-August- Through the Loop.

It's... the 27th now. It'll probably be the 28th by the time I'm finished this. 

Christ, I'm so tired. We're all so tired. Tired and hurting and scared but... relieved, so immensely relieved. After the complete and utter hell that was the last... nearly 20 days, we're all lucky to be alive. Some are in better condition than others but that's alright. I've never been happier to walk freely around the House, each room exactly where I last remember it. 

Well, almost.

But if there's ever been a time when the phrase 'close enough' felt appropriate, this is it. We're all just about half-here right now, and even if I'm stopping every couple of minutes to empty my stomach or move some bandages or check on whoever is currently groaning or hissing or whatever else we associate with pain, we're together and hey, we're all alive. Rivers is short a leg and Doc is high on what I think is heroin, which is good because when she isn't, she's...

I don't want to talk about it.

Spencer is in absolute shambles and everybody else... isn't really faring much better. But those are their stories to tell, so I'm just going to recount what I can while I can. 

Started getting bad when Steele brought Alex and Rivers back. It got worse when Elaine and Elliott came around. Spencer said he was having trouble holding the place together already, and when he and the two from the forest started complaining about headaches and voices I knew something bad couldn't be far off. I think we all knew it, but here we are again proving our startling intellect and genre-savviness. Instead of getting out we sat like, well, like sitting ducks and waited for our world to collapse around us. I want to say you couldn't blame us for it but, really, couldn't you? Shouldn't you? We should have gotten everybody out when the walls starting shifting around. When the ceilings climbed higher and our third floor disappeared. When the kitchen moved to the first floor and the extension that contained my room, a bathroom and half of the dining room disappeared, taking with it half of our oak table and leaving it seamlessly attached to a wall covered in fleur-de-lis that I know I painted over in March. 

But we didn't. We sat and we worked and we pretended not to notice when the cornflower-blue bathroom tiles turned bleached white and when the right stairwell became four steps shorter than the left and when you walked through a door that used to lead to a bathroom brought you to nothing but a brick wall, you closed it and pretended nothing happened, only to turn around and realize the hallway you were in seconds ago is now the library, and you calmly run your hands along the bookshelves and wonder if there were always seventeen of them, and whether or not that window was always there, and doesn't that wall face the foyer why is there a window on it in the first place, and where did the door that leads to the garage go? And you tried and failed to will your hand to stop shaking and when you blinked the ground turned from hardwood to carpet and you found yourself in the living room, only now it's about two hundred feet long and you couldn't even see the ceiling, the vines and the trees have so completely filled this place. Your most favourite chandelier was pulled from the stucco of the domed room, which sent glass flying all across the ground and it cut your feet when you walked. You realized the room is nearly pitch black and the only light that comes in is filtered through a heavy screen of leaves and branches, and the entire room felt stuffed; the air was humid and hot and yet thin, so very, very thin that you felt your vision go fuzzy and your breath turn ragged; shallow and panicked.

But maybe there's another reason for that.

Maybe you've just caught a glimpse of the Figure, that Man who commands so much fear and respect that you feel the need to capitalize every He and His and Being and Figure and name, because you could think of about three dozen things to call this Tall Man, this Thin Man, the Slender Man, the One Who Walks, Slender, Slendy, Slends, Dr. Stalkopus, Betentacled Abomination, Eldritch Abomination, Monster, Killer, Murderer; names born out of spite, out of anger, out of fear donning a wretched mask and hiding away, because the second you behold His shoulders - whether it's across a highway or in the mirror or just out of the corner of your eye in a dark hotel room - your entire being beings to shake and sputter in revolt of this Being, instinct kicks in and your mind goes blank and two voices cry out in your head.

One screams, run.

The other, come. 

Neither uses spoken word, and neither possess a tongue or speech to which you could grant a name; it's more the feeling you get in the pit of your stomach; twisting knots wrapping your insides tighter than some South American snake constricting its prey, waiting, waiting, waiting for its heart to cease its ba-dum, ba-dum (though at the time it was more a badumbadumbadumba----badumbadumbadum) so it can feast. 

It's about that time, realizing the Being in front of me isn't in fact a single, timeless, inescapable being but seems to be made up of the same breathing, shifting, moving masses that plague our employer that I begin to hear screaming. At first I think it's mine - I really, truly think it's mine, because the moment your eyes meet the perfect, porcelain white of the Man 

everything 

grows

still.

