Ego One shots- Oct-Dec 2017

Sparks of the past

It wasn't loud noises of the city below that got him. It wasn't even the cold harsh wind blowing at his face like icicles. It was the fact that the blood on his cheeks was starting to freeze. He could feel himself getting frostbite, but regardless of logic, the Host stayed standing on the edge of the roof. Not questioning, just thinking. Alone. Just as he always was. His bare hands ran over the end of the the smooth wood, gripping his cane tightly. The cool made it almost like metal, returning a familiar feeling to his fingers.

The Host took a breath, and suddenly he wasn't blind anymore. He wasn't even standing on the roof anymore. Instead, he was standing in cozy cottage in the woods, heated by the warmth of a fireplace.

He wasn't the Host. He was the Author again. He was secure, and strong, not broken like he was as the blind Host. He watched the ember crackle through the flames, smoke flooding into the night sky, and he took his seat on the recliner, just watching the flames. His hands rubbed the warm leather, taking in a deep breath.

The sound of a muffled banging rattled his core. Another one of his subjects was getting fussy. The Author rolled his eyes and leaned over, grabbing a small leather bound journal from the side table. He opened it to the marked page and began writing.

"The guest continued banging, begging to be released, pleading for his freedom, but something overcame him. A strange scent filled his lungs. He could feel his throat tightening, his vision was fading. He reached out for something, someone to come and rescue him from the choking feeling, but nobody came. The man feel to his knees, consciousness fading faster now. Begging seemed pointless now. All he could do was recollect his sins. He knew not whether he would return to his prison, or if death had finally come to claim him,"

As the Author spoke the words aloud, the banging slowed until it stopped completely. The Author looked over to the door leading to the basement and smirked before going back to his journal.

"The poisonous gas drained from the basement and almost disappeared into thin air. However a trace remained in the victim's lungs. It would leave him weak and vulnerable when he woke, the perfect state for another tale."

The Author closed the book and threw it back on the table, leaning back in his seat, smiling. The feeling inside him was something he never wanted to lose. To have that power over another was what he lived for. The power to be in control.

The Host nearly fell off the edge as the memory faded away. He stumbled, but stepped off the edge, steadying himself again. His knees felt weak, he could barely stand. So he didn't. He gave in and stopped fighting as he feel to his knees whimpering. His lungs were in pain after taking in so much cold air and breathing heavily. He could feel more warm blood dripping down his cheeks, only to slow as it became colder and more solid against his skin.

The blind man reached into his coat pocket, fishing out a handkerchief to wipe what blood off that he could. As he began to stand, he realized he didn't notice him dropping his cane.

"Looking for something?" A voice called. The Host turned, filling his mind with an image with his narrations.

"The Host turns, wondering how someone could sneak up on him so easily and also wondering how long they'd been standing there. The Host soon recognizes the voice that spoke to him. Regardless of the fact that there are nearly a dozen men with the same voice, The Host can pin point each and every one. The blind man reaches out his hand to retrieve his cane from Dr. Iplier,"

The Host takes a breath, his voice changing, becoming more direct and louder. "Thank you Doctor. The Host is curious to what brought you up here,"

The doc smirked, handing the Host a pair of gloves instead of his cane. He waited for the Host to put them on before doing anything else. The Host hesitated, he felt like a child being told by his mother to put on a coat or he'd catch a cold. Instead of just refusing, the Host put them on. He wanted his cane back.

The doctor smiled, then handed him his cane. "I was going to ask you the same question," He said, stepping closer to the ego.

The Host gripped the handle of his cane tightly between his fingers. He just wanted to be left alone, but similar to himself, the doctor was stubborn. "Well I- the Host asked you first,"

The other man laughed to himself. He didn't particularly like seeing the Host get frustrated, but only when he into first person again did it make him smile. He knew the two were close, the Host had spoken normally to him before, but lately the doc had noticed a change in his behavior. He was even more isolated than before, he barely left his floor. Only ever coming out for meetings and food, sometimes not even for food. Most of the time he had to beg the blind man to leave his library, or take a break from recording to just get some fresh air. It had been weeks, and he was genuinely beginning to worry.

"Fair enough," the Doc finally responded. "I was actually looking for you. I know you haven't been sleeping much so I was going to check in. You weren't in your study, your studio, or the library so I... I came here. What are you doing up here? It's almost 6 am,"

The sincere concern in his voice was clear as day. In a strange way it hurt the Host. He didn't want to worry the doc, or anyone for that matter. He didn't deserve it. The host turned his back on his friend. "Meaning you should be asleep doctor. The Host is sure that Wilford is going to make Bim do something stupid for his show and you're probably going to have to patch him up. You deserve all your rest, considering how much you help everyone," And that I only hurt everyone. The Host didn't want to upset the doctor, so he kept his final comment to himself.

"Host," Dr. Iplier sounded wounded. "I want to help you too. I know you've been shutting everyone out. I want to know why. Please, let the doctor help you,"

He considered it for a while. He considered actually telling him it all. It was so long ago when he realized all the pain he'd brought people when he was the Author. It haunted him every night, but recently it was getting worse. He wanted to tell the good doctor about the night terrors. The dreams of his puppets coming back to haunt him. Some begging for him to stop, some were violent, some were downright insane from all his torture. But did he deserve such a luxury? Did he deserve to have someone tell him it was all in the past, that he was better now and he would never do that again. Right? Of course not. It was better to be weak and humble than powerful and vicious.

Right?

The Host opened his mouth, about to tell the doctor when something stopped him. He could feel heat on his skin melt away the cold. The Host turned, stepping closer to the edge, feeling the sun's rays soak his body. The doctor stepped next to him. "Wow, this is a great view," He said. Not really thinking about who he was with.

There were some moments, when his narrations, though subtle as they were, almost made it so he wasn't blind at all. This was one of those moments. He was murmuring very quietly, painting a picture of the morning sky for himself. It was beautiful.

"This is why I'm up here," the Host finally said. The Doctor turned to him, noticing the change. "The morning sunrise marks the start of a new day. It reminds me that everyday is a new chance. It helps me remember to always move forward," The Host reached up, wiping more blood from his cheek, then slightly tugging on his bandages. "And never turn back,"

Dr. Iplier understood now. He knew the Host's regrets and his past. He never asked what happened to make him who he is now, what moment lead to here and now, but that was something he'd have to wait for the Host to explain. For now, all he could do was he job. Be a doctor and treat his patient.

"Come on," the doc gestured to the roof door. "Let's go inside, you need to changes those bandages,"