sweetpea

(set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) <center> <hr class="rounded"> Hey, sweetpea! (live: 1s) [(stop:) Are you awake? ] (live: 1.3s) [ (stop:) (You probably shouldn’t be, it’s late!) ] (live: 1.8s) [(stop:) (But if you are…)] (live: 2.5s) [(stop:) Could you open the downstairs door? ] (live: 2.8s) [(stop:) I’ve forgotten my keys. ] <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3.3s)[ (stop:)It takes you a moment to blink sleep from your eyes, phone chiming with a flurry of texts from your father. The screen flickers and $rumble[buzzes,] as you clumsily bring it close enough to squint at.] (live: 3.4s)[ (stop:)Isn't he supposed to be in his study?] (live: 3.6s)[ (stop:) [[Which one?]]] (live: 3.6s)[ (stop:) [[Are you sure you forgot your keys?]]] (live: 3.6s)[ (stop:)<hr class="rounded">]

<center> <hr class="rounded"> Which one? (live: 1s) [(stop:) Oh, either or.] (live: 1.4s) [(stop:) I’m not too picky! ] (live: 1.8s) [(stop:) Just tell me which one.] (live: 2s) [(stop:) I’ll head right on over!] <hr class="rounded"> (live: 2.5s)[ (stop:)[[Give me a moment.]]] <hr class="rounded">

<center> <hr class="rounded"> Are you sure you forgot your keys? (live: 1s) [(stop:) Pretty sure, kiddo!] (live: 1.8s) [(stop:) Wouldn’t bother you so late otherwise.] (live: 2s) [(stop:) You need your sleep.] (live: 2.5s) [(stop:) Especially if you want to catch up!] (live: 4s) [(stop:) To your brother’s height, I mean.] <hr class="rounded"> (live: 4.3s)[ (stop:) You don’t have a brother.] (live: 4.4s)[ (stop:) Not unless dad had another family he didn't tell you about, or whatever.] (live: 4.5s)[ (stop:)[[Brother?]]] <hr class="rounded">

<center> <hr class="rounded"> Give me a moment. (live: 1s) [(stop:) See you soon, sweetpea.] (live: 1.3s) [(stop:) Remember, hurry! ] (live: 1.8s) [ (stop:) It’s cold out here! ] (live: 2s) [(stop:) See you soon, dad.] <hr class="rounded"> (live: 2.7s)[ (stop:)You should take a moment to think about which door to head to- if you’re really sure that you want to. After all… Your father is supposed to be in his study right now. That's where you saw him last, long legs folded up and scrunched into his office chair. A pale slice of light is seeping from beneath his door, leaking out into the hallway’s gloom.] (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Go toward the stairs.->1]]] (live: 3.3s) [ (stop:)[[Look out the window.]]] <hr class="rounded">

<center> <hr class="rounded"> Brother? (live: 1s) [(stop:) Oh, you know!] (live: 1.3s) [(stop:) Your brother.] (live: 1.6s) [(stop:) Don't be silly.] (live: 2s) [(stop:) He’s always got his boots by the door.] (live: 3s) [(stop:) The sort you could cave something in with.] <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3.3s) [(stop:) Those are your boots.] (live: 3.5s) [ (stop:)[[Right.]]] <hr class="rounded">

<center> <hr class="rounded"> Right. (live: 3s) [(stop:) Right!] (live: 3.3s) [(stop:) Now, can you come downstairs?] (live: 3.8s) [(stop:) The snow’s picking up, sweetpea.] (live: 4.3s) [(stop:) It’s pretty chilly out here!] (live: 4.8s) [(stop:) The wind’s a-howling…] (live: 5s) [(stop:) It’ll be nice to warm up by the fire.] (live: 5.1s) [(stop:) I'll be there.] <hr class="rounded"> (live: 5.3s) [ (stop:)[[Go toward the stairs.->1]]] <hr class="rounded">

<center> The only light continues to seep from beneath the study’s door. The house groans, settling into its old bones for the night- rushes of air gasping from the ventilation, the floorboards creaking beneath your gait. The sound of your steps doesn’t stand out against the backdrop of noise. The spilled light and the house’s laboured exhalations make your nightgown flutter slightly, stirring like old ghosts. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Head towards the study.]]] (live: 3.1s) [ (stop:)[[Walk over to take a look out the window.->Look out the window.]]] <hr class="rounded"> </center>

<center> Surely, it wouldn’t hurt to take a peek? The lights are still on. Even if your father was home- you can't remember when he left, if at all, let alone why- it wouldn't be as if you'd woken him up from a deep sleep. [[He spends a lot of time in his study.]] Oh, sure, he might've complained some at being disturbed while in the middle of sifting through his thoughts in one of those imposing leatherbound tomes he keeps in his drawers. Maybe groaned that it wasn't polite to just walk into someone's personal space. But at least you would've heard from him. At least you could've seen him. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Open the study’s door.]]] <hr class="rounded"> </center>

<center> You try to take a deep breath. It dips below freezing at night, and the house is slow to warm. There’s a spasm, a tightness in your chest- before that too, passes, and your palm is rasping against the wooden panels of the door, carved in intricate details fringing the border. Best to get on with it, then. You push, twist the knob with your other hand: and let it swing wide open. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Take a look inside of the study.]]] <hr class="rounded"> </center>

<center> Maybe you’d be able to catch a glimpse of him from the window. You aren’t too high off of the ground, and with [[the full moon smiling above clouds scudding lowly over the rolling hills,]] there should be enough light to catch off of his hair, to illuminate his face. The window sill creaks as you lean over, gripping the condensation slick wood to peer below. There is someone standing by the side of the house. They seem to be intently staring through the windows on the ground floor, jiggling one as if testing to see if its been locked in place from the inside. The figure is too indistinct to positively identify, though. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Take a closer look at them.]]] <hr class="rounded"> </center>

<center> The glass is cold against your face, biting into the flesh of your palm. If you squint, and strain to see- you still can’t manage to make out who it is. It’s more likely than not to be your father, though, from the fragmented, blurred bits you’re able to make out. He has his [[usual red bobbled hat,]] the colour bright and cheerful in crowds where he stands head and shoulders above everyone else. His scarf is dark and wound up around his mouth, obscuring the lower half of his face. The coat you don’t recognize, though- some nondescript greyish shell you could find left to loiter in any office’s entrance in the city. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Call out to him.]]] (live: 3.2s) [ (stop:)[[Take a step back.]]] <hr class="rounded"> </center>

(set: $blink to (text-style: "blink")) <center> Should you? The glass squeaks beneath your touch, dribbles of icy condensation slicking the inside of your wrist as the pane warms with your body heat. If you yell loudly enough, he should be able to hear you. $blink[Dad?] (live: 5s) [ (stop:)[Even with the window frozen shut- it’s a cold, cold night. The house is slow to warm. Most nights, you bundle up snugly beneath a pile of blankets, a fuzzy sweater wrapping you up like a hug, socks pilled and worn from years of wear.]] (live: 5.5s) [ (stop:)It should come as no surprise, then, that you convulse with a cold shiver as the figure turns in your vague direction. ] <hr class="rounded"> (live: 6s) [ (stop:)[[Try to open the window.]]] <hr class="rounded"> </center>

<center> There’s no one in here. You sigh in relief. It’s a little strange that the light would still be on- last you checked, your father had been grumbling about getting it set up on an automatic timer, something to do with motion sensing. Electricity isn’t cheap, heating costs sky rocket in the bitter winters- and he was always picking around at the innards of the house, gutting and reconfiguring it in perpetual renovations. The study is, as ever, dominated by a large mahogany desk. He’s left his journal out, a capped fountain pen sitting placidly beside it, waiting patient and pretty to be used. There’s a cup he’s sipped from, leaving staining dribbles along the sides of the ceramic is nearby, steam tepidly curling off of the tense surface. Your dad drinks it made up neat- no sugar, no milk. The acidity of coffee’s cut by him brewing it overnight in the fancy little French press downstairs, though- with cold water. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Drink from the coffee mug.]]] (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Look at his journal.]]] <hr class="rounded"> </center>

<center> The window is frozen shut. It’s not going to budge, even with a spirited try. You give it another few tugs for good measure, bang the top of the latch with the meaty side of your palm. Nothing happens. The ice sits there, frostily splotched over the metal- you think it might be silver. The house has fine metalwork along its frames and panels, though it all came with the original building. The fussy, fine whorls and etchings are a pain to keep clean. Grime has a tendency to build up in the cracks. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Warm the latch up with your hands.]]] (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Try to chip the ice off.]]] <hr class="rounded"> </center>

<center> That’s enough of that. Something tells you it’d be best to look away before the figure notices your staring. It’s a quick shuffle off to the side- and with this sideways slant, you have a better view of what it’s up to. The red bobble hat’s fallen down a little, sliding off of dark hair- as the figure presses itself up against the front door, revealing bare, frost bitten fingers, flexing periodically in an attempt to usher blood back into the frozen digits. It’s a bizarre posture to take- until it hits you. (live: 5.5s) [ (stop:)[[They’re trying to look in through the peephole.]]] </center>

<center> You figure it’s worth a shot. Your hands are still warm from being cozily tucked beneath the covers. As you grip the latch, it borders on painful. A few icy droplets are your only reward- it’ll take you hours, at this rate, to melt through the thick encasement. Your skin cools considerably, and the thawing slows to a crawl. You eventually pull your hand away, wiping the dampness collected on the front of your nightgown. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Try a different approach.]]] <hr class="rounded">

<center> Well… It could be nice to have something warm. You lift the mug to your lips- and sniff briefly, before taking a sip. It’s just as dark and rich as you’d expect- a touch bitter. He might have made it up with hot water, then, rather than topping off cold concentrate in the morning. But what was he in such a rush for, then? He usually wakes up early, just to carve out a pocket of time for his daily ritual, thin wire glasses fogged up from delicately pouring from the kettle, careful not to slosh the hot water. There’s nothing nearby to nibble away at on his desk, which is a touch disappointing. Usually he’ll at least have a biscotti, or a chunk of shortbread- something lightly sweet or buttery to take the edge off of his morning brew. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Put the mug down, and go back to looking around.]]] <hr class="rounded"> </center>

<center> That’s enough of that, now. Just a sip. Your tongue feels dry- his coffee has always been oddly astringent for you. Might be a difference in the beans, or the oil content, or something like that. The finer intricacies of his hobby always float over your head as he noisily grinds the beans, waggling around the kitchen with a white apron tied loosely on, more stained with paint than grease. The study is still largely occupied by his mahogany desk. The journal sits patiently, with a capped fountain pen perched beside it. You can tell that he’s been careful in refilling up the cartridges, there’s no stray smudges of ink along the barrel or dribbled along the desk to give that away. The cup’s cooled down some, in no small part because you took a pretty substantial sip- steam no longer roils off of its surface. It still strikes you as odd that he apparently made it up with hot water, rather than topping off cold concentrate. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Take a peek at his journal.]]] <hr class="rounded"> </center>

