#this will suffice. and again sorry for the standoffish reply | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

babybluebanshee · 7 years ago

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Seared With Scars - Chapter 5

*rises from the ashes* I LIIIIIIIIVE.

I am so sorry this took so long, guys. Real life and other fandoms just shoved their way into my life and I couldn't keep up with this. But now I'm back, hopefully to finally put this baby to rest in the next couple of months.

Trigger warnings for this chapter: torture, discussions of death, and mentions of a suicide attempt.

Previous Chapter

“Of all the liars in the world, sometimes the worst are our own fears.”

- Rudyard Kipling

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Helen wanted a nap. And a drink. And mostly a puzzle.

Her head buzzed with pain and agitation, and she wanted to curl into a ball and have it be this morning again. She would have slept through the ringing phone, ripped it out of the wall if she had to, and gone back to sleep. She would not have woken up until the kids needed to be picked up Monday evening.

Tonight had, in no small words, been a nightmare. She didn’t need this right now. She didn’t want to be reduced to the hysterical woman, screaming and fainting and drowning in her own angst, but it was very hard not to fall into the pattern. Being attacked in her own home, an obviously-brewing conspiracy, and now a world-ending portal? All with Muggins’ stupid comments sprinkled on top?

God, she really wished she’d packed a puzzle. Her fingers twitched with the anxious need. Even a measly 100-piece one would have sufficed right now.

Rain began to pelt the side of the house. Thunder rumbled outside, announcing the strengthening storm. A gust of wind rattled the bare branches of the trees, making the rain slap against the wooden walls of the cabin harder. It was going to be a bad one.

She heard Stan come up next to where she sat on the couch, looking off at nothing. Every step he took was nervous. Ever since Fiddleford had gotten his desired toolbox and scampered off upstairs to tinker with the gun, Stan’s entire attitude toward her had changed.

Where he’d been flippantly dismissive of the portal and her reaction to it when she’d first seen it and subsequently freaked out, now he edged around her like she was a ticking time bomb. She supposed, in a way, she was. Her entire body felt wound too tightly, and her head radiated with painful heat.

Stan hadn’t spoken a word to her since she’d sat down sat down, pointedly looking away from him, and she preferred it that way. She wondered how much he knew about that odd portal downstairs. How much had Ford shared with his brother about it? The basics and nothing more? Or did Stan know exactly how much hell his brother had been through because of the portal?

Another bolt of pain flared, right behind her eyes. She pulled her glasses off, tossed them down to the other end of the couch, and put her head in her knees. The headache was making her slightly nauseous. She hadn’t felt this way in quite some time.

She felt something cold being pressed to the side of her head. It was amazing, and she wanted to let it sit there forever and ever.

Looking up, she saw Stan there, holding out a frosty can of beer. He held another, presumably for himself, in his other hand. His face reminded her of Scott’s, specifically the day he’d failed a huge math test and was thinking of a million and one ways to beg his mother’s forgiveness.

“Thanks,” she mumbled. She lifted her head the rest of the way out of her knees and took the beer. She pressed it against her forehead, then let her eyes slide shut as the cold, wet tin soothed away the worst of the pain. It was almost enough to put her to sleep.

“Not exactly the medicinal purpose I had in mind for that,” Stan joked weakly. Silence hung between them as he waited for her to joke back. She said nothing, just opened her eyes and looked at him blankly. The failed-math-test look deepened, and he said, “Ya know, I can get you some ice or something, if you need it.”

“This is fine,” she replied. She was being standoffish, but she had no energy for anything else.

Stan shifted nervously, looking at the floor. The beer hung limply by his side, and he fiddled with the tab with his thumb. He looked very much like he didn’t belong.

And that just made Helen feel like garbage. This was Stan’s home, and she was making him feel like he didn’t belong there. Stan and Ford had told her in very brief detail about their father’s cruel punishment when Stan was a teenager, but she didn’t need much to understand two things about it.

One: if she ever met their sorry excuse for a father, she was going to deck him right in his stupid face.

Two: that, even though Stan shrugged and waved off his time on the street, it still bothered him. It hung around him some days, oppressive and heavy. There was a fear there when it did - fear of being cast out again, of what he considered family turning on him and leaving him a second time. And Helen never wanted anyone to feel like that in her presence, least of all Stan. She liked him too much to ever be the one to make him feel like he wasn’t wanted.

She heaved a heavy sigh, and said, “I’m sorry, Stan. I don’t mean to be this way. I just -”

Stan seemed to relax immensely, and smiled a bit. “Don’t apologize,” he said, finally raising his beer and snapping the tab. “You’ve had a crazy night. Not the least of which is helped by that hunk of junk in the basement.”

Helen felt a heat rise to her cheeks, and didn't reply right away. There was that “hysterical, fainting woman” thing screaming in her head again. It made her feel burdensome, dainty, useless. She knew that, compared to the likes of Ford, Stan, and even Fiddleford, she was woefully inexperienced with the unusual. She’d experienced it, to be sure, and it had left its mark on her, body and soul. But, by comparison, her small, paltry scratches were nothing compared to the scars her friends bore. She felt like the swooning heroine on the poster for a sci-fi B-movie, a shrieking load with nothing helpful to offer. She never wanted to be that afraid.

Her rational side knew that Stan didn’t mean to imply anything. He was only trying to be nice. But her rational side was also very, very tired, and not willing to put up much of a fight.

She decided that the soothing buzz of alcohol sounded pretty good right now. One beer certainly wouldn't be able to do it for her, but she was certain there was more stashed in the Pines brothers’ fridge. She popped the tab, and tipped it back into her mouth. The beer was cheap, and tasted bitter going down. But once it hit her stomach, the comforting warmth spread like the embrace of an old friend. The sensation of wanting to burp filled her. It felt nice, and she was relieved to find it taking more of the edge off her headache.

When she lowered her head again, a slightly fuzzy Stan was staring at her. She had to think for a second before remembering that she took off her glasses. She leaned forward and started

pawing around for them. “One of the many trials of the bespectacled,” she mumbled. “Lose your glasses, but you can’t see to find your glasses. You see my problem.”

“You can’t even see your problem,” Stan said without missing a beat.

Helen couldn’t stop the barking laugh that escaped her, and it shook her so much that she nearly lost her grip on her beer. She found that it felt so very good to laugh. Easy too. Maybe this beer was stronger than she gave it credit for.

