The Reader stands over you. \n\n"...you... doing...? Silly... not finished... stop that."\n\nThey offer your their [[hand|hand]].
You look into the waste basket. \n\nA sheet of paper lies crumpled at the bottom. \n\nReaching down, you pluck it from the trash and smooth it out, your shaking fingers tearing the edges as you do so. \n\nIt is a letter, addressed to you. It asks you why. It wants to know what you hope to gain. \n\n[[Quick|quick]].
Fast, you turn from the room, run from the static, making sure not to look down.\n\nEventually, you find your room. \n\n<<if $side is 2>>\nThe reading has [[stopped|readstop]]\n<<else>>\nThe Reader reads on. You listen, almost smile. This one's a good one; you were a little [[proud|proud]] of it, maybe. \n\nThe [[darkness|dark]] is the only thing left for you.\n<<endif>> \n\n
Can't stop shivering.\n\nYou move to rub your hands together, to blow on them, before realising. You cannot do this. You will make do with being [[cold|room]].
[[here|2]]
[[Slice|slice]] your finger.
There is a [[man|so long woman]] here.\n\nThey have a long (so long) list in their hands. \n\nSlowly, they begin to [[read|reading sins]].
The Reader is someone you know. Or, at least, they wear the face of someone you know. \n\nSomeone you [[despised|forgot]].\n\nYou do not want to look at that face for [[long|room]].
Begging for [[forgiveness|note4]].
Your bleeding fingers unfold the paper, smeering it with black. \n\nThe note is addressed to no one, though you can tell who it was meant for. \n\nIt is written in your [[hand|note3]].
Little late now.\n\nYou fold the note, taking care not to ruin it. [[Return|rgone]] it to the waste basket.
It pauses to consider. \n\nRips out your [[throat|heart]]. \n\nYou hear it chewing. Swallowing. Retching.\n\n[[It|it]] spits you back out.
He hasn't changed.\n(Never can. Never will. Doesn't want you.)\n\nAlways, he knows you're there. \n\nGrubby fingers lift the remote, [[click|click]].
Narcissist
[[And|1]]
Ignorant, [[stupid|walk2]] child.
The Reader is someone you know. Or, at least, they wear the face of someone you know. \n\nSomeone you [[loved|hated]].\n\nYou do not want to look at that face for [[long|room]].
Stop this.\n\nStop all of this. \n\n([[please.|room]])
The dark [[tastes|right]] familiar.
[[You|fool]] reach out to touch them, but they cannot be touched.
Where you are doesn't really matter now, but you look around anyway. It's [[cold|cold]] in here.\n\nThere's a [[jug|jug]] of water by the [[door|door]]. A [[waste basket|rubbish]] beside the table. The furniture is not elaborate. \n\nAside from the [[Reader|reader]], absolute silence; you cannot even hear yourself [[breathe|breathe]].
The Reader is gone.\n\nSo is the water jug. In its place rests a [[knife|knife]]. The [[waste basket|note]] has remained, as has the [[cold|cold2]].
Though you cannot see, you know your way back. A stagger left, a stagger right. Stumble a couple paces.\n\nYou're back to your room.\n\n<<if $side is 2>>\nThe reading has [[stopped|readstop]]\n<<else>>\nOn speaks the Reader, and you think you detect a hint of enjoyment as they recall a particularly embarrassing moment of yours. Though you're probably imagining it.\n\nThe hissing continues from down the [[other|left]] corridor, faster now, louder. Familiar.\n<<endif>>
The blade is dull and rusted. You try to polish it, [[rubbing|cut]].
You toss it back where [[it|you]] [[belongs|room]].
Something you've tried to [[become|destroy]]. \n\nIt circles you, steps slow, [[drunken|drunkb]], whispering as it scrapes the floor. Angry. It wants you to [[kneel|kneel]].
There is a [[woman|so long angel]] here.\n\nThey have a long (so long) list in their hands. \n\nSlowly, they begin to [[read|reading sins]].
Moving cautiously, you make your way into the darkness. Once you can no longer see where you are going, you lift your arms to your side, [[feeling|nothing]] for the edges of the corridor. \n\n<<set $side += 1>>
Eyes [[burning|burning]].
