Stanley parable one shots [requests]

Rotting away (angst/gore)

Warning : this chapter does have very graphic imagery and mentions of suicide- so if you don't feel comfortable with any of that then I strongly recommend skipping this shot.
Take care of yourselves.

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Short summary: Stanley had annoyed the Narrator to madness and now, the Narrator wanted nothing but to destroy Stanley's sense of self importance. He encourages him to take himself to his own death, removing everything enjoyable about the parable for Stanley.

(Technically, this is a follow on from the last chapter but can also be read as a separate thing and is brutal.
This was made while listening to "First Love/ Late spring" by mitski. If you truly want to grasp the feeling of this one, I personally recommend listening to that while reading it.)

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How long had he spent here, just listening to the narrator ramble on, and on, and on, and on, about how fucking worthless he was?
About how he wished Stanley would just die and never come back, how he wished he could forget his existence and leave him trapped inside his own office alone?

He talked as if Stanley couldn't hear him, ruthless enough to be considered a psychopath.  Yet, he knew Stanley could. And to him, it didn't matter.
He wanted to shatter the man to dust, until there was nothing left of him.
Oh, how well he had succeeded.

Stanley forcefully lived with these words that felt like bile in his throat, burning him alive, until he was nothing more than a husk of a human body. The narrator had done it - emptied out everything that made this man human, everything that made him alive.

He would lock him inside his small room for days on end in silence, until Stanley sat at the borderline of insanity, and then tear the door from the hinge to blind him with the lights.

He roamed these halls like a soul trapped inside the living world, feet dragging, eyes hollow, following the same routes with no thought. Every word said became a blur, something that would simply drift past his lifeless body.

It didn't matter that the Narrator wanted him dead. He couldn't have wished for anything else.

Time and time again, he found himself coming to an ending where he would be crushed to death, blown apart, beaten by whatever the Narrator wanted him to be.
This time, he entered the red door to the zen plain. There was no point in going through the blue one, the Narrator blocked that ending off. All he could do was cycle through the room again and again until he entered the red one. And the Narrator would shout and spit at him until he got bored and stayed silent.

There was no "I feel happy." Or "Stanley, I think we should stay in here forever." In fact, there was no 'here' to go to. The door lead straight to the flight of stairs suspended off the cold concrete.

"Go ahead Stanley." His name felt like needles coming straight off the Narrator's tongue, "You want to kill yourself so do it. It'll be the best for both of us."
The door behind him slammed shut.

He climbed the stairs aimlessly.
Nothing was said between them.
There was only one way this would end anyways.

And he was shaking, barely clutching onto the railing as his fists clenched tightly onto thin air. He held his arm anchored to his chest, his skin numb and his sleeve bloodied. One end of his own shattered bone stuck out from under his trousers, the fabric being the only thing holding it in place. Each material scraped against his raw, exposed flesh and absorbed his blood until it painted his entire being in a shade of dark red, flowers forcing themselves out from his gaping wounds.
His forehead was bloodied over, his own insides dripping like cold sweat down his face, burning his eyes, and flowing down into the collar of his shirt.

He couldn't help but feel like his clothes were the only thing holding his body intact, that if they disappeared, all his bones would tear themselves through his skin and his guts would slither out of the holes onto the concrete.
His jaw was going to break apart from the clenching along with the rest of his head which felt sure to explode at any second.

Each step further up the stairs felt like hell itself was grasping onto him, pulling him down and not letting go. Each step further up, he could feel his bones grinding against eachother at the marrow, and the red flesh that squeezed between them, broken through each step at a time until only his main structure was left to keep going. Agony made a few seconds feel like centuries before he found himself back at the top, barely kept together.

And yet, he tried to calm himself. He tried to listen beyond his pounding heart and sharp breaths. He needed anything.

'One word from you and I would jump off of this ledge I'm on, baby. Tell me don't so I can crawl back in.'

"And Stanley stood there drinking in the fact he would die, again. He wanted any bit of validation he could get, that's how pathetic he was. Now if you don't intend to keep wasting my time, Stanley, then jump already. You've wasted enough crawling up the stairs like an animal."

He frowned. Where was the old Narrator? Where was the "Stanley please don't die, if you die, we'll loose all of this! Stanley listen to me and come down.. please..."
He did seem pathetic, he knew he did. But he needed anything, he needed anything to get him back on track, to give him even just a flicker of hope... anything..

Of course, nothing came, and he gave in. He gave in to the tiredness corrupting his brain and the fog in his eyes, and let himself sway under the weight of his own head until he was motionless at the bottom of the stairs, life flowing out of him until death took him.

Regret for each one of his actions sunk into him as death did the same.

And he awoke in the same office.
He cradled his head in his arms and rested for a few seconds before a force yanked him off of his chair.
"Wake up, Stanley.
Going around spending my time and taking time off for yourself." The Narrator huffed a sarcastic breath, "Ever considered how selfish you are, Hm? Of course not. Someone like you wouldn't have the mental capacity to think  about anything beyond doors.
How can you still consider yourself human? I know I would reject your sad self straight away, there's no point thinking about your nonexistent freedom. No one's ever going to accept you, Stanley. You're nothing."

As if he ever needed anyone to tell him that.
His chair was thrown at him with force, hitting  into his legs and crushing them under him.

"Move on, Stanley. Each second I look at you, I feel as if I'm looking at a half dead animal."

And he was shoved out of his office where his legs broke down under him.
He had become the pathetic body of a man who was nothing more than a puppet to drag around.
His limbs barely worked to his command and he spent his days being pushed, this way and that, by the Narrator, until one day, maybe, he'd get bored.

And maybe, he'd try to fix Stanley.

But there'd be no cure for a man who'd had his entire being completely shattered and rotted all the way through.

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(I sure love putting this man through every hopeless situation, don't you?)