Stan chuckled beside her, and walked to the end of the couch, picking up her glasses, all but invisible against the dark fabric of the couch. He held them out to her, and she quickly took them and slid them on her face. “Thanks,” she said. “Now you’re less fuzzy.”

“Welcome,” Stan said. He settled himself down on the end of the couch. Helen noticed he was a lot less rigid than when he’d first come back in. “You’d think, being bespectacled and all, you’d manage to keep better track of those things. Maybe you need one of those old lady chains to hold them on.”

“I’m only forty, Stan. Let me retain my dignity for another ten years, at least.”

Stan chuckled again, popped the tab on his beer, and took a swig. A strange look passed over his face. “Ford does that kind of stuff all the time. Has ever since we were kids. Sets them down, forgets where. Or puts them on top of his head, and spends twenty minutes tearing the house apart trying to find them. I give him all kinds of hell for it. I’ve have more than one book thrown at me because of the bad glasses puns.”

Stan trailed off, staring down at the can in his hands. Concern tugged at his features. Helen felt an empathetic lurch in her stomach. The rain picked up, followed by another rumble of thunder.

There had still been no word from Ford, and with this storm, it wasn’t safe for any of them to go out and look for him. Stan had tried to remain calm about the whole situation, but Helen knew that he was very, very close to falling apart.

But they could only keep hoping that Ford was okay, and would contact them soon. Outside, the rain lessened, but a stronger, louder crash of thunder filled the void. The storm would not let up for some time. Stan tightened his grasp on his beer. Helen could see the sides denting in from the force of it.

She reached out a hand, and gently set it on Stan’s hand. She said, “Stan, I’m sure he’s okay. Ford has faced a whole mess of weird shit coming out of that forest. Whatever is happening to him now, I’m sure he’s fine.”

Stan looked up at her, and Helen could tell he did not believe her. His eyes remained a steadfast beacon of brotherly love and concern. But he smiled at her, just to placate her, she knew. She had to take his mind off things. She looked around the room, hoping to find something, anything, to talk about, to distract him. Maybe, in a way, distract herself from her own nagging thoughts.

She saw a stack of books on the floor, tucked away at the side of the couch. Library books, it seemed, from the white sticker on the spine. Tucking her beer between her legs, she pulled the stack closer, so she could look through it. A Stephen King sat on top. Definitely not interested, thanks. She’d had nightmares for a week when, at age seventeen, Henry Stickler took her to see The Tingler at the movies. He’d been hoping that she’d cuddle up to him during the scary parts so he could heroically comfort her. What he’d gotten was her bashing him right in the face with her purse when Vincent Price warned them the Tingler was loose in the theater, and her seat began to jolt.

She’d obviously been adverse to horror fiction ever since. She moved the King aside, and looked at the rest.

The next was The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson. Pass.

Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury. Dammit, didn’t Stan ever want to read something pleasant?

The final book in the stack was, if anything, the one that confused her the most - Crossing the Water by Sylvia Plath. She picked it up, eyebrow arched. It seemed to get Stan’s attention, and he looked over at her.

She opened the book and thumbed through a few pages, saying offhandedly to Stan, “You don’t strike me as a poetry type of guy, let alone Sylvia Plath.”

“I read Ariel a few years ago,” he said. He took another long swig of beer. Helen suddenly

remembered what that chilly sensation between her legs was, and brought her own beer up for another drink. “Back when I was still on my own. Friend of mine introduced us. At the time, the anger spoke to me. Especially “Daddy”. You can probably guess why.” Another long drink of beer, this time with heavy gulps.

Helen nodded, and quickly changed the subject. “I read The Bell Jar when I was a senior in college. My roommate actually wrote my parents because she thought I was suicidal. They drove five hours to make sure I was still breathing.” She knew that was a stupid thing to say as a silly anecdote, and yet it’d tumbled tumbled out of her mouth anyway. She supposed she was distracted by the warm, slushy feeling in her belly caused by the beer. She took another drink, to add to it.

“There’s more to her than the anger and the suicide,” Stan said. Helen was actually pretty surprised at how firm his tone was. “She’s intense, but she’s focused, and she can write about a lot of issues that hardly any poets like talking about.

Helen couldn’t stop staring. he recalled earlier, when Stan had mentioned Ford thinking of him as the guy for the heavy lifting. She couldn’t imagine Ford or Stan ever being more wrong in their lives.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sharp trill of the phone, so loud, even when battling against the storm outside, it made Helen and Stan nearly jump out of their skin. Stan even lost his grip on his beer, and it nearly fell to the floor. He managed to grab it before it sailed too far away.

As soon as Stan got his bearings back, he leapt to his feet, and jogged to the kitchen. Helen felt good for him. It was probably Ford, calling to say he was trying to head back, but the rain was just too heavy. He was probably sitting in a booth at Greasy’s, waiting for it to pass before heading back home, safe and sound.

Helen thumbed through the book while she waited for Stan to come back, deflated and heavy with relief. She scanned some of the poems briefly. She thought vaguely that she needed to check this book out when Stan returned it. She hadn’t returned to Plath after the embarrassing incident with her parents rushing up to her school. Maybe it was time to change that.

“Yeah, she is, hang on,” Helen heard Stan say from the kitchen. She lifted her head, curiosity piqued. Was Ford asking about her? She wondered why. A petty, silly part of her (probably more than a little effected by the beer; how strong was this stuff anyway?) hoped he just wanted to tell her that he was sorry for swiping her car, and he’d wash it for her if she wanted.

She heard Stan walking back to the living room, and turned to him. He looked decidedly dejected. When he looked up at Helen, his eyes were red, betraying the fact he was ready to fall to pieces, cry out of sheer frustration. Guilt surged through her as he said, “It’s Daisy. She wants to talk to you.”

Confusion mixed with the guilt as Helen got up from the couch, setting her beer off to the side where it wouldn't be kicked over. She flicked a glance up at the clock on the wall. It was half past eleven, and generally, her children were in bed by now. It was one of the few things none of the kids had ever fought her on, Daisy especially. Unlike most teenagers, Daisy wasn’t rebelling or trying to buck her mother’s authority by disregarding a childish bedtime. If anything, Daisy couldn’t get to bed soon enough. She loved to sleep. She took naps whenever she could, and went to bed early on school nights, knowing that going to sleep around ten-thirty meant the maximum amount of sleep possible before her alarm went off at six. It was one of the many things Helen smirked about when discussing the perils and pratfalls of motherhood with her PTA friends.

