A Story Finally Finished || The Stanley Parable

[15] - Consequences

TW: Mention of Panic Attacks and previous chapters (So other triggers also apply)

The next few days consisted of nightmares, little sleep, and panic attacks, on Stanley's part. Narrator refused to leave Stanley's side after the first round of nightmares. He had also booked two weeks off of work for the pair of them.

The first night was a late one. Narrator and Stanley returned home from the station at almost 2AM to find a concerned Curator. She didn't stay long, before she had to return to the Parable, leaving Narrator and Stanley in the house. Stanley sat down in the living room, whilst Narrator made the tea. Upon the kettle boiling, Narrator poured the water into the mugs and stirred, taking them into the living room.

The pair drank the tea in silence, and eventually, they both headed to bed. Stanley attempted to sleep, and eventually fell asleep, but Narrator on the other hand, wouldn't rest. He sat in bed, reading for hours, when he heard tossing and turning from the room next door. Stanley's room. Narrator stood, and closed his book, heading for their door.

Reaching Stanley's door, Narrator could hear the rustling of sheets, still. He had to tap into Stanley's mind to figure out what was going on though. It took a minute, due to Narrator being human now, but eventually, Narrator could hear and see what was going on.
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Narrator seemed to be overlooking the situation as if a bird on a perch. Stanley was situated on the concrete floor of a large room. It was dark in the room, and the setting sun pooled through the windows at the top. Men holding rifles stood overlooking balconies. A woman stood over of Stanley, with black cropped hair tied up into a messy bun, small lengths flowing down by her ears.

She held a gun in her hand, grimacing as she turned away from Stanley. Stanley, in question, was laying on the floor in a foetus-like position, although his hands were tied behind his back instead of curled in front of him. Tears poured out of his eyes, pooling onto the floor beside him.

Stop.. Stanley thought to himself. The woman was talking, but only Stanley seemed to be able to hear her.
No.. he-he does care about me.. Stanley reassured himself. Narrator.. He-he does care about me! He sent people looking for me.. I know-I know he cares about me..
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Narrator jumped out of Stanley's mind. It was true, Narrator cared for Stanley. They cared for him deeply. Narrator opened the door to Stanley's room, coming 'face to face' with Stanley, who was still tossing in his quilts. They approached quickly and quietly, reaching for Stanley's hand that was tucked close to his chest.

Narrator's cold hand closed around Stanley's warm one, and almost instantly, Stanley seemed to calm down. Not entirely, although. His head twitched and sharp inhales could still be heard, but not as often. Narrator crouched down by the side of the bed, still holding onto Stanley's hand, thinking. He remembered the book he had read back at the police station.

One chapter focused on Sleep and Nightmares. It said, if someone is sleepwalking, to not bother them, and keep them safe, as the sleepwalker would almost always return to bed. Perhaps guide them gently back to bed.
If someone was having a nightmare, it was always best to quietly comfort them, but never try to wake the dreamer. They had to wake up themselves, basically.

And so Narrator sat there, gently stroking Stanley's, now open, palm. Stanley's breathing became slower and calmer, but he still winced in pain as the nightmares continued.
Ten minutes into the quietness, rain began to fall outside, and the small pitter-patters on the window were comforting. It wasn't too heavy, but it gave Narrator that nice white noise to preoccupy him with. Quiet rooms were a no-go.