<center> That feels like a violation. Unease curls in your stomach, as you hesitate- not wanting to reach over and flip the cover of the journal. It’s not something he would ever share with you. While he was more than happy to hand you an empty notebook to use for your own clumsy attempts at a diary- acid free paper, sewn bindings, a nice sturdy hardcover with an attractive design- he’d only stared at you with disbelieving eyes and a firmly set mouth when you’d innocently asked to see what he did with his. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Examine the journal.]]] <hr class="rounded">

<center> (set: $blur to (text-style: "blur"))(set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier"))(set: $mirror to (text-style: "mirror"))(set: $upsidedown to (text-style: "upsidedown"))(set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble"))(set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) Your father’s handwriting is neat, if cramped- usually crimped in along the edging margins of textbook pages or scribbled on the bottoms of receipts he uses as hasty bookmarks. He never was the sort of person who would buy those cute, custom made bookmarks- the sort with shiny eyed kittens and insipid pastoral scenes. The words swim in front of your eyes, making little sense. You can see the bold curves, the straight lines- but they $upsidedown[rearrange] $rumble[themselves] $blurrier[ceaselessly,] $shudder[refusing] $mirror[to] $blur[coherently] $blurrier[join] $upsidedown[together.] You close the book, and your eyes- breathing heavily for a moment, nausea swimming at the back of your throat. Maybe best not to open the book again. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Close the journal, and go back to looking around.]]] <hr class="rounded"> </center>

<center> The leather cover doesn’t come as much of a surprise to you- though it’s gained it’s own sort of worn in patina of sorts over the years, worn thin and the oil from his skin worming their way in to soften it, make it supple. The pen isn’t anything new either. You’ve seem him twirling one between his fingers often enough, and his ink curation was one hobby your father was always happy to share in with you, shaking up shimmer inks and filling up demonstrators. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Look through the journal.]]] <hr class="rounded"> </center>

<center> You close the journal, fiddling momentarily to set the cover back just so. The leather ones can be so particular, sometimes. The study still feels claustrophobic, the mahogany desk eating up most of the real estate. Your father’s journal is sitting back beside the capped fountain pen, still twiddling its thumbs, whiling away the hours until its lifted for use. The drips of dark, plain coffee are starting to set into what’ll be an abomination of a stain to scrub off of the ceramic mug. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Raise the mug for a sip.]]] <hr class="rounded"> </center>

<center> It could be nice to have something to drink, after that. You’re still blinking spots from your vision- the world wobbling gently on its axis, shuddering as the walls seem to draw in closer, sucking in a breath. You close your eyes firmly, open them once more. The room is as it ever was. The coffee’s cooled, by now, though it’s still warm in the cup. You take a sniff before drinking. It’s bitterly dark, deeply rich, and doesn’t taste at all like the cold brew he tops up with hot water in the mornings. When it steeps overnight, the flavour’s mellowed, gentler on your tongue. It does make you wonder what your father was up to, that he was in such a rush, he couldn’t take his time in the morning to delicately pour hot water out of the kettle. The coffee’s astringent, making you itch for something sweet to suck on, or something buttery to crunch through and rub away the cloying dryness. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem as if there’s anything to nibble on nearby. Normally he’ll stash treats about to have with his plain cup of coffee, but perhaps he’s eaten them already. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Take a look around for nibbles.]]] <hr class="rounded">

<center> That… Feels deeply wrong to do. Your stomach’s twisted into knots, churning and twisting as you hesitate, hand hovering overtop the journal. Your father would never share his journal with you- he kept it tucked away into all manner of folios, crammed into desk drawers, and slipped in between weighty textbooks to sandwich it out of sight. He hated being seen with it. Most people thought he was just absentmindedly taking meeting notes. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 2s) [ (stop:)[[Closely examine the journal.]]] <hr class="rounded"> </center>

<center> You can at least take the opportunity to appreciate the front cover of the journal, you suppose there’s not too much harm there. The leather cover was handcrafted, though you can’t remember if your father commissioned it, or whether he’d made it himself. [[It might’ve been a gift, but that seems more unlikely.]] It’s been worn soft over the years, made malleable beneath his touch. The pen isn’t anything new either, he often carries one tucked behind his ear, or spun out on his hands- dancing over his fingers the way his hands fly over piano keys, coaxing waves of music out from creaky instruments half eaten by rot. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 2s) [ (stop:)[[Leaf through the diary's pages.]]] <hr class="rounded"> </center>

<center> (set: $blur to (text-style: "blur"))(set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier"))(set: $mirror to (text-style: "mirror"))(set: $upsidedown to (text-style: "upsidedown"))(set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble"))(set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) His handwriting is the same as it ever was- sprawled over the tops of pages of books, smushed onto post it notes that you find sprawled out on the ground- having fluttered loose from being stuck to the bathroom mirror. It’s neat, pressed in close to itself, and always feels like its sliced out of a broader body of work: like you’re missing some vital context. You try to focus on what the words are trying to say. It doesn’t make sense. You can see the individual strokes, the swoops and curlicues of writing, but they $upsidedown[rearrange] $rumble[themselves] $blurrier[ceaselessly,] $shudder[refusing] $mirror[to] $blur[coherently] $blurrier[join] $upsidedown[together.] Vomit bites at the back of your throat. It’s a concerted effort to tear your eyes away. The book slams shut, seemingly of its own volition. You don’t remember moving your hand to do so. It’d be best to not open the book again. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Take a look around for nibbles.]]] <hr class="rounded">

<center> You could do with something to eat. Maybe your blood sugar’s just dipped down low- that could explain your inexplicable dizziness, the light headedness that threatens to send you careening into the side of his desk- it’s sturdy wood. It would hold up under the collision. Still, with your luck, you’d wind up hip checking one of his favourite demonstrator pens off, and break its body open, spilling ink all over the rug that wouldn’t come out, no matter how much scrubbing and gnashing of teeth you did. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Look for his usual stash of snacks.]]] <hr class="rounded">

<center> The window is still resolutely frozen shut, though a few wet dribbles of cold water have snuck their way down onto the window sill. It’s a bit dusty- but there’s no bug corpses littering the wood. Dad’s absentminded, but he’s not that neglectful. You consider what to try next. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Try to chip the ice off.]]] <hr class="rounded"> </center>

<center> The lights are still on, in the study. That strikes you as strange- you thought you’d heard him mumbling on about putting them onto a timer, to save some money on the electricity bill. It gets pretty expensive. It should just be you and dad who could be the culprits behind the light being left on. You’re an only child, after all. His study’s the same as it ever was. You aren’t usually allowed in here- but sometimes, your father would usher you in through the doorway, carefully close the door behind you- and pull out a rainbow of inks and syringes for you to try your hand at filling some pens with. He had a whole cup of cheap pens, the sort aimed at school children and cheap hand outs to let people get a taste of writing with something other than a ballpoint for the first time. There’s a few other items- a cup of coffee that’s going to leave sticky trails on the desk, his journal: at that, you look away. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Grab a pen and go.]]] <hr class="rounded">

<center> What could you use to chip the ice off? A comb would be too flimsy, same with a bobby pin, even if it would be nice to wedge something beneath the tiny gap at the bottom and try to pry off the chunk of ice. It strikes you as strange that enough water just managed to pool here to cover the latch so thoroughly, but old houses often hold to their own agendas, so perhaps its not so unusual after all. There’s nothing in your immediate area that would prove useful. Maybe you should look around to find something nearby. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 2s) [ (stop:)[[Approach the study.]]] <hr class="rounded">

<center> This is old ground, for you. You remember being gifted your first fountain pen as a child, the smiling face at the end of the silvered nib, the pastel toned cap and light plastic body. It’d been a special day- being big enough to take part in one of the many small rituals your father participated in, sought out room in his life purposefully for. You came here for a reason- it’s best not to linger in here for too long. You aren’t generally allowed in here unsupervised, and even when your father is sitting behind his desk, half keeping an eye on you as you patiently copy out psalms and verses from the illuminated bible he keeps chained in his office- he doesn’t like company for long. [[His study is his sanctuary.]] <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Go back to hack at the latch.]]] <hr class="rounded">

<center> You trot back, quickly retracing your steps. The house is still breathing, shifting with the temperature difference of day and night. It’s a quirk of the construction, dad explained- old houses are just more prone to expressing themselves. They’ve had more time to grow into a sense of self- not like the soulless sameness of baby suburbs. It feels heretical, to be wielding a fountain pen like this. You had the courtesy to not use one of his more expensive pens- you’d never hear the end of that. You grip it tightly, palm slick against the chunky barrel, and drive the end of it into the chunk of ice. To your surprise, the ice cracks in two. The chunks are still closely nestled together, but you can flip the pen and slide the nib in between to wiggle lightly. That makes enough room for you to jam your fingertip in, flicking the ice away. Both pieces fall, melting sadly on the windowsill. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Step away.]]] (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Open the window.]]] <hr class="rounded"> </center>

<center> Maybe it isn’t the greatest idea to pull open the window this late at night. There’s biting bugs, swooping bats that hunt after the buzzing mosquitoes and thumping moths bashing their brains out on the streetlights- and whatever, or whoever, is downstairs. It seems a little childish to be worried that it might scramble up the side of the house, clinging to the brickwork with sharp nails prying into the mortar- but you can’t [[shake the image.]]

<center> When you were a little girl, you always pictured something like it running alongside the car. As the bracken and pine whipped past at break neck speeds, clouds skimming low over the horizon, you’d picture something scrambling over the rocks and weeds, diving through ditches and swampy little ponds puddling off of farmer’s fields. It had four limbs, a squeezed tight ribcage, and a blank, featureless face- a haze of shadow that was supposed to occupy the space between eyebrow and lower lip. [[It ran like a hunting dog, following you and your father along those old roads.]]

<center> Dad never saw it, no matter how many times you pointed it out to him. He’d snap, tell you not to distract him when he was behind the wheel- it was dangerous. It was the result of an overactive imagination, and what better remedy could be prescribed for that then than reading through the good word? He’d set you off on the task of copying out lines, inspecting them after for neat penmanship. Dad was always insistent on keeping your lettering consistent, if [[not perfectly formed.]]

<center> The funny thing is, you don’t remember it ever catching up. Inevitably, as the car slowed, and dad pulled up onto the driveway- your companion, if you could call it that- would have veered off back into the tree line and left. It never came close to the house. [[It’s as if it knew that it wasn’t welcome there.]]

