[ Alan can't know what's happening outside the Writer's Room. He can't know that Jesse is witnessing a recording of one of his breakdowns. How many of those has he had? Does he include the ones that ended in him throwing the typewriter against the wall and faceplanting on the desk? At least those didn't end up with him curled up on the floor.
If he's not writing, he's pacing the floorboards that really should be well-worn by now. Somehow, they don't even look like they've been walked on repeatedly. There's not even a scuff on them. But Alan's not thinking about that. He's not thinking about much of anything, actually. Oh, there's the thought in the back of his mind that he needs to be writing. He needs to be fixing the story. ]
I'm so tired.
[ The words slip out unbidden, and the voice that says them sounds raw like it's been screaming. Have I been screaming? Or am I just tired from reading and re-reading to make sure that it all sounds right?
He turns to take another circuit around the room, but his legs wobble and he's forced to throw a hand out to brace himself against the wall closest to him. Maybe I should stop. Just stop for awhile. I just want to sleep, but I know I can't.
It takes effort on his part, as his legs just don't want to work any longer, but he manages to cross the room and move behind the desk to stand in front of the window. There isn't much to see, and it's hardly calming, but it's better than staring at the typewriter that looks as though it's mocking him.
Alan stands there at the window, thoughts wandering but not going too far. Stray thoughts are dangerous in the Dark Place. All Alan wants is to sleep, but the Dark Place has no need for things like sleeping. Eating. Being human. ]
If I can't sleep, then I'm just going to stand here and not think. [ Well, I have to think, because I can't turn off my own mind, but- Wait.
Alan's head turns slowly to look at the door marked with a spiral. ]
It's impossible. I can't- I can't feel them, not here. Nothing reaches beneath the waves but ideas. Visions. [ Too many visions. Too many things that I can use. Should use. They can't reach me down here. Not this far down.
Alan turns his head away again and he leans his forehead against the cold glass panes of the window. It's so quiet in the room when he's not writing (or screaming out of madness... frustration...) that sometimes, the silence becomes deafening. It's why he's begun talking to himself. Stream of consciousness talking. Whatever comes to his mind, he says it. Maybe that's why his voice sounds hoarse. But if he doesn't talk, the silence threatens to overwhelm him. And when so much is overwhelming him already, it just feels important to try and push back with the only thing he has: words.
But how long can he keep this up?
He sighs and presses his head further against the window. But that feeling, that resonance sounds again, and Alan can't ignore it any longer. He doesn't turn from the window, because whatever this is, it's just an echo. It's in his head. It's not her. It can't be her. He's gone too far, dove in too deep. He's alone, and that thought isn't sitting well with him.
｟ You called me, so here I am. I'm here. ｠
What?
[ It's not real. You want it to be real so much, you're imagining it. Just take another minute, look out the window, then get back to work. Come on, Wake.
He doesn't hear the door open, doesn't hear the sound of a footstep falling against the wood floor. He just needs a moment, and that moment is probably all the Dark Place will give him. Maybe half a moment, if he's lucky. ]
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If he's not writing, he's pacing the floorboards that really should be well-worn by now. Somehow, they don't even look like they've been walked on repeatedly. There's not even a scuff on them. But Alan's not thinking about that. He's not thinking about much of anything, actually. Oh, there's the thought in the back of his mind that he needs to be writing. He needs to be fixing the story. ]
I'm so tired.
[ The words slip out unbidden, and the voice that says them sounds raw like it's been screaming. Have I been screaming? Or am I just tired from reading and re-reading to make sure that it all sounds right?
He turns to take another circuit around the room, but his legs wobble and he's forced to throw a hand out to brace himself against the wall closest to him. Maybe I should stop. Just stop for awhile. I just want to sleep, but I know I can't.
It takes effort on his part, as his legs just don't want to work any longer, but he manages to cross the room and move behind the desk to stand in front of the window. There isn't much to see, and it's hardly calming, but it's better than staring at the typewriter that looks as though it's mocking him.
Alan stands there at the window, thoughts wandering but not going too far. Stray thoughts are dangerous in the Dark Place. All Alan wants is to sleep, but the Dark Place has no need for things like sleeping. Eating. Being human. ]
If I can't sleep, then I'm just going to stand here and not think. [ Well, I have to think, because I can't turn off my own mind, but- Wait.
Alan's head turns slowly to look at the door marked with a spiral. ]
It's impossible. I can't- I can't feel them, not here. Nothing reaches beneath the waves but ideas. Visions. [ Too many visions. Too many things that I can use. Should use. They can't reach me down here. Not this far down.
Alan turns his head away again and he leans his forehead against the cold glass panes of the window. It's so quiet in the room when he's not writing (or screaming out of madness... frustration...) that sometimes, the silence becomes deafening. It's why he's begun talking to himself. Stream of consciousness talking. Whatever comes to his mind, he says it. Maybe that's why his voice sounds hoarse. But if he doesn't talk, the silence threatens to overwhelm him. And when so much is overwhelming him already, it just feels important to try and push back with the only thing he has: words.
But how long can he keep this up?
He sighs and presses his head further against the window. But that feeling, that resonance sounds again, and Alan can't ignore it any longer. He doesn't turn from the window, because whatever this is, it's just an echo. It's in his head. It's not her. It can't be her. He's gone too far, dove in too deep. He's alone, and that thought isn't sitting well with him.
｟ You called me, so here I am. I'm here. ｠
What?
[ It's not real. You want it to be real so much, you're imagining it. Just take another minute, look out the window, then get back to work. Come on, Wake.
He doesn't hear the door open, doesn't hear the sound of a footstep falling against the wood floor. He just needs a moment, and that moment is probably all the Dark Place will give him. Maybe half a moment, if he's lucky. ]