The colour of the world fades from view and sudden there isn't anything but Him in the room, even your own being seems to be suspended. You're a floating consciousness and the voice that screams run, run as fast and as far as you can is quickly silenced, the boa constrictor that is your insides tightening more and more as each second passes, breath now in quick, hysteric huffs and your heart is skipping like a record, but you're 

calm.

So very, very calm. You don't notice the pain - you can't notice the pain, because there's something cooing in your head softer than the breeze of warm summer nights, ushering you forward and calling with gentle, honey-sweet notes of safety. You almost decide to listen to it, where somewhere in the back of your mind something finally clicks, the entire scene clicks, and the screaming comes back in a rush and no, no, it's not yours, it's far too distant and not nearly high enough to be yours, and like the last few flashes of a dream you grasp at, you can hear:

Remember, remember, the fifth of November...

Gunpowder, treason and plot.

I see no reason why gunpowder, treason,

Should ever be forgot.

It wouldn't be until you write this post up later that you ask yourself why that poem came up, why you know it, where you heard it and why it seemed to ring loud and clear despite what you rationalize later as the closest thing to a near-death experience you've had in a long time. 

I... things get fuzzy from here. After that the entire world's a haze through a veil of a film grain, 60 frames per second and each one is smouldered at the corners and your head's still floating on air. You think you head in the direction of the screaming, what you think is the basement, (though could you really tell anymore? Did anything make sense here anymore?) but somehow you end up in the old rec hall in the East Wing, other couriers beside you. Doc is swaying on her feet and more gone than here, Steele looks right pissed off - but it's the same mask, the same pretend anger of fear hiding, trying to be anything other than itself - Amanda is on her crutches and looks like she's bleeding, Sam is a muttering mess, Todd's expression never stays the same long enough to register what emotion he's feeling and Spencer is still nowhere to be seen. 

Something happens and we start walking. We're a shambling, scared, absolutely terrified mass of survivors who can see the edge coming up, but we're not going down yet, no, no, we can't go down yet, not when we still have the boss to think about...

Hallways. So many hallways. At least fifty, maybe more. Or maybe it's just one, and as we turn the corner we're dropped off at the beginning, each door we open leads us back into the same place we started, but eventually we open a door and we don't see the same thirty feet and three doors, two windows and neglected crown molding.

Let me expand.

The problem with the times when the House implodes, or we enter a Loop, or You Know Who makes his rounds: memory gets cloudy. Not just mine, Spencer's and Steele's and Sam's - our collective memory gets covered in fog and ash, like we're watching it through some smoky filter; everything's in black and white and the faces are blurred and the static builds higher until there's no sound, just action, and what little sound you do hear is like you're listening with your head underwater, deep and twisted Charlie Brown 'wahhh wahhh's of what might be voices but you can't tell. The entire thing feels like a dream and when you enter that door for what has to be the hundredth time you're shocked that you're not met with the same  thirty feet and three doors, two windows and neglected crown molding, we see white. White so pure and so brilliant it burns away the fog and the haze and the Charlie Brown 'wahhh wahhh's and the world is painfully bright again. And I suppose that's why we're I'm writing this up now. Why we blog. Why we write about all these horrible things, why we share our experiences. Because the moment we stop thinking about this it slips away, a fleeting dream drifting grain by minuscule grain through you fingers. Even as you write you can't type fast enough to get it all down, and suddenly something slips through the cracks between 'o' and 'w' and you can't remember if his eyes were amber or slate, staring up at Him with eyes wide in horror, sacred, terrified and you don't think you've ever seen him like that in the few months - but it's a year now, isn't it? - that you've known him. Some part of you asks if the others have seen him like this, so utterly helpless and broken and scared, but the solitary thought run at the forefront of your mind blocks that out, tucks it away, and another grain falls between 'a' and 'y' and you forget who grabbed him; Steele or Todd, and what happens after that is the scramble of seven people all turning tail and running at once, and the second we clear the threshold of the door there's a sucking sound of air being displaced, the room around us compresses so its nothing more than a dot of light, infinitely small and impossibly bright, then expands with an explosion that leaves our ears ringing and sound returns with the hiss and whrrr of a fridge starting - wait, wait, no, that is our fridge starting. The heat clicks on and below us there's the distant rumble of the water heater starting, the buzz of the washer, the lights flicker and we're home, we're home, everything is back to normal and we're safe.