(set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) <center> You could pick out what you copied- he appreciated you showing initiative, when it came to your assigned contemplations. You liked to write out the lines describing the angels- the sight of which could drive mortal men mad, eyes blistering beneath the gaze of the sun- the supernova exploding into being accompanied with the words $fade[DO NOT BE AFRAID.] You liked the idea of someone with a great big booming voice, gently glowing hands, and compassion for the weak little ones, those most ardently in need of defending, of protection from the demons festering beneath the floorboards. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Scurry off to the stairs.]]] <hr class="rounded"> </center>

<center> The window catches for a moment, as if being tugged shut in the opposite direction. You eventually manage to open it up- cold air cascading into the room, leaving you shivering and peeking up on tiptoe to get a better view outside. There are bats swooping in the distance, moonlight highlighting their fuzzy little bodies as they devour hordes of biting insects and softly flapping moths. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Look for the figure.]]] <hr class="rounded">

<center> You’ll need to if you want to open any of the doors on the ground level. Best to tuck your phone away when navigating the landing and stairs- it’d be [[bad timing to take a tumble.->Go toward the stairs.]]

<center> Standing by the window is giving you the creeps. It’s getting quite cold, what with being still for so long, lost in recalling old road trips and the snugness of your seatbelt pulled tight. Shuffling off back towards the stairs might get your blood flowing again. Besides, if whoever was downstairs chanced a look upwards- you’re not sure that you’d want them to see you vacant eyed and staring aimlessly at the street lights. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 2s) [ (stop:)[[Best to head back to the stairs.->Hop on over to the stairs.]]] <hr class="rounded">

<center> In the time it’s taken you to get the window open, it seems like the figure at your doorstep’s scarpered off. You take another look around your garden, admiring how tiny the umbrella shaded picnic table looks. It’s just about the right scale for the soppily sweet little statues dad commissioned from a local artist after your obsession with watercolour illustrated fairytales featuring mice, fairies, and clever children. The fountain gurgles- the same one you throw coins into and watch the blackbirds scoop up to exchange for treats at dad’s experimental feeder. Still nobody there, though. It looks like [[you’re alone for the time being.]]

<center> That was weird. It’s even weirder, seeing as you hadn’t specified which door you’d be heading down to, either- so for all they knew, you could have been happily trundling to the back patio, leaving them free to lurk without being interrupted. At least it’s not like they could see very much through the peephole. Dad knows you usually enter the house from the backyard, anyways- the gate connects to the front lawn through a cut off path between both houses, and you like to appreciate the progress the dandelions and red clover are making of taking over the lawn before popping indoors. The backyard is comfortable, and the swinging bench he built and installed is lovely for reading in during warmer weather. If you had to guess which door he would assume you’d head on down to, you’d think that dad would head to the back. You’re not all that sure you want to spend a great deal of time near this window, anymore. Maybe it’d be a good idea to head back to the landing and take some time to collect your thoughts. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Hop on over to the stairs.]]] <hr class="rounded">

<center> The house is still groaning, settling into itself. You think dad explained to you that it has to do with the expansion of the wood, because of water, and temperature fluctuations- something like that. It’s sort of hard to puzzle out what exactly he’s going on about- you’re expected to seamlessly keep up with debates about the merits of making up your own penflush solutions bouncing over to the nitrogen fixation of red clover and legumes, with a jaunty meander into how there sure are a lot of poisonous species of mushrooms around here you shouldn’t nibble on, even if they’re brightly red, speckled, and beautiful. The floorboards are still squeaking beneath your steps, as you shift your weight from side to side, pondering where to go next. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Try going to dad's study.->Open the study’s door.]]] <hr class="rounded"> </center>

<center> You’re used to being alone. You spend most of the day cooped up inside the house. Dad’s meticulous on finding you new things to read- they’re not always books. Sometimes they’re loose sheaves of poetry you can follow along by tracing a finger beneath the lines, or smuggled out half chapters from textbooks all bundled together into a chaotic manilla folder, or incomprehensible print outs from lab machines you imagine whir and bubble away, or [[cheerful advertisements telling you about summer camps.]]

<center> You mostly like the books with delicate illustrations, and the advertisements- how happy people look, smiling away with windblown hair, matching colourful t-shirts making them seem as if they all belong to [[some singularity bigger than its individual pieces.]]

<center> Dad works at a university, you think- and people call him professor, because he professes- it’s different from preaching, you’re pretty sure. He doesn’t have the right sort of collar for that, but he does have the dark suits. It’s the same sort of idea, though- standing up in front of a crowd and talking to them. All those watching eyes, turned solely in his direction. Held up in front of the crowd like some sort of idol. [[The idea is kind of nauseating.]]

<center> You’re more comfortable being alone- dad says you’re a lot like him that way. Daddy’s little girl, he says- with the same satisfaction as when a particularly expensive pen has shipped in mint condition. He spends more time than you do with others, but it’s just business- all part of the gig, kid, he’ll say, eyes half lidded as he leans out of the upstairs window, smoke curling out of his mouth as he takes another long drag on a slim cigarette. They always look like toys in his hand, so impossibly tiny and frail. The lit end reminds you of the lightning bugs that blink in and out of existence near the house’s windows. The bugs go away when it’s cold again- like now, when the wind howls like [[it can’t stand to be in its own skin.]]

<center> Speaking of the wind, it’s getting pretty cold. You blow on your fingertips, chafe them together- hop from foot to foot like a little bird finding its balance. Standing still isn’t doing you any favours there. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 2s) [ (stop:)[[It’d be a good idea to skip to the stairs, try to get your pulse kickstarted. ->Hop on over to the stairs.]]] <hr class="rounded">

<center> His desk has all manner of cleverly hidden drawers. Dad told you that it’s because when you were very little, you had a habit of scampering into his office- slipping beneath his arm, and wriggling into the big chair, cheerfully grabbing fistfuls of stray pens and dyeing your whole hand lurid pink from the pots on display. It was much tidier to have drawers to sweep armfuls of sensitive papers into, to keep them away from [[the contained chaos toddlers could be.]]

<center> You also know that he doesn’t really like sharing his favourite chocolate. He likes to smooth out the wrappers and hoard them in a plastic bag- he’s too nervous about trying to use an adhesive to stick them into his journals, for fear they would slowly eat through the paper. The bag itself is tucked neatly into the back flap of his journal, though- and when it gets too full, he transfers the whole lot into a waste storage cube like [[for the run off of his chemistry experiments.]] They’re all stacked up in his laboratory’s storage area, like building blocks. You’d hate to see [[what would happen]] if the stack ever toppled over.

<center> It’d be too obvious to steal some of those. But you might be able to get away with snagging some of the extra caramels he keeps in there on days he can’t be bothered to walk downstairs to the kitchen to get more of his favourite sweets. The walk keeps him trim, he insists. You let one of the candies melt on your tongue- luscious, the sharpness of sugar rounded off gently with the butteriness of caramel. The foil wrapper crinkles, stuffed into your pocket for now- it’s a rookie mistake to get rid of the evidence at the crime scene. Maybe you’ll flush it down the toilet later. You pocket a few more caramels for the road up ahead, just in case you wanted a snack later on. There’s no way he’d miss them- he has scads. That’s enough of ransacking your father’s study. [[Time to head back to the landing.]]

<center> The house seems to have quietened down, but not settled. It’s as if it’s holding it’s breath- the floorboards tense beneath your feet. It’s still cold- the moon is still high in the sky, casting long shadows in the backyard. You rub your arms, goosebumps prickling over your skin. Wearing a nightgown is fine and dandy when you’re snuggled up beneath the covers- you sleep in a little blanket nest, with plenty of pillows lining the curved walls. It’s a different story when you’re wandering around at night. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Did you have a look out the window?->Look out the window.]]] (live: 3.2s) [ (stop:)[[Go to dad’s bedroom.]]] <hr class="rounded">

<center> Well, if he’s not in his study, he might be in his bedroom. It could be worth checking in there first. You’re still not entirely convinced that he ever left the house to begin with- and it [[couldn’t hurt to double check.]]

<center> You’ve spent a little more time in his bedroom than in his study- he doesn’t mind if you barge in in the middle of the night, snivelling and crying over some bad dream, demanding to be comforted, to be soothed. For someone so particular about having his own space, his bedroom is oddly neutral- void of any strong hints of personality, serviceable enough for it’s purpose: to have somewhere to lie down his head to sleep. It’s his office that’s stuffed to the seams with the clutter of his life- the bedroom is all laid out in shades of grey and white. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Put on a sweater.]]] (live: 3.2s) [ (stop:)[[Rummage through dad’s closet.]]] <hr class="rounded">

<center> It’s cold, you could do with something more substantial than your nightgown. Dad wouldn’t begrudge you pilfering one, as long as you only wear the wool cableknit sweaters outside in the backyard, and never the fluffy angoras. He keeps his sweaters hung up alongside his suits, swinging quietly inside of his closet, near to his colourful ties and their accompanying pins. It takes a bit of rummaging around to pull down a sweater- but you settle on a nice thick one, [[worn soft and slouchy.]]

<center> You wriggle into it. It swallows your frame up- but that’s good, you like the extra coziness. You scrounge around for a bit, and pull out a pair of matching socks. Dad keeps some of yours in his room for the times you fall asleep after a bad dream. They’re reading socks- with a decorative little bow at the ankle, and you’re pretty pleased with how cute they look. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 1.3s) [ (stop:)[[Ponder what else you can do in dad’s room.]]] <hr class="rounded">

<center> <img src="https://drive.google.com/uc?id=1QJBmEtAWVtHSHK6pQgXgyFWRxfjWuext" width="500" height="500" alt= Sweetpea is handwritten in white at the top. The eponymous protagonist is below, with a pale face, dark brown eyes, and long wavy black hair emerging out of a spread of sweetpea blossoms in dark purples, pinks and blues, on a black background. She has two pink butterfly hair clips. </img> [[START->doorquest]] [[CONTENT WARNINGS]]

<center> A friendly notice that Sweetpea deals with the following subject matter that some might find distressing: </center> **☆Unhealthy family dynamics** - Particularly related to parenting. **☆Unreality** - The paranoia of having your loved ones replaced and being unsure of your perception of reality. **☆Ecclesiastical content** - The bible, archangels, rosaries- loosely interpreted. **☆Mild body-horror, injuries, violence.** - Typical fare for the horror genre. **☆Alcoholism.** **☆Home invasion** <center> If that doesn't sound like your cup of tea, no worries! Thank you for your time. If you would like to play: [[Return to START.->start]]

<center> Dad doesn’t keep much stored in his closet, besides clothing. Most of his suits look more or less the same to you- lots of greys, blacks, deep blues- a few more twee ones in lighter browns and neutrals, presumably for the summer. You can’t imagine where he wears the silvery white one. His dress shirts are pretty boring- he likes to keep his appearance neat and tidy, so there’s not much by the way of interesting cuffs or lapel adornments, the tie pins mostly exist because they’re functional. You do, however, find a box half buried beneath a mountain of hiking socks. They drew your attention simply because its bizarre for dad to not have carefully catalogued away his socks into their own individual cubbies. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Look inside of the box.]]] (live: 3.3s) [ (stop:)[[Don't look inside of the box.]]] <hr class="rounded">

<center> There’s a lot of glossy photographs. They're mostly just baby pictures- nothing you haven't seen before. Big brown eyes, fluffy black hair, chubby cheeks and baby rolls drooling over pastel bibs and with silly hairbands and bows to clearly mark you as a girl. Most of them are tucked into a small album, the plastic sleeves overtop crinkly and frail. The white edges of the album have yellowed, though you’re not sure if it’s from cigarette smoke or UV exposure. Dad has a nasty habit of smoking indoors, especially when temperatures drop outside. He usually works with his study windows thrown wide open- bundled into a thick sweater. He won’t tuck a blanket around his shoulders, though, he thinks that it’s childish. He doesn’t mind if you [[bring in your own blanket cape, though.]]