She walked towards the kitchen, trying her damnedest to ignore Stan throwing himself sullenly against the couch, disappointment practically radiating off him. At the same time, she figured Daisy wouldn’t risk long distance charges to Michael’s credit card (not that he was hurting, but she was sure he wouldn’t appreciate it) if this was just calling to say hello. Her maternal instincts for her flesh and blood overruled those for her friend, no matter how upset he was at the moment.

Stan had left the phone laying face up on the kitchen table. Helen picked it up, trying not to think too hard about the fact it stuck to the formica a little. She really needed to remind the Pines brothers to clean up after themselves more often. Then she shoved that thought to the back of her head, knowing Stan really wouldn’t want to hear it right now.

She held the phone to her ear and said, “Daisy?”

“Hi, Mom.” Her daughter sounded like she was lounging, and hadn’t a care at all in the world, but her voice was soft, like she was trying very hard not to be quiet and not wake anyone.

“Hi, sweetie. Everything alright?”

“Yeah, everything’s great. I’m super exhausted though. We went to the marina and Michael took us on his boat. I had to stop Amanda from trying to carry every fish she saw home in a bucket. She thought you’d like that as a souvenir.”

Helen forced a chuckle, even though the questions on her tongue were slowly but surely chipping their way forward. A beat of silence stretched between them.

Daisy suddenly spoke up again, “Before you ask how I knew where to call, I already tried calling the house. When you didn’t pick up, I figured you were with the Wonder Twins.”

This time, Helen chuckled in earnest. “Yeah, it was getting kind of lonely around the house,” she lied, thinking only for a moment about how easily it rolled off her tongue. “I think I may actually be getting used to the three of you running around like crazies.”

Daisy laughed a little.Or rather, released a burst of hot air from her nose that was supposed to constitute a laugh. Helen knew she was smirking too. Very distinctly Daisy.

“So,” Helen continued nonchalantly, ignoring the part of her that told her to hurry up, stop tying up the line, Stan was worried enough as it was, “does Michael know he’s going to be receiving some bills for a long-distance call his niece made when she should have been asleep?”

She could practically feel Daisy’s eyes rolling through the phone. “Chill out, Mom. Uncle Mike said we can use the phone whenever we need. A call home is totally cool with him.”

Another beat of silence.

“Besides,” Daisy added quickly, her voice suddenly very strange, “He got really badly sunburned, so he’s sleeping that off. And let me tell you, sunburn comas make a person sleep like a rock. You’d think, living in San Francisco, he’d be, like, immune to sunburns by now, or something.”

“I see,” Helen said. She felt something akin to anxiety churn in her gut. The way Daisy spoke, and the phone call from out of the blue, while everyone was asleep. She had to know. “So, to what do I owe this late night phone call? It’s almost midnight. I figured you’d be asleep by now and wouldn’t be awake for another twelve hours.”

Yet another beat of silence. Helen could picture Daisy on the other end of the line, nervously biting her lip. That was holdover from her childhood, something she always did when she had something unpleasant on her mind.

“Sweetie?” Helen said gently. “Is something wrong?”

“I guess I wouldn’t really say wrong, exactly,” Daisy replied slowly. “I just wanted to make sure, ya know, that you were okay. Ya know, by yourself.”

“Oh hon, I was just kidding about being lonely,” Helen said, feeling a heat rise to her cheeks. She certainly didn’t want to come off as clingy and protective as her own mother. “I’ve got the Tweedles to keep me company.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Daisy said, her voice almost stern. It made Helen’s gut tighten again.

“Well, what did you mean?” she asked.

Daisy took a deep breath, and said, “Next Saturday, it’ll have been two years.”

A low rumble of thunder shook the floor under Helen’s feet as realization dawned on her. All she could manage was a soft, almost whispered, “Oh.”

“I wanted to talk to you about it alone,” Daisy continued. “I didn’t want Scott or Amanda to get upset. I mean, last year, it was kind of a mess.”

“I wouldn’t call it a mess - “ Helen offered weakly.

“You called out of work,” Daisy replied. It made Helen feel as though she were the chastened teenager here, answering to a mother who was only concerned and wanted to help. And how wrong was that?

“Amanda almost got sent home because she was so worried about you. Gave herself indigestion,” Daisy continued. Helen could tell her daughter was not trying to make her feel guilty. She spoke plainly, just stating the facts as they’d occurred. “But she thought that having to pick her up would just make you sadder, so she told her teacher she was okay.”

She wanted to say that she would have been fine if Amanda had come home early. When she’d come home at three-thirty on the bus, like usual, and complained of a sour stomach, hadn’t Helen immediately leapt to her child’s aid, offering her antacids and water and a gentle tucking into bed early?

She had. But a small part of her knew that Daisy was right too. At the time, she probably wouldn’t have handled Amanda coming home early very well. She’d been too busy being the hysterical woman. Wallowing. Feeling sorry for herself.

Helen’s gut clenched again, this time in disgust at her own weakness. She almost missed Daisy speaking up again.

“I’m sorry to bring up this painful stuff again, Mom,” Daisy said. She sounded so sincere, so guilty. Helen wanted to hug that feeling out of her. A fourteen-year-old girl should not be having that feeling towards her own mother.

“I just want to avoid all that again,” Daisy continued. Her voice was becoming very small. She sounded several years younger than she was. “Not just for Scott and Amanda.”

The “and me” remained unspoken, but Helen knew it was there.

“I just want you to be okay,” Daisy said. Her breath was somewhat labored, like saying those words was the emotional equivalent of sprinting a great distance. “I felt so scummy taking this trip without you.”

It was Helen’s turn to interrupt. “Daisy Jane, don’t you dare say that. You have nothing to feel guilty about, alright?”

Daisy didn’t reply.

Helen sighed a little and said, “I appreciate your concern, sweetheart. And I’m not going to deny that, yeah, last year was rough. But everything was still fresh. Wounds that haven’t healed yet are easy to agitate and get bleeding again, know what I mean?”

Daisy offered a weak, “Yeah.”

“But things are getting better all the time, Daze,” Helen said. “I’m getting better all the time. I’ve found ways of coping. And I owe a lot of that to you and your brother and your sister. I wouldn’t be where I am now if it weren’t for you guys.”