And the drapes are in tatters and the tiles are stained with blood and dirty and the wallpaper is ruined and the left stairwell is destroyed. The living room is a mess of splinters and broken vases and our at least two hundred DVDs, blu-rays and CDs are everywhere but we're home and the kitchen is next to the living room and light is filtering in from behind so that must mean we're back on the second floor. 

"Wow...home..."

I'm not sure if Doc collapses after or while she utters those two words. Two perfect syllables that speak volumes. They say exactly what we're all thinking, and in obscuring smog of something not quite human we're all shocked that everything can snap back to normal so quickly, and I'm sure if we looked out the window the tree line would be exactly where it was before: exactly 22' 3/4" from the back wall. Nobody grabs Doc and she hits the tile with a thud. 

Home.

We're back. It's been... christ, it's been so long. Even after everything that's happened and the scars we have to show for it, it still feels like a dream. In all honesty, if it weren't for the maze the basement's become and the completely obliterated living room, not to mention the fact that about five rooms have gone MIA, I would have told you this was all a horrible nightmare.

-August- Listen.

I love you all to death.

Words can't describe what I would do for you - what I have done for you. You're my family and I would go to the ends of the Earth and back to make sure you all came home safe every night.

But sometimes?

Sometimes you all just piss me right the fuck off.

Heh.

I promised myself I wouldn't post while I was angry.

Focus.

For reasons I'll go into later because they're not nearly as momentously important as what's going on right now, I've basically said 'screw the world' and holed up in my bedroom for days on end.

I see none of you have bothered to make anything more complex than frozen dinners since I was gone.

I swear, I leave you alone for a couple days and it's pure pandemonium. Who will wash our laundry? Cook our food? How in God's name do we get blood out of the carpet?!

Baking soda. BAKING SODA.

Ha. Hahaha. Gotta stay calm. You've been livid for long enough August, haven't you?

...


No! No I have not!

Because when I come downstairs because somebody is making a racket and I look and everything is covered in blood (and when I say everything I mean everything; the floors were slick and the door was covered and the walls were splattered with it and the carpet was soaked and that's not easy to wash, you know!) and I look and I see Doc passed out on the kitchen table, and when I go to make sure she's okay I slip on some of the blood and Sam screams like there's no tomorrow and she emerges from the basement, teary-eyed and shaking, looking like she's just seen a crime scene before running off to God knows where, and I can only stand in awe as I see the trail of blood that Doc left behind as she stumbled into the kitchen, probably thinking it was her basement judging by the blood on the cabinets and the plates and the cutlery - Jesus Rollerblading Christ, Doc, did you think they were your equipment? - and of course she's still bleeding. From her shoulder by the looks of it, and she's passed out and pale as a sheet and her breathing is so shallow I don't know if she's even alive so of course my first thought is to try and establish if the good old doctor still has a pulse.

"Hey. Hey, Doc?" I touch her (unwounded) shoulder lightly. I'm hoping my voice is calm and soft but I'm beginning to freak out at this point, so it's probably high and shaky. "You alright?"

No answer.

"D - Doc?" I nudge her lightly. Her skin is still warm. That's a good sign, right?

"Doc, please." I try again. If I wasn't panicking before I certainly was now.

She groans.

Oh thank God.

"You going to be okay, Doc?"

She mutters something incomprehensible in response. If she's lucid enough to do that, then she wasn't in danger of dying.

At least, that's what I'm telling myself.

Everybody on the team is trained in basic first aid, and there are kits in the kitchen and every bathroom. I took one of said kits and busied myself patching her up, at least until...

"Spencer! Get the fuck in here! This isn't like the last..."

... No.

No no no no no you have got to be kidding me.

"Todd?!" I call back, unable to hide how utterly afraid I am at this point.

Doc's arm is only half bandaged, but the blood seems to have stopped flowing. It would just have to hold because that voice filtering down from somewhere above me (his bedroom... ?) is Todd and he sounds like he's in very, very bad shape.

I run as fast as my legs will carry me, hitting a bloody spot on the floor and sliding into the railing with a thud.

