Can't Say

Chapter 17

      Despite being physically exhausted from your recent first-hand experience in being medically treated by your master, you were wide awake. You stared up at the dim ceiling, hardly noticing that you didn’t bother to turn on the room light – you didn’t care. The medicine you had swallowed earlier was finally starting to set in, dulling the pain in your abdomen to a tolerable level. Even so, each bit of movement you attempted to make in order to adjust yourself on the bed sent shocking pain through your system.
      Through your boredom and your pursuit to take your mind off the discomfort, you began thinking over exactly how you got into this mess. This was a good time to organize your thoughts, after all. When you got revenge on the school bullies and your parents, you fully expected to be alone and homeless for some time. Never did you think that some supernatural entity would take you under his wing – or even test to see if you were worthy of his charge. What was even more surprising was that you passed those tests. This thought seemed to cause a proud sneer to curl up at one corner of your mouth. After so long of being told how worthless and disappointing you were, fate was proving them wrong – you were proving them wrong. If only those jerks could see you now.
      But they were dead.
      Good riddance.
      Your thoughts drifted along the timeline of your recent few days, trying to understand the people you’ve met and how to interact with them without getting killed. Hell, you didn’t have to directly interact with these guys to begin fearing for your life! Most of them seemed predictable in their own ways. Slenderman was an exception, however; this guy’s moods changed just about all the time. So far, you'd survived his various colors by acting accordingly. It was probably the only way anyone lived with the Slenderman, but you made a mental note to discuss this with one of your teammates when you got the chance.
      A firm rapping at your bedroom door disturbed your pondering. Before you could answer with your intended, “H-hello?”, the knob twisted and granted your visitor entrance. 
      It was Laughing Jack. He was carrying that same silver tray that he had used when tending to Masky. The tray was full of medicine bottles, a pitcher of water, a matching drinking glass, and a large book of some sort. Again, before you could say anything, Jack began to assert his presence on you. This time he pouted to you as he rounded your bed and approached the nightstand, “I can't believe that Eyeless Jack got to play with you and I still haven't.” This clown sounded sincerely hurt on the matter, but you were more concerned as to what he considered as “play”.
      “We, uh...” you warily tried to correct Laughing Jack, “he and I weren't playing. He was cutting me open.”
      The monochrome clown confirmed your suspicions when he gave you a truly confused look after resting the tray on the small table next to your bed. It was then that you understood what his idea of “playing” was – which should have made sense to you much sooner, considering the he's a fellow resident of murderers.
      Your eyes wandered to the tray, examining its contents in the dim light of your bedroom. “I already took some pain meds not long ago,” you state, knowing that taking too many in too close of intervals was a terrible idea. 
      “Slenderman already explained that to me,” Laughing Jack noted, “but he said that you haven't taken any antibiotics.” To this, he pointed a large black finger at the orange prescription bottle labeled with “vancomycin”. It was prescribed to someone you had never heard of, strongly hinting that these medications were stolen, but again, this was normal here. Jack continued, “These are high doses, and they're only to prevent an infection from festering, so just take one a day. Drink plenty of water.” He then adjusted his finger to the other bottle, “These are narcotics for when your pain comes back. Don't mix them with others. Try to wait at least four hours between each dose.” His instructions sounded practiced; Jack must have done this pretty often. 
      You nodded in understanding to each statement, making near-silent “Oh”s  as you were corrected of your assumption. Since it was pointed out that you hadn't taken any of the antibiotics yet, you rolled onto your side, propping your other half with an elbow, and opened up the bottle of vancomycin. You dumped out a single pill while Jack poured you a glass of water, to which you gratefully accepted and popped the medicine into your mouth.
      After all that was done, you adjusted yourself against the large silken pillows so that you could sit up and finish your water without straining your wound any further. “So,” you sipped the surprisingly clean water, “are you the maid of this mansion or something?”
