Friday, 6 January 2012

-Spencer- Home


Pain is an interesting thing; something we all seem to be carrying with us lately. All types of pain, all types of variances, pain that's just annoying and pain that makes you want to die. It does...weird things to you. Gets into your mind, makes you bleed, makes you cry; until you're not sure where your pain ends and your thoughts began.

Sorry. I... I'm back. Trying to explain this is hard because I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t… I couldn’t. I’ve felt pain before, I feel pain constantly, but this… oh god, it felt like it was consuming everything, I forgot how to eat, how to feel, how to breath. I… I thought this was it. I thought that I was going to die. I would’ve done anything to make it stop, and the worst part was i was half-aware through all of it. I knew that this time, what I was seeing, what I was feeling… it wasn’t real. Father wasn’t there. He was never there, but…

Pain. Christ, everyone knows pain. We all can relate to pain. When an animal gets hurt, it whimpers pathetically and runs home with its tail between its legs.
That’s what I did.

I ran home.

But I… it wasn’t exactly me. If it was, I wouldn’t have been missing for a day or two. You all call him Teller. You call ME Teller, we’ve been through this; it’s not an alternate personality, a Tyler Durden of proxism. It’s me. Just me being a giant dickhead, acting for the good of myself and myself only.

… and you all call it a significant change?

Regardless. It doesn’t fucking matter, does it? I… I went home. The home I shared with Writer for three years in Montreal. After what happened in the Wing, I can see why. That place… didn’t hurt. Couldn’t hurt, at least in my drug addled, pain-ridden brain.

So I stumbled there. Used the Path, probably made my injuries worse. Didn’t know where I was or why I was there and the pain wouldn’t godamn stop, just that I had to keep moving or He… fuck, it gets confusing, because He wasn’t there and I knew He wasn’t there but-

… Focus.

I guess I started to Craft, send out my feelers in an unconscious effort to protect myself despite being half-bonkers and utterly boned if someone else showed up.

And guess who was present for the party? Complete with murderous little entourage. I’d find it kind of hilarious that our collective villains are meeting for coffee and tea and probably go-karting if it wasn’t so fucking terrifying at the time.

I couldn’t remember who they were, of course. But I knew enough to be afraid. And… fuck, the… the world started pounding with my head, like some sort of… I don’t know. He… the bastard tried to trigger me and…

I saw Him. He wasn’t there, but I saw Him, and I ran, screaming and sobbing

fucking blurry, I can’t see, I couldn’t

and then he was there again with his stupid grin, right in front of me, taking advantage of the fact that I was barely anything at all and

trying to break me
trying to get his fucking Teller back

Glass breaking, and pain, so much fucking pain, ruining everything that I am, that I was, that I’m trying to be and then…
I felt something. Something weird and foreign within the Loop, something… breaking it, forcing in. A rib cracked, maybe two, a sharp bit of hurt in my chest, but it woke me up. A small figure broke in. Everyone stared.

Everyone… Even Writer. Even Rhodes. The look on their stupid faces was incredible. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen; better than the fucking Mona Lisa.


He saved me.
He got me out of an impossible situation alive.
But that’s what he does, right? Beyond the impossible is just his thing.
We got out of the Loop that he broke into and had to walk to the House.
Which is where we’re both currently. Me, for a while. Him, probably not for long.
June Reynolds and I.
He’s alive.


  1. Holy fuck.
    Holy goddamn fuck.
    Answer your phone, please, if at all possible.

  2. Who's that? And are you sure you aren't hallucinating?

  3. Hi, that's me. Also, yes, he is, but fortunately about completely irrelevant things.

  4. And after all that lack of work the Messenger did.

  5. It is an enormous relief to hear from you, Spencer.


    And if you ever need to talk about anything, you know how to get ahold of me. It seems like flat-out torture tactics are becoming a habit lately. I'm going to take the optimistic route and say that means He's getting frustrated.

    Be good to yourself, okay Spence? You're a better person than you think you are.

  6. And he lives! It's like you people are trying to drive the Messenger insane, I love it. Mr. Reynolds, if you're reading this, congadulations on your promotion to zombie status, I'm glad to see you back.

    As for you Spencer, you don't really need my condolences or assurences, we don't really know each other, so it would all be meaningless coming from me. However, I will say this: There is always someone worse than you in the world, this is only mot true for one person, and beleive me, you're not it. Focus on the good stuff, or learn to enjoy your darkness, either way you've still got a long way to go before you're a truely awful person.

    See you around
    - Free

  7. Whelp, consider me floored. I'll be over here being speechless if you need me.

  8. Can people just... stay dead?
    Is that too fucking much to ask?

  9. Considering he was never dead in the first place, that isn't really an issue here. You might be more accurate asking, "Can people just die?" but that's a bit dickish, if you ask me.

    Of course, you didn't ask me, so I'm going redact what I just said and call you a dick.

  10. Waitwaitwait, Gargoyle was fucking speechless for even a moment? I want that in writing. Hand-written and notarized.