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wafflesandkruge · 4 years ago

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One Early Morning in Os Alta

Nikolai accidentally drinks one of David's experiments and becomes obsessed with solving the mystery that is Zoya Nazyalensky. The Triumvirate is his most unwilling audience as he attempts to piece together where she goes at night with nothing but his caffeine-fueled brain and a chalkboard.

Written for the @grishaversebigbang mini bang! Thank you so much to the amazing @kolarpem (x) and @denndrawings (x) who created beautiful art for this fic 🥺 ❤️

ao3

In their three short years of marriage, Genya and David had developed a morning routine. David, eager to get to the labs early so he could have the room to himself, would wake at the crack of dawn like clockwork and share a few sleepy kisses with her before getting on his way. After a few more hours of much-needed beauty sleep, Genya would commandeer some breakfast and find him tinkering away at whatever project Nikolai had put him to. It was a comfortable rhythm, a familiar constant in their otherwise hectic lives.

But today, Genya was just drifting off to sleep again after being woken by her husband when the door to their bedroom slammed open to reveal a very disheveled David. His glasses were slightly more askew than usual and his kefta rumpled. Genya let out a small yawn.

“David? What’s wrong?”

“There has been a development.” He didn’t elaborate further as he strode over to their wardrobe and pulled out her kefta. She tugged it over her head without question and followed him sleepily out of the room. They’d been together long enough that she’d learned not to try to get him to elaborate. He’d either clam up for hours trying to find the right words or talk in circles trying to fully explain a very easily explainable situation. Only the Saints knew what it was this time. She just hoped it was something easily resolvable so she could go back to sleep. Perhaps a puppy running loose in the labs, or an Inferni who’d burned off their eyebrows and wanted her to Tailor them back. Simple things.

But instead of the labs, David pulled her into Nikolai’s bedroom and Genya knew it was going to be a long day. Tamar and Tolya were already seated on a sofa, both with their arms crossed and similar scowls on their faces. Zoya was absent. And Nikolai was animatedly scribbling on a large blackboard that had been wheeled to the front of the room, “ZOYA NAZYALENSKY” scrawled at the top in large letters and circled three times for emphasis. The rest of the board was covered in near incomprehensible writing and doodles.

Genya frowned as David pulled her down into the seat next to him. “Did you steal that from the Little Palace, Nikolai? How will the children learn?”

Her king didn’t answer. He seemed busy working on a doodle of what looked like a five legged tiger on a corner of the board. David patted her hand absentmindedly as he opened his notebook and started scribbling as well.

“Is anyone going to explain this to me?” Genya asked mildly as Tolya slid a cup of tea towards her. She supposed the Triumvirate had seen worse, and their king acting like a man possessed didn’t rank particularly high on their list, but she still didn’t appreciate being woken up early for this. If anything, the twins should have just knocked him out and then everyone could get their well deserved rest.

Tamar crossed her arms. Her short hair stuck up in every direction as if she’d just rolled out of bed. “Well, your genius husband over there,” she starts, her tone not quite complimentary, “was working on one of his little experiments again.”

Genya nodded distractedly as she removed a small mirror from the inside of her sleeve. David took it from her obediently and held it up as she began Tailoring away the dark circles under her eyes. It wasn’t a substitute for her lost sleep, but it’d have to do for now.

“Coffee with a mild strain of parem in it for an extra stimulant,” David explained as she moved on to bringing more color into her cheeks. “Since you’re always complaining about the Little Palace’s coffee leaving you groggier than before.”

Genya’s hands stilled as she offered David a small smile. Even after knowing him for this long, his kindness never failed to surprise her. “That’s lovely, dear. But how does that relate to Nikolai acting like...this?”

Both of them jumped when Nikolai let out a rather concerning cackle. He had moved on from the deformed tiger to a caricature of someone who looked alarmingly like General Pensky. Genya scanned the board, barely able to decipher his scribbling. Secret lover...treason...illicit rendezvous? She furrowed her brows.

Tolya glowered at them from his spot next to his sister. “Nikolai drank David’s experiment. And now he refuses to administer the antidote because he wants to observe his behavior for the sake of science.”

“That’s not strictly true,” David said as he handed the mirror back to Genya and picked up his pencil again. “I don’t have an antidote ready. Instead of taking the time and labor to manufacture one, we might as well just wait for it to wear off naturally.”

Tolya opened his mouth again to argue, but then a piece of chalk flew by, barely missing Genya’s nose. Nikolai slammed his hands on the table and her tea splashed out of its cup.

All four of their heads turned towards their king. His shirt was buttoned incorrectly, his hair wild, and a distinctly unhinged look in his eyes. His jacket was tied around his shoulders like a cape. It had to be the worst Genya has ever seen him, though there had been that time when Kirigin had convinced him to do a few shots of that whiskey from the Wandering Isles and he’d been convinced he was a saint—

“Friends!” His voice was entirely too loud for the intimate setting. “I have gathered you here today to solve one of our most pressing problems.”

“Our empty coffers?” Genya asked with a yawn.

“Impending war on three fronts?” offered Tolya.

“My brother’s incurable love for five hour poetry recitations?”

David continued silently taking notes in his book.

“No,” Nikolai declared with an empathetic shake of his head, “we’re here to discuss the mystery of...Zoya Nazyalensky.”

He stepped to the side and for the first time, Genya was able to see the entirety of the blackboard he’d been writing on. Not a single inch of it had been spared from his rather enthusiastic scrawl and doodles like he was preparing to give them the world’s most fascinating lecture on the enigma that was Zoya. Genya felt a headache incoming.

“Perhaps we could do this at a more reasonable hour,” she began, but Nikolai smacked his hand against the blackboard which sent up a giant cloud of chalk dust.

“Nonsense! There’s no time like the present, and Zoya is away so it’s the perfect time to speculate upon her true intentions.” He waved his arm towards a bullet point at the top of the board, but in his eagerness, nearly knocked the entire board over. Genya let out another yawn and sank back into the couch. Maybe he wouldn’t notice if she dozed off.

“Where does she go at night?” Nikolai demanded as he began pacing furiously. The papers pinned to the board fluttered in his wake. “About once a week or so, the palace guards tell me she’s seen walking on the grounds late at night, alone. She’s almost certainly meeting with someone. But who? And why?”

“Are you sure you don’t have an antidote?” she whispered to David.

“Positive.” He scratched his ear, a sure sign he was lying. Genya sighed. She supposed she’d have him make it up to her later. She knew better than to talk him out of one of science moods.

“A lover!” Nikolai continued. “She has a secret lover!”

Genya knew for a fact Zoya had no one in her heart other than their king as much as she liked pretending she hated him and his entire existence. In her own opinion, it probably had something to do with the very expensive gifts Nikolai routinely offered because Zoya was nothing if not a creature of luxury. Still, she took a sip of her tea and raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Do go on.”

“At first I thought it was General Pensky, but he’s been stationed at the border for over a month and the night walks haven’t stopped. So that leaves no other option than…” Nikolai’s eyes narrowed. He executed a sloppy about-face that any army commander would have had him running laps for and pointed an accusing finger at Tolya. “You’re Zoya’s secret lover!”

Tolya frowned and crossed his arms. “I would rather go back to Novyi Zem and become a jurda farmer. Less chance of sudden death.”

Nikolai grabbed at his hair. “But if you’re not seeing Zoya...and Tamar isn’t– you’re not right?”

“I’m married, Nikolai.”

“Right, right, right,” he muttered. He turned back to look at his board. “Then there’s only one other answer.”

“We all go back to bed?” Genya suggested.

Nikolai turned to her, an oddly intense look in his eyes. “How could you suggest we all retire when Zoya is plotting against the throne?”