And of course now I'm panicking even worse because the last what? Why is he calling for Spencer and not Doc? What's happened to Doc why did Sam scream and where are Steele and Amanda in all of this?!

I'm hearing more noises as I move further up the stairs. Todd is coughing and laughing and sobbing all at once and he's speaking, though I only catch the bits he shouts and the next part goes something like this, harsh and grizzled and completely insane:

"Yeah! GET THE FUCK IN HERE! I WILL MUTILATE YOU BEYOND RECOGNITION YOU WORTHLESS PIECE OF UNICORN SH..."

A coughing fit takes him over again and between the hacking and what I swear is him puking his guts out I can hear fits of mad laughter. That voice isn't Todd at all.

No. No. Nonononononono. No no Todd you're going to be okay and this is going to be okay and...


"NO! NO! SPENCER DON'T COME IN! NO! KEEP HIM AWAY!"


It's high and shrill and echoes heavily; choked by sobs and interrupted again and again by Todd coughing out his lungs and that laugh and all I can think is Spencer, Spencer, Spencer why why why does everything keep coming back to you?

I'm tired of covering it up.

So I burst into the bathroom in a fit of pure, unadulterated terror - terror for me, terror for Todd, terror for Doc and Sam and Steele and everything is falling apart again Jesus Rollerblading Christ.

And I realize I'm maybe the only one who's got a grasp of themselves.

I realize I probably shouldn't waste that.

Todd is bound with black wires and thrown rather unceremoniously in the tub. There's blood and black gunk everywhere and the bathroom stinks and he looks at me, grinning. It's all teeth, and none of it reaches his eyes.

"Oh, and so the pretty boy returns. Where's your fucking boss, you little shit? Too scared to face me?"

... Evidently, I'm not talking to Todd. He laughs and laughs and laughs and spits at me and it's black and sticky and smells like gin and a tire fire.

My brow twitches.

"Mr. August! Mr. August! I'm so glad you're here! Could you please untie me?"

Back to that shrill, childish voice. Whatever Steele dealt with hasn't subsided and now I've got two personalities screaming at me and I don't know where Todd is in this whole mess.

"August, it's about fucking time! Why am I tied up? Where the fuck is Spencer? WHERE IS THE FUCKER I'M GOING TO RIP OUT HIS INTESTINES AND WEAR THEM AS A - NO, NO! LEAVE SPENCER ALONE!"

Oh god no.

There's a needle with tranq sitting in the sink. Amanda and/or Steele had left it there with obvious intent, though at that time I hadn't figure out where either of them were. It wouldn't be until I looked at the blog (because god knows we're all horrible for blogging in the middle crises instead of. You know. Doing anything about them.) and noticed what Steele and Sam posted than I decided enough is enough and marched right to the basement to rip both Spencer and Steele a new one.

But at that moment I'm busy emptying another needle of horse tranquilizer into Todd. (Sybil? Grov? All three?)

For a couple seconds I almost felt relieved. Tragedy averted. Everything had been under control (for the most part) and I could go back to check on Doc again, this time careful to not slip on the blood for what would be the third time that night. (This night?)

Of course it's not allowed to stay that way, right?

Of course not. It's always something with us.

So now Doc is bandaged and even has some colour back in her. She's not conscious - at least, I don't think she is - but she's going to live. I know that for certain. Sam is... somewhere and I tell myself I'm going to go find her in a second, god knows where Amanda is, but if she was in trouble she'd let us know and Todd/Sybil/Grov was safely tied up. Spencer was...

Where was Spencer? And where was Steele?

... Well, the blog was usually good for these things.

And then of course Steele, the arrogant bastard that he is, puts up his little post and goes to have 'words' with Spencer.

There are no words in this house. Very few things are resolved with words in this house.

No, no, no, no, no. Spencer has his secrets. Steele has his secrets. Todd has secrets Doc has secrets everybody has secrets in what I so shakily call our 'family.'

It's at that point I'm shaking and my nails are digging so deep into palms I think they're bleeding because Steele what do you think you're doing?! You're dealing with things you don't understand - that I don't understand, that the boss keeps from us for a reason, you idiot, don't go doing something we're all going to regret later!

