(Redux) [Vignette] A Private Conversation

You are Madrigal Fitzpatrick, and you're having a shit day. Though it's barely past noon, you've already nearly been suffocated, harpooned, and shot; you may or may not have laid in a puddle of your own vomit; hell, you're currently plunging headlong into a brooding void you... might be responsible for.

None of these things are making the day shit, though. A little lethality keeps your heart pumping, the vomit's just a throwback to delirious younger years, the void... well, it might be shit, but you won't know till you land. No, the day's shit because you can't stop thinking about ripping out your own spine.

Because you did. Or were made to think you did, or relived someone else doing it, but it doesn't matter: the memory is still there, clear as spit, and the bile rises all the same. You. You ripped out your own spine. And you-- you enjoyed it! It was painless! It was fucking thrilling! It-- but that wasn't *you,* it was your anonymous flaking husk, so you can't *really*--

Fuck, you're thinking about it again. But you have to think about it, have to turn it over and over again in your hands, have to pore over every sickly detail. It's like picking at a scab: you know it's bad for you, it's painful, it bleeds, but the catharsis is too great to stop. It's almost schadenfreude, it's like watching someone get trampled, hearing their legs snap. Only it's your legs snapping. Does that make sense?

God, what the fuck? You need to tell someone about this, someone you can trust-- not Charlotte, clearly. Bran, if you ever see Bran again, and don't die at the bottom of a pit. Or maybe Monty. You just need to sit down, and explain the whole thing, and then Bran could call you a fuckin' mental case, or Monty could look vaguely consternated, and either would be the dose of reality you need.

But right now you're alone, and it is dark, and... god, you've been falling for a helluva long time. That's weird. Are you falling? You must be falling, because you haven't hit anything, but it doesn't feel like you're moving. Maybe you died and you just didn't notice. Is that possible? Shit. Might be. Seems like everything's possible these days--

«"It's almost impressive how long that took you, Maddie."» Nobody who likes you calls you Maddie. You jump to conclusions.

"Shit. Richard?"

A figure manifests itself. It's a man, fiftyish, blonde, square-jawed... not entirely solid. He flickers indistinctly, and at times violently. Branwen's snake is looped around his shoulders. (You give it the evil eye.) «"Yes."»

There's a mysterious burr of static to Richard's voice. You squint, sticking both hands in your pockets. "You're a person? No offense, thought you were a... shit, I don't know, a thing. Unless you're possessing someone else, which-- you've got to stop doing that, man. Are you doing that?"

«"Not exactly. To both questions."» Richard pushes up his sunglasses. «"It's really not relevant, Maddie. There's something of much higher--"»

Higher priorities can go to hell: you need the distraction. "Do you know you look like Charlotte? I mean, kinda."

Richard looks pained. «"I don't believe there's a significant similarity--"»

"No, no, there definitely is." You shake your head. "Same nose, same sorta... cheeks, jawline-- both blonde, too."

«"I assure you it's coincidence."» He looks as if he's going to say more, but doesn't.

"Okay." You're 80% sure he's lying, but you don't care enough to press. "Cool. Are you here to kill me?"

«"No."»

"I feel like it's a reasonable guess."

«"People would notice. No, erm..."» Richard takes off his sunglasses, ostensibly to polish them, but you're not sure he wants to look you in the eye. "«...How much do you know about a snake's reproductive cycle?"»

You steal a look at Branwen's snake. "...Nothing? Eggs are involved, I guess?"

«"No."» He slides the sunglasses back on. «"I advise you to sit down."»

His tone is deathly. You squat down.

«"Good. I will speak. Don't interject."» He pauses, to ensure your cooperation, and continues. «"...As a rule, snakes have advanced far past the need for--"»

"I don't need a fucking lecture," you interject. "Just give me the bad news."

Richard inclines his head. «"...Who said it was bad news?"»

"You're *here,* but not to kill me, you told me to sit down, and you sound like someone shot your cat."

«"Hah."» His smile is mirthless. «"Absolutely, Maddie. Absolutely. Of course I'll leave off the vital preamble, because you know best in this situation. You're the little expert."»

There's a moment of silence. "So will you?"

«"Yes. You are the unhappy recipient of a parasitoidal memory. It is already latched, and will inevitably and inorexably alter you until it-- which is to say you-- has reached maturity. Ironically, you already know the end result."» His smile widens. «"You *will* rip out your own spine."»

Steady on, Madrigal: panicking is for bitches and wusses. Let your muscles tense, your teeth clench, let the blood rush to your head, but don't fucking panic. It's that simple. Take a breath. He could be fucking with you. Take a deep breath. Control your reaction. Smile. Bluff like hell. "Cool," you say. "Tell me something I didn't already know, will you?"

«"Are you frightened, Maddie?"»

You scoff. "No."

«"It's already started, perhaps."» Richard slides a translucent cigarette between his teeth. «"On the bright side, it's not a strong one, else it might've been too late already. Do you still have my matchbox?"»

"...Yeah." You scrabble around in your pockets and offer him a match.

«"No."» He clicks a lighter on instead. «"Don't concern yourself with the matches. Concern yourself with the matchbox."»

The matchbox is flimsy cardboard, off-white except for a little red design on the back: a coiled snake. "Goddamn," you say. "That sure is a matchbox."

«"I'm surprised you're able to make mockery of your situation."» Richard pauses. «"I lied when I said you'd rip out your spine."»

"You lied," you say irritably. So he was fucking with you. Who would've guessed.

«"Don't misunderstand me. It is a real outcome. It is the ordinary outcome. But it is not the only outcome. There are loopholes."»
«"In selecting the base, the parasitoid searches for something... already snake-like, to maximize efficiency. But it doesn't know the difference between you and what you have on your person."»
«"From a clinical standpoint, the design on the matchbook is more snakelike than your spine. Do you understand?"»

You turn the matchbook over. "Not rea-- wait, *this'll* turn into me?"

«"What would've been you. Yes. It will tear scraps from you to enable its sentience. You will be less afterwards, in unpredictable ways."»
«"But there would be a chance at recovery. Versus... well, I'm sure I don't have to elaborate. You know full well."»

The numbness and the narrowing and your dead hands at your back. You swallow. "You're sure?"

«"Yes."»

"I just keep this matchbook--"

«"Against your skin, while you wake, while you sleep. If you can keep your mind off it, you may have years left-- you are lucky. If not, it could be months, weeks, days. Just keep it on. If you lose it, find an alternative."»

"..." You rub the matchbook's corners. "Listen, no offense, but why are you helping? You're evil as shit."

For a moment, Richard looks stricken. It's only a moment. «"I don't owe you an explanation,"» he says coolly. «"I think we're done here."»

"Yeah, where is here--"

«"Inside the wall, effectively."»
«"Don't lose the matchbook. Try not to ruminate, but you won't be able to help it. Tell who you need to. Don't tell Charlotte, she'll worry. Don't attempt to contact me. Uh, take the snake."»

"The--" It's still around Richard's neck. "You know that's the fucking thing that did it, yeah?"

«"Unfortunately, I won't have the requisite fingers. Take it."»

You take the snake. "Won't have the fingers?"

«"Or the limbs."»
«"I'll be seeing you, then. Hope up and down you don't see me."»

Richard flickers for the last time before winking out entirely. The ground goes out from under your feet.

[END]