You have heard this hissing before. You could recite it word for word, if you wished to. If you could only pull your [[tongue|tongue]] from your [[throat|throat]].
Time to join the others.
Things are better this way. You don't want to [[see|see]] it (though you know well what it looks like).
The Reader is someone you know. Or, at least, they wear the face of someone you know. \n\nSomoene you [[forgot|someone]]. It was for the best, probably.\n\nYou do not want to look at that face for [[long|room]].
Television flashes white, black, white, black. \n\n"Always... a disappointment... never could... broke her heart..."\n\nHe sinks [[lower|lower]] into the cushions. \n
Leaving the Reader behind, you slip out the room. \n\nYou are faced with a corridor in either direction. To your [[left|left]], you can hear a faint hissing noise, the whine of static. To your [[right|right]], the corridor graduates into nothing but shadows and silence, obscuring your sight of the end- that is, assuming it has one.\n\nOr you suppose you could [[return|room]] to the drone of your sins.
The wound fades to black, staining your skin. \n\nKeep [[cutting|slice2]].\n\nYou just want this to be [[over|over]].
You have to get [[out|leave]] of here, before your eyes adjust.
[[are|are]].
The Reader is someone you know. Or, at least, they wear the face of [[someone|someone]] you know. \n\nYou do not want to look at that face for [[long|room]].
Trembling, you fall to your knees. The something draws [[close|kneel2]], breath hot against your face.
Think of all those [[butterflies|but]] living in your stomach.
You pull it [[closer|knife4]].
The hissing noise grows louder, deafening now. Doesn't matter. You want to speak. \n\n[[I'm sorry|fuck]].\n\n[[There|go]].
[[Polluted|rgone]], sullied wretch.
They are reading your sins back to you. \n\nEvery little failure.\n (So many.) \n\nYou know they will not [[stop|room]] reading until they have recited every single one. That is how it's done.
Jutting through your ribcage. \n\nBowing on the floor; it's [[over|over]]
He hasn't changed.\n(Never can. Never will. Doesn't want [[to.|changedyou]])\n\nAlways, he knows you're there. \n\nGrubby fingers lift the remote, [[click|click]].
Moth
The filthiest, fattest of them [[all|walk2]].
[[Darkness|darkness]] does its best to wet them.
It pauses to consider. \n\nRips out your [[heart|eyes]]. \n\nYou hear it chewing. Swallowing. Retching.\n\n[[It|it]] spits you back out.
Silence. \n\nYou push [[open|opendoor]] the door to your room.
On you walk. \n\nPeople pass you. People you know. People you want to know. People you fight to forget. All [[walking|walk2]] too close, but never [[touching|touching]].
You [[look|look]] down. \n\n
They have taken [[you|sinner]].
You open it.\n\nThe Reader keeps on [[reading|out]].
The Reader is [[gone|rgone]].
Breathing is difficult enough as it is. Time to [[go|go]].
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[[you|3]]
There is a [[man|sins woman]] here.\n\nThey have a [[long|so long man]] list in their hands. \n\nSlowly, they begin to [[read|reading sins]].
You cannot feel yourself [[breathe|self]].
It pauses to consider. \n\nRips out your [[eyes|kneel2]]. \n\nYou hear it chewing. Swallowing. Retching.\n\n[[It|it]] spits you back out.
The door is [[shut|open]].
Glancing at the Reader, you approach the jug. The Reader does not look at you, nor do they slow their speech. \n\nYou [[touch|lift]] the jug. There are [[no|stop]] cups provided.
Your palm blossoms into ribbons, weak in the knees.\n\nThe cuts [[grow|slice3]].\n\nYou just want this to be [[over|over]].
Butterflies up your arms and down your edges, crawling closer to your chest.\n\nThe hissing [[silenced|slice4]].\n\nYou just want this to be [[over|over]].
You watch him. \n\nMaybe it's a metaphor. Doesn't matter. You're sick to your teeth of metaphors. \n\nTime to shut the door. Nothing for you here. Parting [[words|pwords]] probably won't make a difference. Save your [[breath|breath]].