<center> It helps to cut the cold some, being all snuggled up in a nice sweater. You’re not sure where he got all of them. Dad doesn’t really visit secondhand shops- he thinks those should be reserved for people who really need the clothes. He’s made one exception of buying up old towels no one wanted, since the animal shelter was looking for some for their kittens. You wanted to keep one, but dad said that it wasn’t a great idea- you were too little to take care of them yourself, at that age. His bedroom is still dull as ever, draped in greys and whites, lots of black. He says that having neutrals take over most of the room makes it easier to match different wood tones. You have to admit, some of the design choices make sense- your room is all teddybear browns and whites, and it makes your stuffed animals pop that much more off the bed. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Take a look inside of his closet.]]] <hr class="rounded">

<center> The box holds a bunch of glossy pictures- mostly of you, when you were younger. You’ve seen them all before- the big baby eyes, your shock of dark hair from the moment you were born, your round cheeks and chubby little arms and legs. Dad always put you into pastel bibs, and silly hairbands and bows to make sure no one would mistake you for a boy. Your hair took awhile to grow out- spooling into loose curls and waves, so people often mistook you for a baby boy in your neutral onesies. The album that the pictures are in is crumbling- you quickly put it back into the box. It’s yellowed- from cigarette smoke or UV exposure, probably not any other sort of grime. You’d guess that dad was probably smoking while packing things away- it’s one of his grosser habits, when he’s doing chores around the house. It’s part of why he bought a place with so many windows and screen doors. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Take a moment to think about what you’d like to do next.]]] <hr class="rounded">

<center> Dad’s closet is pretty boring. There’s not a lot in here besides his clothes- suit jackets that look like they’re half of a person if the lighting is just right- and a lot of neutral colours you could pair with just about any fun coloured tie or accessory. Not that he has many of those. The tiepins are probably the most interesting thing out of the assortment- but you do like the lighter, teddybear coloured suits he has. He doesn’t wear them to work very often. You do find a box buried beneath hiking socks- it’s strange that he’d leave them loose like that. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Sift through the box.]]] (live: 3.3s) [ (stop:)[[Don't look inside of the box.]]] <hr class="rounded">

<center> It’s freezing in here. Dad doesn’t really seem to feel the cold as much as you do- he says it’s because he’s bigger, in a chagrinned sort of way whenever he adjusts the thermostat. You aren’t allowed to do so on your own. Maybe finding something to wear overtop your nightgown would be a good move- especially if you do plan on going downstairs. It takes you a moment to find something suitable- settling for a heavy cableknit sweater in cream. It’s the sort of sweater you could wear outside, but probably shouldn’t- he’d be deeply annoyed if you ruined the surface with a grass stain from rolling around or kneeling to pick up interesting rocks and flowers. You learned that the hard way the first time you’d excitedly brought in violets to press between the pages of his textbooks. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Take a moment to think about what you’d like to do next.]]] <hr class="rounded">

<center> Maybe you shouldn’t be poking through your dad’s things. He’d be pretty mad if he found out- even if what’s inside the box probably isn’t anything important. Maybe it’s just some of his uglier ties. He doesn’t throw those out, though he will donate the ones that are in better condition once he’s accumulated enough of them to make the trip out to the consignment store worth his while and gas money. You put the box back where you’d found it, carefully fluffing some of the hiking socks overtop. A sock gets tweaked here, pulled there- to make sure that the top is hidden from sight. There! All done. It’s as if you never disturbed it to begin with. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Take a moment to think about what you’d like to do next.]]] <hr class="rounded">

<center> Nothing much has changed in the time you’ve spent poking around his room. It’s still as monochromatic as ever, bland. It reminds you a little of a science centre, the colours they might choose to best offset their silvery machines and chugging gearboxes. The coldness is tolerable, now- though you’re not sure if that’s because your body heat’s been leeching off into the arctic air, or if it’s because the walls seem to be leaning in, as if to shrink the space. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Have a nap.]]] <hr class="rounded">

<center> It’s been a long night. Really- you should be asleep- you only woke up because of your phone buzzing from the flurry of messages earlier. You did say that you’d be heading downstairs, but if it is your father- you’re pretty sure he can figure his own way in. Some spare key that he’s cleverly hidden inside of the gardening pot, or glued beneath a decorative rock, or slipped underneath where the drainage hole leaks onto the steps. And if it isn’t your father- well, you probably shouldn’t be letting just anyone indoors. All in all- [[having a nap doesn’t seem like a bad idea right about now.]]

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) Sleep comes easily- pulling you under almost the moment your head hits the pillow, curled up beneath his heavy quilts. The house you grew up in has always been in some form of disrepair. $rumble[The bones are good,] your father says- his face turned away from you, obscured by the shadow falling through the stained glass window like sunlight. $shudder[When you have a foundation like that, you don’t let go of it so easily.] $rumble[It was built to last. It’s stood the test of time- and it’ll be standing, still, long after]$pencil[you’re gone.] <hr class="rounded"> $fade[[WAKE UP.]] <hr class="rounded">

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) It’s the blankets being pulled off that really gets your attention. You gasp, shudder- and stare directly into your father’s face, looming overhead. He has the same brown eyes, the same dark hair. The red bobble hat’s been stuffed into his pocket, a slash of red knit visible in the grey shell of a jacket. An inane little part of you thinks- Dad would never wear his coat upstairs. $shudder[Hi, [[sweetpea.]]]

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) His voice is sickly sweet as he coos, reaching down to brush your hair out of your face. He takes the time to spool one dark curl around his finger- pulls it taut, drawing out a wince. He lets it slip free from his finger almost apologetically. $rumble[Took you awhile to come to the door.] He hovers still, watching you rub sleepily at your eyes. His gaze flickers over your frame- and he smiles, when he notices you’ve burrowed into a cableknit sweater purloined from the depths of his closet. He plucks the edge of it, lets the heavy fabric fall back against your hip. $shudder[[It was cold, you know.]]

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) There’s a ground glass glitter on his sleeve, which he quickly drops back underneath the arm of his jacket. There’s a little tear in the grey surface, a bit of stuffing poked out- like an injured teddybear. $rumble[Are you warm, [[sweetpea?]] Let daddy tuck you in.]

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear"))His hands are cold, as he adjusts the blankets, pulling them back up so they’re snugly tucked beneath your chin. He puts the silky side of the blanket down, just the way you like it. For having been inside long enough for the snowflakes to melt from his hair and lashes, he’s still freezing. $shudder[I let myself [[into the house.]]]

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) He bends down, crowding your space- and drops a frigid kiss on your cheek, petting your head gently afterward like a kitten. You scrunch your eyes closed, and try to fumble for a familiar voice- ignoring your father’s smooth, oaky baritone, ringing hollow like the brass bells the church tolls every midnight hour. $rumble[I almost missed you.] (live: 1s) [ (stop:)$fade[[GET UP GET UP GET UP]]] (live: 1.3s) [ (stop:)$fade[[GET UP GET UP GET UP]]] (live: 1.5s) [ (stop:)$fade[[GET UP GET UP GET UP]]] (live: 1.7s) [ (stop:)$fade[[GET UP GET UP GET UP]]] (live: 2s) [ (stop:)$fade[[GET UP GET UP GET UP]]] (live: 2.3s) [ (stop:)$fade[[GET UP GET UP GET UP]]] (live: 2.5s) [ (stop:)$fade[[GET UP GET UP GET UP]]] (live: 2.7s) [ (stop:)$fade[[GET UP GET UP GET UP]]] (live: 3s) [ (stop:)$fade[[GET UP GET UP GET UP]]]

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) You can't. Your father sniffs the air. He brushes off some glassy fragments onto his carpet- and steps barefoot onto them without seeming to notice. The bloody blooms on his carpet are too dark, too coagulated- even in the dim lighting. He must have turned off the lights when he stepped into his room. $shudder[I’ll let you sleep now, sweetpea.] Sweat drenches your nightgown, making the thin fabric stick to your skin. Your hands would be shaking, if they weren’t knotted up in the blankets, held close under the pretence of missing a stuffed animal. $rumble[[Sweet dreams.]]

<center>(set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) Another man stands in the church’s chiaroscuro, face lost. He’s facing you- and some of him makes sense. You can pick out a broad shoulder, a long leg, veins running over the back of his hand like spiderwebbing. Other bits wobble, blurry at the edges: picked away at and eaten by moths. Feathers rustle, snicking over one another. He opens his mouth to speak- and $pencil[glowing fireflies] tumble out, blinking in $pencil[synchronized union.] $fade[[GET OUT OF THE HOUSE.]]

<center> You sit up in bed, gasping. Sweat plasters your hair damply to your face, brushed out of your way and tucked behind your ears- blinking owlishly at the darkness all around you. Michael made himself pretty clear with those instructions. You peek over the side of the bed. The blood is still there, setting deep into the carpet, dragged little trails from where he’d walked out of the room dribbling towards the corridor. You don’t need the blankets to be warm, but you’d like one for comfort. You set about swaddling yourself up fluffily in the softest one, pressing the silky side of it against your face briefly, nuzzling against the fabric. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Rummage through the nightstand.]]] (live: 3.2s) [ (stop:)[[Inspect the blood.]]] (live: 3.4s) [ (stop:)[[Listen at the door.]]] <hr class="rounded">

<center> There’s a few cards detailing information on two saints, Anthony and Philomena. The pastel tones of their portraits make them feel just like the fairytale characters in the watercolour plate editions dad hoards in the library. They’re familiar faces. Dad is always losing things, and it’s not uncommon to hear him muttering Tony, Tony- look around. Something's lost and must be found! to himself. Philomena is supposed to be your patron saint, dad said- because she looks over little babies and young children. Pushing them aside, there’s a rolling clatter inside of the drawer. Hastily pressing your palm into it, fingers spread wide, reveals that they’re broken beads from a rosary, left to bump into each other crazily in the drawer. On an impulse, [[you decide to pocket a few, slipping them in beside the caramels.]]