But it's never that easy. Christ, it's not allowed to be that easy. Convincing Steele to get off his high horse (even if he's completely right but we have to respect each other's privacy, morals be damned.) is impossible and Spencer is unhinged enough to do something seriously horrible to any of us under the right circumstance and that is not what we need and Steele you are not going to do anything to ruin this.

"...lem talking to me right now, monologuing like a bad comic villain about your own corruption...Maybe you WANT us to be surprised, you WANT us to be run down by the wheels you set in motion..."

Corruption?

... Oh, no.

Oh no. Spencer I told you to lock the door I told you to lock the door I told you to lock the door!

Of course. Of course that was what Sam was screaming about and I don't blame her one bit. Spence you idiot I know it gets bad but of all the times to forget to turn a key!

"...were your troops, you wouldn't have let us go into these situations completely blind..."

You can hear the anger seething in Steele, and Spencer completely out of his mind.

"Does this look like a gummie worm to you?"

Steel cutting flesh. He's probably got himself pinned open the idiot and he left the door wide open. Spencer, what did you expect to happen?!

When I step into the doorway, Spencer is the only one who seems to notice me. Steele is too busy fuming silently, glaring daggers at the man with his abdomen pinned open next to a bucket filled to the brim with what looks to be black slugs; writhing and crawling over one another to try and escape.

"Oh, hello August. nice to see you back in the land of the living."

One of the worms falls over the brim and lands on the floor, only to be crushed beneath Steele's foot.

"August, I'm seeing where everyone's loyalty lies. And Spence's is clearly not with us anymore."

I just glare at him, blood pressure rising with the heat on my face.

Calm, August, calm...

"You don't know what you're dealing with here, Steele. There's a lot more going on than you think."

And Steele?

Steele laughs.

"Who the fuck do you think you are? His fucking body guard?"

"Steele, you don't understand." My voice is shaking, but I don't know if it's out of fear or rage or both or... "This isn't what it looks like."

"Get upstairs, please? This isn't - Spence isn't anything like what you're thinking of. You're wrong." I say please, but judging by Steele's reaction it must have sounded more like 'die slowly.'

"Your blind loyalty isn't admirable, kid; it's stupid. And it's going to get you killed some day, or worse, judging by Spence's little game of Operation."

Steele, I'm sick of you at this point. Get off your high horse and get upstairs.

But I don't say that, do I?

"Steele, get upstairs. Now." It's finally begun to bleed through my tone to the point where I can feel it; the seething anger because he doesn't know what's going on and I don't know what's going on and everything's going downhill again and I know this won't be the last of it, but I'm shaking and fuming and if he pushes me anymore I'm -

"Piss off."

...

...

... Heh.

Hehehehehhh.

I take two steps towards Steele.

Look him dead in the eyes.

And backhand him so hard he sees stars.

And what does he do?

He turns around and puts his gun right between my eyes.

"Right back at you, girly."

My only response is three simple words.

"I dare you."

Time stands still. We're both just staring and I'm fuming and glaring at him, taunting him, daring him to pull that trigger and end it right there. Everything seems caught in that one moment, and I don't know how long we're standing there before...

Steele pulls the trigger.

I don't blink.

"Pow."

No bullets.

He smirks. The gun is returned to its regular place and Steele makes for the door.

He says nothing else. It's just Spencer and I left in the basement, and he's still merrily picking away at those things in his chest. What can I do but walk up to him and inspect the damage?

The eyes that meet mine are old and tired. His gray streak is sticking to his forehead with sweat, which is as pale as the rest of him.

I sigh.

"... I thought I told you to lock the door."

He's sweating heavily. His voice is strained.

"I did. Or rather, thought I did. you know how bad I get sometimes when I'm like that."

I do. I do all too well.

"Go, kid. You've got shit to do. Patch up our little broken family, yeah?"

I laugh. I actually laugh. A feeble little huff of laughter that's more exhausted than anything, but it's still a laugh.

"I don't really have any choice, boss. You're out of commission for a while."

I look into his exposed insides, swallowing the bile back down.

It never gets any less disgusting, does it?

"You got them all. Sew yourself up and I'll come check on you later, okay? Doc is... isn't doing to well."

I can hear my voice crack.

Hold on for just a bit longer, August.

It's Cam's voice.

"Go." Spencer sounds almost... proud. There's a small, strained smile on his face.