More beautiful than you could ever [[hope|hope]] to be.
It snaps at your heels, furious, let down. \n\nCan't even do that right. \n\nIt returns to the shadows, never leaving, but [[out|sight]] of sight.
You lift the jug, bringing it to your parched lips. You have never known thirst like this. Your hands tremble. \n\nThe Reader pauses. The water has frozen to the bottom of the jug. Your tongue slips across your cracked lip. You must stop this. You put the jug back down, and [[back away|room]]. All of this has to stop.
[[Dirty|Wasted]]\n\nThey have been [[waiting|sins man]].
You look into the waste basket. \n\nA sheet of [[paper|paper]] lies crumpled at the bottom.
Dirty little [[liar|walk]].\n
There is a [[angel|so long man]] here.\n\nThey have a long (so long) list in their hands. \n\nSlowly, they begin to [[read|reading sins]].
He hasn't [[changed|changed]]. \n\nAlways, he knows you're there. \n\nGrubby fingers lift the remote, [[click|click]].
You already knew what it was. But [[you|you2]] had to look (didn't you). \n\n\n\n
There is a [[woman|sins angel]] here.\n\nThey have a [[long|so long woman]] list in their hands. \n\nSlowly, they begin to [[read|reading sins]].
There is [[something|gone2]] here.
The hissing noise grows louder, deafening now. Doesn't matter. You want to speak. \n\n[[Fuck you|why]].\n\n[[There|go]].
There is an [[angel|sins man]] here.\n\nThey have a [[long|so long angel]] list in their hands. \n\nSlowly, they begin to [[read|reading sins]].
Couldn't bury [[you|dirt]] deep enough.
[[Wet|walk2]] with all you never could say.
They are reading your sins back to you. \n\nEvery little [[failure|so many]]. \n\nYou know they will not [[stop|room]] reading until they have recited every single one. That is how it's done.
They pull back out the list. \n\n"Where were we... incomprehensible... sins..."\n\n[[.|knife2]]
The knife remains in your [[hands|knife3]], coddled close to your abdomen.
You're not sure if you can [[feel|room]] at all.
A piece of [[paper|note2]] lies in the waste basket, folded neatly, crisp and [[clean|clean]], though torn at the edges.
[[Wasted|sinner]]\n\nThey have been [[waiting|sins man]].
Something you've tried to [[destroy|gone2]]. \n\nIt circles you, steps slow, [[drunken|drunkd]], whispering as it scrapes the floor. Angry. It wants you to [[kneel|kneel]].
You toss it back where you [[belong|room]].
You have to take it. Doesn't matter what you [[want|greed]]. \n\nThe Reader holds you gently, strokes your hair. [[Sits|sits]] you down.
You reach a room.\n\n[[He|he]] is sat there, sinking into the stained cushions of an old dog-eared sofa. A television set whirs [[static|static]] before him, flashing red, green, blue, green, red.
Nothing.\n\nYou turn; the light that lay behind you is [[gone|gone]].
The hissing noise grows louder, deafening now. Doesn't matter. You want to speak. \n\n[[Why|pwords]]?\n\n[[There|go]].
Never did meet a bottle [[you|become]] didn't like.
Never did meet a bottle [[you|destroy]] didn't like.
Never did meet a bottle [[you|gone2]] didn't like.
Smug, vain [[shit|dark]].
Shivering right down to your [[bones|bones]].
Don't use default CSS
Trick doesn't work. You'll [[never|note2]] be clean.
Something you've tried to [[ignore|become]]. \n\nIt circles you, steps slow, [[drunken|drunki]], whispering as it scrapes the floor. Angry. It wants you to [[kneel|kneel]].
[[Sinner|Dirty]]\n\nThey have been [[waiting|sins man]].
Greedy, ugly [[monster|sits]].
The hissing noise isn't so bad. It's almost comforting, actually. Anything to block out the silence. The cold.\n\nYou [[walk|walk]] down the left corridor, the Reader and their ancient voice fading into the distance. The floor feels wet beneath your feet. It sticks to your soles, squeezes between your toes. You know you should not look [[down|down]]. \n\n<<set $side += 1>>