hoped he might but his tone is noticeably softer. For as much as he'd thought of Stanley as a puppet, it still wasn't pleasant to watch the man cling to the carpet and whine. Especially when there was no obvious way to fix it.
So, Narrator stayed. The temptation to reset grew the longer Narrator sat, watching Stanley try to fight the pain. But that hadn't worked before and maybe...maybe if Stanley just pushed through it, it'd run its course and this would all be over.
Finally, after what was hours, Stanley got up. Narrator had nearly fallen asleep (or at least the closest he got to sleep). He bumped his mic in surprise, trying to chase away the slumber that had almost consumed him.
"Oh! Stanley, you're up! Finally, I was worried that would go on for forever." Stanley made no effort to listen, or even show a sign that he was listening. Instead, he just walked forward — movements still shuffling. "Has that nasty headache subsided, hm?" Once again, Stanley didn't respond. He just moved through the office halls, to the two doors.
Narrator wasn't used to being ignored and he found he rather disliked the feeling.
"I'm trying to ask how you're feeling, it's rather rude to ignore another's care. You know that, right?" Still no response and Narrator realised that the drone of Stanley's thoughts had stopped. They'd retreated back into his head and Narrator — albeit a little glad they had — still thought it somewhat odd. Stanley had just...gone quiet.
Narrator shifted. Well if Stanley was no longer going to talk to Narrator, he'd just have to get back inside the mans head. That was easy. He'd find Stanley's thoughts — no doubt they'd be some snarky comment on Narrator's story — and then Narrator would know everything was back to normal. That Stanley was fine and really, just pushing through it had been enough.
'WALK.' It took Narrator a while to find anything in Stanley's head and once he did, it was impossibly small and quiet. Simple as could be and yet Narrator was frozen.
No, that...that couldn't be right. This was...no, no, no. This was how old Stanley had thought. Echoes of memories poured in, filling Narrator's head. One worded directions, utterly boring and far too simple. Much too simple for who Stanley had become.
'FORWARD.'
"Stanley—"
'RIGHT.'
"Stanley hold on—"
'BREAK. ROOM.'
No matter how Narrator tried to stop him, Stanley had made his way to the lounge.
Stanley stood before the vending machine, staring it at, unmoving.
"Stanley?" Narrator tried again, forgetting his earlier attempts at not sounding upset. This time, his words were injected with worry. He couldn't control it, whatever was wrong with Stanley had only gotten worse.
Stanley leant his head against the cool front of the machine, closing his eyes and seemingly trying to mumble something.
'COLD.' It was the best he could muster and he pressed his cheek against it harder. It did nothing to soothe his pounding head but it was something. Something different.
Despite Stanley's limited thought, he was oh so aware. Aware of the creeping quiet, the quiet that had started seep into his slowly declining mind. The pain that had started as just a headache had spread, slipping into every corner of his mind, every bump and ridge along it was now infected. Infected with a dull, pulsing pain. One that let him move but never too quickly or efficiently. One that had slowed his thoughts to a crawl, painfully pulling themselves along in his mind. He could feel the silence waiting just around the corner, the kind that no doubt kill any sort of awareness he had. One that would consume him.
Stanley was terrified but he couldn't feel it, not properly. His mind wouldn't let him place that terror, wouldn't let him feel it in his fingers or feel the sweat rolling down his forehead. Wouldn't let him feel the swirling pit in his stomach, wouldn't let him feel his hands shake or the chill running down his spine. He knew he felt it, knew he should feel it but he couldn't. It was like he'd had part of his brain cut off from him, far away but oh so present in his own mind. Trapped and chained to a sinking ship, with no one but an uncaring Narrator to help.
Blood started to drip from his nose and Stanley could feel the red liquid start to fall. Felt it wet his top lip, felt it dribble down into his open mouth, tasted the iron. He closed his mouth, slowly and not quite avoiding a few more drops making it's way in. Stanley didn't wipe his nose and the blood dotted the carpet beneath his feet.
"Stanley! You're—" Narrator swallowed, the blood such an ugly red in his mind. Something he couldn't ignore. "You're bleeding." Whatever he expected Stanley to do with that information, he didn't. Made no attempt to wipe it away or stop the flow. It just dripped, at an alarmingly steady rate.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Narrator wrung his hands, unsure of what to do. He then fiddled with the papers on his desk, the longer he sat and did nothing, the worse he felt. What could he do? Sure, staying up here wasn't helping Stanley but being down there wouldn't do much either. Perhaps...perhaps he could at least offer Stanley a tissue. Pry him off that machine and clean him up.
