Instead, as the exuberant sounds of Halloween were left behind, his ears began to be filled with a buzzing instead. A strange, strange description for it, but that was all he could discern at first. It only seemed to grow louder in intensity, though, and eventually he grew fed up enough to stop and press fingers into his ears, wiggling around for unknown insects to dispel; nothing but his own eardrums met them.
For several seconds afterwards, the noise stopped. And then it picked up again, a smidge more distinct. Less buzzing, more . . . ringing? Like bells.
“W̨h̴atever happ҉ens, st-stay alive̡ alr̛igh̵t? P̢ro̡m̀i͘se͜ ͘me –“
“Stay҉ alive, keep ͡g̛o͏i̧n͢g no ma͝t̨tér ͡what happen҉s͢, ̡p҉le̛ase – “
He winced and clutched at hair, ducking his head at the unbidden wave of memories. The voices were distorted for some reason, like they had to go through a filter before they could be processed.
”You hav̵e t͡ǫ ͜tru̧s͘t me, and͠ wè have ҉ţo̸ trust her̶.”̷
"Pl̨e̕as̶e,͢ ́y҉o͢u͡ ̷d҉o̷ ̧not ha̕ve to͞ do̴ thi͘s..."
"̵Ki̛l̴l ͘him.͞"
It wasn’t so much physical pain as it was metaphysical: the kind that inflicted damage on the psyche that only past sins could contrive, a guilty niggling that refused to abate even when he thought he had steeled himself against it. And in this case it was a pair of betrayed pink eyes, brimming with tears that threw salt into the misty caverns of his raw little mind and set it back alight with a residual sting. He had been right, he was sure he had . . . But it didn’t make the memories any less painful.
Dead. That's what Xiu and Alex had said. Legitimately, no pumpkin patch around, dead. And by the sounds of it it had been a while too, though Mort didn't have the best sense of time - and that had been fudged even more once the fog had interrupted the Fright Night clean up. Finding a tree to lean against (he felt strangely weakened now that he was out of the party, like the exhaustion of being reborn had finally remembered to show up), the zomboil fished around in his hoodie pocket: past the crystal, past the strange card . . . No, not there. Right jean pocket, nothing. Left jean pocket - there. He turned his phone on and waited for it to boot.
From Fright Night to actual Halloween . . . Had they been missed? Did the school make little notice once again in lieu of causing unnecessary media backlash? It was os easy to get swallowed up by the thousands of denizens at the party, he couldn't help but wistfully wonder if Amityville was so used to crushing the souls of its students that having five literally dead ones was barely a blip on its radar; after all, they had lost the majority of a graduating class once with very little press release. What was five more?
His phone began to buzz with stored messages. Mort waited them to finish. Five texts . . . ten texts . . . When the counter hit fifteen he raised a brow, but it kept going. Twenty. Twenty-five. By the time it hit thirty he was incredulous and a little slack-jawed, but it kept going straight to --
Thirty-seven texts. Thirty-seven.
He stared at the screen for a few moments before he remembered how to use his thumbs to view said messages. Three from his mother, one from Gregory, one from Callista, and . . . The most recent name listed above them was hers.
Thirty-two texts from her.
Something hitched in his throat as he pressed view and scrolled to the beginning; the feeling only grew worse as he read through what was essentially a logged diary, an electronic encoding of what he had done to her with his so-called heroics, awaiting the day he came back to rip open the emotional scabs.
Screaming. She had screamed because of him, and Jack only knew how long she had cried . . . But she had been visited by others and had ventured to get his mini pets, a fact that touched him more than expected. He could imagine Lanna curled in her lap for pets, Victor hovering close by like a silent sentinel, Trouble sniffing about excitedly through the tossed clothes from her booth, Lancelot chittering around with Galahad . . .
What was worse, he wondered grimly: screaming until you ached and couldn't speak anymore, but having no-one to scream at; or finding that afterwards you still had so much left to say but no longer could?
And still the texts continued to pull him into a spiral. The mention of scars especially tugged at him, brought to mind swords and spikes and yells of past battles that no longer existed and yet had. Of two hands grasping him, pulling him, feeding him, imploring him -
{ Maybe I should start taking chances, so maybe that way you could stay next time, so you won't have to get hurt. But… But I wouldn't want to leave you alone, so maybe I shouldn't. }
Alone. The hitch in his throat grew into a lump. Was that how she felt? That she had been secondary in importance rather than at the forefront of his mind, that she was lost in the masses rather than the first up front when he thought of whom he and his fellow undeads had been called to save? Mort paused to mull the events leading up to his death, repeatedly tapping the screen so that it didn't dim or shut off, staring at her stream of messages one after the other and trying, forcing himself not to crack at the influx of words and the greater meaning behind them, at three simple words -
But it was so hard not to give in, to fully realize that each and every day since his death she had been talking to him about anything and everything on her mind: the going-ons of their minies, homework and classes, daily tasks and dreams . . . Even though he was gone, she kept that candle of hope that he would return, and that if not she would find a way.