Daisy sniffled a little. If she started crying, Helen knew she would too. She had seen a great deal of death during her time at the hospital, and had pretty well learned to control her emotions in that setting of disease and loss and pain. But if one of her children cried in her presence, Helen fell apart. She cried right along with them, until they both were out of tears to shed.

And she’d had enough of that two years ago to last her a lifetime.

Helen swallowed thickly, pushing back the heat that flushed her face, and said, “Hey, listen.

You know what we’re gonna do?”

“Hmm?” was all Daisy offered. It was weak and tight with impending tears.

“Next Saturday, the four of us are going to have a day of nothing but fun,” Helen replied. “We’re gonna go to the mall, and we’ll go to any store you guys want. I’ll buy you all something, whatever you want. We’re gonna splurge like crazy. Make your grandma cluck her tongue at our extravagance.”

Daisy gave a small chuckle. Helen could practically hear a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Helen continued, “And then, after we’ve bought out the mall, we’re gonna go to whatever restaurant you guys want. Somewhere delicious and terrible for us. We’re going to eat and drink and repeat until we can barely move. We’re going to have so much fun, we’re going to forget why that day is supposed to be sad. Deal?”

Daisy sniffed, drying her tears, and said, “Deal.”

Helen’s gut finally loosened, allowing relief to flood through her. “Good,” she breathed. “Great.”

Another beat of silence passed between them. There seemed to be something a lot less painful in this one, something calm and accepting. It almost made Helen forget everything that had happened throughout the day. About the current clusterfuck that was her life. About the fact her friend was missing, and his brother was on the verge of an anxiety-induced aneurysm because of it.

All that mattered right now was her, and her baby.

The amicable silence was broken by Daisy suddenly letting out a long, loud yawn.

Helen smiled a bit and said, “Hey, little girl, it’s almost midnight. I think you need to get some sleep.”

“I guess,” Daisy mumbled, her response heavy and tired. “You’re sure you’re okay though?”

“I’m positive, sweetheart.”

“Kay,” Daisy answered lazily. Helen heard leather groan in the background, from Michael’s loveseat, overlooking his ocean view. Daisy suddenly spoke again, her voice slightly more alert than a few moments ago. “I forgot to ask,” she said. “Do any good puzzles lately?”

Before Helen could answer, she was alerted to the sound of someone running, directly above her head, somewhere on the second floor. Fiddleford was rushing down the steps, panting in excitement. Helen saw him stumble into the hallway, looking around, looking like he was ready to burst with the news he had.

Helen turned her attention back to the phone and said, “Yeah, I’m actually working on one right now. Hardest one I’ve ever done.” She flicked a glance over at Fiddleford, who’d finally caught sight of her, and looked practically sheepish for creating a stir during her conversation. He even shuffled his feet a bit.

“Okay,” Daisy said, the words almost swallowed up in another yawn. “Well, I’ll let you get back to it. Goodnight, Mom.”

“Goodnight, honey.”

“Oh, and Mom?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Daisy.”

And then the line was dead.

Helen hung the phone back on the wall, and wished to God that there had been more time. She knew that her children would only be gone a few more days, but she found herself wanting now more than ever to just scoop them up in her arms and never let them go.

Was she doing the right thing, allowing herself to get mixed up in the Pines brothers’ escapades? It was fine when it was just gnomes and other harmless things. But now things were serious. Very serious. Missing persons and possible kidnapping and grievous bodily harm serious.

This wasn’t just the hysterical woman talking now. This was her own grounded worry, clear and sharp through a mother’s lens. She didn’t want to give her children anymore reason to worry about her.

She was their mother. Worrying for them was her job.

She heard Stan speak up then, addressing Fiddleford. “What’s the ruckus, little man?” Even though Stan was trying to be familiar, casual, like he didn’t have a care in the world, it fell flat. His voice was still stretched thin, indicative of a man ready to burst.

Fiddleford either didn’t notice, or didn’t care, lost in his own excitement and achievement as he was. He looked up at Helen with what could only be described as unbridled glee, and motioned for Helen to follow. “You won’t believe this,” he said, beginning to walk towards the living room. “I figured it out.”

Taking a deep breath, Helen followed. She hoped her beer was still cold.

She really wished she had brought a puzzle.

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Ford flinched as the gun in the video went off again. Even the small movement made his aching head throb.

This was the third time he’d seen his friend completely destroy his mind, bit by bit, in a vain attempt to save himself from the horrors he’d faced.

Horrors Ford had foisted on him.

Three times, Ford’s traitorous mind chanted your fault your fault all your fault.

His stomach lurched with guilt. His eyes involuntarily began to mist, hot tears fogging his cracked glasses. Pain dealt by an angry boot lit his entire body on fire.

Ropes bit into his wrists and ankles, even as he sat stock still, watching his friend’s life crumble over and over and over again. These ropes made his brain belch up memories of a knife at his palm. Of the bottom of the stairs, and not remembering how he got there. Those ropes, more than anything, made him think of Bill. And thinking of Bill - the possibility that he was there, still hiding in the darkest corners of his mind, laughing at him - made him want to crawl into a hole and die.

Ford felt Ivan squeeze his shoulder, tightly, in a warning. There were always more bones to crack. Always more flesh to bruise. More wounds to inflict, inside and out.

The video of the memories ended once again, Fiddleford’s small, broken body pausing as he held the gun to his temple, ready to fire. Fiddleford’s desperate gaze met Ford’s.

With the memories stopped, another wave of guilt crashed over Ford. He slumped forward a bit, wanting to cry or maybe vomit. Ivan tightening his grip on his shoulder was the only thing that kept him somewhat grounded.

A beat of silence passed, oppressive and suffocating. When Ivan spoke, it was like a freshly-sharpened blade had sliced through the air. “You know what you need to do to make this stop, Dr. Pines,” he said. His tight, threatening grip never wavered for a moment.

Ford knew very well what he had to do. Ivan wanted Fiddleford. It would be so easy. Four words and Ivan would grant him his freedom. That would be the end of it if he just said one thing.

Come on, sixer. Hasn’t that bumpkin caused you enough pain already?

The taunting thought came from a place in Ford didn’t recognize. A dark, angry, tired place that demanded respite. He’d suffered enough, it told him. Let someone else suffer for once. Some mistakes you just can’t fix. Just give up Fiddleford, and he could go back to his life. Go back to healing. His brother was waiting for him. He was already dealing with one mess he’d caused. Why pile more on himself? To feel like some kind of martyr? To punish himself?