      Jack had been standing there, hunched over with his abnormal arms dangling at his sides, while he was ensuring that you medicated yourself properly. As soon as you had asked him about his role in the mansion, Jack let out a hearty laugh and pretended to wipe away a tear with his finger. When he calmed down, the clown correct you once again, “I just like to help Slenderman's Proxies through their recovery. It's a sort of,” he paused, choosing his words, “agreement I made with him in exchange for being able to live outside of my box.” Here, his tone of voice faded to a rather saddened mumble, “...and to socialize with other beings.”
      To this, you gave Laughing Jack a concerned look while taking another sip of your water. He easily translated your expression as a request to delve deeper into his history. Taking a seat on the edge of your luxurious bed, Jack explained what he used to be; his far more jolly arrangement of colors, his box that he couldn't open on his own when inside, when he met Isaac, his short friendship with the boy, the devastating time he had spent trapped in his box and waiting for Isaac's return, his fading colors, and finally, the day Isaac did return, but as a completely different person.
      “It's not all bad, I suppose,” Jack sighed and you gave him a pitying look. “He taught me fun new ways to play with others.” At this, he grinned at you, raising a large hand to brush away a stray lock of hair from your temple. “The only downfall is that I usually can only play with people once per person.” 
      This sent a shiver crawling through your skin. You severely hoped that Laughing Jack never got the opportunity to play with you the way he did with his victims. The only comfort you got out of this was that Slenderman wouldn't allow it, which wasn't saying much. 
      While taking a once-over glance at you, probably to make sure you weren't having a reaction to the medicine, Laughing Jack noticed that your drinking glass was empty. He plucked it from your grip, stepped over to the nightstand, and refilled your glass. Rather than handing it back to you, though, Jack simply moved the tray and placed the glass onto the surface of the nightstand. “You should sleep. It'll pass the time,” he suggested while removing the contents from the silver tray and neatly placing them onto the table. “Or you could always read this,” Jack teasingly waved the mysterious book toward you before resting it with the other miscellaneous items. 
      “What's it about,” you raised a brow as you tried to identify the thick literature.
      “Slenderman told me to bring you a dictionary,” Laughing Jack sneered bemusedly. “It'll probably save your life if you expand your vocabulary.” He winked, tucking the serving tray under an arm, and strolled out of your room.
      When the door clicked shut, you released an exasperated sigh. The last thing you ever wanted to read was a dictionary! Unfortunately for you, there was no chance of sleep, thanks to your earlier nap, and exploring the mansion was out of the question for the time being. 
      “Well,” you grumbled, reaching over and grabbing the book, “it's better than staring off into nothing.” You willed the light in your room to flicker on, thankful for the convenient Proxy benefit. After getting a little more comfortable, you cracked open the dictionary and decided that your first word to search would be the one your master had suggested in the medical room.
      “Meditate,” you mumbled to yourself, “to engage in thought or contemplation; reflect.” There was another variation of the definition, “to engage in transcendental meditation, devout religious contemplation, or quiescent spiritual introspection.” Considering that Slenderman brought this word up when the two of you were discussing your future training regime, you were pretty sure he didn't want you to meditate on religious things.
      You glanced at the prior definition. “Reflect,” you mumbled thoughtfully. Slenderman's words echoed in your mind as you recalled him mentioning “abilities” that humans have suppressed. Jokingly, you wondered if that meant magic or elemental control, wiggling your fingers within view as if to cast a spell. Of course, nothing happened. You knew that your master was implying physical abilities, such as strength and heightened senses.
      Resting the opened book on your chest, you sighed, wondering how the hell you were supposed to meditate on physical fights. You'd been in so few, and you weren't exactly awake for some of them. 
      Memories of your past fights ran through your mind, dissolving the ceiling that you gazed up to. You could easily recall the pain you had felt in those scuffles. Most of them you lost, limping home with torn clothes and deep bruises. Your parents didn't care. They just didn't want to be responsible for your physical damages.
