MOVED TO ALANXWAKE

Maybe, if she slipped into the Darkness, she’d see him. That itself was certainly different, strange and bewildering for Nora; someone who swore she’d never step back into the darkness ever again. Yet, here she was. Wishing, pleading for the Darkness to slither her away, drag her back to The Dark Place, for one purpose.

What did it matter? He was dead. She saw it all – and the very images, still lingered, burned and inked her mind. Leaving her screaming, crying and gasping every night – drenched in sweat and tears. Repeating the very traumatic and painful event over and over again, and sometimes more vivid than others, louder or slower – It never faded from her mind.

His voice, his promise buried a deep hole in the back of her mind, and each moment she’d close her eyes; she’d see him. Just for that second, if she dare tried to sleep – she’d get a single second, a quick vision of the writer, and that was the only time she could feel her heart thud, flicker in her chest. Otherwise, she couldn’t feel anything, even with his jacket still wrapped around her physique, she felt nothing. She didn’t want to.

Dull and tired eyes would stare back at you, a life torn apart. The fickle traces of the Darkness still stitched in her mind, poisoned and infected with the most traumatizing reflections and memories; it never stopped and at times, the stray thought of ending it would turn her head for a second, yet she’d hold on – to the only thing she could, her brother.

While he didn’t quite understand her traumatized state – having sealed her lips, and only mumbled a few “thank you” and feeble smiles. He use to push her, to try and get her to talk; but the second her mind sparks and the memories are ignited, like a flare, the tears flow and the shaking starts. The panic attacks overtake her body, and he’s left to hold his sister until she passes out from the shock. Too afraid, too frail and fragile to let the words slip… to tell the tale of her escape from The Dark Place, what was meant to be a happy ending.

Days were spent in her room, in silence. Clutching, pulling and holding onto the only thing she had left of his, something she would never let go of – She was never going to let go of him.

What seemed to hover and dwell over her, as she sat in silence – Was the mere fact, that she couldn’t tell him everything she tried so desperately to hide and trap from her mind. Let alone, a single goodbye, she couldn’t thank him, or tell him she loved him. It tore her up, inside and out – She didn’t want to eat, yet she forced herself to and even then. Simple and small meals. All she really did, was sip on water and carry a flashlight around, it reminded her of him, hell a lot of things did…. And each time something did, she could feel her heart sink even lower into her chest, hiding and yearning for someone she’d never see again….

She’d call herself pathetic, a coaxing mechanism for trying to pull herself together; wake up. To rise above this drowned state – yet, she knew she was kidding herself. While, she knew she was being histrionic – at least, to her judgement. She knew how deep her feelings were for the writer, and no one else could tell her otherwise. She tried, but she couldn’t gather herself anymore – He was gone, because of her. If he had slammed the door in her face, like everyone would assume he would – If he had just ignored her, he’d be alive and she’d have found her own way out. Right? That’s how it should have been..

Yet, here she was. Home. Where she once felt like she belonged – but her heart wasn’t there, it was somewhere else, it was deep within the depths of Darkness, shrouded and sealed within the grasp of two cold and lifeless hands…

She’d never felt so lost – so out of place, and defeated. She didn’t want to be there anymore – she didn’t want to exist anymore and as the thought begins to thicken and stain her mind, she hears a soft flutter beside her, and her head slowly moves to narrow her eyes on a lose piece of paper, one she didn’t recognize. For she hadn’t written anything as of recent. Her eyebrow furrows, and her eyes strain slightly before she slips the paper between her frail fingertips and turns it over, and her eyes read the letters, the words….

“Dear Nora,

I’m Sorry.

I Love You.

I made plans, to visit the local psychiatric Institute, for the usual study for my books – whether I’d need it was another question, but I always liked to study and go out my way sometimes to make sure every source of information I had was correct and accurate; I couldn’t have false or inaccurate information in my books; Critics just love to jump on you for that, I hadn’t fallen victim to that sort of treatment, but I’d seen it first hand, and it can get nasty.

