[ No, he may never tell her about it, about what happened to him. It's just one more thing that he'll keep locked up inside, hoping that the Dark Presence doesn't find a way to pull it out of him. So much has been pulled out of him. Words he never wanted to say, much less wanted anyone to hear. Some of the words ended up in messages, sent to... someone. Himself? Maybe they were sent to himself so that he could remember if he ever forgot. But this is one thing he does not want being put into a message. No one needs to hear of it, not even him.
It would join the page that he'd shoved into the bottom of his bag. It could go to the Motel, to anywhere, but it belonged somewhere that it would never be seen again. It's too vulnerable. Too personal. Too much hurt attached to it.
But it's not important in this moment. She's important; being with her is important. Her words wash over him as he takes them in. He hears what she's saying, what she's telling him about who he is. How she sees him. Even as he listens, even as he tries to cling to the words she says, the way she describes him, the way she calls him the man she loves... doubt is rooting into his mind. ]
I know that I love you. I love how you talk, how you look at me when you're upset. How you smile at me when you're happy about something.
What I don't know is... [ He focuses his thoughts on the feel of her hands on his shoulders. She's not going to like what he has to say, but the words are already forming in his mind. They need to be said. Why? What is telling her this going to accomplish? It might make her leave. But she should see just who she's dealing with here. She should see, and then decide. ]
Who's writing this story? Who's editing this story? Scratch wrote it, I'm editing it, but who am I?
[ It's paradoxical in a way that only makes sense to those who've seen the way things often don't make sense. Alan is doubting reality and his place in reality but the light on the desk is growing brighter.
Something inside Alan is growing warmer; it's cold beneath the waves. Sometimes it feels like ice cold water is seeping into his lungs. Ice water or just ice? Sometimes he can't breathe.
But that feeling of warmth is melting the ice. Warming the water. He can breathe. Why now? None of this makes sense. ]
You've never seen me in the real world, have you? In your reality. There's articles, interviews, gossip printed in magazines, but have you actually seen me? The articles, the rumors, the gossip- was that about me? Were those real? Am I real?
[ You're suffering from various symptoms of undifferentiated schizophrenia. Hallucinations, paranoid delusions, unusual thinking: an obsession about light and darkness. A feeling that everything revolves around you and your thoughts and dreams.
That voice echoes in Alan's thoughts, a memory resurfacing from years ago. Hartman. Was he right? Is that all that this is? All that it's been? ]
Is everything I know just one big fictional construct that I've made up? I think it's real, but everyone else knows it's not? [ Am I insane? ]
What's worse, being a character, or believing in a reality that's not a reality at all?
no subject
It would join the page that he'd shoved into the bottom of his bag. It could go to the Motel, to anywhere, but it belonged somewhere that it would never be seen again. It's too vulnerable. Too personal. Too much hurt attached to it.
But it's not important in this moment. She's important; being with her is important. Her words wash over him as he takes them in. He hears what she's saying, what she's telling him about who he is. How she sees him. Even as he listens, even as he tries to cling to the words she says, the way she describes him, the way she calls him the man she loves... doubt is rooting into his mind. ]
I know that I love you. I love how you talk, how you look at me when you're upset. How you smile at me when you're happy about something.
What I don't know is... [ He focuses his thoughts on the feel of her hands on his shoulders. She's not going to like what he has to say, but the words are already forming in his mind. They need to be said. Why? What is telling her this going to accomplish? It might make her leave. But she should see just who she's dealing with here. She should see, and then decide. ]
Who's writing this story? Who's editing this story? Scratch wrote it, I'm editing it, but who am I?
[ It's paradoxical in a way that only makes sense to those who've seen the way things often don't make sense. Alan is doubting reality and his place in reality but the light on the desk is growing brighter.
Something inside Alan is growing warmer; it's cold beneath the waves. Sometimes it feels like ice cold water is seeping into his lungs. Ice water or just ice? Sometimes he can't breathe.
But that feeling of warmth is melting the ice. Warming the water. He can breathe. Why now? None of this makes sense. ]
You've never seen me in the real world, have you? In your reality. There's articles, interviews, gossip printed in magazines, but have you actually seen me? The articles, the rumors, the gossip- was that about me? Were those real? Am I real?
[ You're suffering from various symptoms of undifferentiated schizophrenia. Hallucinations, paranoid delusions, unusual thinking: an obsession about light and darkness. A feeling that everything revolves around you and your thoughts and dreams.
That voice echoes in Alan's thoughts, a memory resurfacing from years ago. Hartman. Was he right? Is that all that this is? All that it's been? ]
Is everything I know just one big fictional construct that I've made up? I think it's real, but everyone else knows it's not? [ Am I insane? ]
What's worse, being a character, or believing in a reality that's not a reality at all?
[ I don't want to be a character... ]