>[2] Madrigal. So you're throwing her under the carriage a little— she's not the one who has to deal with it, okay? It's not *reneging*.
Who sent you? Your heart is pure and honest. "Madrigal," you say.
The change is profound. His face is ashen, his eyes lightless, his posture slumped. You've let all the air out of him, somehow— or all the blood, it looks more like. There is a long silence, during which you simmer in unexpected victory, and he rubs alternately at his eye, his cheek, his temple.
"…Madrigal," he repeats, finally. And, softly: "Fuck."
You lean forward gleefully. You don't know why this matters, but you'll be damned if you won't milk it for all that's worth. "She asked me to come. Practically begged me. I didn't want to, you know— this is a little lowbrow for my sensibilities, you get me? But she was so desperate, I mean, my heart broke…"
"Fuck." You can't read Ellery's expression. Is he depressed? Disappointed? Defeated? "Why?"
You'd thought this was pretty straightforward. "Why what?"
"She gave… she gave a reason, right?"
"Oh, yes! Uh, you're not talking to her. Or anybody, really. I think she's worried about you."
"She's not," he says.
You give him a look.
"…She shouldn't be. Fuck. That's it? That's all she said?"
"That's right."
He sits up a little, giving you a better view of the crazed little half-smile he's been developing. "Okay, well— okay. Look, uh…" He snaps his fingers.
"Lottie," you provide.
"Lottie. How about you go back to, uh, Madrigal, tell her… I'm fine, no reason to worry, and I'll, uh, talk to her or whoever else. Pretend you wrung it out of me if you want, doesn't matter."
But that's not the point, you don't say. I don't give a damn if you talk to people or not. In fact, I wish you didn't. What I care about is the juicy stuff.
Instead, you say: "Yeah, uh, I'll do that. So why are there mirrors everywhere?"
Ellery coils back up. His voice is taut. "I like mirrors."
"What's the black goop? It came out of a mirror when I smashed it, it was in your bookshelf…"
"Why'd you smash my mirror?!"
"Unfortunate accident. Goop, hm?"
He has the eyes of a caged animal. "Don't know," he says shortly. "It's recent."
"Why are you growing crystals?"
"I'm not," he says, perplexed.
"Well, you are, but… uh, let's see." You run down your mental checklist of 'weird stuff'. "Why do you have a bunch of notes with dates on them?"
"It's not relevant."
"Really? Why do you have binders full of notes with dates on them?"
"I like to keep them in order."
"Why is there writing under the wallpaper here? I mean, not here. But when there was a room."
His jaw tenses. "That's personal. Why are you ruining my wallpaper?"
You wave off the question. "Who's Thea?"
"A friend."
"Who's 'E'?"
"Eloise, probably. You know her?"
"Who's 'C', then?"
Technically, the half-smile broadens into a smile. It fits the smile requirements— lips go up, teeth (crooked but surprisingly white) visible— but can you call it one when there's no mirth in it? It's a grimace, maybe. The grin of a corpse.
"I really think you should stop," he says. "You have what you need, right? So what's the point?"
"Why is there blood in the other room?"
His eyes dart. The grimace stays exactly where it is. "I cut myself," he says. "It happens."
"Hm." You didn't actually look at the blood up close— you can't tell if that's true. "How do I leave?"
"How do you leave?" Perplexed again. "How'd you get here?"
"Uh…" Is 'through the eye' the normal way? Should you tell him you're inside his tent? "It's complicated."
"Is this your first… what the fuck? How could you not…" He stands, hands in pockets. "Do you not have an anchor?"
"…No?"
"Maybe it's a— you know, something to keep you grounded to reality? No? Fuck. There's other ways to jury-rig it, but nothing pretty. How do you feel about drowning?"
You stand, too. Your hands are planted on your hips. "Is that a threat?"
"…Uh, no. I mean, it won't be fun, it might get, uh, a little weird, but it ought to boot you out. It's that or… you said there were crystals?"
"In vials."
"That's another option, I guess. Dicier but less traumatic. Uh… I don't know. Everybody uses anchors."
"Maybe I have one and I just don't know it," you offer. "What's yours?"