<center> The blood is gelled. Smudging a little bit of it with a flipped over bit of the rug shows that it hasn’t dried down all the way- and reveals the sparkling bits of glass still stuck in the mess. It’s less weird than dad wearing his shoes indoors, especially at the time of year- but it’s pretty weird he’d just walk over broken glass and not say anything about it. It’s darker than you’d expect. The second nap was a lot shorter than the first, but it seems like [[it’s taking an unusually long time to go matte.]]

<center> The house is breathing again- noisily exhales clumps of cold air. Something’s rattling around inside of the ventilation system. There’s a persistent squeak. Dad’s probably sitting in the rocking chair near the basket of knitting and embroidery supplies. It could be that he’s watching the door to his room from there, waiting for you to wake up. It could also be the draft setting the chair into motion- it happens often enough that dad usually will turn the chair over on nights before important presentations and meetings, so you [[don’t come sniffling into his room]] about the noise.

<center> You flatten yourself onto the carpet, carefully curling around where fragments of broken glass and blood sully the carpet. You strain to peer through the gloom. The chair is rocking, but there’s no one crumpled on top of it, the basket left undisturbed, knitting needles still stabbed haphazardly into a ball of yarn where they were last left. Dad probably had a business call he had to get to- [[and never got around to putting the needles back into place properly.]]

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) $shudder[What are you doing, sweetpea?] You almost swallow the last rosary bead you were holding onto- quickly tipping it into your mouth and hiding it against your cheek, tucked away securely. Your father stares at you, blinking- his eyes are unnaturally bright, [[blinking away motes of light]] like air bubbles sluggishly rising through the water column. They’re almost $pencil[glowing, in the dark-] cutting through the gloom of the room.

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) $rumble[Are you eating in bed?] He walks forwards- blood still pressing wetly against the carpet with every step. He’s left footprints all over the house. It’s going to be hell to clean- or, more likely, for him to explain to professional cleaners he contracts out, shutting you up in your room, voice harsh as he tells you to stay put, laying beneath the covers like a dead thing. $shudder[[Show me.]]

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) You bring out a crumpled caramel wrapper, offer it up in supplication. It’s all scrunched up from being mushed into your pocket. He stares, still blinking little blobs of light out of his lashes- before he laughs, the sound harsh and discordant, ripping out of his vocal cords in a way they never have before. $shudder[Candy in bed? Naughty.] Your father draws closer, smiling ghoulishly. He pauses right beside your bed, one hand reached out as if to brush your hair away from your face, tuck it neatly behind your ear. He stands still, head cocked to the side like a little bird- before he closes his eyes for a long moment. It’s as if he can still see you, though- the sensation of being watched persisting [[long after his lids have snicked shut.]]

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) $rumble[I suppose that’s fine.] His eyes open- hollowed out, tired. They’re looking straight through you. His voice is thinner, drawn tight. His shoulders crumple forwards, face falling- as if he’s had the wind knocked out of his sails. You’re not sure what brought about this change- tonguing the rosary bead clicking against your teeth. $shudder[Just clean up after yourself, sweetpea.] He walks out of the room, bloodied feet splatting against the carpet and hardwood floors. [[The door yawns closed behind him, hinges squeaking.->boundstairs]]

<center> You’re tempted to dip a finger into the mess. Maybe it would tell you a little more about what exactly you’re dealing with. You haven’t quite made up your mind on whether that’s something wearing the guise of your father like an evening waistcoat, or if it’s shrugged on his skin. But blood is blood, and if it burns- well, that’ll tell you something, at least. The blankets rustle as you shuffle over, flop down to lean over the side of the bed. If you’re not careful, you’ll [[fall headfirst into the mess.]]

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) $fade[I WOULDN’T GET SO CLOSE.] He hovers over the carpet by a good few inches. His outline is still as murky as it was in the church. You can’t make out his face- but you can hear the soft whispering of his wings sliding against one another, feathers buffeted around by the cool draft slipping in through the cracks of the house. He’s wearing chunky boots, scuffed at the toe with the teeth of his soles crusted with mud. There’s a few kandi bracelets on his left wrist, the bright sparkles falling off of [[him making them glitter and shine.]]

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) $fade[GET OUT, SWEETPEA.] His touch is cool, ethereal- gone almost before you can feel the weight of it at all. He ruffles your hair, before fading away, seeping into the wall. He’s gone in a blink- though he does leave something where he was standing. It’s just within your reach while [[still being flopped onto the bed.]]

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) You’re more than a little disappointed it isn’t one of his pretty bracelets with chunky pink and purple beads mixed in among the stark black on white letters. Instead, he left you [[some pretty enough pieces of a rosary,->boundstairs]] presumably snapped off a string when it hit the ground. You roll them around on the ground briefly, before stuffing the handful into your pocket.

<center> The carpet’s left pilled up little fuzzies that stick to the front of your nightgown when you get up, crouching slightly before going for the door handle. It looks like he might have cut his hands, too- or else was finger painting [[with the gore left behind by his steps.]]

<center> Slipping out into the hallway isn’t too difficult. The house coughs, floorboards shuddering for a moment- there’s a loose nail rattling around in the insulation, you think. It [[rolls like a marble,]] travelling the length of the landing.

<center> The chair has stopped rocking, having slowed to a stop. The balls of yarn have been chewed into pieces, on closer inspection- ragged tufted ends sticking straight up. [[The needles begin sagging under their own weight.->boundstairs]] Loosely draped over them are fragments of a rosary, fractured apart as if gnawed and flung. You pause briefly, rubbing one of the smooth beads with a fingertip, before hastily pocketing the mess of them.

<center> Well, you should be on your way, now. You try not to wince as you slouch towards the stairs. You can see your father through a crack in the bathroom door. His head is in the sink- water noisily gurgling down the drain as it splashes over his hair, plastering it down. He looks like a drowned man, gasping and making terrible noises that’re swallowed up by the ceramic. [[He seems to be too caught up in that to pay you much mind.]]

<center> Making your way down the stairs silently is impossible. The best you can muster up is a quick pitter patter, landing lightly on the edges of the steps. They’re less likely to creak than when you press all of your weight down on the sagging wood in the middle. You’re momentarily worried about splinters, but [[manage to scamper down without too much trouble.]]

<center> On the wall up above, there are oil portraits staring down in prim dismay, eyes flickering as you scurry past, feeling distinctly like a field mouse as you hurry past. Sumptuous gowns with careful pearl beading and brightly golden military uniforms pass by in a whirl of colours, the faces always frozen in the same moue of distaste and disdain. They’re larger than life. You’ve never liked looking at [[members of the family.]]

<center> Dad never talks about your relatives. He keeps their paintings up, but if he’s kept their photographs, you wouldn’t know where he’s put them. It’s less sentimentality, and more the practicality of hiding away where the wood’s gotten [[sunbleached around the weighty frames.]]

<center> It’s disconcerting, to see so many people wearing your face. There’s the same dark brows, deep brown eyes flanked with long lashes, dark waves of hair tumbling down to frame chubby cheeks. A few of the portraits are of children, sprawled on their mother’s laps, tiny frilly socks and smocks crooked from wobbling about on little feet. Your father has tucked those portraits high up enough its hard to make out their little cherubic faces from your height. Maybe he finds it [[easier to see them,]] all the way up there. [[Dad’s pretty tall.]]

<center> Up at the top of the stairs, you can hear the water running in the bathroom. Dad’s still coughing, choking- the burbling of the tap barely hiding his hacking and wheezing. Normally, you’d go knock on the door to go see how he’s doing, ask him if he’d like a glass of water- already held damply in a shaky grip, water sloshing over the glass’ lip. Right now, you don’t feel like doing that. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 3s) [ (stop:)[[Go towards the front door.]]] (live: 3.2s) [ (stop:)[[Go towards the side door.]]] (live: 3.4s) [ (stop:)[[Go towards the patio doors.]]] <hr class="rounded">

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) The front door is the closest to the stairs- and you’re getting the creeps, standing beneath the watchful eyes of the dead. There’s broken glass everywhere- and one of your boots is missing. Blood spatters over the cut edges of the glass, a slice of skin left behind to wetly glisten. It looks like someone’s forced their way through bare handedly- not even taking the time to pop the planter through to break away some of the more wicked looking shards. Yikes. You shuffle closer, and think about what Michael told you. $fade[[GET OUT, SWEETPEA.->michael]]

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) The side door doesn’t look like it’s been disturbed, really. Not at a first blush. The wood groans reproachfully as you lay a hand against the door, testing to see if its still attached securely to its hinges. Maybe someone was throwing their body weight up against it- it looks a little bruised. The paint flakes off, scattering bright chips of colour on your sleeve as you open the door. Michael’s voice echoes in your head, brightly urgent. $fade[[GET OUT, SWEETPEA.->michael]]

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) The backyard is waiting for you, with the softly gurgling fountain and chipper little birds sitting on the wooden fencing. They seem to have all flocked together, huddling up into one big, dark mass. You smile at them, as you slide the doors open- just big enough for you to slip through, hoping not to bring too much of a draft into the house. You could almost swear they’re twittering with Michael’s voice, ever so briefly. $fade[[GET OUT, SWEETPEA.->michael]]

<center> There’s a tepid breeze sweeping through your hair and ruffling the edge of your nightgown. Outside is cooler than it was in the house- and you half regret not bringing a blanket with you. The scratchiness of the concrete reminds you that you didn’t bring any shoes with a start- before a man whistles. [[Your head snaps up to stare.]]

<center> It’s Michael, sitting on the edge of the property, on one of the green electrical boxes dad always told you would zap you to death like a fly. He waves, as if to make sure he’s gotten your attention, before he walks over. His steps are reassuringly solid, boots heavy on the ground. He kneels in front of you, extending one broad palm. [[You aren’t sure what he wants, but you place your hand in his.]]

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) Michael’s fingers close gently around yours. $pencil[YOU DON’T NEED TO BE AFRAID, SWEETPEA.] He pauses, purses his lips. His face is a dizzying kaleidoscope of colour and suggestion, the curve of a shape here, the sketchiest corner there. There’s a suggestion of a cheekbone slanting across, corralled by the daubed blur of his lips. When he smiles, his teeth are as straight as a military graveyard. Features swim in and out of focus. $pencil[[IT WAS HARD TO GET INTO THE HOUSE.]]

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) His voice sounds louder, now that it’s not rattling around in your head. It resonates like a holy choir in perfect unison: a deep bass thrumming beneath that grounds what could otherwise be a cacophony. It’s a warm voice. The sort of voice you could listen to, reading you bedtime stories until you drifted off, happy and sleepy in bed like a baby kitten who’s had his fill of milk and cuddles. $pencil[[GUESS IT WAS HARD TO GET OUT TOO.]]

