i held the chisel against my cheekbone
and i beheld the face of my true master
?He doesn?t have a gun.? The distraught, tear-choked voice of his newly-minted partner Amy Lynch, just barely holding it together. ?Why?d you tell me to shoot? Ben, why?d you tell me to shoot??
Ben?s-not-Ben?s mouth, Ben?s-not-Ben?s voice. ?He deserved to die.? Not his thoughts. Not his hazy, blurred over memory. Not his rage -- not his cold blood.
A tilt, a shift, a blip, and he?s in the cabin he lived in for a year of his childhood -- Ted lived in, the missing year -- but as an adult, now. Amy is there, again, but now she?s only in the background -- it?s Ella, now, the voice in his ears. ?It was you? All this time, and it was you?!? Adam is there too, ten years old, trauma-induced silence, looking rapidly between his parents. They never fought when he lived with them -- but that was years ago, now. Maybe he doesn?t know them anymore.
?No, Elle, it wasn?t me, it was--?
?You, it was you, it was one of you-- and how can you be trusted with him, if--?
Ben can?t hear the rest of the accusation -- what he does hear is a baby crying up in the attic library of the cabin home. Adam isn?t in the room anymore, but Ben knows it?s not him. It?s Lily. Lillian. His daughter.
He turns away from Ella, while she?s still screaming at him, red-faced with rage, with hate, even, and slow-motioned, dream-molasses?d slow, he heads to the staircase to the attic, climbs them. Skips over the creaky third-from-the-top step that he has no reason to know is creaky to begin with.
Lily isn?t there in the attic. Adam isn?t either. Sam is -- Sam is, dark-haired, broad-shouldered, feral. Seated at a table, razor in his left fingertips. ?Five?s a crowd,? he tells Ben. Sam?s grin is as sharp and dangerous as the razor when it slices; Ben?s hand is sticky with blood seconds after pressing it to the inside of his right forearm--
Flash, haze, blip--
It?s all fade now, all underwater sounding and blurred over, but he has Jackie cornered in Adam?s room-- really cornered; she?s backing into the dresser to get away from him before he tears a belt out of her hands. Can?t make out the words, not hers nor his (not his), but the hate, the hate -- that?s real. A glance at her pregnant belly dulls it almost imperceptibly, but a look at her face again, and--
A hand around her throat. A pain in his wrist where her nails dig in, trying to get him off of her, to let her breathe, but her brown eyes well with tears, he tightens his grip. The rage is real. The hate is real. Ben-not-Ben. It?s not his rage, not his hate -- but it?s real. As real as you are.
Static, but within it, he can tell -- somewhere in the woods, mist, dark, dirt-- Terror, knife-sharp loss, but the hate--
Out of breath when he sits bolt upright in the pile of blankets in the clue-papered bedroom in his apartment. Sweat-slick, shaking, panting.
Roland?s ghost is in the corner of the room. Ultra-detailed and hazy, misted over, as always. So often now, he?s a silent presence that shows up when Ben is alone, and it unnerves him still, but a silent Roland, lurking and waiting for something Ben still doesn?t understand (and thus chooses to simply not think about), he can ignore.
Tonight, though, ?What?s got you so shook up?? Mock-care in his tone, the wheeze of it that escapes him. Always sounds like he did the night he died. ?Thought you were grown. What are you so scared of, son??
Here and not, the blip of a memory--
Ella slapping him-not-him as he mockingly offers her the syringe in his hand before she snatches it from him--
Jackie punching him-not-him outside of the bar. The angry, hurt look in her deep brown eyes--
His own eyes, in the mirror, as he washes his face, hungover from not-his partying, smears of black mascara smudged beneath his eyes--
His own eyes, in the mirror, as he washes his hands before dinner -- ten years old, a year he doesn?t have, a dinner, a home he doesn?t remember-- not him, but him--
His own eyes, in a face that isn?t his, before the dark-haired demon grabs Ben by the hair, forces him to his knees, makes him watch through the basement window--
His own eyes, in the mirror, face bloodied, nose broken, knuckles bruised from a fight he doesn?t remember--
His own hands, wrapped around Jackie?s throat--
The scene in the woods again. Still hazy. Steel in his hands this time.
?A monster.?
there is a pseudointellectual in me
oh, but luckily there's something else
a frog with its tongue stuck to the inside of my chest
a crow that keeps banging up against the glass
a well-intentioned demon somewhere within
maybe the last one's not so bad, maybe the last one's the main attraction
but you've gotta love the house you're in
you've gotta love the house you're in
cuz someone keeps writing your name all over the walls
someone keeps writing your name all over the walls
i would like to be more for you than just a ghost lighting up in the courtyard
sometimes i am an actual man standing perfectly still in the dark
starless future, folklore past
so leave the shade halfway open
leave the shade halfway drawn
i am writing a line for the stars
happiness is waiting for you to fall
--'love the house you're in,' moonface
and i beheld the face of my true master
?He doesn?t have a gun.? The distraught, tear-choked voice of his newly-minted partner Amy Lynch, just barely holding it together. ?Why?d you tell me to shoot? Ben, why?d you tell me to shoot??