And then his mind would latch on to that and scream again punish punish you must suffer this is all your fault your fault ALL YOUR FAULT.

“You are shaking, doctor.”

Ford’s eyes shot open. He didn’t even remember shutting them. He cast a glance down at his hands. Ivan was right. They trembled under the ropes, sending tremors up his entire body.

“You’re exhausted, Dr. Pines,” Ivan said. He lazily let his hand fall from Ford’s shoulder. Surprisingly sharp fingernails dug into his arm as Ivan moved in front of Ford, blocking the frozen image of Fiddleford. He leaned down, reached out, and cupped Ford’s chin in his hand. He raised Ford’s heavy head to look him in the face. Ford found himself oddly focused on the red, filmed-over eye that seemed to bore into his skull.

“I can make this end,” Ivan said softly. “All I need is McGucket.”

Ford felt his lips fall apart, ready to let words trickle forth. He was just so tired.

The screen on the monitor flickered, drawing Ford’s eye. He was once again locked with the image of his friend - Fiddleford McGucket, brilliant, kind, good, so much better than Ford deserved, reducing himself to a mocking parody.

Fiddleford deserved better than Ford as his friend. But he also deserved help. And Ivan and this mad cult was not who was going to give it to him.

Ford brought his gaze back to Ivan. There was a certain triumphant smugness in Ivan’s face. It was like staring into the face of a hungry mountain lion that knew it had its prey trapped. A fire rose up in Ford’s belly, drowning the guilt and the pain and the desperation for a brief moment.

He hated this son of a bitch.

“No,” Ford croaked.

Ivan’s eyes widened ever so slightly. Ford would have mirrored that smug smirk himself if just thinking about smiling didn’t make his face hurt.

Ivan sighed and straightened himself up. It was in that instance that Ford knew what was coming, and began to brace himself. Ivan had beaten him once when Ford had refused him. There was no reason to think it wouldn’t happen again. Despite looking so sickly and thin, Ivan was surprisingly strong. A pain shot through Ford at the mere thought of Ivan’s foot coming down on his rib cage again.

Ivan began to move his hands. Ford screwed his eyes shut, preparing to be struck.

He heard Ivan clap his hands together. Cracking open his eyes, Ford saw that Ivan had indeed clasped his hands together in front of him, with a strange look on his face. Ivan almost looked...excited. Like a tour guide, showing off priceless antiquities to the ignorant public, hoping to educate them. The expression Ivan now wore wasn’t the smug grin or the calm smirk. It was a full-toothed smile, and it was just so...plastic. Wrong.

It sent a shiver down Ford’s spine.

“If that is your decision, Dr. Pines,” Ivan said, a chilling eagerness in his voice, “then I suppose we shall simply have to watch the memories again.”

Before Ford could even begin to react, Ivan’s hand shot out, clamping down around the ropes that bound Ford’s right wrist to the chair. Ivan inched his hand down, until he grasped Ford’s index finger.

Then he pulled the finger backwards. Ford let out a cry of shock when pain shot through him again.

“And this time,” Ivan said, a sinister edge creeping into his voice, his eyes wide and wild, “for every minute of footage that goes by, and you say nothing, I shall snap one of your fingers. You have twelve, Dr. Pines. Do you think you can hold out for twelve more minutes?” Ivan punctuated the question by pulling Ford’s finger back further. Ford let out a gasp of pain and he felt muscles tighten, joints grind. He couldn’t take this.

There was a knock at the door.

Ivan stopped pulling, but didn’t release Ford’s finger right away, even as Ford gasped and tried to wriggle it out of his grasp.

Finally, letting out a sigh reminiscent of a perturbed teenager, Ivan rolled his eyes, released Ford’s fingers, and put his hood back up. Then he walked over to the door and opened it.

Another hooded figure stood there, bowed their head slightly. “Sir,” they said. “There is a matter than needs your attending.”

“Can’t it wait?” Ivan barked. “I am in the middle of something.”

“Another argument has broken out. I fear things will escalate unless you calm things down.”

Ivan muttered something under his breath Ford didn’t bother trying to decipher. Then he spoke to the hooded follower at the door. “Stay here with the interloper,” Ivan commanded.

The hooded figure nodded, stepping into the room quickly enough to let Ivan flounce out of the room, robe billowing behind him. He pulled the door shut with a deafening, angry slam. The hooded figure now in the room with Ford barely moved at the heavy thud.

As the pain faded in his finger, Ford looked up at this new figure before him. They had a short and stout built, and, like the others he’d seen, their face was completely shrouded by their hood. Even so, as the figure stood there in silence, Ford could feel their eyes trained on him.

Ivan had mentioned his followers hated Ford. And now he was stuck with one. He felt his heart rate pick up, pounding in his ears as he tried to prepare himself for the pain.

Maybe he would have been better off with Ivan.

The follower began to move towards him. Ford couldn’t help but let out a tiny whimper as he ducked his head and tried to think of anything else but what was about to happen.

A gentle hand touched the back of his head, fingers ghosting over the wound left by the blow Ford had received. The figure let out a low noise in their throat, almost like consideration. Then they pressed, very lightly, on the blood-crusted hair and down against the flesh of his skull. It felt like a hammer had been slammed into the base of his neck, and he couldn’t help but yelp loudly, jerking his head a bit to get away from the thing causing him pain.

“Sorry,” Ford heard the figure say softly. He felt the hands leave his head immediately. One of them rested on his hand, his right one. The one with the fingers Ivan had tried to snap. He instinctively curled his fingers into a fist, trying to protect them.

The hand pulled away, and Ford could almost feel the shame in it. “Oh no,” the figure breathed. “No, it’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to see. Is that okay?”

The hand was suddenly back, gently squeezing the fist Ford had made. It was placating, reassuring, comforting. The touch of a parent soothing a child.

Ford cracked open his eyes. The figure’s hand was still there, still squeezing. “Don’t be afraid,” the figure said. “I promise I’m not going to hurt you.”

He couldn’t help himself. A long, keening cry burst forth. After hours of nothing but torment and pain, this gentle touch, the kind words, they were like being doused with cold water. He felt hot tears brimming again, didn’t care that they fogged up his glasses and left him blind. More ragged sobs escaped him as he let his head loll forward.