Even with my personal involvement with these sort of institutes, I put every little feeling or memory aside – There is no point going there, with a mind full of regrets, torment and suffering. Not when I’m trying to write something Fictional. Although; it’s constantly been said that every writer puts a small shred of themselves in their characters, I’m not one of them. Every character I’ve made are just fragments of my imagination and nothing more… there isn’t a single hint of Alan Wake in them, and there never will be. Sure, I might have a character with similar traits or hobbies but they’re never a shadow of myself – If I wanted to do that, I’d write a damn autobiography of myself, and I’ll never do that shit.

This was daunting in more than one way; skin crawling and the hairs on the nape of my neck, arched with each slow step forwards. The freshly cleaned white ceramic flooring, left my boots with a loud clack with each step; the sound echoed down the hallway and the silence was deafening. I didn’t hear any of the patients. It was quiet, and eerie and most certainly unsettling – even by my standards, but at least I chose to visit when it was day time, unlike most people; who choose to investigate a place at night – hoping it will spark some sort of trigger in their mind, or a ghost. Heh, yeah not this sceptic. Paranormal Activity and all of that psychobabble, is just a metaphor for the human psyche and nothing more, at least in my opinion and understanding.

The Nurse beside me, had a very wide smile, and her cheeks flushed brightly; her eyes would occasionally glisten with each glance over at me. It had me feeling that slight tickle of anger in my throat. She’d been like that, the second I walked up to the reception desk. She would gush and gloat about reading my books, and between my fake smile, and grinding teeth I’d just nod and reply with the standard short answers. I can’t say I get this sort of treatment a lot, in fact it’s rare; and I’m not saying I don’t appreciate it.. I just, don’t understand it. I don’t understand my readers, at all. As much as I’d like to, I choose not to. They’re simply puerile for even reading me, let alone admiring what I write. There are far better writers than myself out there….

She was telling me about the routines, in which, was of interest to me; I’d jot down certain words and strategies she explained in my note pad. Although, a lot of the times, if not most the times; She would run off track and start asking me questions. Questions, I didn’t want to answer. I remained silent for most of the part – letting my mind wander as we strolled down the long, wide and white corridor. Each room we passed, displayed their respected numbers and names beneath. In large bold capitals. Occasionally, we’d pass an employee – pulling a cart, with a tray full of meds and instruments. It made me cringe slightly, was that really necessary? … Who am I to say what’s right and what’s wrong in this department. I wasn’t a psychologist, or Psychiatrist. I was just an inquiring and curious writer. So I thought.

It wasn’t easy – no matter how hard, I tried to convince himself that it didn’t bother me; it was tough, yet the deeply stubborn man that I am, kept walking. Shoulders high, and eyes alert. Regardless of the situation, the scenario. I was there for one purpose, for my book. That’s what I reminded himself each step along the way, until my eyes flash at a certain name that instantly stopped me in my tracks and froze my gaze at the door – My lips parted in disbelief, in shock. Never did I think I’d stumble across it, surely this had to be some illusion. How could this have happened so quickly? – I’d only been there for roughly an hour.

The nurse noticed the footsteps beside her had vanished, and as she turns to face me; frozen and shaken. She looks to see the door I stood before and bit her bottom lip, mentally slapping herself. Alan Wake. Surname: Wake. Linda Wake

She didn’t say anything, she was no doubt afraid to even whimper a single sound from her quivering lip; so she left me there. To deal with it by myself – it was no difference if she was there or not. I couldn’t even hear anything besides my heart hammering so heavily against my rib cage, I was certain it was going to burst and tear its way through my chest.

Do I even attempt to interact with her – I hadn’t seen in her so many years, she’s been a distant memory. A lost memory if that, The only thing I could remember, was that my eyes were exactly the same as hers, such a bright ocean blue… but that’s it. I can’t even describe her voice, or even the colour of her hair; and she was right behind the door I stood before.

I could feel the panic starting to settle in, crawling beneath my skin and coursing through my veins – I had so many questions that started to whirl and swim around in my mind, but what did it matter? This wasn’t going to fix anything; she wouldn’t even know who I was, like once before and it’d only ignite my demons and leave another scar beneath my skin, what would this even prove? Nothing.

As I stood a few feet away from my Mother, I let the hesitation drown itself, swallowed by the deep sorrow that overtook my body and I stepped back, even as my heart yearned for the mother I never had, I stepped away and never stepped foot inside that daunting place again, I’d like to think I did the right thing.