Genya blinked. “How exactly did you get there?”

“It all makes sense!” Nikolai babbled excitedly. He waved his arms in excitement. “The late night walks. The secrecy. Why she’s always so mean to me—”

“She’s mean to everyone,” Tamar interjected.

“She’s working with the Fjerdans! Or the Shu! Of course, I should have seen it from the start…”

Genya tuned him out again as he went back to drawing on the board while muttering to himself about how the Fjerdan’s diabolical plan to have Zoya seduce him was working too well. She put her head on David’s shoulder and focused on the page of notes he was working on. Except instead of notes, it was a sketch of a woman’s face. Her face. As she watched, his pencil scratched out the curve of her lips, one corner lifted in a half smile. “What are you doing, dear?”

“Studying something beautiful,” he answered without a moment of hesitation.

Genya’s lips curled into a smile as she let her eyes shut. “You’re sweet today. Maybe we should let Nikolai poison himself more often.”

“There’s a seventy percent chance his heart would give out if we attempted this more than once a week.”

“Regicide,” Genya said with a sigh, “How romantic.”

#gvbb21 #gvbbminibang21 #gang 21 #check out the art os and misha are so talented 🥺🥺#kos #king of scars #kos writing #david #genya #denya #zoya #nikolai #zoyalai #tolya #tamar #grishaverse #leigh bardugo #my writing #i love them <3

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jadoue1999 · 4 years ago

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Wanda and the life she deserved (she’ll make sure of it) Chapter 8

Summary: In honor of the amazing bob that is ¨Agatha all along¨, this chapter is from Agatha’s point of view! Find out how this century old witch deals with the event of Westview and how Peter ended up wearing the damn necklace in the first place! (Still pissed we never got an explanation for that) Please enjoy!

Previous parts: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, chapter 9, chapter 10, chapter 11, epilogue

Chapter 8: Agatha all along

Agatha had felt it in the air, a disturbance. A pulling force seemingly ripping through anything that should normally stop it. Similar to what created Westview, but this one was more contained, and a lot further. She did what any sane witch would do in her situation and rerouted the spell. A classic. Not interfering with anything, just taking what’s already there and changing the landing point. She didn’t have to wait long, soon, a young man with silver hair dropped on the stone floor. Agatha looked at the newcomer with amusement, Wanda couldn’t have done that, could she? Had the witch been so lost in grief that she ripped away a version of her brother? As the stranger stirred, she quickly hid in the shadows, first impressions were important after all. He cracked his eyes open and gripped his head in pain, the landing had to have been rough. She let him look around her dark dungeons, it was all about timing. She walked forward, slowly coming into view of the man.

“Well,” she started, amusement coloring her voice, “I see Wanda is getting desperate.”

The stranger eyed her with suspicion, slowly trying to get up to his feet. “Where am I?”

“I didn’t bring you here if that’s what you mean. Your unhinged sister did.”

“Lorna?” Agatha felt that the stranger had wanted to say another name, but it was apparently painful. Good, she could play with that.

“No dear, your twin,” she paused, reveling in his surprise and shock, followed by anger. She scoffed, “well, not technically, but details, details.”

The man rose up to his feet quicker than anyone should be able to. Check for superspeed, definitely Wanda’s brother. He was still a little disoriented, so it wasn’t hard for Agatha to pluck him mid-step and bind him to the walls. The magic in the vines would be enough to contain him. She smirked as a series of curse words left his lips as he fought his bonds. Knowing there was no need for show now, she quickly casted a mind control spell on the man.

Only for it to dissipate as soon as it reached him.

The witch frowned and tried again, to no avail. She tried reaching into his mind, only to find his thoughts flying at a thousand miles. She couldn’t get a grip, no matter how hard she concentrated. She opened her eyes to find that a migraine was now piercing through her skull. She tried her best to ignore it as she smirked. “Well, aren’t you a little problem?”

“My life’s purpose,” snarked the man.

Oh, he had spirit. She loved when they fought back, it made it all worthwhile when they finally broke.

“Now, Pietro-“

“Name’s Peter.”

“Peter, you get to be the lucky guest star of the show,” Agatha announced, smugness in her voice. “Not only that, but I’m also going to give you a very secret mission.” The speedster glared at her, clearly not interested in her proposition. Tough crowd, I see. Nevertheless, she continued. “You see, I need information about a certain someone, you’ll be my eyes and ears.”

Peter scoffed at her plan, “not gonna happen, lady. You see, I’m part of a team, and they’ll notice I’m gone and when they do, they’ll-“

Agatha quickly casted a spell to stop his rambling. She found great satisfaction in seeing the man trying to talk. The panicked look on his face when he realized that no sound was coming out would definitely be a precious memory to look back upon. She walked over to the altar and opened the Darkhold. The spell book had to be containing tips or tricks to deal with speedsters. After a bit of looking, she found the few pages concerning this special type of power. She quickly read through the many tips and warning before finding what she was looking for.

“Hm,” scoffed Agatha, narrowing her eyes at the mutant as she closed the book. “I think the thing you need, is something much more tangible than a simple spell. Your brain is too fast, I need something real to make it last.”

With a wave of her hand, a necklace appeared in her hand. It looked simple enough, there was about a dozen wooden beads with white shells. Agatha plucked a hair out of Peter’s head and began chanting in a language he couldn’t understand. The jewelry began to glow purple, Peter stared at it, uncertain of what was happening. Then, the witch took a step forward and that’s when he started struggling. Panicking is more accurate. All she could see was a moving blur, but it didn’t matter. She tightened the vine’s hold on him, the pain momentarily immobilizing the speedster. Those few seconds was all she needed to hook the necklace around his neck. She let his voice return as the memories of Wanda’s brother assaulted his mind, his screams echoing off the walls. It didn’t take long for the spell to take over him, Agatha released his bonds and led him upstairs. As they walked up the stairs, his clothes changed from a silver jacket and a band shirt to a black jacket with a purple Hawaiian shirt.

She walked him outside, in front of Wanda’s house and nudged him forward with her magic; giving him the autonomy to fulfill his role.

Agatha smirked as she watched Wanda welcome him into her home, her plan would work; she would get her answers.

...

The contact had been lost. Ever since Halloween night, Agatha had lost her eyes and ears into Wanda’s house. She assumed she had casted him out or returned him to his dimension.

Imagine her surprise when he appeared out of nowhere, literally. She had been there for the twins, but the game had just become much more interesting. She eyed him carefully, noting how the necklace was still in place. Even though she couldn’t understand how he was still there, she acted like nothing was wrong. “Well, hello! I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,” she held out a hand, “I’m Agnes, your neighbor to the right, my right not yours!”

The speedster didn’t seem to recognize her, which she was ever so thankful for. The memory spell she had casted back when he arrived was still doing its job. She had originally come for Wanda’s children, but getting her brother too was quite tempting. She quickly made her choice and turned to Wanda, faking worry. She proposed taking Tommy and Billy to give her a break, something Wanda seemed to find scandalous. Agatha reassured her; it wouldn’t be a problem. Plus, she could use her brother for repairs.

She quickly got what she came here for, but the speedster refused to come. A flash of anger flared through her, she needed Wanda at her most vulnerable, how dare he try to foil her plan?

Still, benevolent as she was, she let it slip. She had the boys anyway; she’d take care of him later.

...

Saying the twins were worried about their mom was an understatement, she could hear their worried thoughts all the way in the kitchen. Agatha was fixing them sandwiches, her neighbors were still at risk of suddenly joining her, she had to keep up the facade a little longer. Screaming from the outside distracted her from the boys. Not that they needed a caretaker; they were sitting on her couch, watching TV while eating the food she had just given them.

