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reasonablepatternsWHO: Steven Crain
WHERE: South Village Inn
WHEN: 23 November 2018
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Hill House spoilers, most likely; discussion of mental illness
WHERE: South Village Inn
WHEN: 23 November 2018
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Hill House spoilers, most likely; discussion of mental illness
This must be, Steven thinks, his inevitable break with reality.
For the better part of his life it's loomed, pale and ghostly, a thin sheen of anxiety beneath his foundation. At first, he'd believed that if the bricks he'd laid atop it were sound enough, the mortar between thick enough, that he might forget, mostly, what lay nestled in the mud below. He understood, though, didn't he, how futile it all had to be? That mental illness was creeping steadily, slowly up behind the walls and spider-webbing cracks through everything he'd so carefully built?
He ought to have known better, and he knows that. He does. But who wants to really admit their life is nothing but borrowed time?
There is no making sense of where he is now, there is no squeezing of his eyes closed to call up his skepticism and logic it away. It is a fact: In the sudden, sharp air as he surfaced, disoriented and gasping; in the scent of wood smoke and flat bread and lye soap; in the creaks and hums of the building around him. That all of these and a thousand other details seem far too vivid for even the most elaborate hallucination may be the most terrifying part of any of this yet.
Because it had been real, the House, all along. Hadn't it?
Whether reality is firm here or not, one thing Steve's never been particularly skilled at is simply waiting for the tide of delusion to carry him away. The first day he'd spent in a haze, little remembered about it now except for strong, capable hands leading him to warmth and relative safety; the second day, he'd wandered, shaggy-haired and wrapped in a new black pea coat, peering into buildings and asking a few questions. Mostly, he'd spent his time listening, although none of what anyone's had to say has made him feel much better.
Presently, he's crouched in front of the wide, smoke-darkened hearth in the main room at the South Village inn, squinting at the latest evidence that he's clearly lost his mind: A little lizard, about five inches long, vibrant orange and basking leisurely in the pale gray ashes just in front of the cracking fire.
"What the fuck," he murmurs to himself, barely audible, brow tightly pinched.
