Chapter Text
Where had he let it go wrong? The brush of not quite wood not quite anything else turned the soles of his favorite shoes an unbearable color yellow, and he scoffed.
“Have you ever taken comfort in something you cannot understand, little assistant? Something so unbelievably large yet inconceivably small it can fit in your veins and flow through you boundlessly?” Waves of sheer, yellow plastic tinted. Eyes dark and a window out the jaundiced sun. Where the ground is hard and sweet yet so, so soft. Like carpet on concrete– those are real things. He can, partially, conceptualize.
“There's nothing as beautiful as what you’ll never see. Because the world is so full of disgusting things, and your only place of respite will forever be your mind.” Where was he?
“It is in your nature, to watch everything pass along. But the only thing you can ever, truly trust is your mind, right? your mind is so large yet so contained. Nothing can get in if you don’t let in, right?” Eyes covering him. It is being known while being unknowable. What of interest becomes nothing more than normal, here, he realizes.
“Sometimes it lies, sometimes it thinks of inconceivable ideas or evils, sometimes it is wrong. but it is always there for you. and you must trust it, because what else can you do? if you don’t trust your mind then you cannot trust anything, and that only leaves you with your dreaded thoughts, hm?” He heard the tilted thing. Wailing and terrifying, it was in his brain, loud and clear yet… distorted.
How can something sound like pain? He was someone who often dealt with it, could’ve considered it normal, but… his ears sting and the ringing only grows with the faux crescendo of laughter.
He can hardly remember what had brought him here. something about… meeting old partners or… finding a center or… the damn institute. It seemed, right now, his mind couldn’t be trusted, maybe that might be what the tall thing was getting at. He couldn’t trust his eyes either. It was too colorful for London this time of year. Full of yellow preschool blocks of color filling his senses— god, he could use a cigarette. A cigarette. One of those–yeah. It was so bright.
“Oh, but we both know what happens when we trust ourselves too much, don’t we? people become overconfident. they stop participating, isn’t that just boring? the only way to go is down, so no need to cling onto the sides. I think trust is a stupid concept, assistant. there is nothing so solid to grip on hard enough to trust. Eventually time will wear down even the hardest stone, but all that matters is if you expected it to hold.” He needed to hold on.
How did he end up on the floor? Everything was so blinding, green to a full stop red and his head hit the ground. It didn't hurt like it should’ve. Arms tried to line up parallel and push up the disgust. But his eyes gave way and the world shrunk and pulsed in his mind.
Everything, captured into a moment with a flash, was gone. He opened his eyes to look up at the looming thing. Watched the swaths of shifting shapes, a moving abstract painting, almost. It filled him with a sort of reminiscent feeling of watching descent.
“Do you understand? No, of course not.” Another slicing thing, ringing, and he pushed himself up to the wall. Support. “You mustn't let yourself try to understand. That defeats the purpose, hm? We can't trust anyone, because inside we were all feeble and confused and slowly… spiralling.” He perks up. Spiralling… spiral. He recognized that word, more than any other word. He looked up at it. The face was almost familiar. Passing thoughts and eventual loss. Where…
Keep looking up, keep looking up, there is only one way from the bottom of the fall, and that must be up. Gerard, yes–that was his name, felt familiarity. That must be the enemy of the inability to know. To know. To understand. He tried to understand and he almost did. He found weight on soft black shoes, still looking up at it. It merely smiled back. “Aren’t you an interesting one? Able to repel my words, hm?” curiosity and discontent somehow flickered through the shifting face. “Go. Leave. I'll find you weaker soon enough.”
It pointed the sharp thing that ended its hand or arm or body towards a blank mirror. And when he blinked, it dissolved into frail, sharp pieces. He swore he felt it slice through him. But he turned his head and looked towards the mirror. Reflected in, soberingly, was Gerard, eyes dark and tired. Behind him, though, was the door. The door. He turned and saw it. Cool black against his hand showed him what led up to his flat. And he nearly stumbled over when he took that last step.
He was out. Relief pulsing through his painted black fingertips, fumbling for a cigarette. Stone steps up and up towards the fourth floor. Yes–the fourth floor. And the number. Smoking thing stuck in his mouth, the keys jingled and he felt the familiar air of his flat wash over his tense body.
Gerard. Remember, remember your name and remember the feeling of your bedsheets and remember the feeling of short lived comfort. He knew the brush was only the beginning of some larger thing. Gerard, Why did he go through the door?
Brows crush together like butt to ashtray. He tosses the thing down and tries to peel away the lingering eyestrain from his bedroom walls. He knows there is no green or purple filling mainly black and white band posters. But it sure looks like it does. He presses his head into a pillow, hoping the after effects wear off in his makeshift midday night.
The next time he saw that door, he needed to be more cautious. Only a few minutes left him drained and dazed. There must've been more than one way to choke out the throat of delusion incarnate. Hm. It must've called itself that.