Gentle fingers brushed the hair away from his face, then smoothed it back into place. The hooded follower was actually petting Ford’s head. In between sobs, Ford heard soft, soothing nonsense being muttered to him, telling him it’d be alright, he was okay, he was safe for the time being.

He didn’t even really have it in him to be confused. He just wanted to relish in the touch forever.

The figure continued to pet his head until he began to calm down a little, which must have at least been another several minutes. Finally, as he hiccuped and sniffed, the figure said, “You need to tell him what he wants to know.”

Ford lifted his head up a fraction, and let out a tiny, “What?”

“Ivan. When he comes back, you need to tell him where Fiddleford is. He won’t stop until you do.”

“I c-can’t,” Ford stammered out, trying to sound less like a frightened child. He didn’t succeed. “He...he can’t...Fiddleford needs help.”

“I know,” the follower said. Ford was almost shocked the frankness of the response. “And I know Ivan is a madman that can’t give him that help. But that’s precisely why you need to tell Ivan what he wants to know.”

“But I can’t-”

“If you don’t, he’ll keep going until he kills you.”

Ford felt like all the air had been sucked out of his lungs. He felt himself begin to tremble again. He must have let another tear slip, because the hooded figure stopped smoothing his hair and put a gentle hand on his cheek, wiping it away with their thumb.

“I don’t mean to frighten you,” they told him. “But Ivan will kill you if he doesn’t get what he wants. And if he kills you, he’ll just go after your brother and your friend.”

Ford choked back rising bile. He knew Stan and Helen wouldn’t let anything happen to Fiddleford. They’d fight. That’s the kind of people they were. But if they went up against a person like Ivan.

He let out an involuntary whimper at the thought.

“I’m so sorry,” the figure began. Before they could say anything else, the door was thrown open, slamming against the wall with a bang.

“And what, may I ask, is going on here?” Ivan’s voice dripped like poisoned honey.

The follower scrambled to straighten up, ripping their warm hand away from Ford’s face. He missed it immediately.

“I’m sorry, sir,” they said frantically, bowing quickly at the waist. “I was...well, I...I just…”

Ivan raised a hand to silence his follower, who shrank in on themselves like a scared child. “I do expect an explanation from you, but we shall deal with that later. For the time being, I have a job to finish with our guest.”

Even though Ford couldn’t see Ivan turn his face towards him, he could feel that red, filmy eye boring into him.

In an instant, visions of horror flashed before his eyes. More torture from Ivan - broken fingers, more beatings, watching his friend destroy himself over and over again. And then, when Ivan finally used him up, he’d move on to Stan and Helen. Subject them to the same tortures, probably worse because they were bound to fight back.

Ford screwed his eyes shut, desperate to chase away the images of those he cared for left broken and bleeding by this monstrous man. Desperation and fear clawed in his belly. His whole body trembled.

“He’s in my cabin!”

Ivan and the follower both swung their heads in Ford’s direction. It took him a minute to realize the shrill declaration had come from him.

A beat of silence filled the room, and Ford allowed the utter, helpless failure engulf him completely.

He’d failed. It was all his fault. He’d doomed Fiddleford to the life he’d been trying to save him from.

“Excellent,” Ivan said. Ford could hear the smile in his voice. It made him sick. “I’m so glad you finally see things from our point of view, Dr. Pines.”

Ford wanted to strangle him.

“The hour is late, though,” Ivan said casually. “And this storm has not lessened. I believe you’ll keep until tomorrow, doctor.”

“W-wait,” Ford sputtered, “you said you’d let me go if I told you where he was.”

“Doctor, you wound me,” Ivan said. There was that detestable smirk again. “What sort of host would I be if I sent you home in a downpour?” He made his way towards the door, the hooded follower slinking behind him. Ford saw the follower look back over their shoulder at him. Even though he couldn’t see their face, he knew they looked as helpless as he felt.

Ivan reached the door, ushering his follower out in front of him. As he stepped through the doorway, Ivan said, “Enjoy the rest of your stay, Dr. Pines.”

It was only when Ivan had closed the door, darkening the room once more, that Ford noticed he’d left the monitor on. Fiddleford’s wild, desperate gaze stared back at him.

He let his head fall forward, although he no longer had it in him to cry. “I’m sorry, Fiddleford,” he whispered out loud.

He swore, somewhere behind his eyes, he heard Bill cackling with demented delight.

-----------

McGucket had lost them, but he really didn’t seem to notice.

Stan had honestly tried to keep up with the little nerd, but it became clear pretty quickly that he was just too excited about his discovery to remember he was talking to two people that didn’t have degrees in advanced mechanical engineering.

At least he saw even more clearly why Ford had gotten so attached to the twerp.

The sharp stab of guilt and fear that was roiling quietly in his gut suddenly spiked. There was still no word from Ford. The rain still beat down on them mercilessly. He’d never felt so helpless in all his life.

He had to think of something else.

He chanced a glance over at Helen, sitting in the other kitchen chair to his right, who wasn’t even trying to pretend like she understood what was happening. Her eyes were distant and unfocused, had been ever since she’d gotten off the phone with her daughter. She lazily squeezed the almost empty can of beer, making the sides buckle in on themselves slightly. Stan felt another pang of guilt well up in his chest. She looked exhausted and miserable, and Stan knew that was his fault. She hadn’t asked to be dragged into any of this.

Helen was a strong person, there was no denying that. She was level-headed and firm and a voice of reason when things got chaotic. But even the strongest pillars could break if they were beaten enough times by a churning, unforgiving sea. And Stan shuddered to think that he might be the one to break her eventually.

“...and the procedure was supposed to be permanent.” Suddenly, McGucket’s voice drifted up to his ears, and Stan’s attention snapped back over to the excited hillbilly. In one hand, McGucket held a pair of pliers. In the other, a small bundle of wires, pulled apart to expose a small, gray, chip-like piece. A small, near microscopic, section of the chip had a charred black spot on it. McGucket pointed the nose of the pliers at the chip and continued. “This micro-actuator looks like it was overheated at some point and stopped working. Without it the gun can’t function, since there’s nothing to keep the internal mechanisms moving. The electric charge as a control signal is fine, but it looks like the source of energy - that being, of course, the charge from the memories themselves - overloads it and causes a cascade failure and -”

“Hey,” Stan finally interjected. He had a sneaking suspicion that, if he didn’t, McGucket would launch himself into orbit.

McGucket’s head shot up to look at him. He looked surprised that Stan and Helen were even still there.