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) Michael bends down, and scoops you up. He cradles you close to his chest- and the cold winds fall away. It’s like slipping into a warm bath, and you curl up close to him. It’s strange seeing Michael in the flesh -he feels solid enough you’re willing to hazard a guess that it is flesh, though it might be a mirage of light all the same- but he’s an old friend. $pencil[[WE’LL FIND YOUR DAD.]]

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) You’re not sure if Michael knows exactly what’s going on- the last you saw your supposed father, he was throwing up into the bathroom sink. You look questioningly up at him, as Michael rummages around in the pocket of his coat for a moment- crisp lines like a soldier’s best, a lapel sharp enough to cut your fingers on, swaddling you up in a thick blanket. It’s a miracle he managed to jam it in there. $pencil[[DON’T WORRY. REST.]]

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) His last comment had come more as a commandment. Coming back to consciousness is a struggle. Michael is humming softly. It’s too complex for you to trace out the squiggles of his baritone interweaving with itself: singing like the songbirds do, two voices twinned, weaving and interlacing notes as deftly as spiders spin silk. While you can’t keep pace with him, it’s lovely to let the music wash over your shoulders, head still fuzzy with sleepiness. $pencil[[ARE YOU AWAKE?]]

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) Michael hovers over you- literally. His face and feathers are obscuring the light overhead. He flutters off to the side, leaving you to squint and grimace at the light above. You try to shield your eyes with your arm- noticing that your clothes have been changed, into some faded t-shirt with an indistinct sports logo that’s long been wrung out in the wash. The basketball shorts are tied as tight as they’ll go, and still hang loose. It’s a little absurd looking. $pencil[[I WASN’T SURE WHAT YOU MIGHT EAT.]]

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) Michael smiles- at least you think he is. You can see both perfect rows of teeth, and a close lipped smile overlaid and skewed sideways, sprawling over each other like kittens. He lays out a few choices on the bed for you, carefully balanced onto a silver tray. You’re still distracted by trying to make sense of the mosaic of his facial features. Michael might have dimples. $pencil[[I’M NOT TOO ACQUAINTED WITH PEOPLE.]]

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) He taps you on the knee gently. His hand slips through your knee, and he pulls it abruptly back out- flesh translucent and airy for a moment, before it reforms, and he’s flexing fingers of sinew and bone once more. $pencil[ENGINEERING MARVELS.] $pencil[HARD TO IMAGINE THESE FRAGILE STRUCTURES SUPPORTING THE WEIGHT OF LIVING.] $pencil[[MIRACULOUSLY, YOUR BODIES DO.]]

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) It’s hard to look away. His eyes are violet, then quicksilver, then the lush green of rolling hills. Michael blinks, watching you like a bug under a cup: and his irises settle deep brown, dark enough its difficult to see his pupils. You know that they’re wobbling and splitting off like oily bubbles in lava lamps all the same. $pencil[YOU SHOULD EAT.] His voice is gentle, cajoling, as he points to the spread of items he’s laid down onto the bed for you. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 2s) [ (stop:)[[Take the pancakes.]]] (live: 2.2s) [ (stop:)[[Take the pint of icecream.]]] (live: 2.4s) [ (stop:)[[Take the bowl of cháo.]]] <hr class="rounded">

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) They’re little mini baby pancakes, doled out in bite sized servings- and you happily get your hands sticky with maple syrup and butter as you munch away, one held in both hands. They’re just as fluffy as you remember- dad whips up stacks before he goes off to church, leaving you to contemplate one of the scattered editions of the bible around the house, legs swinging lazily from the couch, glittery pink pen in hand. You offer one to Michael after a moment’s thought, and he laughs, waving you off. $pencil[[THOUGHT YOU’D LIKE SOMETHING FROM SUNDAY.->phone]]

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) Neon purple and pink swirl together- just like the kandi bracelets clattering on his wrists. It’s cotton candy icecream- and as you take an enthusiastic bite, it’s the same cold nostalgia from when you were young, and dad still took you out of the house for occasional daddy-daughter daytrips. You lick the spoon, and Michael laughs- reaches out to gently thumb some off of your nose. $pencil[[THOUGHT YOU’D APPRECIATE SOMETHING FAMILIAR.->phone]]

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) Steam rises- fragrant and delicate, scallions diced prettily alongside crunchy deep fried shallots and sliced garlic. The pop of green cuts a strong contrast with the creamy whiteness of the rice- chicken shredded carefully, as if worried you might choke. He’s cut the salted duck egg in half for you- the yolk deeply yellow, burgeoning into orange. Michael wipes his pocket knife clean on a handkerchief with a chagrinned smile, crumbs clinging to the blade. There’s a glint of something that might be rust on the side held facing himself, but he slides the knife back into his pocket before you can take a close look. $pencil[[THOUGHT YOU COULD USE SOMETHING CLOSE TO HOME.->phone]]

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) Your phone buzzes, loudly demanding your attention. You’d half forgotten that you still had it on your person in the first place. Michael seems stunned for a moment, looking around briefly- before he reaches right into your pocket to pull out the phone, thumbing through the messages that’re flying up the screen in a tizzy. He frowns down at the display, face bathed in the sizzling light. $pencil[[SORRY, SWEETPEA. THINK I NEED TO TAKE CARE OF THIS.->sorry]]

<center> Michael doesn’t say anything else before he leaves. You’re left to munch away at your- breakfast? Lunch? Dinner? You’ve sort of lost track of the time- and staring around the room doesn’t show a clock on the wall or perched on a bedstand. Speaking of the room- it’s set up quite [[a lot like a library,]] with imposing shelves cutting up the interior space. The floors are a lot warmer than those at home, thankfully- Michael’s thrown down [[some fluffy carpets]] and tapestries on the walls. You much prefer it to [[the creepy oil paintings back home.]] [[There aren't any windows in here.]]

<center> Which is why it comes as a bit of a surprise when Michael returns. You aren’t sure how much time has passed- though you haven’t gotten noticeably hungrier or thirsty, so it probably wasn’t very long at all. His back is turned to you- a sink that you weren’t aware of turning on, water gurgling noisily down the drains as he scrubs his hands. He doesn’t say anything, at first- though his wings are half raised, like a startled pigeon about to take flight from your backyard. <hr class="rounded"> (live: 2s) [ (stop:)[[Greet him.]]] (live: 2.2s) [ (stop:)[[Stay quiet.]]] (live: 2.4s) [ (stop:)[[Ask him where he went.]]] <hr class="rounded">

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) $pencil[[HI, SWEETPEA.->HI, SWEETPEA.]] His voice sounds tired- which is bizarre. You never really thought about Michael as ever getting worn out- he’s always been a steady foundation, a fount of strength to rely on when your own wavers. His wings flutter momentarily, sweeping a few errant pages skittering across the room- before they lower, tucked neatly back down. He’s shed a few feathers, glowing softly on the carpet. The room seems to swallow the light, diminishing it- made smaller, in a way you can’t quite put your finger on.

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) Michael seems relieved when he turns around, a worn smile on his face as he wipes his hands dry on a towel- the terrycloth stained slightly, in a shade that might be black or purple. You stare at it openly- before it shivers, edges curling into itself, the translucency compacting over before it zaps out of existence in a fizzle of sparkles. The towel is as bright white as ever, as Michael folds it back up and hangs it from a butcher’s meat hook. $pencil[[HI, SWEETPEA.]]

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) $fade[Where’d you go?] Michael seems startled by hearing you speak- jolting a little, feathers fluffed up the same way you’ve seen pigeons get poofy when they’re trying to keep warm in the winter time. He ignores your question, continuing to wash his hands. He’s scrubbed up a rich lather, meticulously getting in between his fingers, beneath his trimmed short nails, and massaging his cuticle and knuckles like you’ve seen dad do after a long writing session- he says it helps to get the blood flowing again. You don’t think that angels have blood, though. When Michael does speak, it’s disjointed, hesitant. $pencil[[HI, SWEETPEA.->HI, SWEETPEA.]]

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) Michael is quiet for a long moment. The sink’s been turned off, droplets of water rising off of the ceramic lip, as if gravity’s forgotten itself. They spin, reflecting rippled afterimages of the room, distorting flashes of gold and blue. A few fizz and pop, crackling like hot oil- before exploding into a cascade of even tinier drops, continuing all the way down like nuclear fission. $pencil[[I TOOK CARE OF WHAT NEEDED TO BE DONE.]]

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) His eyes are beginning to float upwards and off of his head, pupils bubbling like thick stew. Little gobbets are circling around his head in a lazy, aimless way, occasionally colliding with one another. It’s beginning to give you a killer headache. $pencil[[I THINK IT’S TIME WE WENT HOME.]]

<center> Michael holds your hand gently, careful not to crush your fingers in the squidgy flexion of his own. The world arcs gently around you- blurs of colours melting into long strips, lights stretched taut. You blink- and you’re in your garden, listening to the mourning doves coo from the bushes, [[the water bubbling in your fountain.]]

<center> Michael is still holding onto your hand. He’s duplicated a hand onto the side of his own- [[mirroring his movements,]] perfectly formed nails glittering with all of the colours contained in an oil slick, shimmering and dancing across the surface of what you could mistake for keratin.

<center> Many of the books are in languages you can’t understand. Many of them shake and shiver like the writing in dad’s diary, the words squiggling around on the page and wavering through the fibers of the paper willy nilly. Some of them have pictures- but like the words, they don’t seem to want to stay in place. You can peel off a few like stickers, only the colours are soupier, like thin jellies- [[your fingers sinking into the pastoral scenes.]]

<center> You like the pictures- a few of them remind you of books you have at home, from when you were ‘just a little sprout’ to the odd crate of books your father brings home from work. The library discards reams of books, and he takes some of the more interesting odds and ends back home for you to pick through, after he’s taken a knife to the more offensive pages. They’d look right at home in the children’s books [[you’ve devoted a corner of the library at home to.]]

<center> Dad doesn’t let you take up too much space in the house. A lot of it just comes down to the fact that it wouldn’t be practical- most of the outer wings are still in disarray, and half of the stairs are rather dodgy. The one that goes up to the main landing is the most well maintained, with the bannister having been replaced once dad settled on a set of rooms close enough for him to keep an eye on you at night, and far enough away he could cloister himself into his office to focus on his work. But he did give you that corner of the library. He even stuck up a strip of wallpaper featuring some spring time baby animals near the bottom of the shelf, alongside a bean bag chair [[you sometimes fall asleep in- the Sprout Corner.->sorry]]

<center> You’ve never really gotten a close enough look at the paintings at home to see who made them. They’re all painted in more or less the same style, realism with the little imperfections of every day life buffed and smoothed out. Most of their mouths are painted the same way, with extra attention paid to the flush of colour thrumming beneath the skin’s surface, little blue capillaries and veins snaking merrily across their faces. There’re far too many for one artist to have done up the whole lot on their own, and the style leaves little room for embellishments: most traces of individual strokes have been daubed and smeared and blended away, [[presenting a gleaming, glossily flat expanse.]]