{ The hope of a new day is sometimes hard to see, but each new day brings me closer to you. I can work towards that. }
It was warmth. It was something he wanted to hold against him. It was something he needed, a fragile light that she had promised to him, his light . . . Something soft yet strong, resilient yet unchanging, and something dear enough to him that when it forced the crack open, he didn't mind the vulnerability. Nor did he mind that he was somehow on the ground, or that the tree trunk had been pressed against his back for Jack knew how long, or that he was now trembling. No, Mort welcomed every bit of that bittersweet emotion seeping into him and forgot, for a moment, that he had to be strong.
But something else had snuck in through that crack in his defenses, something that took him a few moments to pick out.
-̀͢-̷̢-̢́̀͞-̕-͏͏͠-̛͜͢͡-̶́͢͢͞-́-̶͞͏-̴̕҉-͢͝-̨̀͢͜͠-̸̡͞͡͝-̸̸́͘-͘͠-̀̀-̸̧͡-͢͠-̸͝-̴-͏̢͝-̸̴̷̷͝-͘҉-̡͘҉
It wasn't discernible and yet spoke to him deeply. A memory? It was soft, continuous, all too familiar the longer he dwelled on it -
-͝͠-͘͢͞-̸͝-̴̨-͟͠-̴́̕-̶̕͏-̢̨͘͠-̷-̵̴̡̀̀-̶͏͏̡͝-̨҉̵̕-͜͝҉͝-̶́͘-̵̨̛͘͠-͡-̢̕͡-҉͞͠͏͏-̴̵̕̕͜-̵͏̛͞-̸͠-̵̵̨-̸̢
Whispers.
"No." Where optimism had filled him, now melancholy tainted. Hope turned to horror, desire into despair, a revelation that fell upon him like an icy rain, unstoppable and fierce.
"No." A plaintive mumble from a constricted throat. A new chill that sapped at his bones, a new quality of shaking that threatened tears. "Why . . . why . . .?" What little he could say was useless and only amplified the torment of being all but speechless, even as the whispers continued, and all he could do was clench his teeth and curl into himself and wish he was dreaming still.
-͘͞-̕͢͝-̴̸́͘-̴-̶͠-̧̛́-̧̢-̕̕͟-̸͘͏̡-̢͠-̧͢͡͝-̵̧̡̛-̶̶͟-̧̕-̵́̀͘͝-͡҉̕͢͜
-̴͠-͟͢͡-̸͘͏̡-̨͡-͘-͟͠҉̵-̸̵͢͡͞-͜-̢͏-͏̀͝-̵͟͢͠͝-̢̕͡-̶͜͠҉͡-̴҉̢-̷́͞͡-̛̀͘̕͜-̴̧̀͘̕-̨̧͘͞-̀-̷̴̷̢͠-͢͡͠-̀͞-̷̧̨̀͝-͜͢-̵͏͘҉͝-̨̀̕-̷̀͡-̧̢͢͠-͜҉͡͞͝-̴-̴̡͜-̷̡͘̕͝-͏-̡́́̕-̶̷̵-͝-͏̧͠͝-̵̷̧̕-̧͟͞-̡̡͜
-̶̴͢͜͞-̨̢-̨̧͢-̷̀̕-̡͜͜͟͏-̡-̴̕-̴̨͞͡-̴̢̛͡-͏-̵̷́́͘-̷̴̷̵͘-̸҉-͘͜-̧͠-̴͜-̴́͢͞-̵̧͝҉-̵̵̢́͝-̴̕͡͞-̴̨͘-̷̡͡-̀҉͘͢-̨͢-̴͜͜͝-̵̸̸̨̨-̵͡-̶̢͞҉-̨̛͜-̶́-̸̡̕͘-̵͡҉̧-͟͢͡-͡҉̛́-̶̸̢͘͞-̸̨-̶͟͠͞-̷͘͞҉̵-̨͘͟-̷̧̀͞-̶̛̕-̢̕͞-̨̨͘͜-̵̢͘͞-̴͠-̨́͜͞͡-̶͟͟-͝͏-̴́-̴̸̡̛-̶
They weren't nearly as bad as the kind he had experienced in the heart of the Haunted House, but all it needed to be was there: in spite of being soft and unintelligible, it was enough to strike the zomboil at his Core, enough to remind him that if something was too good to be true, then it was.
Nothing came for free. For every action, there was an equal and opposite reaction. For every event, there was a cause and a result. All things belonged to the simple process of equivalent exchange: he had given life and thus was returned life.
It just happened to come with a hidden fee.
Eventually Mort brought his head back up and stared forlornly at the full moon above, resplendent and radiant as the holiday demanded, and felt himself sinking lower still under its pale beauty. Was she looking up at it too, or was she fast asleep? Had she been able to put her grief to rest with the festivities and move on? Could he dare still . . .
Yes. He had to. He needed to find her now, as selfish as it was to have to inflict that pain upon her as well.
But then, she had weathered his death; something strong had to have been forged from that. Certainly something stronger than his trembling, wretched self.
His mind was reeling and his body ached and his head throbbed and twisted and refused to house another coherent thought, but she was water and he was the man wandering the desert for far too long.
Quote:
Text to Belladonna
i need you
i need you
There was no room for discussion about whether he was ready to face her. He wasn’t.
Quote:
Text to Belladonna
i dont know what to do
i dont know what to do
But he was lost. He wasn't enough on his own.
Quote:
Text to Belladonna
guide me home
guide me home
He was starting to see that now.
Quote:
Text to Belladonna
please
please