'SODA.' It's the first thing Narrator hears when he lands in the parable. Wobbling a little on his feet and then looking up to Stanley. He'd all but forgotten he was still in tune with Stanley's thoughts — no matter how limited they were. They felt less like thoughts and more like...desires. Something so deep in Stanley, working despite whatever was taking over his mind. Desires with little filter, spewing whatever his slowly quieting mind wanted in that moment.
"Stanley, you can't drink the soda. Why would you—"
'SODA.' It repeated, and Stanley slowly raised one shaking hand, pressing a finger against the machine.
"I really don't see how this will help..."
'SODA.' The thought hadn't raised in pitch but all the same, it felt more insistent.
"Alright! Alright..." Narrator waved a hand, it was the least he could do. There was a thunk and a soda can fell, rolling to the opening where one could grab it.
Of course, Stanley made no effort to take it. Instead, he only repeated his thought.
'SODA'
"You have a can right there!" Narrator, as if to make his point any clearer, reached down and pulled it out, shaking it in front of Stanley.
'SODA.' Okay well this was just becoming ridiculous and Narrator tossed the can to the side. It made another thunk on the carpet.
"If you're not going do anything with it or even make an attempt to, we should move on." Stanley slowly looked up, and Narrator tried to avoid his eyes. He didn't like looking in his eyes anymore.
Thankfully, they were more or less normal and Narrator could stomach holding his gaze. Stanley pressed his finger against the machine again and it bent slightly as he did so. Narrator waved his hand again.
"Good lord, alright. I'll indulge you." Narrator tried to keep in mind his usual petty attitude, if only to make himself feel slightly normal about the whole situation.
Another can fell, making the same noise as before.
Thunk.
'SODA' Stanley repeated, a small smile starting to creep it's way onto his face. It looked like it took all his energy but...he was smiling. Something about this, amused Stanley.
At first, Narrator was angry. Was he putting this whole thing on? Was he just toying with Narrator? Making him do something utterly useless, like shaking soda cans free from a vending machine?
Narrator looked again to Stanley's finger pressed against the machine. The weak way he held his hand there, body leaning against the machine as if he'd collapse without the support. No...perhaps he wasn't putting it on.
Well, if it made Stanley happy, even in this state, Narrator couldn't see why he shouldn't keep doing it. So, he waved his hand again. And again. And again and eventually, Stanley didn't have to ask.
Drop. Thunk. Smile.
Drop. Thunk. Smile.
Drop. Thunk. Smile.
Drop. Thunk.
Crack.
Narrator, at first, hadn't noticed the much louder thump. Nor, the much harsher cracking noise. He'd instead closed his eyes, knowing that Stanley was smiling and it'd let him pretend that just for a moment, this was nice.
Narrator opened his eyes, staring straight ahead before realising that Stanley was no longer standing, pressed against the machine. Narrator looked around him, stupidly wondering if Stanley had wandered off before looking in the next most obvious place.
Narrator looked down. Down at the huddled figure of Stanley on the floor. Face down, a liquid flowed from his head. This wasn't blood, no...it was thicker somehow and Narrator, with a feeling of abject horror starting in his chest, pieced together what it indeed was.
The liquid flowed and Stanley should have been dead. He should have died the second his head hit the floor and the second his skull had cracked. Should have died the second his brain started to seep into the carpet but he hadn't. Somehow, call it a miracle of the parable, he was alive.
Stanley gurgled, a horrific sound and it was strangled. It bubbled out of him, fingers twitching and it was obvious he was trying to move. Trying to push himself up off the floor but it didn't work. All he did was shake, limbs twitching and breathing shuddering. His lungs worked as hard as they could, pushing air out of his struggling body as his heart hammered against his ribcage.
Once again, Stanley was terrified. But it was an unknown terror, one he had no way of feeling and that terror was now leaking onto the carpet. It escaped him, in something that sounded close to a cry but didn't quite work and Narrator had to step back. Parts of Stanley's mind had started to gather around his shoe, almost soaking into the leather.
Narrator felt sick. He covered his mouth with a shaking hand, feeling his stomach lurch, doubling him over a little.
"S—Stanley—"
There was nothing Narrator could say and so he gave up on speaking all together. Instead, he got on his knees, trying to maneuver Stanley onto his side. At least stop him from lying face down in....it.
Trembling, Narrator took Stanley in his hands and pushed him to the side. Trying his hardest to ignore the fact he was kneeling in the brain matter of his protagonist. He gripped Stanley's shirt, hands shaking so wildly that it was a miracle he could get a hold on anything.