"Uh." The grimace, previously fading, returns in full force. "I don't have one at the moment."
Interesting.
"It doesn't matter, anyways— it's always personal, there's no template. Sorry, did you say what sounded best for you?"
>[A1] Drowning— safer but more traumatic. Weird.
>[A2] Crystals— riskier but easier on you (when it works). Also probably weird.
>[B1] You're planning to get out of here right away.
This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
>[B2] You'll tell Ellery you're planning to get out of here, but actually try to sneak off (once there's a door, and so on). What about the blood?
>[B3] You need to ask Richard before anything else. Didn't he want to do the crown thing? Whatever that is?
>[B4] You have more questions for Ellery first. (What?)
>[B5] Write-in.
"Uh, no," you say distractedly. You're trying to remember what you thought earlier. Vindictive… oh, trapped forever. You know somebody who could do with a dose of that. "There's no way to get out of here, right? Unless you put it back?"
"I wouldn't say no way, but it'd certainly be difficult— impossible for you, I think, no offense." (Maybe a little offense. Ellery's satisfied, if not smug, with his skill.) "To be technical, though, there's no 'here'— there's no space left. Or time, for that matter. This is all contained at a single point, in a single point— it's only 'linear' due to the faulty perception you're shackled to—"
"That's interesting," you interject. You've never been gladder Richard's gone— if he were present, you'd have to sit through hours of this. "It's not the point, though. Any way you can trap someone else in here? Like, forever?"
Words are beached up in his throat and die floundering. He is foremost disgusted, that much is clear from his expression, but there's little whorls of surprise, anger… shame? That can't be right.
"He deserves it," you clarify.
It still takes him a minute. He collapses back into the armchair. "Nobody deserves forever, Lottie. Nobody. I don't care— shit, I hope he murdered your dad or kicked your puppy, or something. That'd be understandable. Maybe. But not forever. What'd he do?"
"Uh." What has he done? Be a twit? Send you down here, certainly— but that's more your fault for being worthless and all. No critical thinking. You can't come up with anything else. "It's okay, it doesn't matter—"
"No, look." His voice is knapped flint. "I just want to know why you'd consign someone to hell. Worse than hell, really, because at least there there's something to think about. It's a reasonable question. What'd he do?"
Where did you go wrong? What mistake did you make? You thought your convictions were true, your reasoning sound and convincing, but here you are being yelled at. Did you skip a step? You wish Richard were here. He knows what to say.
Ellery sees your wilted posture and backs down a little. "…Maybe you don't understand the implications of it."
You don't care about the implications, whatever they may be. You want, or wanted, the result. You'll try to find the step you missed. "I'm sure I don't. What if he were, say, a snake?"
You've knocked all the words out again. "What?" is all Ellery says.
"You know… a snake. Sometimes it talks? Does that affect it at all—"
"Your snake? The one you put the ribbon on?"
You're not sure Richard would appreciate being "yours", if he were here. You don't even see the dark shoestring of the snake with you. Strange. "That's the one," you say.
"Why would you… shit, that's… it talks?"
"Frequently."
"And it's a snake? Eats fish and so on? Venomous?"
"Not a real snake. Real snakes don't talk." You levy the last word with all the condescension you can muster in your diminished state. He should know this. "But more or less."
"…No, I'm still not going to trap your talking snake in nothing forever. Is that clear?"
Damn. "If it must be."
"Right. You're leaving now, by the way. Tell me how."
You've drowned once already and it was not the best day of your life. "Crystals, I think."
"Suit yourself," he says.
>[1] You'll leave right now.
>[2] You'll leave… at some point, after you sneak off to look at the blood.
>[3] You'll leave… after you ask Ellery one more thing. [What?]
>[4] Write-in.
The conversation is clearly at an end, and what have you received for your troubles? Non-answers and an earful to boot. There has to be some way to salvage things.
Ellery seems pleased he has this all handled. "Okay, okay. Just give me a second to reconstruct the room and we'll get you out—"
"Pardon me, reconstruct the room?" You don't care. God, do you not care. But he likes talking, and you like not leaving.