“As fascinating and completely incomprehensible as all this is,” Stan said, raising a hand to massage away the rumblings of a headache, “you think you could explain, in the simplest way you can, exactly what the hell all this means?”

McGucket blushed a bit. Stan was beginning to realize that the little man didn’t really enjoy being the center of attention. The only way he could really get going was if he talked so much he thought he was alone in the room.

“Well, it basically means that the part of the gun that was supposed to make the memory erasing process permanent won’t work more than a few times.”

“So that’s why it didn’t work when that guy attacked us in my house?” Helen asked. Stan was actually kind of shocked to hear her finally speak.

“Exactly,” McGucket replied. “I would venture to guess that all the smaller version have the same problem. I had to significantly decrease the size of the actuator to ensure mobility. None of them will last, and it makes the effects wear off faster. Especially when you’re exposed to stimuli, like photos or videos or -”

“Or a giant portal of doom,” Stan said. He bit down his urge to smirk.

Irritation creased McGucket’s brow, and he said, “Yes, that too.”

“But that still doesn’t answer the question of why that guy was in my house,” Helen said, clearly frustrated with the not knowing.

“I think that’s pretty obvious,” Stan said. “He was looking for McGucket.”

“Yeah, but why would he think he was in my house?” Helen said, looking up at him, her dark green eyes practically burning a hole in his forehead. “Hell, how would he even have known he was with us? The only person who even saw us today is Ed.”

That got Stan thinking for a moment. “Yeah,” he muttered. “He was the only person who saw us today.”

“Oh god,” Helen said, incredulously. “You’re not seriously suggesting...Stan, I mean, come on. Ed Matthews is almost sixty-five. He’s a harmless grandpa!”

“Hey, if we can think the bean pole is behind something,” Stan said, jabbing his thumb in Fiddleford’s direction, “then grandpas aren’t in the clear either. Besides, I’ve met some pretty spry old guys in my time.”

Helen turned and addressed McGucket, “Ed wasn’t the guy in my house, right? You would have recognized him earlier if he were in your little...group, wouldn’t you?”

McGucket thought for a moment, obviously trying to conjure forth something that made him think of Dr. Matthews. Finally, he ran a hand through his hair, sighing in frustration, and said, “I don’t think so? My mind is only just now starting to heal, and things are still mighty mixed up in there. I induct every member myself, though, so he might be in here somewhere.”

“Ed doesn’t even believe in the supernatural stuff in this town,” Helen added, squeezing her beer can harder. It sounded to Stan like she were trying to prove it more to herself than him and McGucket. “Even if he had come across it, he wouldn’t need some memory-erasing gun to convince himself it wasn’t real.”

“Maybe that’s not the thing that Ed was trying to forget,” Stan said.

Helen glanced over at him, her brow furrowed in confusion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Stan chewed his lower lip, trying to find a way to say this without setting Helen off again. As thoughts of being kicked out, living out of his car, crushing loneliness assaulted him from all sides, he realized there wasn’t really a way to do that. So he said, “Let’s just say things don’t necessarily have to be supernatural for people to want to forget them.”

Helen turned fully in her chair to face him, and Stan immediately regretted opening his big mouth. The beer can crumpled completely under her grip. He steeled himself against whatever angry words Helen was preparing to sling his way.

Then McGucket cleared his throat. Helen snapped her head back to look at him, and Stan swore he saw the other man shrivel a bit under her gaze. Eventually, McGucket managed to stammer out, “I would...that is, I think Stan might be right? Maybe you could, um, I dunno, tell us if anything unusual has happened to Dr. Matthews. Y-you know, if that’s okay with you.”

Stan could practically see the anger drip from Helen’s shoulders. The guilt returned with incredibly force. He’d never seen her like this, but whatever was going on in her mind, he could tell it was eating away at the edges of that level-headedness he so admired in her.

Helen sighed, and finally said, quietly, “I mean, his wife died about two years ago, but it wasn’t what anyone would call unusual. She’d been in a bad way for a long time.”

“What happened?” McGucket asked. His tone was genuinely sympathetic.

“Ovarian cancer,” Helen replied. “Poor Andrea wasted away for months near the end. Then Ed came into her hospital room one day after his rounds, and she was...already gone.” Helen cast her gaze down to the floor, letting silence fill the moment. Stan and McGucket stayed respectfully silent.

Helen sighed again, lifted her head, and said, with renewed conviction, “Ed was torn up about it, sure, but he would never want to forget Andrea. He loved that woman. They were married for forty-two years. There’s no way he’d ever want to wipe her from his memories.”

“Of course not,” McGucket said. Stan saw him reach out a hand, as if he could comfort Helen from the awful thoughts from across the table. But then McGucket thought better of it and pulled it back. “Besides,” he continued, “we don’t deal with memories like that.”

“What do you mean, ‘memories like that’?” Stan asked.

“I guess you could call them “real life” memories,” McGucket said. “Things like the death of a loved one or bad break ups or other traumatic things like that. I would never agree to erase those memories.”

“Why not?” Helen asked.

“Well, there are just some memories people can’t deal with,” McGucket replied. “Memories we weren’t designed to deal with, because the things they concern shouldn’t exist. Like the things out there in those woods. Those things are too much for normal people. But trauma - the real, honest-to-goodness kind - people are strong enough to overcome those everyday traumas. Dealing with those sorts of memories helps you heal. It might even make you a stronger person in the end.”

McGucket smiled serenely as he finished his little sermon. It made Stan’s gut bubble in irritation. Hearing McGucket talk about “everyday trauma” like it was some kind of...character-building exercise, it brought that irritation up his throat and come out his mouth.

“You really buy into that, huh?”

McGucket’s smile slipped from his face as he flicked his glance over to Stan. Stan tried to maintain an air of nonchalance as he said, “You really think that people should just...deal with shit like their wives dying, but not with little bearded men rooting around in their trash?”

“Of course not,” McGucket replied, sounding legitimately shocked Stan would even suggest such a thing. “A tragedy like that isn’t just something to be glossed over. But the sort of things that the people in the Society of the Blind Eye have witnessed...it’s unfathomable. It shouldn’t even have been seen by normal human beings. We can’t begin to process it. I certainly couldn’t, thanks to Stanford.”

“I told you to watch your mouth about my brother, string bean,” Stan ground out. He forced down the tidal wave of anxiety with righteous brotherly fury.

