?Take your coat off, Charlotte. That exposure was too long for comfort.? You can see Richard, barely, by the glint of moonlight off his belly.
In response, you lean off your cot and fish around blindly in your portmanteau. Triumphantly, you retrieve the glow-orb (easy: it's smooth and round, not fabric-feeling) and shake it vigorously. It phosphoresces in response.
Now able to see properly, you unbutton and shrug off your coat. The mirror shard falls onto the mattress. You make to pick it up—
?Priorities. Was it in contact with your skin.?
Was it? You examine your shirt. It's mock-turtleneck style, an interlocking knit, modest black (coal black, they may have called it, not that there was real coal for reference), made of some ungodly synthesized chemical fabric. Though you've worn it since your other shirt got sliced open a couple months ago, it shows no signs of dirt or tatter, though salt is beginning to collect on the neckline.
God, you should really buy a different shirt, shouldn't you? Or at least sew the other one back together. You probably remember how.
?
?
There's a nick in your left sleeve, right about where the shard would've settled. You consider sticking a finger through it, then discard that thought and pull the shirt over your head.
You run a finger down the lacy strap of your brassiere in reflection, then check your arm. It's quite pale, excepting the rivulet of blood trickling down it. You bite your lip and prod the cut.
It's got an odd look and texture to it, sort of dead matte, with no fine hairs around it.
?Paper, as expected. Oh well. It'll mend.?
You squint up at Richard, who hovers placidly a foot in front of you. "Pardon?"
?It's turned that part of your skin to paper, Charlotte, because that's what glass does. It's not harmful, and it's likely just the first layer— do not pick at it. Treat it like a scab. It'll mend.?
You rub it lightly, but don't pick. This is fine, you think. This is fine. It's fine. It's just the first layer, that's paper. It'll mend. Positive thinking. Yes. Good.
It still gives you the shivers, and it's not just because you're half-undressed.
>[ID: 1/11]
You slide your shirt back on and sit breathing in the green light.
You want to sleep. Oh God, do you want to sleep. But you have obligations, and the bad part about obligations is you have to fulfill them whether you like them or not. You should see Ellery's tent— for completeness, if nothing else. For completeness.
?No.?
Richard gleams. You stare at him. "What?"
?You're not going anywhere. One more complication and you'll have a hideous meltdown. I know you.?
He of so little faith. "I'm not going to have a meltdown! Geez. It's called being tired, not that you'd… do you even sleep? I can't tell."
?I do. That's not the point.? He loops in figure-eights. ?You're not physically exhausted. You slept well, and it's not late. You're mentally exhausted.?
"Same thing, right?" You've wrapped the mirror shard in woven cloth and are sliding it into the desk. "Sounds better, actually. I'm not going to pass out."
?We've spoken before about your profound issues with object permanence. If you cannot see something, for you, it ceases to exist.?
You shut the drawer. "Not following."
?So because you have chosen to ignore your present instability—?
"I'm not unstable. I'm completely stable. Stable as a table."
?—you have come under the illusion that it’s vanished. That you are, quote, 'stable as a table.' Nothing could be further from the truth.?
"Wouldn't I know this? Are you still pissy? I really think you're— you sound pissy." You are trying and failing to locate some sort of bag or gunnysack to hold evidence in.
?Charlotte, you had a public meltdown today over pink cocktail umbrellas. Be reasonable. I am not joking.?
"You're never joking, though?" You're just going to use your jacket as a makeshift sling, you think. "Unless you're in my head, where you're always joking? Which is weird, by the way."
?It has been an exceptionally long and traumatic day. You are standing on the brink of a cliff. Accept that, accept that is in my vested interest to not have to scrape you off the rock, and sleep. Don't go out there. There is nothing for you.?
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
You're walking out the door. Look at you, walking, and he can't do a damn thing about it. Isn't this fun?
?I said
He's said this before, and look where it's gotten you.
?This man is
>[1] Shut up Richard, shut up, you stupid idiot, you (Lottie) are going to drag yourself to Ellery's tent if it's on your hands and knees, for all you care, and you are going to investigate it, God-damnit. So you (Richard) can suck it.
>[2] Maybe you do sound a little unstable. But only a little. You should sleep, but not because Richard told you to, obviously.
>[3] Write-in.