Ben?s-not-Ben?s mouth, Ben?s-not-Ben?s voice. ?He deserved to die.? Not his thoughts. Not his hazy, blurred over memory. Not his rage -- not his cold blood.
A tilt, a shift, a blip, and he?s in the cabin he lived in for a year of his childhood -- Ted lived in, the missing year -- but as an adult, now. Amy is there, again, but now she?s only in the background -- it?s Ella, now, the voice in his ears. ?It was you? All this time, and it was you?!? Adam is there too, ten years old, trauma-induced silence, looking rapidly between his parents. They never fought when he lived with them -- but that was years ago, now. Maybe he doesn?t know them anymore.
?No, Elle, it wasn?t me, it was--?
?You, it was you, it was one of you-- and how can you be trusted with him, if--?
Ben can?t hear the rest of the accusation -- what he does hear is a baby crying up in the attic library of the cabin home. Adam isn?t in the room anymore, but Ben knows it?s not him. It?s Lily. Lillian. His daughter.
He turns away from Ella, while she?s still screaming at him, red-faced with rage, with hate, even, and slow-motioned, dream-molasses?d slow, he heads to the staircase to the attic, climbs them. Skips over the creaky third-from-the-top step that he has no reason to know is creaky to begin with.
Lily isn?t there in the attic. Adam isn?t either. Sam is -- Sam is, dark-haired, broad-shouldered, feral. Seated at a table, razor in his left fingertips. ?Five?s a crowd,? he tells Ben. Sam?s grin is as sharp and dangerous as the razor when it slices; Ben?s hand is sticky with blood seconds after pressing it to the inside of his right forearm--
Flash, haze, blip--
It?s all fade now, all underwater sounding and blurred over, but he has Jackie cornered in Adam?s room-- really cornered; she?s backing into the dresser to get away from him before he tears a belt out of her hands. Can?t make out the words, not hers nor his (not his), but the hate, the hate -- that?s real. A glance at her pregnant belly dulls it almost imperceptibly, but a look at her face again, and--
A hand around her throat. A pain in his wrist where her nails dig in, trying to get him off of her, to let her breathe, but her brown eyes well with tears, he tightens his grip. The rage is real. The hate is real. Ben-not-Ben. It?s not his rage, not his hate -- but it?s real. As real as you are.
Static, but within it, he can tell -- somewhere in the woods, mist, dark, dirt-- Terror, knife-sharp loss, but the hate--
Out of breath when he sits bolt upright in the pile of blankets in the clue-papered bedroom in his apartment. Sweat-slick, shaking, panting.
Roland?s ghost is in the corner of the room. Ultra-detailed and hazy, misted over, as always. So often now, he?s a silent presence that shows up when Ben is alone, and it unnerves him still, but a silent Roland, lurking and waiting for something Ben still doesn?t understand (and thus chooses to simply not think about), he can ignore.
Tonight, though, ?What?s got you so shook up?? Mock-care in his tone, the wheeze of it that escapes him. Always sounds like he did the night he died. ?Thought you were grown. What are you so scared of, son??
Here and not, the blip of a memory--
Ella slapping him-not-him as he mockingly offers her the syringe in his hand before she snatches it from him--
Jackie punching him-not-him outside of the bar. The angry, hurt look in her deep brown eyes--
His own eyes, in the mirror, as he washes his face, hungover from not-his partying, smears of black mascara smudged beneath his eyes--
His own eyes, in the mirror, as he washes his hands before dinner -- ten years old, a year he doesn?t have, a dinner, a home he doesn?t remember-- not him, but him--
His own eyes, in a face that isn?t his, before the dark-haired demon grabs Ben by the hair, forces him to his knees, makes him watch through the basement window--
His own eyes, in the mirror, face bloodied, nose broken, knuckles bruised from a fight he doesn?t remember--
His own hands, wrapped around Jackie?s throat--
The scene in the woods again. Still hazy. Steel in his hands this time.
?A monster.?
there is a pseudointellectual in me
oh, but luckily there's something else
a frog with its tongue stuck to the inside of my chest
a crow that keeps banging up against the glass
a well-intentioned demon somewhere within
maybe the last one's not so bad, maybe the last one's the main attraction
but you've gotta love the house you're in
you've gotta love the house you're in
cuz someone keeps writing your name all over the walls
someone keeps writing your name all over the walls
i would like to be more for you than just a ghost lighting up in the courtyard
sometimes i am an actual man standing perfectly still in the dark
starless future, folklore past
so leave the shade halfway open
leave the shade halfway drawn
i am writing a line for the stars
happiness is waiting for you to fall
--'love the house you're in,' moonface