A drop here, a drop there (a one-shots/snippet book)

Red Hands, Red Heart (WtNV)

Her fingers dug into the soft, dark soil, displacing granules of dirt as she cupped a handful sideways and pushed it towards the hole. A layer stuck to her wet hands after she lifted them, but she paid it no mind as she did it again. And again. She trembled, her breath shaky, her limbs weak, but she continued on, burying her hands in the pile of dirt and pushing off handfuls. She did it again. And again.

The hole in front of her slowly filled.

She stood, stumbling on weak legs, almost falling. The tiles that she removed for this was discarded next to the exposed ground, and she grabbed the edge of one. She was trembling, but she still worked, still moved.

Dana Cardinal lived in this town all her life, she knew that to freeze in the face of human terror meant death.

But there was no one around, she was alone in the room, and the one who tried to take her life was now buried in front of her. So after she was done she took this moment to just sit, just for a while. She stared numbly at her hands, sticky with blood, covered in dirt. She raised her gaze to look at the tiles in their rightful places, seemingly innocent if not for the dirt left scattered like spilled flour.

Dana thought of her own face, eerily blank and empty of life, slowly being covered by the dirt that was carried by her own hands, and shivered.

Who was she? Was she the original or was she the copy that had the original's memories?

After hearing Larry Leroy's description of the sandstorm, curiosity led her to open a window so she can run her hand through the odd psychedelic sand that flowed gently like a slow moving river. It was unlike any sandstorm she had ever experienced, maybe unlike any sandstorm that Night Vale had ever experienced. Dana had closed the window, and it was then she noticed the other Dana, who looked equally as shocked.

Suddenly faced with herself, she had been driven to prove that she was the real Dana, and so this other her must be fake, must not exist. Thinking back to the same existential terror she saw in the other Dana's eyes, she knew now that they both had felt the same. They both felt the same need to prove their own existence by erasing the other.

And so in the aftermath, Dana, or her double, sat on the floor and trembled.

Music snapped her out of her trance, playing through the only speaker in the break room. She gasped as she remembered where she was and what she was supposed to be doing. Dana is an intern in the Night Vale Community Radio station, and the radio show is still ongoing. She can ruminate on what she had done later. With a sense of urgency and one last look backwards, she hurried out of the break room.

Dana ran, except when she passed by Station Management's office. A low growling sound is heard through the closed door. Blurry, black silhouettes of tentacle-like appendages can be seen whipping furiously on the other side the window. It seemed that Station Management was displeased about something, though she didn't know why or what.

Dana breathed through the waves of existential despair emanating from the office as she slowed down to a walk, powering through with the ease of experience. She reached the control booth in record time despite it, and the intern entered with a sigh of relief.

There was a low hum in the air, muffled but loud. Through the control booth window she saw Cecil, his back facing her and standing in front of a swirling vortex of black. Alarm shot through Dana when he stepped closer.

This must be why Station Management is angry! she thought, and slammed open the door separating the two rooms.

"Cecil, don't!"