“I’ll go check up on your mom, alright? I’ll be right back.”

Wanda was with the woman she had banished a few days ago. The screaming she had heard had now seemed to turn into a heartfelt conversation. Not good. She quickly shooed away the lady, leading Wanda to her house, she beamed on the inside. Finally, she would learn her secret, finally she’ll get her powers. She’ll drain her of everything she got, yes and once that would be done, she’d-

“Thanks Agnes, I don’t know what was up with her,” said Pietro.

Oh, that simply wouldn’t do. How did he keep appearing at the most inconvenient times? She put up her friendly neighbor facade, but inside she was fuming. When asked about the twins, she assured them that they were fine. For now. Knowing she wouldn’t get Wanda at the moment; she reminded the troublesome speedster of the tasks she needed him for. She glared at them as she watched them walk away. Still, not everything was lost; she still had the Minimoffs in her grip. Time to get to work.

“How’s the show going boys?” Agatha cheerily asked. She didn’t listen to their answers as she placed a hand behind each of the boy’s head. She quietly muttered her spell, smirking as the twin’s bodies slowly relaxed and their eyes closed. Once she was sure they were fully asleep, she took each of them in her basement, shoving them into a cell. A noise upstairs startled her, but she grinned when the newcomer spoke.

“Agnes, I’m here!” Pietro’s voice echoed. She quickly walked up the stairs.

“Oh! You arrived just in time; I just discovered a leaky pipe in the basement. I really don’t want mold growing down there!” She laughed and gestured at the man to follow her. Excitement building in her stomach as all the pieces slowly fell into place. After him, she’d only need Wanda.

As they ventured down the stairs, she could feel his anxiety growing. She assumed his subconscious also remembered his previous incursion in the basement, but she couldn’t be sure about it. Still, Agatha could feel his senses on high alert as they reached her lair.

At that, Pietro spoke up. “Where are my nephews?” he asked, slowly getting more aggressive after each word.

“Indisposed, at the moment I’m afraid,” Agatha replied. With a flick of her hand, he was levitating in the air, restrains on his hands and feet. The lack of contact with any surface made his struggling useless. She approached him, eyeing him curiously. He was definitely still under a spell, there was no Peter present, only Pietro. Nothing he was wearing seemed out of the ordinary. Agatha looked at the necklace on his neck with suspicion, something was... different. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. The jewelry was the same original piece, nothing had been changed. Then why did she lose contact? She wondered. Then it clicked.

“Oh, that little witch,” smirked Agatha. “She changed the spell. Well, we can fix that.”

She went to remove the necklace, but a burning sensation made her gasp. She looked at her hand in shock, there was no bruise, but it was definitely hurting. When did Wanda learn to protect her spells like that? She brushed her hand against her shirt, trying to get rid of the sensation before looking at her neighbor’s not brother. He seemed oblivious to what had just happened, the necklace apparently wasn’t hurting him. That meant that Wanda probably discovered his real identity, but why keep him around if he was a fake? That could only mean one thing: she was so lost in grief that she had kept him at her side even knowing it was a trick.

“Now Pietro, your nephews might be here,” she started, catching the man’s attention, “but that doesn’t mean they’re safe.” Agatha approached the speedster and gripped his chin. “That depends entirely on you. You see, I need a lookout, someone to make sure that I will not be disturbed when your sister gets here. You happen to fit the part nicely, with your superspeed. No one can run from you.”

The man scoffed, “how do you know I won’t just tell Wanda and she’ll take care of you?”

“Your sister might protect you from my magic, but that doesn’t apply to her children. One wrong move on your part and they pay the price.”

She let him consider her offer, already knowing his answer. It’s not like he had much of a choice. Either he played sentinel, or she would keep him here and make things even worse for Wanda. Shutting his eyes, he reluctantly agreed. Agatha smiled as she released him, he was about to leave but she spoke up. “If you happen to catch anyone, you take them in the attic. You stay with them. I might not have control over your person, but you’ll find it impossible to leave this house unless I want you to.”

The speedster was gone in a flash. She wished she could have taunted him with the truth, but she was fairly certain his sister’s magic wouldn’t have let it. With the power she possessed, she doubts he’d even remember if she told him he was from a different universe.

The sound of her doorbell pulled her from her thoughts. Wanda was here. Time to get this show on the run.

...

Notes: Agatha is very fun to write and since I only wanted one chapter in her point of view, you get a chapter that double the usual lenght! Thank you for reading, reblogs and comments are always appreciated!

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vfdbaudelairefile13 · 5 years ago

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Chapter Forty-Nine:

The One Where Sunny is Challenged to a Sword Fight

Violet woke up from her place on the floor a few hours later. She looked around confused. Did I fall asleep? She asked herself as she sat up, leaning back towards the front door. She looked around the room and saw documents all over the floor and the table as she began to frown. She remembered what had taken place before she had fallen asleep. She stood up shakily. Did that really happen? Did I really say that I hated him? She asked herself as she walked around the room, her mind was playing it over and over on an endless loop. Her words like venom, her tone like acid, she intended to hurt her father and she had got what she wanted but as she walked quietly around her cold, empty home she understood the saying ‘be careful what you wish for’. All she could think about was how she made her father cry. She wracked her brain remembering exactly what she said. ‘ She wanted me’ Violet remembers saying calmly but then she lost all control of her words. ‘ It’s you that she didn’t want!’ Violet wiped a few tears from her eyes as she remembered how hard her words had hit him.

“What have I done,” she whispered to herself. She started slowly putting these documents away, she kept a few in a neat pile on the table, hoping to write down a few more notes into her commonplace book before her father had the chance to either destroy them or hide them from her again.

The more Violet thought about everything, the more conflicted she became. On the one hand, she was sorry that she had reacted in such a way that made her father cry. She was sorry that she had screamed to him three times that she hated him when deep down she didn’t hate him, she was simply angry with him. She honestly felt guilty because she wasn’t heartless but a part of Violet also felt like her reaction minus a few bits of irrational rage was justified. So on the other hand, she was angry and a small part of her didn’t regret the interrogation. She was also annoyed that she had asked her father to give up VFD and instead he left her to go do something for VFD. She was sick of the lies and secrets, her father has been lying to her for who knows how long about so much. She just wanted answers. She wanted to know where she came from. She wanted to meet her mother, simple as that. If her father was telling the truth that he truly did not know where her mother was, then she knewwhat did.

She thought about her meeting with Jacquelyn. Remembering that the woman said that if she needed anything to call. She took Jacquelyn’s card from her jacket pocket staring at it. Is it worth it? She asked herself as she stared at the card. Would it be worth joining this stupid cult to find her mother?

Violet stared at the card and then looked at the phone. Would Jacquelyn help her find her mother or make her ‘volunteer’ in exchange for knowledge on her mother? She sighed. She was honestly debating joining a cult. Jacquelyn had said that she was a year late for apprenticeship...whatever that meant. If she were to join, would Jacquelyn be her mentor since she was the one who successfully recruited her? She could deal with that. Jacquelyn seemed like a nice woman.

She looked towards her backpack next to the door. What if I just simply ran away? She thought. She didn’t necessarily need a cult to find her mother. She could do it herself, couldn’t she? She sighed as she sat down to jot down the notes. No matter what she decides, she at least wanted to speak to her father. To tell him that she didn’t hate him, although she was heavily disappointed and hurt by him. So she decided that she’d wait until she sees her father again before choosing her destiny.

But the one question on her mind was: Is joining VFD worth meeting my mother? And as Violet sat in silence jotting down her notes from her father’s documents, she couldn’t decisively say ‘yes’...but she couldn’t entirely say ‘no’ either.

