The Stanley Parable One Shots / Short Stories

Memory (2/6)

Stanley had limply flopped down onto the couch in the corner of the lounge and was currently trying to get comfortable on the small rough accommodation.
'Stanley?' ... no response.
The Narrator did not think this was funny.
'Stanley, hello?'
Stanley's eyes were shut as he curled up against the navy fabric.
The Narrator started twiddling his thumbs and pulling on his shirt collar.
'Stanley please I-' He was beginning to sweat a little.
— — — — —
Stanley's face curled into a scowl as he opened his eyes, putting his hands on the cushions beneath him and propping himself up rigidly. Why was the Narrator bothering him so much for something as minute as laying down and closing his eyes?
'Oh Stanley! Yes the employee lounge is a lovely place isn't it? But I really think we should get going, or we're not going to finish my story before next decade, yes?', said the Narrator. It came out a tad bit higher then he'd wanted it to, but he still sounded miraculously calm. Stanley however was not so calm. 'Can't you shut up for 5 minutes? Is it not obvious enough that I'm trying to sleep?' the man thought. He was clearly agitated, and did not care if he sounded rude or aggressive, he was too tired to care, and if the Narrator was going to as snarky and bigheaded as he always was, and was going to go about of his way to infuriate Stanley then he would
just have to put up with being ignored. To just let Stanley do what he wanted to for once.
'Sleep?', chuckled the Narrator 'Stanley, you don't need to sleep in the Parable! You'll be fine! Now let's get on with that st-'
'Shut up about your shitty story. Can't you just let  me sleep for five fucking minutes without interrupting me, or is that too difficult of a thing to ask?'
There wasn't a response. Stanley hadn't actually expected the Narrator to listen, but he wasn't complaining. Yet, as he fell back against the cushions and let out a sigh, he felt strange, almost guilty. But, not letting that bother him, he drifted away quietly into sleep.
— — — — —
Two hands were resting on a mahogany desk. Completely still. Two eyes, filled with the emotions of sadness, fear, confusion, disappointment, and guilt all mixed together to make an emotion so saddening that you wouldn't bare to look at it. Did he really upset Stanley that much? Does Stanley hate him? Is his story that he worked so hard to create really that pointless? That disappointing? The Narrator blinked. His eyes stung but he wasn't going to cry. He never cried, and that wasn't going to change just because what? He'd been hit by a few angry words? He'd seen his best... his only friend die just to be rid of his pathetic story, and even then he'd managed to hold back tears, so why was he being hurt so much now? He didn't need to cry. That would just anger Stanley more wouldn't it? If the oh-so-great Narrator started to tear up at words. Words Stanley had said. Oh, and what if he started feeling guilty? What if Stanley felt bad? Then how was the Narrator supposed to feel, knowing that everything Stanley had said was deserved but watching him regret it nonetheless?
'Stanley I'm-' the Narrator muttered, turning back to look at Stanley. But he was asleep. The Narrator wanted to talk to Stanley, to apologise, but now he was asleep. Stanley's words came back into his mind,
'Can't you just let  me sleep for five fucking minutes without interrupting me, or is that too difficult of a thing to ask?'
Of course he could spend a couple minutes on his own! It would be pathetic if he couldn't right? Yet somehow just the silence and stillness of everything almost made the Narrator sick on the spot.
5 minutes...
The Narrator was reading and rereading all of his scripts. Just hoping, magically something new or exciting or anything would pop up. Of course, nothing changed.
10 minutes...
The Narrator wasn't insane. He knew that rereading his scripts again and again was boring. He couldn't just read them forever. He turned back to Stanley. He was still asleep. The Narrator felt his heart drop as something shifted in the back of his mind, triggered by the silence and the sight of an unmoving Stanley, but the Narrator just couldn't put his finger on it, and he didn't like that. The closest thing he could think of was seeing Stanley's dead body in the Z- the Narrator swallowed hard. He didn't like thinking about it. But, he knew it can't of been... that because sleeping Stanley wasn't a mangled corpse with-
The Narrator had to forcefully push the bile back down at the memory.
15 minutes...
The Narrator was scrunching his eyes shut and racking his brain as hard as he physically could trying to find any leads whatsoever when he heard a light sound below him. His eyes snapped open as his pupils dashed down to locate the cause of the sound. There was a small puddle of water on one of his scripts. He was sweating again- but this time it was a lot worse.