[ This is ridiculous. I need a new brain. Brain transplant. And no, that's not a serious suggestion. The Dark Presence could still somehow be listening, warping Alan's words, even if he's not writing them down. If Alan's learned anything at all, it's that words can be distorted and used and that it's dangerous to put ideas out into the universe. The universe contains things that have teeth, and those teeth can bite and grab. He reaches up to knock his fist against the side of his head. He shouldn't even think those kinds of thoughts. He knows better.
But even though he tells himself it's nonsense, when he walks down the hall and stops in front of the women's bathroom, something prickles in the back of his mind. He tries the doorknob, but it's locked. He rattles it once, and then again, harder this time. It still doesn't budge.
There's no escape. I can't get out... I can't get out! Even those words don't sound right. Did he say them? Maybe he said them once, and then he scratched them out.
But either way, a locked door is never good. There's a thud sound as Alan's fist connects with the wooden door. He'd thought earlier that he might vent his frustrations with a wall, but this isn't how he imagined that going. Let me in. Out? In.
He raises his fist again, intending to strike the door harder. Maybe Jesse's in trouble in there and she can't answer. Or she simply can't hear him, in which case, he needs to get louder. But before fist can hit wood, he spots something from out of the corner of his eye.
Paper? A manuscript page!
Alan drops to one knee to pick up the page, and in the absence of anything sounding like screams or a fight from inside the room, he momentarily abandons his efforts to knock (pound) upon the door.
All Alan has to do is read the first two lines and he knows. ]
Oh... [ How many times had he done this? 5? 50? 500? Okay, maybe 500 was too much for this specific manuscript. Overall? Sure. 50 was a good number.
50 times of writing this, and rewriting it, and trying to get it right. Sometimes no one died. Sometimes Jesse- Faden, the Director, died. Other times, things just didn't work out how he thought they would. Lose the fat. Make it clear. Be clever.
Only, how clever was he really, when people died because of what he wrote? There's a crinkling sound as his grip on the paper tightens. He knows this page. In this attempt, number whatever out of 50, Faden died. Killed, to be precise. Scratch did it, and he laughed as he did. Laughed at Wake for not being able to write the ending.
The scene written on the page flashes into Alan's mind, and the paper crinkles even further as he forms a fist with his hand. Wake used the materials he had. The connections he had. The people. The places. Wake put them in to make it true. He sees a bathroom, and a redhead, and Scratch. Scratch is laughing. The floor is cracked.
The redhead is lying facedown. Not moving. Not anything.
She's dead. It's my fault he got out.
Alan grinds his teeth together. His thoughts still slip away from him too easily, too quickly, and he knows that in so many ways, he is still drowning in the pull of the Dark Place. But Scratch- Scratch must be stopped. He must stop him.
He's not a hero. He's not even much of a fighter. He failed and let Scratch escape. ]
I can fix this. [ It's one of the few sentences he's said with any kind of clarity since Anderson tried to question him for the first time. ] I'll fix this.
[ I'll catch up with you eventually! The words echo in his head, but this time, they're not just an echo of something from the past. He will catch him and put an end to this.
For now, though, he needs to find out if Jesse's all right. He doesn't pound on the door with as much force this time, but it's still loud enough to hopefully catch her attention. And unfortunately, to also catch the attention of the waitress. ]
no subject
But even though he tells himself it's nonsense, when he walks down the hall and stops in front of the women's bathroom, something prickles in the back of his mind. He tries the doorknob, but it's locked. He rattles it once, and then again, harder this time. It still doesn't budge.
There's no escape. I can't get out... I can't get out! Even those words don't sound right. Did he say them? Maybe he said them once, and then he scratched them out.
But either way, a locked door is never good. There's a thud sound as Alan's fist connects with the wooden door. He'd thought earlier that he might vent his frustrations with a wall, but this isn't how he imagined that going. Let me in. Out? In.
He raises his fist again, intending to strike the door harder. Maybe Jesse's in trouble in there and she can't answer. Or she simply can't hear him, in which case, he needs to get louder. But before fist can hit wood, he spots something from out of the corner of his eye.
Paper? A manuscript page!
Alan drops to one knee to pick up the page, and in the absence of anything sounding like screams or a fight from inside the room, he momentarily abandons his efforts to knock (pound) upon the door.
All Alan has to do is read the first two lines and he knows. ]
Oh... [ How many times had he done this? 5? 50? 500? Okay, maybe 500 was too much for this specific manuscript. Overall? Sure. 50 was a good number.
50 times of writing this, and rewriting it, and trying to get it right. Sometimes no one died. Sometimes Jesse- Faden, the Director, died. Other times, things just didn't work out how he thought they would. Lose the fat. Make it clear. Be clever.
Only, how clever was he really, when people died because of what he wrote? There's a crinkling sound as his grip on the paper tightens. He knows this page. In this attempt, number whatever out of 50, Faden died. Killed, to be precise. Scratch did it, and he laughed as he did. Laughed at Wake for not being able to write the ending.
The scene written on the page flashes into Alan's mind, and the paper crinkles even further as he forms a fist with his hand. Wake used the materials he had. The connections he had. The people. The places. Wake put them in to make it true. He sees a bathroom, and a redhead, and Scratch. Scratch is laughing. The floor is cracked.
The redhead is lying facedown. Not moving. Not anything.
She's dead. It's my fault he got out.
Alan grinds his teeth together. His thoughts still slip away from him too easily, too quickly, and he knows that in so many ways, he is still drowning in the pull of the Dark Place. But Scratch- Scratch must be stopped. He must stop him.
He's not a hero. He's not even much of a fighter. He failed and let Scratch escape. ]
I can fix this. [ It's one of the few sentences he's said with any kind of clarity since Anderson tried to question him for the first time. ] I'll fix this.
[ I'll catch up with you eventually! The words echo in his head, but this time, they're not just an echo of something from the past. He will catch him and put an end to this.
For now, though, he needs to find out if Jesse's all right. He doesn't pound on the door with as much force this time, but it's still loud enough to hopefully catch her attention. And unfortunately, to also catch the attention of the waitress. ]
Excuse me, sir, can I help you?
[ Well, crap. ]