“Guys…” Helen muttered, uselessly.

“Well, I’m sorry,” McGucket retorted, “but you can’t deny that he has to shoulder some of the blame here. What happened to me was because of him. If he hadn’t brought me out here, if he’d just left well enough alone, none of this would be happening at all.”

“Guys,” Helen repeated. A bit louder this time.

“Ford didn’t put that goddamn gun to your head and pull the trigger!” Stan shouted, rising from his chair so quickly it almost tipped over. “Ford didn’t make you run away like a coward. Ford didn’t force you to start a cult to wipe other people’s memories. One that quickly proved to be frigging useless anyway because that damn gun doesn’t even work right. Ford might have caused the accident, but you made your own choices. Was it worth it, McGucket? Was it worth dragging yourself and my brother through nine kinds of hell just because you didn’t want to deal with what happened to you?”

McGucket narrowed his eyes at Stan, in what looked to be as close to actual anger and resentment as Stan figured he could get. Through clenched teeth, he said, “You have no idea what I went through when I was here with your crazy brother. And it wasn’t just the portal. He dragged me on all kinds of insane little adventures with him. We were nearly killed half a dozen times, every time at the hands of some ungodly creature we could barely comprehend!”

“At least you got to be with my brother!” Stan shouted back. He didn’t even care that his voice cracked, although it seemed to surprise McGucket a bit. The anger left the other man’s face. Even Helen was staring at Stan in shock.

Stan continued anyway. “You didn’t even know I existed before now, did you? Even when you knew Ford and had all your memories, he probably never told you about me. Wanna know why? Because up until a month ago, I was living out of my fucking car because he hated my guts. One stupid mistake and I lost my brother for ten years. Is that one of your “everyday traumas”, McGucket? Am I strong enough to move past poverty and prison and near suicide?”

McGucket flinched like he’d been struck across the face. “Oh, didn’t like hearing about that, did you?” Stan said, pulling back the sleeve of his sweatshirt. A faded, ghostly scar ran up the length of his arm. If you weren’t looking close enough, you could miss it entirely. He shoved the scar close to McGucket’s face, and said, “Is this the kind of trauma I can just work through? While you were out having the life with my brother I’d only dreamed about? While I nearly bled out in my car?! Answer me, you little bastard!”

“Stan, stop it!” Helen shouted.

Stan stopped talking, but he didn’t take his gaze off McGucket or make a move to take his arm away. He wanted the uppity little shit to know exactly who he’d just told to “work through it”.

“Walk away, Stan,” Helen said quietly. The firm, maternal tone was back. He knew he should listen. But a sadistic part of him stayed still, his arm still outstretched. A phantom pain tripped up his scar, the first he’d had in years. It made him want to scream.

A whine from Ripley echoed from the hall, followed by her scratching at the door.

“Stan.” Helen was urging him again. Just walk away.

Finally, he pulled down the sleeve of his shirt, once again covering up the scar. He pushed his chair back and stepped away from the table, then stomped out of the kitchen. Another glance over his shoulder showed that McGucket looked pretty damn horrified by what he’d just seen.

The only thing that really upset Stan was the look on Helen’s face. She looked so tired, ready to fall apart at any minute. He found it very telling that she didn’t leap to comfort McGucket as soon as Stan was out of their view.

He grabbed his coat from the living room sofa where he’d tossed it. Ripley was still at the door, decidedly subdued. Instead of leaping about in excitement over a trip outside, she watched her master carefully, almost fearfully. Stan patted her head as he opened the door to let her out. He followed her.

The last time he and Ford had fought, Stan had gone to the gas station the next day to pick up a pack of cigarettes. Just in case. They and a lighter were in the glove box of the Stanley Mobile. He thought it was a pretty good testament to not only his resolve, but the strengthening bond between the brothers that he hadn’t had a reason to open them yet.

Not to mention he knew Ford and Helen would give him such a lecture if they ever caught him smelling like smoke.

But now, as Ripley trotted beside him, matching his purposeful stride, he headed towards the car. He didn’t even bother putting his hood up to keep himself dry. Not like the fleece jacket could help much anyway. At least the rain had stopped coming down in sheets and was now just falling steadily.

He’d forgotten to lock it when he and Helen had rushed inside, so he slid into the driver’s side easily, the leather squelching under him. Ripley sat on the ground right outside the door, looking at him thoughtfully. She seemed to be in no big hurry to be done and out of the rain. He leaned over, popped open the glove box, and removed the cigarettes and lighter.

The flame licking at the tip of the cigarette filled the small space with an orange glow. He doused it quickly and took a long drag. As he held it in, he let all the fantasies come rushing back - the things he and Ford had planned to do as children, treasure hunting, picking up babes, traveling the world and seeing new sights. All the stuff that self-righteous little idiot inside had and was too dense to realize how precious it was.

Two fat streams of tears fall down his cheeks as he exhaled.

------------

Ivan didn’t sleep very often. He didn’t like how vulnerable it made him feel. And he certainly didn’t like to dream.

So, most nights, he just sat up on his cot in the bowels of their inner sanctum. Sat up and looked at the picture he’d clipped out of the newspaper.

The boy in the picture was fourteen years old. Even though the picture wasn’t in color, Ivan knew the boy had brown hair and steely gray eyes. He was tall, slender, his face betraying not a single emotion perceptible to the average person. But Ivan could see the sadness in the boy’s eyes - a sadness deep and painful, but not fully understood. Ivan supposed he could be blamed for that, at least.

Perhaps blamed for the sadness going a bit deeper than it should.

But he was going to fix that. He’d promised to after all.

As soon as this business with McGucket was taken care of, he could move on. Fulfill his promise.

He read the caption below the picture. Preston Northwest, son of the late Auldman and Angelica Northwest of Gravity Falls Oregon.

Ivan returned his gaze to the picture. This time, he didn’t focus his normal eye on the face of Preston Northwest.

Instead, he focused his red, filmed eye right over the boy’s head.

To the thing no normal camera would reveal to anyone with a normal set of eyes.

To the floating, yellow triangle in a top hat, lazily hovering, almost seeming to whisper in the boy’s ear.

---

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#mystery nerds au #seared with scars #ford pines #stan pines #fiddleford mcgucket #helen bergstrum #blind ivan #the society of the blind eye #tw torture #tw violence #tw suicide mention #tw discussions of death #tw smoking

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