#reminds me of when pac got attacked and the sky changed to night

[aseon50]

Q!tazercraft mindlink enjoyers wya

[make-it-mavis]

Homesick (Entry #34)

(cw: discussion of addiction) ----------

01/22/88   11:56 AM

Hey.

I left off the last entry at a very tense moment. What you might call a cliffhanger. 

Well, I’ll tell you this. I certainly did feel like I was dangling off the edge of a deadly cliff, hanging onto bare roots that could have broken away at any moment, debating whether or not to grab onto the rope thrown down to me by a rescue crew that just so happened to include my attempted murderer. There were so many things that could have gone wrong.

Many of those things, granted, could have been caused by my own hand, and I knew it. I may not have known what to do, but I knew for certain what I wanted to do. I wanted to leap across the room and tear that bug apart joint by joint. I wanted to shatter her exoskeleton and use the shards to cut her into ribbons. I wanted to cause her every bit of pain she had caused me. And part of me -- a very dangerously large part of me -- believed that it might have been fate that brought us together. Like I was meant to take this chance for revenge.

After all, it’s not every day the Devs offer you your enemy on a silver platter. I had been through enough pain by then -- I deserved a chance to pay it back. An awful lot of it had been her fault, hadn’t it?

That fact boiled over in my brain, every popping bubble releasing another memory of what she had put me through. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her. I just sat there, letting the frothing memories burn painfully, and grasping onto that pain like a concealed weapon. My broken brush. Your name on my chest. My legs torn to shreds. The humiliation. The nightmares. The paranoia. The violent buff hallucinations. The crushing fear that fed my addiction and landed me in that sad circle of addicts. It was all her doing.

Yet, for all that fear, she was just there, existing like a normal sprite. Not a disembodied hellish shriek of hatred, not the cruel hand of death that let me slip through its fingers, no. She was just some bug. Some other loser who had popped one too many power-ups.

It was striking to me, how she could be so mortal.

Listen, I’ve said this a thousand times -- I don’t really wanna hurt anybody. But during that session, part of me wondered if I just didn’t have a reason to hurt anybody. Because a big ol’ reason was plopped right in front of me that night, and… I think I would have killed her right there, if they let me. I wanted to wipe her from existence.

Obviously, I did not do that.

I actually made it through the session without even realizing. I did not absorb anything much, and I had not spoken at all, but I think I got a free pass for it being my first time. I was also very concerned that it would be my last. How could I be expected to attend therapy with that monster? 

I didn’t mention it to Surge on the way back, and I did not tell Fix-it at first either, even though he could tell I was shaken up by something. I’d been staying with him for a little while by then, as odd as that might seem. He was keeping an eye on me while I recovered, and while it was not the most comfortable thing for me, I was nervous to be alone with how much I’d been blacking out. But that night, I needed space, so I went up to the roof of Niceland to pace around and weigh what little options I had.

Option one was to simply attend and ignore her, which I wrote off as impossible. Option two would be to quit, which I refused to do. Option three would be to reach out for help, finally telling someone of the attack I suffered at this bug’s creepy hand, which I was not eager to do. Option four was to brutally maim her and be locked up for life. It was amazing, really, how long I spent debating option four, yelling curses into the sky and pulling my hair out. Hours of heart-pounding anxiety went by as I paced between the decision to quit and the decision to maim, until I found myself sitting down and breathing into my hat, nursing a panic attack, trying not to let it remind me of my last night with you.

I’d been up almost all night by the time I’d come to a decision. My decision was… I couldn’t trust myself to make a good decision. Not after everything I’d done.

So I’d have to ask for help. Option three.

Still was not a fan.

All the same, that was the route I took. Surge seemed like the right guy to tell, but it was not like I could leave my game and flag him down, and I couldn’t keep the raging conflict to myself a moment longer. So I went back inside and rode the elevator down to Fix-it’s apartment. He was asleep when I came in, but I sat on his bed and viciously poked him until he woke up.

Now, I don’t really wanna bore you by recounting that whole conversation. You’ve heard me tell the story of my attack already. And it was actually easier for me to open up about it than I thought it’d be. Once upon a time, it felt like such a big deal to keep it a secret. But that felt like such a long time ago. Something had changed. 