________________________________________________________

Lemony felt like his sister as he drove like an unhinged madman to Paltryville. Violet’s words were replaying in his head in an endless loop. He wiped his tears from his face every so often. All Lemony could think about was the seriousness in his daughter’s voice as she screamed the words I hate you! At him, as he left, once again, to save the Baudelaire children. He sighed. Was lying from her worth it? He asked himself. Almost immediately, he answered himself Yes, of course, it was. You were only doing this to protect her.

But was that the whole truth? Lemony was lying to her about VFD’s existence and what is job truly pertained to protect her. The less she knew about his past and her mother’s past and VFD as a whole...was protecting her. But then there were the lies about who the Baudelaires were. Why he had rejoined VFD after so many years and if he knew her mother’s location. Which all of these lies felt like he was protecting himself in a way. Allowing Violet to know about the death of her mother and the fact that she has two half-siblings could enrage Violet. It could make her hate him... more. Seeing that she already does hate him. She’d blame him for her lack of relationship with her mother and she’d blame him for screwing up in life, so badly, that he couldn’t adopt the two Baudelaires.

He shook his head as he continued to speed towards Paltryville. He was thinking about Violet’s entire interrogation. Lemony knew she was right in a few of her points, but the one that he couldn’t help but focus on was her point about Beatrice. Beatrice did want Violet...Beatrice wanted to raise her firstborn but because of Lemony’s situation was unable to. In a way, some people who hate Beatrice could say that she died as a deadbeat mother, although that was not the case at all. He frowned. He knew fully well that Beatrice wanted Violet. He also knew that Beatrice was willing to make arrangements so that he could also see their daughter and be a part of her life. Lemony also knew that Beatrice did not want him. Beatrice had returned the engagement ring and wrote a two hundred page note detailing why she couldn’t and wouldn’t marry him. He also knew that he could never fault Beatrice on that decision. He had fucked up. He had convinced her to steal from their old friend and he convinced her and two others to help him carry out a double homicide and he hated himself for it. He’s hated himself every day since. He couldn’t remember the reasoning VFD gave to him for the double homicide...and he feared that the only reason he couldn’t remember the reasoning is that the reasoning was insignificant. As Lemony sat here and drove, he felt as though VFD had chosen him for a reason. This double homicide was not the first time that Lemony had murdered, although the first time he did was when he was around Klaus’ age. Maybe they chose him because they knew his moral compass was off. He should have just did it himself. But selflessly, he had involved not only Beatrice but Bertrand and his older sister, Kit. He began crying harder. That night had ruined Kit’s life, too. He wouldn’t be surprised if Kit hated him like his daughter. I wouldn’t blame her...Hell, I don’t even blame Violet.

Lemony knew deep down that Violet most likely said these cruel things out of anger, but even if he believed that. He also wholeheartedly believed that she had every right to hate him. Why should he be surprised if Violet, or Kit, or even Beatrice hated him if he hated himself?

He knew Violet deserved better. He didn’t regret his daughter at all. He loved her more than anything on this planet...but he did regret ever meeting up with Beatrice that Thursday so long ago. If he had just pretended like he never received the letter from the carrier crows than he would’ve never been able to ruin Violet’s life. She would have been raised by her mother and Bertrand. She would’ve grown up being a big sister to a younger brother and then eventually been gifted a baby sister. Lemony had no doubt in his mind that she would’ve been the perfect older sister. Lemony also had no doubt in his mind that if this were to happen, she’d have a far better life with Beatrice than she has had with him. But he was selfless back then, he desperately wanted to meet his baby girl and he desperately wanted to see Beatrice again. Even as he was reading Beatrice’s two-hundred-page letter to him, he had always hoped that they would have gotten back together eventually.

As he entered the desolate town of Paltryville, he knew he had to push away all of his self-deprecating and self-loathing thoughts to the side. He had to stop sulking in his own self-pity and figure out a disguise. He didn’t know what Olaf had planned this time, he didn’t even know what disguise Olaf was wearing this time. All he knew was that the Baudelaire orphans were living at the Lucky Smells Lumbermill. Which confused him. Why would Poe send two small children to a lumbermill? He asked himself. Then he remembered just how incompetent Poe was and it all made sense.

The last time Lemony was in Paltryville, he, the Baudelaire parents and a few other volunteers were here helping the townsfolk with the aftermath of a fire. He remembered how the only two buildings to survive the fires were the lumber mill and a VFD secret headquarters, although he couldn’t imagine that the building was being used since the schism. He remembered that the owners of the lumber mill vaguely, he thought about whether or not he should disturb them and explain why he’d be trespassing onto their property. But he decided against it remembering that the one who was always smoking cigars with a cloud of smoke masking his face was rude and obnoxious and the other one was the definition of a pushover. When he arrived at the gates of Lucky Smells, he could hear a faint noise coming from inside. It sounded like one of the lumbermill machines.Why was a lumber mill operating its machinery at nearly one in the morning? He asked himself confused. But his heart sank when he thought about one possibility. Olaf. He listened carefully to the noise, trying to determine what it was. It sounded like a giant chainsaw. He gulped. He wouldn’t use a chainsaw to kill those kids...they’re his money bags. He thought darkly. Then his face fell when he realized that technically Olaf did not need both Baudelaire orphans alive to get their fortune. He hurriedly concocted a disguise in two minutes. He hoped that this disguise would suffice. He didn’t have time to make an elaborate disguise this time. So he settled for the first thing that came to mind. As he exited his taxi, he grabbed a box of verdant flammable devices.

_________________________________________________________

Before I inform you of the Baudelaire orphans’ side of things let me first explain to you what the expression ‘seeing in black and white’ means. When someone says that you are ‘seeing in black and white’ it simply means that a person looks at the world in a manner that is oversimplified and often incorrect.

For example, like many newspapers, the Daily Punctilio is printed in black and white, and its outlook at the world is oversimplified and entirely incorrect. The death of noted scientist Montgomery Montgomery? Not due to snake allergies. The destruction of Josephine Anwhistle’s home? Not the work of a cabal of realtors. The exact cause of the Baudelaire and Quagmire fires? Although my associate and I haven’t figured out who had done it...I can tell you that they were not accidents. And at the time that certain articles were written...Lemony Snicket was not dead.

Now I am sorry to inform you that there was not a terrible accident at the Lucky Smells Lumbermill during the Baudelaires' dismal time there.

There were two.

It is my duty to report these events correctly, the way that they actually happened. But if you prefer to look at the world in black and white then you should avert your eyes and pick up a copy of the Daily Punctilio instead. Because I know the truth behind the accidents at the Lucky Smells Lumbermill and I can assure you that it’s better if you didn’t.

I beg of you...STOP reading this sad tale now. Imagine this story has a happy ending. You can pretend that Lemony Snicket brutally murders Olaf and adopts the two plucky Baudelaire orphans. Or, if you want to be more realistic, you can imagine that Lemony simply rescues the children from another one of Olaf’s villainous schemes and decides to indict them and his daughter into VFD where the three children have marvelous adventures solving the mysteries that surround them. Or…if you want to be even more realistic, you can pretend that the story continues in the same pattern as it has since you read the very first word in this story. Although I must tell you...that that’s not how the story goes.

But...if you choose to read on, let me warn you...the misery doesnot end here. In fact, I visited Paltryville before I met my associate, many years after the Baudelaires’ story took place here.

It was long after the Lucky Smells Lumbermill had closed its doors and Dr. Orwell’s office had fallen into disrepair. Of course, the building wasn’t originally an optometrist’s office at all, but the headquarters to a troublesome organization.