Who am I to question him?

I leave him to do... whatever it is he does. When I emerge into the kitchen, Doc is snoring softly. Upstairs Todd seems to have settled down, but Steele is off in the garage and I can hear him doing something, probably getting his rage out.

I don't blame him.

I realize I still don't know where Amanda is, and Sam is probably off hiding somewhere. Amanda can take care of herself; she seems to be doing pretty well considering what she found in the basement. Sam... Sam may be another story.

Everybody takes finding out about the boss'... condition differently. And Sam...

Well.

A mother's job is never done, is it?

If you'll excuse me, I'm off to go look through every closet in the house in search of a tiny female courier.

Good luck, everybody.

And good night.

-August- Back Home

Well, that took considerably longer than I thought it would.

Almost a week longer than I thought it would, actually. All thanks to a note taped to the sender's door when I arrived on Wednesday night.

"To the courier -

Took the package myself. Hope the money will cover the gas cost.

God bless,

Stephanie"

I could already see this was going to be a nightmare, because of course I'm not allowed to just say 'oh, well, it's been taken care of' and take them money and run because of course it's never that easy, because there's no such thing as a normal delivery, especially if you're doing it by yourself and especially if you called us to do the delivery in the first place.

Oh, and the small stack of bills she left didn't even begin to cover the costs of travelling from the house to NYC. So there's always that.

... So I was going to hunt her down, then. A near impossible task considering the size of the big apple and the fact that Runners are usually really, really hard to find considering they're people who manage to stay mostly out of reach of Slim N' Trim himself.

Not exactly the easiest of tasks.

But as luck would have it, what do I hear over the radio as I start up the FREE CANDY van?

"... no evidence found. One child reported a man in a suit near the scene of the crime. Police are investigating."

After twenty minutes of staring hopefully at the radio, the story wasn't mentioned again. I didn't catch the location, but if the fact that this was a little too coincidental was anything to go by, I figured I could take a guess as to where the body had been found, and who the body belonged to.

I got to Central Park a bit before midnight, (Jesus Rollerblading Christ this is such a big city.) meaning most reasonable people had left and most of the police force had been sent out. I'll save you the details and tell you that the Central Park Police really know what they're doing.

Looks like I'd get lucky twice today, because the package was on the girl (or what was left of her) and I managed to get out without being caught.

I don't know how, either.

The drop-off was some little village called Mystic in Connecticut. (You may proceed to chuckle at the coincidence; I certainly did.) A five hour drive to avoid the mind-numbingly boring I-95.

But hey, despite having a case of wicked nausea that kept me pulled over every hour or so, (still haven't gotten all the Slendergunk out of me) I had Queen to keep me company.

She's a killer queen

Gunpowder, Gelatine

Dynamite with a laser beam

Let me tell you a few things about the village of Mystic.

The village of Mystic is not a recognized municipality.

The village of Mystic has a population of 4001 people.

The village of Mystic has a total area of 3.8 square miles.

About ten percent of that is water.

The village of Mystic is located within another city by the name of Groton.

And on top of this, there's also the village of Old Mystic, which is about two miles bigger and actually marked on a map.

Needless to say, it was really, really easy to miss.

And guess which one I wasted a whole day in, before driving back out to the larger town of Groton to ask somebody who might actually know what they're doing.

Well, I found it.

It was Sunday by then. I had split the driving up into two days (I think I would die driving for five straight hours. Three hours on and off when I go on delivery with someone else is torture) and wasted Saturday in Old Mystic, growing increasingly frustrated and loathsome of the tiny cardboard box in the passenger's seat. I had decided sometime around Friday evening that there would be nothing short of heaven on earth that would make this delivery worth it. Hunting down a victim, stealing evidence, hundreds of dollars in gas money and fast food.

There's a reason I learned how to cook, you know.

Maybe one day I'll tell you.

Ha.

But back to the delivery.

On the box was an address somewhere in the middle of the suburbs, (And by suburbs, I mean about fifty town houses clustered together with a park somewhere in the middle.) and guess who was waiting for me when I arrived?

Nobody. I was about ready to break into the house, steal whatever was of value, drop the box and get home when their neighbor, regarding the package in my hand, approached me.

"Excuse me, little miss, can I help you?"

