The Stanley Parable One Shots / Short Stories

Memory (3/6)

This is where it gets really edgy and cringy I am so so sorry.

He was so focused on figuring out the mystery of his own mind that he hadn't noticed he'd broken out into a cold sweat, and... was he... shaking? He lifted his hands up to his eyes and lo and behold, they were violently shaking. His palms were soaked in sweat as were his clothes. He was starting to panic and he didn't know why. He was running out of ideas on how to get his brain to confess his own goddamn thoughts to him.
'Ha. I really am pathetic aren't I?', he thought to himself.

His ideas had started sensible. Think back to anything that might have stuck with him, anywhere that Stanley might have died? Or gone missing perhaps? But after a couple more minutes of getting nowhere, he was starting to frantically shift through the most absurd of ideas just to get somewhere. Anywhere...
30 minutes...
At this point, the Narrator was sure he had bruised something. His head was throbbing from the abuse. He was pulling on his hair, he was hitting his head against any hard object he could find hard enough to give himself a concussion and he was shoving his fists into his forehead over and over again as hard as he possibly could until he could see stars. He was struggling to remember why he had started, but somewhere through the haze he could just quite recall. At first, he was just lightly banging his head against a wall, hopping that jostling his brain would surface those old forgotten memories, but after a while he simply gave up. What was the point? Maybe if this was some great adventure with Stanley it would be fun. He could only imagine! Stanley and the Narrator on a great adventure, solving a great mystery and getting the biggest surprise of their lives! But... that wasn't happening. After that, he tried to preoccupy himself with anything else, but eventually, he'd gotten bored of it all.
It had been 40 minutes.
After the boredom had set in, he was getting frustrated. He had slammed his hand down on the desk and had realised the only thing left to amuse him, was, well... him, and with nothing to do with himself, he had just resorted to violence. He couldn't remember anything between then and now except for white. He didn't know this, but since Stanley had fallen asleep it had been;
50 minutes...
The Narrator felt dizzy. Very dizzy. Everything ached. He couldn't hear over the deafening ringing in his ears, and his head was completely clogged. The once white haze in his mind had become blood red, and he looked back up at Stanley, hoping, begging, for him to be awake. Stanley was laying there frozen. He could barely see him through a haze of red and the ringing in his ears was drowning out any semblance of sanity that could still be present in the Narrators mind.

And that's when something clicked.