That is where I learned what actually happened to Klaus Baudelaire and Lemony Snicket. Poor, poor Klaus Baudelaire...poor, poor Lemony Snicket.

It was enough to make my associate and me want to abandon civilization and live by a pond. But...if you choose to look this misery in the eye...don’t say I didn’t warn you...because it’s all downhill from here.

Sunny Baudelaire woke to a loud, strange hmmm noise, she turned to where she thought her brother was. Her eyes got wide as she realized he was not beside her. She sat up immediately. Listening to the hmmm of the lumber mill’s deadliest machine in the late hours of the evening. Her heart sank as she hurried out of the dormitory towards the sound of the mill’s chainsaw. Sunny crawled as fast as she could across the courtyard. She finally reached the doors of the lumbermill and pushed it slightly open just a crack to scope out the scene. She could hear the voice of the person she hated the most inside boasting about his premature triumph over the Baudelaires.

“You’ve been fortunate so far, you little twerp!” Olaf hissed. “But not anymore!”

“Yeah, you tell him, boss!” Foreman Flacutono replied taking off his gas mask, revealing himself to be the hook-handed man, who like Olaf had his back to Sunny, who glanced around trying to see what the two villainous men were talking about.

“One more accident and you’ll be mine! ” Olaf bragged still in his Shirley disguise. “And this will be the worst accident the lumber mill has ever seen.”

Sunny’s eyes widened entirely when she saw that she was correct. The rusty sawing machine was whirring away, making that dreadful humming sound that had woke her up, and there was a log on the machine’s conveyor belt, all ready to be pushed into the saw. The log seemed to be covered in layers and layers of string, the string that had been inside the string machine before Klaus accidentally smashed it. Sunny took another look to make sure that she was seeing what she thought she was seeing. It looked like the string was wrapped around something else, tying a large bundle to the log. With a heap of dread washing over the younger Baudelaire orphan, she realized that the bundle was Charles. He was tied to the long with so much string that it looked a bit like a cocoon. She looked at Charles, who was whistling and smiling as he was eagerly awaiting his demise. Sunny realized that he, like her brother, was still hypnotized. She was utterly alone.

“Now, you lucky brat, would you like to send that log into that saw?” Olaf asked cheerfully.

To Sunny’s horror, her brother stood at the controls of the sawing machine. She could see from his vacant expression that he was completely in Olaf’s control. He muttered, “yes, sir,” as he pushed the level forward blissfully unaware that he was sending Charles to his death.

Without thinking, Sunny yelled, “ Klaus! No!”

Both Olaf and his henchman jumped in surprise as they both turned around to glare at the younger Baudelaire orphan.

“Well, well, well,” Olaf said peering down at Sunny. “If it isn’t...the biting brat. You’re just in time to see the accident!”

“Rem!” Sunny yelled glaring at Olaf, which meant, “It’s not an accident, you vile piece of dog shit! You’re doing this on purpose!”

Olaf looked to Sunny confused and then looked at the Hook-Handed Man shrugging his shoulders. To Sunny’s surprise, the Hook-Handed Man translated for her. Causing both her and Olaf to look at him in disbelief.

“I have a younger sister,” he muttered more to his boss than to Sunny. “She used to talk in a similar way,”

Olaf rolled his eyes but Sunny was happy that she could insult Olaf and someone would tell him what she was saying. Olaf glared back at the infant orphan, “Now, let’s not split hairs,” he said mockingly as he pointed a bony finger at Klaus. “ That’s Klaus’ job.”

“ Klaus!” Sunny shrieked. “ Behave!” to her horror, Klaus didn’t move. He didn’t even acknowledge she had said anything.

Olaf began laughing harshly at her. “Oh, come on. Do you really think I’d make the control word that simple?”

“Fuck off!” Sunny shouted. She knew there had to be a control word. She knew for a fact that there was a word that was used to control Klaus and a word used to free him. Sunny knew that Olaf must have used the word just now to get her brother to move the lever that controlled the log that Charles was blissfully tied to. She also knew it had to be a word that Sir used when they were arguing with him and a word that the fake foreman used when Klaus caused the first accident. But what was the common word?

“Klaus!” she cried again.

“Shout as much as you want!” Olaf bellowed menacingly at Sunny as he took a step closer to her, she bared her teeth at the villain, looking around for some kind of weapon other than her teeth. She stood tall, refusing to show this asshole any fear. “You’re big brother isn’t here right now…and your baby talk will do you no good!” he informed her in the most belittling tone he could muster. “Poor little orphan. Haven’t you learned anythingthis year?...month…? Whatever. Wherever you two go, I will be waiting. Wherever you two hide, I will hunt you down. Why? I’m smarter. I’m pluckier. I’m stronger!” Olaf boasted.

He turned his attention towards Klaus and growled in annoyance when he realized that the log had barely moved. “Put some lower back into it, fucking weakling!” he shouted. Charles continued to whistle happily as Klaus just stared off into space. Sunny realized that Olaf forgot to use the secret word. Olaf turned his attention back to Sunny. “I’m unstoppable! ”

Sunny rolled her eyes. “Odi?!” She yelled at Olaf, which meant, “Why do you hate us so much!?” The Hook-handed man translated for Sunny.

Olaf smiled his trademark cruel smile. “Like I told your brother earlier today because it’s fun!” he said laughing.

He turned his attention to Charles. “How are you doing back there, Charles?”

“Oh, just peachy!” Charles replied chuckling.

Olaf began to laugh at his villainy and the Hook-Handed Man joined in. “Wait until Sir finds out that his partner’s been turned into human boards! I bet he won’t even wait until morning to fire…” his eyes got wide as he gasped. Olaf glared at him angrily as the two villains and Sunny watched as Charles’ expression went from one of blissful unawareness to one of utter confusion and fear.

“Where am I? What’s going on?” Charles asked realizing that he was tied to a log that was headed towards a chainsaw. “Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!”

Sunny realized instantly that Charles was unhypnotized. He became unhypnotized the very moment that the Hook-Handed man uttered the word ‘fire’. With a triumphant smile on her face, she turned to her brother. “Fire!” she shouted as loud as she could. “ Klaus! Fire! Fire!” she shrieked. “ Off!” which meant, “Turn off the machine!”

To her surprising horror, she watched as her brother continued to ignore her and stare into space. Olaf began laughing again. “Nice try baby-laire,” he said mockingly. “But did you really think we were stupid enough to use the same word on your bratty brother that we used on the rest of the mill workers?”

Sunny’s eyes went wide with realization. The rest of the mill workers. Meaning not just Charles. ‘Fire’ was the secret word for the mill workers. Sunny thought she could use this to her advantage. But how?

Olaf knelt down to glare at Sunny, who once again, bared her teeth which stopped Olaf from picking her up. “You will never find the word to save your brother! And you certainly won’t find it in time to save Charles!” he said mockingly.

Sunny glared at Olaf. He was ignorantly undermining her due to her age and size. She was not going to stand for that. Sunny knew that when it came to the fight against Olaf, she brought just as much as to the battle as Klaus did. Hell, she brought more of the bronze than her brother, although he brought more of the brains. They were a nearly perfect team, in Sunny’s opinion. Just missing a secret weapon. The third piece to their puzzle.

Sunny was the one who bit Olaf to defend her brother, Sunny was the one who knew they had to get back into the Reptile Room to figure out how to prove to Poe that Olaf killed Monty. Sunny was the one who knew that allowing Ink to bite her would show that Olaf was a liar. Sunny was the one who used her teeth as a lockpick to open his suitcase, and she later used her teeth to free Ink from captivity.

