The End is Never the End

A Cruel Joke

The loading screen zapped out of Stanley's view, and he blinked his eyes a few times in an attempt to focus his vision. He rubbed the bridge of his nose as he felt awareness seep back into him, muttering groggy nothings under his breath as he dropped his hand back on the mattress and looked around. A cool, damp cloth slid off his forehead as he turned his neck, leaving the residue of water droplets behind. He felt too weary to bother fixing it. After a few moments of recollecting himself, he concluded that he was in his bedroom, a spot on the map he did not get to see frequently. 

Stanley's gaze stopped at a shiny metal object tucked in next to him, its handle peeking out invitingly. Despite everything, he smiled wryly and pulled the bucket close to him. Its crisp metal was refreshing against his feverish skin. Of course, he did . He thought in distant amusement, but the feeling slowly drifted away and was replaced by something almost unnerving. 

A subtle feeling of uneasiness rose in Stanley as he collected his thoughts and memories of what happened formed into view. He held the bucket tighter against him, but its usual comforts failed to tame his increasingly spiraling thoughts. Something was missing. He darted his eyes around with uncertainty, and it was then an understanding formed in his mind. It was quiet, too quiet, and…when did he ever wake up in his bed? When did he ever get sick in the parable? His head felt cloudy, which only made his panic rise as he struggled to form coherent reasoning, making his headache flicker to life again. 

Against his body's wishes, Stanley forced himself to sit up, grunting as his muscles throbbed with pain. He grabbed the headboard with one arm for support and held the bucket close to his chest with the other, his eyes scanning all over the dim room in disquieted contemplation. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but hesitated for a few moments. His throat was burning from each shaky breath he took, and his skin was perspiring. He swallowed reflexively, trying to soothe his throat, but it only made it burn all the more. With one final squeeze of the bucket, he parted his lips again and uttered:

“Narry…?” 

Silence permeated the air, and Stanley embraced his bucket like his life depended on it. He quietly gulped down the tears threatening to form, and took a deep, shuddering breath, nodding to himself slightly as he drummed his fingers against the bucket. It was like the motion of pushing buttons at his computer, a comforting idea it was. More comforting than the reality in front of him. His situation was like the shock of discovering the mind control center, only there was no one to guide him through it. No narrator, he pondered feverishly. 

Stanley smiled mournfully as he thought about his narrator, memories colliding with each other in a kaleidoscope of emotion. Regrets weighed on him as he thought about what would have happened if he just hadn’t fallen asleep like Narry said. Maybe if he wanted to do the story, maybe if he didn’t get aggravated with him, maybe, maybe, maybe.  He coughed a few times, his eyes watering as his throat stung from the force. Is this how his narrator felt when he pushed the skip button? He had an idea now of what that was like. It had only been a few minutes at most, but it was steadily growing to be torturous. 

Maybe I deserve this . Stanley tried to convince himself, staring down into the bucket, empty and void-like. It was much like the infinity hole. The reality of the situation steadily grew on him. He started choking up as he thought about it and how he ruffled his narrator's disposition, how he annoyed him when he made it to the bottom. “ Okay well, good for you Stanley, you found me out!”  He chuckled wetly through his waterfall of tears as he replayed the memory again and again in his head, in a never-ending spiral of infectious nostalgia. The infinity hole would simply never be enjoyable without Narry’s philosophical observations about holes and quips at Stanley, and perhaps, maybe even the bucket didn’t hold the same charm. 

Stanley missed him unbearably already, his snarky comments always added a special flair to his day, but now he would never have a chance to admit that. His hands were shaking as he stared down into the bucket through bleary sight. The soft pattering of tears against the metal and his shaking breath were the only sound in the empty bedroom. His tears of sorrow morphed into tears of fear intermingled with longing for his narrator back. “I’m never going to see him again…” His voice was broken between sobs. He rubbed his forehead apprehensively, sweat slicking onto his hand as he felt himself growing dizzy with horror. He squeezed the bucket in his arms desperately, curling into a fetal position as his breathing grew more ragged and his throat tightened. “I’m going to die alone here” his voice was wheezy, making his panic increase as his head pounded. He never liked talking, especially now, but his words were the only thing keeping him glued to reality. The nature of his situation was finally sinking in, and the hole of his thoughts was gapingly wide. 

A soft treading echoed outside of his room, and Stanley suddenly froze. 

The sound of footsteps made him shoot up on the spot, shirking his bucket aside. His heart was beating with the rhythm of a hammer as they drew closer. The resonance of papers ruffling and being strewn about made his chest rise and fall with greater rapidity as he awaited in bated breath.

 His bedroom door was thrown open hurriedly, and in stepped a man, no later than his mid-fifties. A vest and a button-up shirt, tousled hair, and a pocket watch dangled lopsidedly from his belt loop. He adjusted his unaligned glasses and smiled thinly when he looked at Stanley, clearing his throat as if composing himself.

“Hello, Stanley.”