"T—There we g—go. Much b—better. Hah." Narrator could barely get his words out. It was not 'much better' on his side, in fact it was barely an improvement and Stanley gasped. He sounded like he was drowning on dry land, frightened eyes darting to Narrator. His pupils swam, splitting and reforming at a sickening rate. Narrator was half tempted to roll Stanley back over, if just to stop him from looking at him.
'NARRATOR.' Narrator nearly fell backwards. There was...no. Stanley couldn't still...that couldn't be his thoughts...could it? It wasn't—shouldn't be possible. Of course, nothing about this should have been possible but it was and Stanley was still thinking. Still trying even when he was spilling all over the carpet and he was asking for Narrator.
'NARRATOR.' Stanley wheezes again, and he seems to try to reach for Narrator. It doesn't go anywhere, instead his finger twitches and then stops.
"—Yes! Y—Yes, Stanley, I'm here." Narrator kicks himself into gear, placing a shaky hand on Stanley's face. He can see the slowly fading light in Stanley's split pupils. He'd seen it before in...oh god, now was not time for his memory to be failing him.
Narrator wasn't sure exactly where he'd seen it but he had. He'd knelt by Stanley's mangled body before, seen the light leave his eyes. But it'd never felt like this. No, this was something much worse and the urge to throw up twisted in his gut.
'NARRATOR' The life in Stanley blinked like a dying light. Trying its hardest to hold on, the smallest flashes of it working but then quickly fading again.
"—Stanley, you don't have to—" Narrator tried to choose his words wisely. "You don't have to h—hold on. You can go, we can reset. We can just— p—pretend this never happened." In some ways, Narrator was begging Stanley to go. To end this whole horrid affair. He should have reset long ago but the scene had frozen him — unable to do anything of the sort.
'NARRATOR.' Stanley wanted something. He didn't know what. Everything felt...well like nothing really. Pain had given away to emptiness, to silence. Silence that grew, louder as more of him spilled out and away. He was...losing something but he wasn't sure what. He wasn't sure what he'd had or who he'd been or who this man kneeling before him was. Or why one word kept springing to what was left of his mind. Had...had Stanley had a mind? What was that? What was—
'HELP.' Stanley didn't know what that was, and none of his thoughts felt like his own. He supposed he felt nothing really. Or...he didn't suppose that. He didn't— where did the carpet end and him begin? Had it ever, had he ever been anything but this? Maybe, he couldn't— What had he been thinking about? Ah. Yes...wait...no? What was—?
Stanley remembered the story. He remembered his Narrator. Something, something had been here. He'd been here before, there was something that was familiar. It fell through the hands he wasn't sure he had the harder he tried to hold onto it. He had to— he had to tell Narrator something. This— Narrator? What was Stanley going to say?
"Help? Stanley, how? Tell me how!" Narrator's voice sounded desperate, as if he was holding on as tightly as Stanley was.
The light blinked again. Ah. Yes. Stanley was going to say something. Stanley was going to—
Stanley's mind went quiet.
Narrator didn't move. He didn't reset. He didn't say a thing. He knelt next to Stanley till his legs hurt. He held Stanley close, no longer worrying about the slowly drying liquid surrounding both of them. What was left of Stanley clung to his sweater, mixing with the fibres as Narrator pulled him into his lap. Stroking his hair, locks sticky with blood and brain matter.
Softly, Narrator mumbled into Stanley's motionless figure.
"Tell me how to help. Tell me. Just think it. All you have to do is think. That's all, just think. Something, anything. Please?"
Quiet was the only answer Narrator got. Silence, total and utter silence. Stanley was gone. All of him, every little bit of Stanley that had been or ever was, was gone. Drained into the carpet beneath them, forever intertwined with the parable. All was left was the motionless model in Narrator's arms. Empty, and quiet.
Eventually and with nothing better to do, Narrator did the only thing he could think of. He took one final look at Stanley, at his empty eyes, limply hanging mouth, pale skin and then—
*
Stanley was sitting in his office. He'd stretched his limbs, feeling his whole body was stiff. Like he'd been lying in one place for much too long. Narrator's voice was droning on, as usual and Stanley sighed. He got up, dragging himself out of his office. To put it simply, Stanley was bored. He was bored of these hallways, of these walls and the lights that seemed to buzz a little louder than usual. It was utterly and totally boring.
Worst of all though, Stanley had a
Terribly.
Persistent.
Headache.