Sunny was the one who had the idea of eating peppermints to buy them time to decode Josephine’s note. She was the one who had the idea of using the anchor to save her brother from Hurricane Herman. Sunny was the one who had the brilliant idea of starting a fire to signal for help. She was the one who had an easier time working at a lumber mill. She was the one who figured out Olaf’s terrible scheme without the help of her older brother.

Sunny knew that she was a pivotal part of the Baudelaire duo, but if Olaf wanted to dismiss her as a useless baby, that was okay with her. It made ruining his plans all the better for Sunny. Sunny knew that this time, she had to save the day, all on her own because Klaus was unable to help her this time. She remembered every single time Klaus saved her, even that day when she was only six weeks ago and she was choking on her rattle, the day they became thick as thieves. She knew she had to power through despite everything in her way, every obstacle that she faced, every set back that could befall her. She had to do this for Klaus and she was going to do this for Klaus.

“Corrogo!” she shouted at Olaf angrily but confidently, which meant, “Challenge accepted! Bastard!” The Hook-Handed man translated for her as Olaf rolled his eyes in response.

“Help me! Help me!” Charles screamed as the log was slowly inching towards the saw. He looked at the older Baudelaire orphan in fear and confusion as Klaus just stood there lifelessly.

Olaf turned his attention towards Charles, giving Sunny an opportunity to sneak away from the villain and head towards the foreman’s booth where the PA system was located. “Sorry, Charlie! No one’s coming to help you now.”

“ Help me!” Charles shouted as loud as he could.

Olaf turned back to where Sunny had been standing. “Wait...where’d the baby go?”

Just as he asked his henchman that, he heard Sunny’s voice over the PA system screaming the word, “ Fire!” as many times as she could. Hoping to break the mill worker’s hypnotic trance and get them to help her save her brother and Charles.

Olaf walked to the booth and Sunny bared her teeth at him again. “What have you done!?” He shouted in her face angrily. He turned to his henchman. “Shut the door!”

The Hook-Handed man hurriedly went to barricade the door before the approaching angry mob of unhypnotized mill workers could get inside. Charles continued to cry for help while this was happening. Olaf watched as his henchman was successful in barricading the door which allowed Sunny to save Charles in a more hands-on way. She had successfully climbed on top of the log that Charles was tied to and she began to hurriedly bite through the string that held him captive. “Thank you! Thank you!” Charles cried when he noticed Sunny trying to help him.

Olaf notices this and growls. But then he smiles thinking that maybe if he times this right, Charles and Sunny will be cut up by the log leaving him the hypnotized Baudelaire to get the fortune. “Lucky! Would you like to cut the log faster?” Olaf asked.

Klaus’ eyes went wide as he muttered. “Yes, sir.”

Sunny’s eyes went wide but with pure happiness as she realized that Olaf foolishly taught her the control word. She stopped biting the string holding Charles and looked at her brother. “Lucky! ” she shouted. “Back!” which was Sunny’s way of saying, “Would you like to reverse the direction of the log?” To her surprise, Klaus pulled the lever and the log began to move away from the saw while muttering, “yes, sir’.

Olaf growled at this. “Lucky! Push that fucking lever forward!” Klaus complied immediately after muttering, ‘yes, sir’.

“Lucky!” Sunny shrieked. “Pull!”

“Yes, sir,” Klaus murmured, complying with his sister’s request.

“Lucky, push!”

“Yes, sir,” Klaus muttered, obeying Olaf’s demand.

“Lucky, pull!”

“Yes, sir,” Klaus murmured, following Sunny’s direction.

“ Lucky! Towards the fucking saw! ” Olaf bellowed angrily.

“Yes, sir,” Klaus replied, listening to Olaf.

“ Lucky! Away! ” Sunny screamed glaring at Olaf, taking the time in between demands to try to bite through the ropes that tied Charles to the log.

“Yes, sir,” Klaus answered, doing as Sunny dictated.

“ Lucky! ” bellowed a new voice from the second story of the lumber mill. Olaf, the Hook-handed man, Sunny, and even Charles all looked to see Dr. Orwell glaring down at them. “Don’t listen to your sister!” she ordered Klaus.

Sunny went wide when she heard Klaus’ response.

“Yes, sir,” Klaus muttered.

“Lucky, push that log into that fucking saw!” Olaf ordered again looking at Sunny triumphantly.

“Wait, why didn’t you think of that?” the Hook-handed man asked.

“Cause he’s a fucking incompetent moron!” Orwell shouted. “I just stopped by to see if everything was running smoothly, and I’m glad I did. Because it wasn’t! How do you nearly get outsmarted by a fucking infant?”

Olaf growled. “Hey, wait. How did you even get inside? There’s an angry mob at the door?”

“You’re right. I don’t trust you with all my secrets,” she replied as Olaf made a ‘whatever’ face, as she walked over to Sunny and picked her up stopping her from saving Charles with her teeth.

Sunny looked at Klaus for help. “Klaus! Please! Stop!” she cried.”Gice!” which meant, “Please don’t hurt Charles!”

Dr. Orwell looked down at the whimpering infant in her arms. “Oh, you know they say holding a baby can make all these deep, primal parenting instincts kick in,” she said more so to Olaf and his henchman. “But I don’t see it,” she said as she carried Sunny away from Charles.

Sunny looked into the eyes of the evil hypnotist, looking for an ounce of humanity. “ Please, ” she whimpered. “No impetu!” she cried, which meant, “Don’t force my brother to do this terrible thing!” Orwell looked at the infant confused until the Hook-Handed man translated for her.

Orwell looked down at the infant, “It is a terrible thing, I know,” she said in her faux sweet tone. “But it’s a terrible thing that the Baudelaire fortune goes to you two brats, instead of me and Shirley. It’s also a terrible thing that I didn’t get the chance to end either one of your parents.”

And with the mention of wanting to murder her parents, Sunny was done playing nice. Sunny glared at the optometrist, turned her head and bit her hand as hard as she could. Dr. Orwell yelped in pain, dropping Sunny harshly to the ground. Sunny watched as the optometrist lifted her black cane into the air and pressed the red jewel. As she did, Sunny watched as a shiny blade emerged from the opposite end. In a mere second, to Sunny’s surprise, Dr. Orwell’s cane became a sword. “ En Garde! ” Orwell shouted smiling a wicked smile at the younger Baudelaire orphan. Olaf’s face lit up in excitement, fully ready to see Sunny die while his henchman’s face went pale with worry.

Sunny looked from the unhinged expression on the crazy hypnotist’s face to the sword in her hand. She then gave a low chuckle. What has my life come to? Sunny asked herself as she stood up and yelled “ En Garde!” to the hypnotist as she opened her mouth wide prepared for a sword fight.

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irisstory2021 · 3 years ago

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be pricked with a few shots. I assumed the parents approved any vaccinations that their child would eventually need anyway and that this would just save a doctor’s visit in the future. I assumed I was pricked like that when I was first born. It all seemed so mundane; any shifting looks at my father were shut down and I was shushed, told by his eyes to not only keep watching, but to pay attention.

I didn’t know how much harder I could pay attention, but I obeyed anyway, forgetting my carrot mush and pushing my chair out from underneath the table, fully facing the television. I hunched forward, leaned my elbows on my lap, and amused my father.

In the next clip, the baby slept soundly as the father sang to her; his voice drifted away in a matter of seconds and it looked as if he was about to turn the camera off when the baby began to shriek. She wasn’t fussing in a sleeping state; she was wide awake, shrieking as if about to lose her life and somehow aware of the consequences of that, and her complexion -- even in the dim light of the hospital nursery -- was, within a second, completely drained of its color. Her veins, however, which were shades of red and blue and purple, stood out so vividly, despite the age of the footage. They throbbed, resembling a fast-beating heart, as her father panicked inaudibly in the background.