He was in his late 40s; salt-and-pepper hair and crow's feet clinging to his eyes. A slight grin was playing on his face, brown eyes looking me up and down.

Creep.

"Delivery for mister... Church?" I ignored the middle bit of that statement. You're here to do a delivery, not to make enemies. Calm, calm...

His brow raised slightly. "Ian's not around, girly. If you step inside I'd be happy to sign for-"

"If you could just give me the spare key I can leave it inside."

Oh, you have got to be kidding me. Nothing in that man's eyes was to be trusted. I took a step back and cut him off, trying very, very hard to hide the obvious irritation in my tone.

Needless to say, I failed.

He didn't like this one bit.

"Now listen here, you gotta be a little more respectful than-"

"We have explicit instructions from both Ian and the sender to leave it inside. It's very valuable. Something about a deceased relative? Anyways, he wants it inside and told me one of the neighbors would have the key."

Blatant lies.

Spencer had taught me well.

(And the nausea's acting up again. Jesus Rollerblading Christ. I need to get into a bathroom. Quickly.)

He didn't argue much after that, retreating back into the house and returning shortly with a key. Grumbling and some less-than-savory language may have been involved in the process, but I was beyond caring. The end was finally in sight.

There was no note because no doubt Mr. Church had expected this package days ago. He was probably on his way to New York to see the sender and... well, he wouldn't like what he found.

I entered the kitchen and left the cardboard box on the counter, glad to finally have that thing off my hands.

And then I realized.

I didn't specify payment.

And how did I know this?

By the stack of bills sitting in a clip on the counter, marked 'FOR THE DELIVERY.'

Notes on the fridge, on the table, in frames on the walls and written on the floor told me this guy had horrible memory issues. Induced by Slim N' Trim? Maybe. But I really didn't care. Something told me this guy would need the money for himself, if only to buy more stickies to write down his name, his home address, and why he's living alone and what was in the package.

A wedding band.

...

Suddenly, this hell became completely worth it.

I didn't take the cash, but there were some fantastic Italian cookbooks in the drawers next to the kitchen. I grabbed a couple (and one East Indian, mmmmmm~) and left my own note.

The drive home would take me another nine hours. Again, I split it into two days.

So now it's Wednesday at 5 AM and I come home, and of course the house is still a mess because I can't expect them to clean, but somebody did the dishes and the kitchen has been scrubbed down, though the smell of vomit and Slendergunk still clings to the air.

I'm dead tired and collapse onto the kitchen table, realizing how comfortable the chair is and what a great pillow this table makes.

I realize the others will be up in an hour or so.

I realize somebody needs to cook them breakfast.

Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh.

I drag my legs up from under the chair and practically crawl towards the fridge, stubbing my toe in the dark (because by now I'm used to the headlights of the van) on the counter and yelping like a puppy who's taken his first fall down a flight of stairs.

The light from the inside of the fridge burns my eyes, and I'm looking through two hazy slits.

What's sitting on the top shelf?

A piece of cake, covered in plastic wrap, garnished with a piece of paper.

"Happy birthday, August!

♥"

Awwwwww.

It's got strawberry frosting jesus rollerblading christ strawberry frosting is my favorite and it could be made of sand and garnished with dandelion heads and it would still taste like sweet, sweet, strawberry-frosted heaven.

Breakfast would have to wait a few minutes, and the slight sugar high made pancakes much, much easier. I also only ended up cooking for five of us seeing as Steele and Todd have flown the coup, (at least for now) which is good because I only made half the recipe.

Anyways, Spencer says we're invited to a wedding tomorrow? I guess I'll have to catch up on blogs some other time. I've got a week's worth of sleep to catch up on and an outfit to plan out.

...

Wait.

Spencer, I'm wearing a what?!

-August- Three Hours Together After

A night of near-death experiences, mad hallucinations, enough black sludge to fuel every car in the US for a month, and Slim n' Trim himself...

And we're already back to squabbling like children.

You stay classy, team.

I'll deal with the mess in the kitchen (and I'm not just talking about the reminders of last night, either; these people eat like pigs when they really have to. And what can I say? My pancakes happen to be fantastic.) later, maybe see if Oxiclean can't get this black garbage out of my clothes.

But right now?

Right now, some sleep would be absolutely fantastic.