<center> Even the more modern portraits are still fairly outdated in appearance- the dark, sombre suits, and rich jewel tones for the women. Burgundy, maroon, wine-red- the dresses’ sleeves change, slim and pouf out, alongside hems raising and lowering with the times, necklines plunging down and then being yanked right back up: but mostly, [[red dominates the gowns splashed across the canvas.]]

<center> Most of the time, it was women who married into the family- popping up to briefly interrupt the train of dark eyes and dark hair, men who seemed to have forgotten how to smile by the time they grew into their lanky frames and sharp cheekbones. There’s a conspicuous absence of women growing up alongside brothers or uncles, mostly appearing with a rosy cheeked babe in their arms and then disappearing by the time the children sat down for a family portrait as chubby toddlers. [[Come to think of it- there isn’t one of your mother.->sorry]]

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) $pencil[I’M GOING TO GO UPSTAIRS, WHEN WE GO INSIDE.] $fade[TO MAKE SURE THAT THE COAST IS CLEAR] is the part Michael doesn’t say out loud. You blink, nodding as you look up at him. Michael’s frame has stretched out, the tropical print of his shirt stamping into thin air in chunky coils turning endlessly in on themselves, much taller than when you two first me. He’s switched out his chunky boots for a pair of socks and sandals. You appreciate the fact that the sandals have a functional buckle on their side, and that his socks have colourful flowers printed on the surface. $pencil[YOU’LL BE SAFE DOWNSTAIRS.] [[He sounds rather assured of himself.->sure]]

<center> As you both step inside- Michael melts away, leaving only a thin, glowing outline of himself. It reminds you of the chalked out marks left behind with a body after it’s fallen. Dad showed you the pictures in the newspaper after one’d plummeted out of the sky at his workplace, creased and folded over onto itself, as if to hide from upsetting someone’s delicate sensibilities. [[In the mean time, you're left to your own devices.]] <hr class="rounded"> (live: .5s) [ (stop:)[[Head to the kitchen for a drink.]]] (live: .8s) [ (stop:)[[Have a look inside the entrance’s closet.]]] <hr class="rounded">

<center> Summer sprawls out sticky and languid, the drafts in the house no longer foreboding- but a welcome respite from the heat. Sweetpea’s set out her clothes for tomorrow, wriggling excitedly beneath the covers as she dives in, eager to catch her stuffed animal friends up to speed with the adventures of the science camp run by your university. You sit awkwardly on the edge of her bed, the mattress dipping beneath your weight- your daughter giggling as it sends a few of her animals tumbling over, [[picking them up to set down again upright apologetically.]]

<center> On nights like these- you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss the sound of icecubes clanking up against one another, the cool, reassured weight of a glass held firmly in your hand. The smooth pour and swallow. The thud of the glass landing confidently down. But there are things in life you wouldn’t miss for it- Sweetpea smiles at you as you brush her hair out of her face delicately, smoothing back loose curls. **[[Sweetpea, who was that man?]]**

<center> Sweetpea looks puzzled for a moment, before she laughs- the sound bright and full. She snuggles up beneath the covers, grinning at you over the [[fuzzy ear of the plushie you brought home]] for her on that terrible winter day- marred by blood and broken glass, and the quietness that followed after the house swallowed up the visage of a man who could’ve been your twin. How it settled back onto its haunches, the mournful groans and grumbles of the house satiated. [[How that man had looked at you- eyes burning with reproach.]]

<center> Sweetpea’s voice is innocent as she speaks, touching your cheek to get your attention, small hand cool even in the summer’s heat. [[*That was Michael, silly.*->fin ]] [[*He’s our friend- and the house’s, too.*->fin ]]

(set: $stretch to (text-style: "expand")) <center> $stretch[**THE END**] I'd like to take a moment to thank my wonderful partner and friends for being so supportive of me during my first little month-long romp into interactive fiction. Love you lots. And thank *you,* for playing [[Sweetpea.->start]] Yours sincerely, (link: "Sophia de Augustine")[(goto-url: 'https://sophiadeaugustine.wordpress.com/')]

<center> When Michael returns, he gestures for you to head into the cloistered off dining room. You’ve never liked meals in here- the ceiling leans in close, the walls cramped and crammed even without the long dining table. Your father is sitting at the far end, back to the wall- teeth bared into a smile that feels more like a grimace. His feet are neatly tucked into Oxfords, laced up to hide any evidence of blood or injury. His hair is parted immaculately, the collar of his shirt starched within an inch of its life. None of that helps to hide how the wine slides between his teeth, [[lining it like a bloodied muzzle.]]

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) You shy away for a moment, clinging to Michael’s leg. He pats you lightly, fluffing your hair up momentarily with the gesture. In that moment, his quicksilver eyes flash deep brown- comforting in their solidity. Your father looks almost bored, scraping his fork tines against the ceramic plate laid out in front of him. He only smiles again when he looks at you. It’s not a friendly smile. $rumble[[It’s time for dinner, Sweetpea.]]

<center> There’s a jangling sound as he shifts a bit in his chair, Michael glowering at him with something like half a dozen eyes, the yolk of the left set spiralling off of his face dripping over the cupid’s bow of his lip. You can just about make out [[a thin silver chain wrapped around his waist.]]

<center> Many of the women in the family portraits were painted with silver chatelaines wrapped snug around their waists, all manner of keys caught mid swing. You don’t remember enough about your mother to recall if she had one too- but it would make the most sense, with the dizzying array of doors in the family home. It’s a bit strange that your father would wear one- but maybe it’s [[a memento of your mother.]]

<center> Something you never thought you’d have to contend with on your own is your daughter growing into the pitch perfect visage of your late wife. It’s gotten increasingly difficult to spend time with her- every bright smile, little hop before her arms are flung out to hug you, scrunched up repose beneath the covers as you tuck her in for the night: [[it all reminds you of her.]]

<center> She’s noticed, of course- your little girl was always a clever little sprite, bumbling along as she cruised in search of adventure, reading too big picture books with their spines broken in her lap, tiny finger tracing beneath the letters, inquisitively taste testing with sticky fingers and smiles like spring’s first real sunshine. Of course Sweetpea would notice. [[She always was a daddy’s girl.]]

<center> You haven’t ever talked to her about it. You don’t think you’d know the words to say, even if you tried. You’ve been spending more and more time with your head buried down into the drudgery of academia, vision whiskey tinted- mouth burning with scotch and rum, pounding back condensation slick glasses to sink gracelessly into sleep. You used to run, back when you still wore your wedding band proudly on your finger, instead of tucked on a thin silver chain. [[You can’t bring yourself to anymore.]]

<center> Today was a half day- students in your lecture hall staggering out of half occupied seats, rows staggered like a gap toothed smile. You’ve decided to come home a little early- surprise Sweetpea with a little gift, some insipidly smiling stuffed animal: she collects them by the dozen, hoards them on her bed to pet and cuddle and give kisses goodnight. There’s some fountain pen inks you have coming in soon, a [[new order of wintery blues and purples- and she might like to play around with them.]]

<center> The broken glass crunches beneath your shoes. You stop, looking around- looking at the melted slag edges framing what used to be the patio doors, and run in,[[ the wind disconcertingly whistling just past your ear.]]

<center> Dad keeps glasses out in the drying rack, so that they’re conveniently located for you, just in Sweetpea-reach. You let the water run for a moment, watching it splash and glug down the drain, running your fingertips beneath the cool stream until it’s cold enough to numb your hand. The cup takes forever to fill. You do still have to go slightly on tip toe to be able to jam it properly in place. <hr class="rounded"> (live: .5s) [ (stop:)[[Sip it slowly.]]] (live: .5s) [ (stop:)[[Chug the glass.]]] <hr class="rounded">

<center> The house has fairly hard water- dad’s always forgetting to replace the water softener, and it’s to do with the fact that it sources its water from one of the nearby reservoirs, buried deep beneath the earth. One summer, [[in a freak accident,]] the taps had spat out the black sludgey remains of an animal that’d died in the pipes- unidentifiable by the time it’d coursed the whole way through the underground warren of criss crossing intersections.

<center> The hard water is a little rough on your stomach. It’s about time for dad to replace the water softener in the house again- he’s always forgetting to. The house gets its water from a nearby lake. One summer, an animal had died somewhere along the way from the source to the tap- and you’d shrieked, [[throwing the glass in a fit of hysterics]] that clipped your father in the face.

<center> You’d screamed, flung the glass- and clipped your father in the face. He’d sworn loudly- nose ever so slightly crooked, pre-broken from a bar fight, or getting his head slammed in a car door, or falling down on the concrete: he [[never told the same story twice.->sure]]

<center> He’d sworn up a storm, grabbing at his face- his nose had already been broken once, in a bar fight, or on a badly timed tumble down the stairs, or getting his face smashed in with a tire iron. [[He never told the same story on how it’d been bent ever so slightly crooked.->sure]]

<center> The carpet reminds you of some of your stuffed animals. They all sleep in the same bed as you, though your father is forever trying to convince you they should sleep nestled on your bedroom shelves. What if they fell down? What if they wanted a bit of a cuddle through the night? Besides, it seems harsh to condemn them to the cold wasteland of crookedly resting books and the odd knick knack, when there’s [[plenty of room in your own bed]] for them to squash in alongside you.

<center> You’ve had a collection for as long as you can remember. In some of the baby photos you have shoved away into albums and folded up into boxes scattered throughout the house, you already are hugging one floppy eared rabbit, or petting the soft curls of a woollen lamb, even before your hair’s grown out, or you’ve gotten any teeth. In fact, a few of the sturdier bears were gnawed on while you were teething, fussing over sore gums- your father perpetually dithering over their [[clicking, shiny eyes and noses.]]

<center> Your father’s not exactly enthused about the fact that you have so many- but it does make it much easier for him when he needs to pick up a last minute present for you. Most of the time, all of your presents are grabbed as an afterthought- when he staggers home, tripping over the front step- hands red from where he’d been gripping onto the steering wheel a little too hard, smelling of mouthwash. He reuses the crinkly plastic bags as garbage bags, shoved haphazardly into the dark space beneath the sink- you don’t like opening the lower cupboards. [[They’re the perfect size for something to curl up inside.->sorry]]

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) $pencil[WELL.] Michael pauses, looking between the two men- though he does have the benefit of not having to whip his head back and forth, as limpid eyes pool out of the back of his head, spilling jellied goop onto the nice tablecloth. Both of them are too wrapped up in their perfect-other to pay Michael much mind. $pencil[[IT SEEMS WE HAVE A BIT OF A PROBLEM.]]