“Hey, what the hell is going on?!” he demanded from the nurses, who were quick to whisk him away from his child. The camera was the last of his worries now, and yet he still held on, capturing every moment, even if it was all blurry and nonsensical.

“Mr. Ruth, you’re going to have to leave the nursery and let us take care of your daughter. She’ll be fine.” The nurse’s consolation sparked more outrage from the father as he was shoved out of the nursery. In the big windows up front, a gaggle of people in lab coats -- the very same ones my father and I donned -- surrounded the baby’s bassinet. Her shrieking could be heard outside of the nursery. I wondered if any other newborns were in there with her.

The father yelled, banging at the window. Unless it was completely soundproof there, I wondered if there were any other newborns in the nursery. And if there were, why hadn’t they begun crying, too, at all of the noise? As soon as someone noticed his banging, they shut the blinds, and shut the father out.

“What, so the baby had a reaction to one of the shots?” I tried rationalizing it in some way in my head. Though I was far removed from having any maternal instincts, the event was bizarre -- what happened to the child was bizarre and concerning to say the least -- and yet I looked at it through a scientific lens, not letting my emotions cloud my judgment. What vaccination could have that reaction on a newborn?

“Yes, it did. But think hard, Iris. What immunizations could cause a baby to practically die like that?”

Hepatitis B, influenza, varicella, measles, mumps… Those had been used and administered for nearly a century and had as much time to be perfected. The only one in that list of vaccinations that could have a chance of malfunctioning and having such an abnormal reaction would be--

“The serum, Iris. The one you and I work on, every day.” My father must have noticed my brain going a thousand different directions, all trying to avoid the only answer in the middle.

I wasn’t understanding. “So the baby died?” I asked.

“No, the baby lived,” he said, shaking his head and removing the disc from the television. He placed it back in an unmarked case and set it down on the dinner table with a sigh. Our food had been forgotten and cold at this point. “They gave her an antidote and within 12 hours, the parents could see her again. I’m showing you this because--” he sighed, feeling very much defeated. I felt somewhat guilty for not following this string he’d put out, but even he should have recognized how difficult he was to keep track of.

“If you look in the database, there are no known records of the serum failing on who it’s meant for, right? The babies.” He leaned close to me, and looked around the room before inching forward. His glasses hung over his nose and I could see his sunken, sleep-deprived eyes; they lost their warmth when his glasses didn’t cover them up. “There are records, sure, of it failing on the animals, but if you look, their symptoms or causes of death have nothing to do with whatever happened to Susie. They either die when they fall asleep for the first time since taking the dose, lose appetite to starvation, anything like that -- eventually. Susie’s case stuck out to me because it happened right away, and it’s nowhere to be found in our system.”

I pushed out a breath and looked at him. “So, how did you get this? How do you know that our serum did this?”

He flipped the DVD case around and it turned out there had actually been something written on it: Susie’s birth, New Year’s Day, 2011. A silver stamp was smudged on the corner, reading Property of Plethora. That was the year that started off with him having longer days at work than usual, sometimes never even coming home, up until the point Plethora asked him to begin living at the lab. The extra money would pay for my college, he said -- now I knew they swindled him in for some damage control.

It was then that I remembered the image of that infant. This wasn’t the first time I had seen footage of Susie’s shift. I remembered the first weekend of the new year; it was snowing, and my parents and I would take a walk through the neighborhood to watch the inaugural snowfall. When I tugged on my father’s sleeve to pull him out, ever excited despite being in my tween years at this point, he berated me for even setting foot in his office. He had paused whatever he’d been watching, and it froze in a frame of the baby, the cameraman pointing down into her bassinet, catching the exact moment as her veins sprawled out like roots all over her tiny body.

After I was sent to my room, the frame haunted me, and I’m sure my father didn’t want me to see it then. It looked as if it came out of a horror movie. At the time, I didn’t understand much about my father’s work, only knowing he could be protective of it at times when he felt severely under pressure. It was surely one of those times. He apologized to me the following day.

“The girl is still alive to this day,” he said. “I’m not supposed to have a copy of this. Only one other copy might exist, and this one -- well, they probably meant to toss it years ago or forgot I had one with me. It’s proof that something could go wrong with the serum again if we’re not careful, and more importantly, it’s proof that Plethora knows how to hide anything they do wrong.”

❧

I didn’t realize I’d been focusing so hard until I heard the petri dish crack underneath my tool. I used a metal scalpel to mix it every morning, checking for irregularities -- I wondered how long I’d been swirling the scalpel in the plastic dish, lost in my thoughts, for me to have pressed down enough to crack it. “Ah, shit.”

Maybe my father was right. I cared more about this job than I was willing to admit, and more than the indifference I feigned. Or maybe he’d shown me that footage the other night to light a fire under my ass, send me down a spiral he knew would lead nowhere but at least would rejuvenate in me some dormant passion for the career again. The truth is, I had been feeling more unhinged about working as a biologist, working for Plethora, working in general. I felt I didn’t have much time -- if any time, at all -- to grieve my mother’s death and in the last six months, it had left me feeling off-kilter. From my father I inherited the grit to work through anything, and from my mother I inherited the ability to feel it all at the end of the day, when the work was done. I was probably depressed.

I transferred the sample into a brand new petri dish and sighed. I reached across the counter for a wire-bound booklet we kept on hand at all times of lab protocols, flipping through it haphazardly until a folded-up piece of paper fell out. It contained instructions on how to make the very first version of the serum, Serum Zero, written in the scrawl of its founding scientists almost three decades ago. Of course, it was a photocopied version of the actual written page, and the company’s logo -- along with the word “confidential” -- was printed on it in see-through ink. If the company had known it was there, it would likely get rid of it and suspend whoever stuck it in there. Of course, my father had done it.

He told me he kept it in plain sight because no one would ever think to look for it in the protocols handbook, and no one would even suspect a want for the very first record of Serum Zero. After all, the alpha was the most recent, most improved upon, and therefore the best version of it -- why bother backtracking? To study its components, of course.

I dumped the replaced petri dish into the biological disposables bin, along with the serum. There was no need for it; besides, when I cracked the dish, I might have accidentally contaminated it if it touched the counter. I wiped the counter again, grabbed an empty dish, and unfolded the piece of paper, holding it in place on the counter using a paperweight. I wasn’t sure what the alpha version of the serum contained now (it always seemed like valuable information to me, given that I would be experimenting on it and wouldn’t want to add the same components -- but with more thought, I wondered if Plethora kept it that way so as to preoccupy us scientists from poking our noses so much) but having the original formula for Serum Zero would be a start. I knew what the end result did and that was all that mattered in this new quest of mine.

One by one, I pulled out the components -- all clear liquids, all minuscule samples -- and laid them out on the counter in a mise en place that my mother might be proud of, and went to work.

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boewhiskey · 7 years ago

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The ‘Stop’ Letter

I sit here, day after day, with the computer on and in front of me, my hands hovering over the keys half the time without typing a single word. I seem to always run into this problem. I’ll have a fantastic idea for a story or a book but then shortly after starting it, I run into a wall. Not just a wall I can simply walk around or find a door to go through, but a huge, fifteen-feet high, three-feet thick cement wall layered in heavy steel that stretches on for miles. It stops me in my tracks and freezes my fingers and brain from working any further. Eventually, I give up. There are dozens of stories and books that I have initiated that are discarded in the trash bin, dragged to the trash on the desktop, or pushed far back into my mind. Simply because of that wall. Recently, I’ve decided, though, that I want to find a way over that wall. I want to build a ladder and climb steadily until I can sit on top of the wall and jump down to go running into the lush green fields that is a completed book. If I can’t build a ladder, then I want to blow a hole just big enough to squeeze my little frame through while I cough and sputter, trying not to inhale too much cement dust on my journey through the road block from hell. If I can’t find any explosive material (or I can only find components and realize I don’t know how to combine and use them to create said explosive material), I want to throw some sort of acid on that sucker and watch it melt away like the blood from an ‘Alien’ was thrown haphazardly on it.

