I cannot lie. I have always admired him. Not for his power or how clever he is. It's really his ego regarding the end. He thinks knowing how it all ends is the same as surviving it. It's a beautiful type of confidence that the Horrorterrors just eat up. Had he been mortal, I bet he would look great in black. He found me long before I found him, or so he believes. Our meetings were always pleasant. Tea, polite conversation. Predictions traded back and forth with practiced smiles. We were akin to surgeons complimenting one another's steady hands as we cut open the narrative. He always left first. He always believed he had extracted exactly the information he intended to. He never inquired as to why I asked so few questions. He never noticed that each conversation became easier for me to remember. I am not talking about the words. I am talking about the spaces between them. The pauses, the assumptions. The places where his certainty stitched the rest together. Eventually, I understood. He never looked at me. He looked through me. Every exchange was compared against an impossibly complete model inside his own mind. Every sentence became another confirmation that reality still occupied the rails he expected. He was speaking to his expectations. Never to me. So I stopped answering them. He almost seemed to frown slightly when he noticed. I answered a question he had not asked. The conversation continued. The second time, I interrupted a sentence before he reached the conclusion he had already prepared. It felt like he flashed a courteous smile, as though he had accounted for it. The third time, I was standing when he entered. That was not normal. In his mind, he thought it impossible. He paused, only for a heartbeat. Then he continued as expected. He adjusted. He always adjusted. But now, that meant he was on my terms. I think that was when I realized he could not retreat. He refused to. Retreat did not exist within his catalog of abilities. Every inconsistency demanded explanation. Every contradiction demanded observation. He would walk deeper into any labyrinth if it promised one more answer. So I built him one. Not from walls, but from confirmations. The hallways always turned where he expected. The doors always opened. The clocks always kept perfect time. The furniture stayed still. Every test and observation reinforced the last. He grew more confident. So confident that by the time he understood something was wrong, nothing was wrong. Everything was painfully, perfectly correct. He eventually reached the center of this maze. It became real. It was a sitting room. Tea had already been poured. His favorite chair waited beside the window. Outside, there was only white. No skyline. No horizon. No stars. Just endless brightness. He looked at me. I mean, really looked at me. For the first time. Then he asked the only honest question he had ever spoken. "How long have I been here?" I smiled. I had the knowledge but no longer needed it. He stopped asking what would happen. He stopped telling what would be. He finally started asking about the past. At that point, every lock triggered and imprisoned him. Deep within. I still visit him. The tea remains warm. He remains immaculate. He can still predict what I say at times. He is usually right. Then he asks what day it is. I tell him. Every time. He thanks me. Every time. I do not think he has noticed that the answer has never been the same. I do not think he has noticed that the window has been getting closer to his chair. Or perhaps he has. Perhaps that is why he no longer looks outside. #horror #psychologicalhorror #cosmichorror #analoghorror
KUDOS!
ANY ROOM FOR ADDITIONAL PRISONERS IN YOUR LABYRINTH TOLIGHT.
took me a second to recognize this was fiction it is so cool!!! gosh.
Sure.
Only cute ones.