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) Your father stares aghast, mouth fallen open- dark hair still dusted by snowflakes. He’s breathing hard, like he’s just come in at a sprint- which is so unlike your father, you can’t help but stare, wondering if there’s a little wild animal on the front steps that Michael might need to deal with. He’s supposed to be put together. He’s supposed to be immaculate. $rumble[[Something wrong?]]

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) When he lunges forwards- you half expect Michael to be bowled over. Of course, he isn’t- but the explosive burst of energy has you scrambling backwards, falling over yourself in the rush. Michael grabs him by the back of his neck, scruffing the double like a kitten- before hoisting him high, sneering at him as his face crackles, spattering like hot oil in a pan as he briefly loses control of his features. $pencil[[YOU REALLY DIDN’T NEED TO DO THIS.]]

<center> Your father- still covered in snowflakes, still with bloodless lips: grabs you, presses your face against him- hand firm on the back of your head, cutting off your direct view of what’s going on. His hands are cold, and clammy, and his nails are cutting a little into you as [[he shakes like aspen,]] breaths shallow and shivering.

<center> Michael descends into the belly of the house, footsteps loud as he clunks down its rickety teeth, carrying something that might’ve been your father. The steps groan beneath his weight- and you find yourself wondering what makes up an angel, anyway- does [[holy water]] and shimmering light and spring air take up that much heft?

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) Sweetpea is wriggling a little in indignation- and you let go of her, hand still gripping her shoulder. The man-that-isn’t stares at you as he walks down the stairs- unseen to your daughter, who seems happy enough to wave at Michael, a dreamy, vague expression on her face as she’s lost in the rabbit’s warren of her thoughts. He doesn’t move his mouth to speak. Sweetpea doesn’t seem to hear it either- but a voice, guttural and deep, booms in your head. (live: .1s) [ (stop:)$fade[[DO BETTER FOR YOUR GIRL.->end1]]] (live: 1s) [ (stop:)$fade[[DO BETTER FOR YOUR GIRL.->end1]]] (live: 2s) [ (stop:)$fade[[DO BETTER FOR YOUR GIRL.->end1]]] (live: 3s) [ (stop:)$fade[[DO BETTER FOR YOUR GIRL.->end1]]] (live: 4s) [ (stop:)$fade[[DO BETTER FOR YOUR GIRL.->end1]]] (live: 5s) [ (stop:)$fade[[DO BETTER FOR YOUR GIRL.->end1]]] (live: 6s) [ (stop:)$fade[[DO BETTER FOR YOUR GIRL.->end1]]]

<center> Pretty much all of dad’s clothing looks the same- it’s mostly greys, mostly blacks- especially the outerwear. You like his coats- the felted wool of them feels a lot like patting your stuffed animals. Over the years, his shirts have gradually lightened- [[though you’d catch him dead]] before you found him in anything with cheerful patterns splashed over the front.

<center> You can’t remember him wearing anything different. In all of your childhood pictures, dad’s wearing some arrangement of black and greys- progressively lightening as you grew older, [[though you never did get very much taller.]]

<center> He very deliberately kept most of your wardrobe light, pastel even- with plenty of little teddy bears and flowers sprawled across the fabric, ribbons and bows galore. You don’t wear as many headbands as [[you did when you were smaller, though.->sure]]

<center> (set: $fade to (text-style: "fade-in-out")) (set: $rumble to (text-style: "rumble")) (set: $shudder to (text-style: "shudder")) (set: $blurrier to (text-style: "blurrier")) (set: $pencil to (text-style: "smear")) His mirrored image is laughing, head thrown back. He’s still sitting down, though- as if bound into place, the silver links around his waist chiming lightly against one another. It looks like he can’t get out of his chair, though he leans forwards all the same, tipping his weight onto the two front legs. *$shudder[[Hello, Father.]]*

<center> He’s always kept the small shrine up above and out of your reach. The incense smoulders, a little mound of ashes heaped up at the base, the occasional tray of fruit left in front and then whisked away. It’s a ritual dad solely attends to- the smell of sandalwood rubbing off onto his palms, smoke settling into his hair. It smells nicer than his cigarettes, at least. The shrine was up high to keep you from munching away at the offerings, dad said- as a kid, you were always trying to put everything you could get a hold of into your mouth. [[It’s too high for you to see whose face it’s dedicated to.]]

<center> It’s a miracle you hadn’t eaten something deadly- a bright capped amanita blooming on the yard, a swig of bleach to wash it down. It was like someone was watching over you, even then. Sure, you chewed on markers and stole sandals to hide -everyone had to slip on a pair of house slippers or wander around in socks or bare feet, dad would have thrown a fit if one of his colleagues came to visit in clicking heels or plodding sneakers- [[but you never got into anything too dangerous.]]

<Center> You did have an affinity for statues when you were younger- burbling happily and cooing at the lion statues perched outside, keeping watch- patting at the curls of stone and their fierce teeth. Maybe dad was worried you’d try to play around with the shrine the same way- merrily knocking over the flowers and fruits and [[trying to gnaw on the portrait.->easier to see them,]]

<center> It’s the same bright red of your áo dài. Dad usually kept your wardrobe in pale pastels- but every time the lunar new year rolls around, with the crashing cymbals, whirling dancers in bucking dragon-bodies, crunched up lettuces and tossed coins: he would meticulously measure you from head to toe, writing down a medley of numbers, before disappearing for the afternoon. Sometime later, he’d unwrap the beautiful silks, embroidered in shimmering gold, perfectly sized. [[He kept the old ones preserved in tissue paper stacked away in boxes.->Take a closer look at them.]]

<center> Dad doesn’t talk to you about his experiments. The material would be too above you in grade-level, he says- though you think that’s a bit unfair, seeing as he’s been your teacher for all these years. He’s very careful about buttoning his lab coat up primly to the neck, ribbed cuffed sleeves fitting him perfectly at the wrists, nitrile gloves leaving his hands powdered when he pries them free. He runs several loads of laundry in a week, and sometimes you like to sit in front of the washing machine, [[watching them swirl into themselves like Michael’s eyes.]]

<center> Michael sometimes sits with you during those trances. You can’t see him properly, of course- you can’t hold all of him in your head at once. But sometimes, if you look out of the corner of your eye, you can see him smiling, his voice loud in your head as he talks to you and the stuffed animal of the week you’ve brought down with you into the laundry room. You’re always careful to make them all feel included, switching between your fuzzy friends as the months crawl on, to give them all some time for adventures they swap in the middle of the night, whispering softly, the sound [[just like Michael’s wings fluttering in the damp heat in front of the machine.->what would happen]]

<center> Sometimes, you still dream of him. You can’t hold all of the details together- they spin out crazily, whirling head over heels. Sometimes he has eyes dotted over the smooth plane of his face like the tiny florets of a clover, other times he’s all cavernous mouth, [[all hungry want and need.]]

<center> His wings are just as often adorned with rows of clasped hands, fingers interlocking, as they are soft and pillowy, feathers fluffed out like he’s trying to keep warm in the dead of winter. Sometimes, the nails scratch as your skin, as he hovers close- [[reaches out one taloned claw to rasp over your cheek.]]

<center> When he speaks, it’s with the voice of a thousand men- the groaning making your teeth ache. You often wake up with your jaw tightly clenched, popping as you chew your way through breakfast. [[It’s motivation a-plenty for keeping on your best behaviour around Sweetpea.->Sweetpea, who was that man?]]

<center> When you were little, you loved staying up late to watch the moon and stars, squinting up at twinkling satellites and wondering if they might be shooting stars, or else helicopters beating their way through the night. Dad would check in on you during the night- but left the curtains open, since the slow creep of morning light [[made a convenient alarm clock for you.]]

<center> He, of course, had his own- clanging, rowdily breaking through the relative peace of early morning. You could barely hear it, though- since he always bolted upright, fumbling to shut it off somewhere between the second or third ring. Dad woke up even without the help of his alarm clock- [[his morning routine always stayed the same.]] He had an easier time than his colleagues when it came to fighting for timeslots for his classes down at the university: [[no one really wanted to teach at 8AM.->Look out the window.]]

<center> Night time was different. [[Sometimes he’d be gone for days at a time.]] He left food in the fridge, and snacks in the pantry- always within reach. You had the water from the taps if the milk went bad in the meantime, and cool sodapop cans you fished out from the basement, shyly skittering down deeper into the house. Dad didn’t like you drinking them: but he never had much to say to you after he came back from being gone for so long- a silent truce fizzing between the both of you.

<center> Usually, he was pretty good about coming back home. It might be in the very early hours of the morning, when even the birds were fast asleep, little heads tucked beneath their wings. It might be late at night, when you found yourself slouched in his armchair in front of the television- more than once, he’s stumbled home, wobbled over to the couch, and nearly sat down on you. [[An indignant squeak would get him to spring upwards, slur an apology, and then shuffle off to get some water to refresh himself.->made a convenient alarm clock for you.]]

<center> He swears up and down to you that he’s very busy, with vitally important things in there. You used to spend a lot of time crouched outside of the door, leaning in from the side- so he couldn’t see the shadow of your socked feet as you snooped. You’d hear the clank of ice dropped into a cup, the glug of something being poured overtop. Sometimes, he shook it all around in a clanging metal mixer, and sighed, as he slouched back into his chair. He’s never offered to make you a drink when he has one- which you think is a little rude. [[You share your Sunny D with him, when you and Michael and dad have teaparties.]]

<center> Dad doesn’t know that Michael is a frequent guest at these tea parties. Dad doesn’t know that Michael likes to sleep at the foot of the bed, curled up like a cat, three heads clumped together like fern fronds grown too close. Dad doesn’t know that Michael is the one who eats the lemon slices afterwards, devours them rinds and all- he says that he likes the way they squeak on his teeth, gnashing down with six mouths, [[each replete with 46 teeth, to demonstrate.->Head towards the study.]]

<center> Your father certainly leaves the house more often than you- but you rarely get to meet anyone he would consider a friend. Now and then, a colleague will come over- never women, always grim faced men, with heavy portfolios that scrunch up into accordion folds tucked between their legs. You like spying on them through the gaps in the stair railing, peeking through slats [[like the house spiders slowly crawling over the vaulted ceilings.->Closely examine the journal.]]

<center> [[Intrusions tend to be brief and scattered.->Grab a pen and go.]] Usually, when a new package has come in with brilliant, sheening inks, or a carefully rebound classic cut from its crumbling body, he asks for you to spend some time with him. Most of the time, he redirects you to go read in the library, or write in your bedroom.