The easy way to do this might seem like writing out an entire plot outline before actually beginning the story. I’ve tried. I’ve had almost everything figured out and planned but I will still inevitably come to a point where my brain just stops functioning properly to put descriptions of a scene into words or a minor event needs to happen but I can’t determine what exactly that is.

Such is the predicament I’ve been in recently. Instead of solely focusing on a single book idea, I’ve been jotting down ideas for short stories and working on writing off of those while also going back to writing on what I hope becomes an interesting and captivating book. I have the beginning, a sort of introduction to the main story line, completed and typed up, sitting nicely in the folder on my desktop where I store my writing. I have a few snippets and bits and pieces figured out in my head, as well, that I’m just waiting to include when the time in the story calls for it. Some days, though, I’ll open the document and just stare at it, scrolling lazily up and down over the text that I’ve already managed to get out of my head and into readable words. I also have days where I look at my list of phrases or words that serve as ideas for other stories and I just don’t feel a spark for any of them. It’s not that I don’t have some of the stories already fully thought out in my mind, it’s that I just don’t WANT to write them out at the time and I won’t force myself to because I feel like the story would end up lacking heart and caring and become bland and read as if I had thrown it in a blender, hit puree, and then thrown the meat-smoothie remains onto the computer screen and said “voila, done.”

So, day after day, I sit here, computer open, fingers resting lightly on keys that aren’t being pressed, staring at a blank section of screen that’s begging me to unhinge my skull and throw brain matter onto it (figuratively, of course, but I’m tempted sometimes to be literal about this). Today started out no differently. I awoke to the sounds of machines digging next to my bedroom window- three apartment complexes like my own are being prepared to be built along the street I live on, one directly next to my building. I did my normal wake-up routine: went to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, greeted the cat and dog in the living room, booted up the laptop, texted my husband who works during the day (I work at night), and sat down to make the daily attempt at writing something spectacular (or anything at all). I was determined to write at least another five pages of the book or one more short story. After half an hour of opening unfinished stories and the book, skimming over the list of ideas I keep, staring blankly at the screen, and running my hands over my face while I look out of the sliding glass window at the sunshine beating angrily on everything outside, I gave up and decided to take a break. I figured I’d walk outside in the unbearable heat to check the mail, then find something to eat and watch a bit of a movie before starting up again. Then, I would make myself write those five pages, I would get past that wall somehow, even if it meant leaving the screen open to the book document for hours.

The mail today consisted simply of a small NRA magazine for my husband, a couple of ads for local places, and the water bill. I carried the thin contents inside and threw away the flyers then dropped the magazine in my husband’s recliner for him to look through later. When I went to set the water bill on the table next to my seat, I realized that something fell out of it. It wasn’t an insert for the magazine; it was a small envelope baring my name and address. I picked it up and looked at the unassuming envelope, guessing it was probably some sort of junk mail. It was small, no more than maybe three inches by four inches, if that. The white paper encasing had only my name, address, and a return address with no name written on it. I turned it over in my hands a couple of times and saw that other than the writing, it seemed almost dirty, as if it had been dropped in the mud then picked up and wiped off. I had walked into the kitchen while examining the flat item and took my eyes off of it to gaze into the refrigerator for a moment, trying to decide what to feed my face. I closed the fridge and opened the cupboard at the other end of the kitchen, grabbing a small bag of chips and opening them while carrying the chips and the letter back to my seat.

I slid a finger under the flap of the envelope and tugged the seal open, only ripping part of it as I forced it to let go of itself. Inside was a small folded piece of yellow legal-pad paper. This definitely wasn’t a piece of junk mail. I slid a chip in my mouth as I unfolded the piece of paper to read the message that appeared to have been scrawled quickly in messy handwriting not dislike my own. There were dark spots on the edges of the page from what looked like a dark substance being on the sender’s fingers as they folded it and shoved it into the envelope. I had opened it upside-down so I flipped it around to read the words, seeing that there were also spots of what I assumed was the same stuff as along the edges, splattered on the page, obscuring some of the words. I read the frantic message the best that I could. Some of the words are only partially blotted out by whatever liquid dried on it, so I can make out what they are meant to be or what I think it is. Other words are completely covered, though. Here’s what I can best read and understand:

‘The book you’re writing. Don’t write ---- coming. ---- yellow eyes, look for the yellow eyes. I finished ---- so I know you will finish the book. Please stop writing it. I don’t want to die. You think you ---- the idea out of nowhere ---- don’t remember yet. ---- don’t remember the truth of the monster you write about. You ---- stop. I wish I had stopped. If I had stopped, I wouldn’t ---- Boe, I am you. I beg you to listen and believe me. It comes ---- night and the day ----- handprints on the window and didn’t know. I asked it to come in. It will make itself look like people ---- and love ---- Matt. It killed him. It ripped him apart slowly ---- tried to shoot it. He tried to protect ---- Oh god, he’s gone. Bullets didn’t ---- screams were horrible. Don’t let Matt ---- leave the story in your head and find something else ---- That thing will come ---- only protected by not remembering the truth. I remembered ---- and it got them killed ---- Matt killed. It’s invisible ---- day. I don’t know why or ---- at night it comes. It bangs on the windows. It chases ---- truck. It killed ---- poor person ---- walking home that night. Please, I’m begging you. Don’t write that book. It won’t wait ---- won’t make a deal. Don’t let Matt get torn apart. Don’t ---- where I am. I hope you get this. I hope there’s ---- blood. I hope I die before it finds me again.

-Boe

stop writing it stop writing it stop writing it stop writing it stop writing stop writing stop writing stop writing stop writing stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop’

The rest of the page is filled with ‘stops’. After reading over the letter three times and working to make out what words I couldn’t see, the thought occurred to me that the spots might be blood or supposed to seem like blood. I thought this had to be some sort of bad joke and I’d still believe that if not for the fact that Matt swears he didn’t write it, that it looks like my handwriting, and a few minutes after texting and asking him about it, there was a knock at the front door, the one that opens to the hallway of the apartment building. The initial knock made me jump but I took a deep breath and opened the door, careful to not let either one of the animals run out. There was no one there. I stepped into the hallway, looking to both sides and saw no one in the small stretch between the front door of the 6-plex and the back door. I looked at the floor to see if there was a package or a flyer but again, nothing.

With my head stuck out into the hall, I heard a bang against the sliding glass door to my right. I jerked back into the apartment and looked over to see our dog sitting up, startled from her nap, our cat with her head up, also surprised by the noise that suddenly roused her from her own slumber, but no one and nothing outside the door. I shut and locked the front door then walked apprehensively to the glass door, looking around and still seeing no sign of anyone nearby. I looked down and patted the dog’s head to comfort her. I inhaled and exhaled a deep breath once again and went to sit back down. Something on the glass caught the corner of my eye as I began to walk away, though. I looked at it and realized it was a handprint, the kind that would be left on dirty glass or fogged glass. The print was definitely larger than my own, with fingers that stretched to at least twice the length of mine. I touched the glass softly and used a finger to wipe at it but nothing happened.

The handprint was on the outside of the glass.

We have a screen door on the outside of the sliding glass door that we have to fight with to open every time.

It hadn’t been opened.

#horror #horror writing #short story #letter #author #writer #short horror stories #creepy #spooky #handprints #scary

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