You grip the sodden weeds and glower up at Richard. You're trying your best to express your feelings. "F… fu… fff…"
?You're not capable of using that word. You're too well-bred.? He's drifted so close to your face you have to go cross-eyed to focus on him. ?And you wouldn't really mean it, so I fail to see the point.?
"Fff…eff you," you conclude. "Eff you. You're… you're fat, and…" You prop yourself up like a seal, arms straight, legs dead. "…stupid, and… ugly. There's mud on my slacks. I hate you."
?I'm sorry you feel that way, but you're wrong.? His eyes are blank and yellow. ?You don't hate me, and you know you don't hate me. This fact frightens you.?
"Eff you." You lean into his stupid little face. "Make my legs work."
?I'd be pleased to.?
Your muscles relax. "Eff you," you mumble, as you pull yourself to your feet. "God-damn you." The thought of making a break for Ellery's tent crosses your mind, but a stiffening shock up your back puts that to rest. You stagger back inside.
Your eyes flick from the cot to the desk. Triumphantly, you yank open the drawer, retrieve the mirror shard, and drop it into a pant pocket. You shimmy your shirt off (it's wet— it's not as easy as it sounds) and fling it onto your mattress.
?Charlotte, what—?
Your arm has continued to bleed lightly. You fetch the shard, consider it, then smear a little of your blood onto its silver surface. Nothing happens.
?Charlie, you're lucky your blood's been neutralized.?
Damn. You'd hoped something would happen— preferably something big and explosive, just to stick it to Richard. You'll have to leave it overnight.
Your peacoat is still discarded on the cot, alongside your shirt. You pick up both, shake them out, and drape them over the cot's railing. (You glance towards the door. Good: you did retie the knot.) You sit down on the mattress to slide your boots off, then your socks. You unbuckle your brassiere and sigh in relief. You unbutton your slacks. You reach under your bed to find one of the worn blouses you've been using as nightclothes, then shimmy it on.
Richard is coiled decorously in the corner. Good. At one point he argued that it hardly mattered what he saw: he was in your head, Charlotte Fawkins, and moreover the human body meant nothing to him. Were you not aware that snakes reproduce asexually? Blah, blah, blah: you kept tossing him across the room if you saw him looking, and now he turns away automatically. The one thing you've ever gotten through his skull.
You still hate him, by the way, whatever he says.
Oh, the glow-orb. You stand from the mattress, grab it, and toss it under the cot. It'll shut off on its own.
In the dark, you sink onto the mattress and stare up at the ceiling. You think: God, I thought things would've gotten less complicated, not more. But they've all gotten more complicated, even the simple things. Richard used to be a simple thing. He was a snake, and he called you a bitch sometimes, and that was that. And you liked that. It was familiar. And now it's gotten all… unfamiliar, all weird, and now he's a person now, you guess, and somehow it's your fault. How is it your fault? You were fine with him being a snake, but you don't think you should tell him that. He seems so pleased to have a face and body and proper voice. And feelings, you guess, apparently, but that's— that's in the realm of the complicated.
You wonder if you have a sort of hangover. It sure feels that way.
God. You watched a man die today.
God.
Maybe if you shut your eyes, it'll all…
You sleep.
You dream.
A man clad in red. A man clad in white. A lit cigarette and a tortoiseshell knife. Darkness.
The knife is slipped into the man in red's Chelsea boot. He holds a shotgun to the chest of the man in white, who smokes quietly.
"I'm sorry," says the man in red. "I'm sorry." He pulls the trigger. His ears are plugged with wool.
There is no bang. The man in white stumbles backwards, a stab wound scarlet at his stomach. His white silk vest is stained. The cigarette collects ash.
The man in red is gone.
The man in white looks at you. Blood trickles from his mouth. "It's okay," he says. "I love you. I forgive you. It's not your fault, Charlie. It's okay."
You wake up feeling sick. Someone is whistling as loud as possible outside— you can hear it through the wall of the tent. They are not on-key. Are they ever?
>[ID: 11/11]
So much for a better day.
>[1] Check on the bloody mirror shard.
>[2] Attempt to read one or more of your filched papers.
>[3] Attempt to break into Ellery's tent.
>[4] Go give the whistler a piece of your mind.
>[5] Find Madrigal. Get your servitude over with. Or whatever Monty called it.
>[6] Write-in.