"Oh, it's not… It's less complicated than it sounds, really. It's just slotting everything back where it wants to go. It's deconstruction that's the hard part, because— Nature hates a vacuum? I think that's right. Yeah, Nature hates a vacuum. Or maybe the closer to reality the better, I'm not sure which. Anyways, uh, yes. Reconstruction. It's not as if the original room is gone, it's just elsewhere. The subconscious, I guess you'd say, real deep—"
The content is stupefying, but you're riveted by his speech regardless. It's a great thunderous downpour of words, rapid and jumpy and punctuated with powerful (but unhelpful) hand gestures. It stands in great contrast to the laconic answers of a few minutes ago— he's comfortable talking about this, maybe excited. Does he not discuss the minutiae of this very often? You couldn't fathom why.
"Wow!" you say when he stops for breath (somewhere around "conceptualization"). You have your gigawatt smile on. "That's, um, fascinating. How'd you learn to do all this?"
"Oh, uh…" Another misstep. There's the caged-animal look again, along with a glimmer of something deeper-set. Something blue? But that's nonsensical: blue is neither an emotion nor the color of Ellery's eyes, which tend more pukey brownish. And superstition is the nemesis of sense, you're told daily.
But still. It's blue.
"…Uh, I don't… it's mostly intuition… and experimenting. Mostly experimenting. Self-taught. That's for me, though, I don't… I'm not sure if that's a good example to follow. Ask someone else."
"Maybe I will." You have also been considering something else. "What if what is just a temporary trapping-forever? You know, one week, two weeks. Super ethical and so on."
"For the snake?" Ellery rakes his hand backwards through his hair, which has the net effect of making him look electrically-charged. "Gods-fucking-damn, what did the thing do to you? Did you step on it and it bit you?"
"It's he," you say defensively. "And no, that's not it. But he does deserve it."
"And you won't tell me how."
You can't tell him. You can't explain it, not to him or to anybody you know or don't know. They don't understand it. They'll mock you. He's already mocking you. Why didn't you sic the alligators on him? Then you wouldn't have to deal with this, and you'd already be home, and everything would've been okay.
You make a mental note to sic alligators on Ellery the next chance you get.
"Nothing, right? Anyways, no. I am not quarantining your snake— in my head— for any period of time. Because I'm not animal control, and I don't even think it'd work. It's not real, you said."
"What about a day?" you push. "A day. That's not very long. It'd probably be a vacation for him, honestly, it'd be the right thing to do…"
"Lottie! For fuck's sake! You're some friend of my ex who broke into my head and ruined the wallpaper! I don't do favors for people I have no reason to trust!"
You'll admit it— you're a little wounded. "I mean, we did a whole expedition? Out of the goodness of my heart? I thought that counted for something."
He doesn't say anything. And then he drops the pose he'd stiffened into. "…Yes. Right. The expedition. I don't— I think this, uh, considerably outweighs it, given—"
"I saved your life," you say with nary a tremor. (It's true! You decided not to kill him.)
"Yes, well." His neck is very tense. All the tendons are bulging out in a deeply unsightly (and surely uncomfortable) fashion. "Then this makes us even, okay?"
>[1] No, it's not okay! He ought to owe you a *life debt*. Which means you get favors, forever. That's how it traditionally works. You've read about this, for God's sake. [Roll.]
>[2] So, uh, who else should you talk to about freaky mind… stuff? Since he's clearly cagey for no good reason whatsoever.
>[3] Muster up the courage to explain your Richard situation and see if it'll convince him. Even if it will be horrible and embarrassing and he's just going to say it's your fault. [Roll.]
>[4] Okay, okay. Yes. (You'll just force him into it later.) Get on with it.
>[5] Write-in.
You glower. “Fine. Okay.”
“Fantastic. Then we’ll go ahead and…”
...
...
[END THREAD 2]
Predux so you know who this Ellery guy is and are confused in the intended way about what's gone so wrong with him, and/or so there's more Ellery in your life. And then hold my hand and go back in time with me so we can both yell at and/or gently suggest that 2019 Bathic to go write about other things. Promise? UwU
UwU?