      For a long time, you had held back your anger; your grief. You carefully plotted out how to destroy those school bullies, how to get revenge on your parents, but you failed to plan what would happen after all of that. Still, you wondered how much of a mistake that was. The murders went well. No one noticed your deed until you were far into the woods. You had done a good bit of contemplation on how to keep everyone quiet so things would go quick and smooth. 
      Contemplation.
      The familiarity of the word brought you back to reality, to which you lifted the dictionary and scanned over the definition of meditation again. “To engage in thought or contemplation,” you mumbled.
      The realization hit you like a flurry of tickles, sending you into a hysterical giggle. This was quickly interrupted by a sharp pain in your abdomen, reminding you that abdominal use was highly limited. Still, you grinned to yourself as you now saw that you knew exactly how to meditate all this time. It wasn't just about sitting weird and humming tones.
      “Fine, then,” you said. “I'll meditate on how to fight.” This was going to be way easier than you thought. 
      Just as you relaxed your eyes back up to the ceiling, however, the distant, yet startling, slam of a door jolted your senses. This was all accompanied by a flurry of curses from what you recognized as Jeff the Killer's voice. He was soon answered by another voice, though you couldn't identify it, who also swore out in surprise at Jeff. 
      Something was wrong.
      Unable to just sprint down to the scene, you remained in your bed, breathing as lightly as you could. You tried your best to stay quiet so you could hear what was going on. Many of the sounds were muffled, but you could at least estimate what sort of expression they portrayed. Footsteps thundered up and down the staircases in various intervals. They were in a hurry, rushing to achieve some sort of goal that you didn't know. The footsteps would fade down the hall, away from your room, and then rush back to and down the staircase with little time in between.
      Curiosity got the better of you, although, you still didn't plan to go downstairs. Instead, you carefully slid off of your bed and hobbled to the door. From there, you cracked it open and peeked down the hall to at least see what all the running was about. It wasn't long before you heard a pair of heavy boots rushing down the hall toward you. When they got close enough, you saw within the dim lighting that it was Ticci Toby carrying an armful of various medical supplies – well, you assumed they were medical supplies, since the ace bandages were easy to identify – looking legitimately fearful of the situation at hand. He turned sharply to descend the staircase, disappearing from your sight. 
      You could still hear Jeff cursing up a storm, though he was also coughing in between fits of choice words. The other voice was a little clearer now, and you were pretty sure it was Ben Drowned, as you could hear him nagging at Jeff to hold still and shut up – that was obviously failing. 
      Another set of feet rushed toward you, though not nearly as pronounced. Laughing Jack's long strides were oddly graceful for his physique, but you pushed that aside in your mind as you squinted to what he was carrying in his long arms. There were a couple of orange prescription bottles, surgical threads, and other more serious-looking medical supplies than what Toby had. A cringe found its way on your lips as you guesstimated what may have happened to Jeff.
      From the bustling and commotion downstairs, you heard Ben yell out, “Where the fuck is Slenderman?!”
      As much as you wanted to hobble over to the staircase and listen in more closely, you decided that it was best not to get anywhere near the path of chaos that was going on. So, you shuffled your feet back to your bed, trying not to use your abdominal muscles, then rolled under the covers and continued to wonder what had happened to Jeff. 
      After some time, things died down. The mansion was back to being quiet, save for the slow footsteps climbing to the second floor. You could hear pained grunting with nearly each step. A little later, you heard a nearby door open and close a few times, accompanied with grumbling curses – you were pretty sure they were curses. After the final clicking of the distant door, you heard a single pair of boots make their way toward your room.
      Part of you panicked, wondering if somehow this might be your fault – though, there was no way it could be – but you remained still, eyes locked on your bedroom door. The knob twisted and the door swung open, revealing Hoodie. He stared at you for a moment, probably checking to see if you were awake, then continued into you room, closing the door behind him. “We need to talk,” he said. This didn't help your slight paranoia in the least bit, to which you gulped and nervously defended that you couldn't have done anything wrong.
      Hoodie stepped over to the foot of your bed, staring you down, “I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm here to warn you – as my teammate.”
      Warily, you waited for Hoodie to continue, not sure how to respond.
      With a deep inhale, the yellow-clad man began to explain, “Jeff was injured on one of his hunts. It was someone from a separate faction of Creepypastas.”
      “There are factions?” You arched a brow at Hoodie, never once thinking that murderers would require multiple clans.
      Nodding, Hoodie branched off the subject of Jeff, “We may all enjoy killing, but we have our own common morals that we go by. You see, there are two major factions in the Creepypasta world: The Slender family and the Zalgoids. There's a sub-faction called the SCP's, but they're classified as feral.” Hoodie paused, making sure that you were keeping up with him. When he didn't receive any questions, the lecture continued, “The Zalgoids are led by a being equal in strength to Slenderman, who goes by 'Zalgo'; they prefer chaos and destruction. On the other hand, there's the Slender family – which is what we're a part of – who prefer order and sophistication.”
      “Why didn't I get to choose a faction?” You blurted out, not really thinking the obvious answer.
      “Proxies and Minions don't get to choose their faction,” Hoodie shrugged. “We're slaves to the faction heads. If you don't like it, then you die.”
      You gulped, “Right.” It was silent for a moment until you broke the silence with further inquiries, “So I'm guessing all the factions hate each other.”
      Hoodie nodded, crossing his arms over his chest, “There's been a war going on since before I got into all this mess. Neither Zalgo nor the Slender family appreciate the SCP's, but that's probably one of the few things they have in common.” 
      Your eyes stirred in thought, wondering how long it would be before you had to deal with even more danger than you had originally anticipated on missions. This thought brought you back to Jeff's rather grandeur entrance from earlier, “Is Jeff gonna be okay?”
      “Yeah. He'll live,” Hoodie answered. “He'll just be bedridden for a while; maybe a few days, at the most.”
      You bit your lip, not sure how sensitive the subject was, but decided to ask anyway, “Is-Is that what happened to Masky?”
      A heavy air fell over the room. You began to regret your words, fearing that Hoodie would lash out at you. Instead, he answered grimly, “Yeah.” The yellow-clad man raised a hand, sighing, and brushed back his hood to scratch at his head in frustration. “He's trying to take all the blame, but the whole team knows that part of it was my fault.” When Hoodie noticed your silent urge for him to clarify further, he sighed again and continued, “We were ambushed by a few Zalgoids on a mission. It's my job to watch Masky's back when things go wrong, since he's the scout. I was stuck, though. I tried to fight my attackers off, but those Minions are way tougher – they're not humans. Masky can fight, but he's not that great at fighting multiple opponents.”
      All the while, you nodded at each of Hoodie's statements. You took in his words, mentally preparing yourself for similar events that may happen in the future. Some relief washed over you when Hoodie mentioned how Slenderman saved the whole team. He really was a scary creature, and you were glad he was mostly on your side – so long as you did as you were told.
      Hoodie soon finished his story of regret by mentioning that Masky had been improving greatly these past couple days. “Poor guy wants to get out of that bed so bad,” he chuckled. “Maybe Toby and I will start his physical therapy tomorrow, since he's off the machines now.”
      You flashed a supportive smile to Hoodie. At that, he waved a darkly gloved hand and walked out of your room, leaving you alone once again. “Great,” you mumbled, “now I'm stuck with the dictionary some more.” But that wasn't the focus of your thoughts. Further within your mind, you were screaming, begging for the dangers to just stop. It was like every day brought new things that could kill you. Not only were you having to fear your house-mates, your master, and the mission targets, but now you had to worry about supernatural beings who could only benefit from killing you!
      “I'm really not okay with any of this,” you grumbled, though you knew no one cared what your preferences were.