I wasn’t really sure if I was coming to trust Fix-it a bit more than I did before, or if it had more to do with the fact that by then, the night I was attacked was no longer the lowest point of my journey. He had seen me sink way lower already. So… I guess I had just become forcefully accustomed to having him see me at my most pathetic.

Is that what trust is?

Fix-it, however, took it like a blubbering baby. In fact, I’m pretty sure he did most of the talking while I just held the tissue box for him. He asked the same questions over and over, which I got bored of answering, but did anyway. He was horrified. He was outraged. He could not believe anyone would do something like that to me, or to anybody. And he suddenly understood so much more clearly why I’d turned to buffs, if I had been keeping a secret as horrible as that. The fact that I’d been carrying that alone for so long seemed to thoroughly break his heart.

My favorite question he asked me was, “Mavis, for the Devs’ sake, just how many near-death experiences have you had this year?”

I sort of laughed at that, which he didn’t like. “Year’s not out yet,” I told him.

“No,” he scolded me, in genuine distress, “don’t say that!”

It was a long, trying process. But I’ll admit that I came out of it feeling kind of lighter. Maybe I was more relieved to get it off my chest than I thought I would be. He sure did thank me thoroughly for telling him, even as he wept in horror.

I did still have to make a decision. Even though Fix-it did want me to go to therapy, the idea of me attending with her terrified him. I wasn’t sure if he was more scared of what she’d do or what I’d do. In any case, he made a feeble effort to make two-years confinement seem like not the worst alternative. He grasped at all kinds of ideas of what we could do to make it enjoyable and productive, even conducting therapy himself. As if he had not been attempting that for the last 4-ish years.

No. Quitting did not feel like an option for me. I would just have to talk to Surge and see what he could offer me.

Not much at all, it turned out.

I was able to have a conversation with Surge that day in my game’s cord station. He was decidedly less emotional about it than Fix-it had been. He barely seemed surprised. I reminded him of the day he helped me across Game Central when I was torn to shreds, and he remembered it well. As I told him the rest of the story, he took notes on his clipboard, only nodding and asking the occasional question. When I finished, I guess I was hoping he’d tell me that he would arrest Worluk and pull her out of therapy, so justice could be served. 

That’s not what he told me. Quite the opposite. 

He said he believed me, but one sprite’s word is not enough to go on for an arrest, especially for attempted murder. And especially if all I could identify her by was her voice. If I had any evidence or witnesses then it might have been a different story, but I sure did not. That was hardly my fault, though, was it? I was ambushed alone. I didn’t choose to have no witnesses. It made me so angry, I wanted to throttle the bastard. Even more so when he suggested that I wait until Worluk was done her required therapy and then begin mine. That could have taken two years anyway, for all I knew!

He did offer me this: He would hire an extra security guard, and make sure all three of them knew to keep an eye on her. It wasn’t much at all, but it was something, at least.

So, that was it. I knew all my options, and barely any of them actually helped me. If I wanted to get help, I had only one real choice. 

I had to help myself. I had to REALLY give it my all. 

I had to march right into therapy and roll with the punches. It just so happened that punching and screaming had gotten me nowhere over the past couple months. As badly as I wanted to rip Worluk to shreds, I was painfully aware that doing so would solve nothing. It would only land me in deeper trouble than I was in already. So, as impossible as it seemed, and as agonizing as it felt to go against my instincts, it was time to keep my mouth shut and keep my hands to myself. Time for the aforementioned ‘Option one’ that I had also called impossible --

Just deal with it.

With this new mile-high hurdle in place, my second session came sooner than I’d have liked. I mean sure, I could have postponed it, but to what end? Whether I liked it or not, it’d be over sooner if I started sooner. That’s what I kept telling myself. Just go, get it over with.

I arrived at that tiny room in Pac-man as I had before. I sat down in the same spot. It seemed like everyone who was present for the last visit also came that day. Everything seemed to pick up exactly where it left off. Except this time, there were, as Surge promised, three buff guys from Front Line observing from the corners, and my sickening anxiety came less from the program itself and more from the pressure to behave as if my mortal enemy was not sitting in the same circle of folding chairs as me.

Before long, the group was going around in a circle and talking about what step they were on in the twelve step program. Their insights, their struggles, their epiphanies, and all that. I tried my best to listen over the screaming in my brain, but it was deafening. All in response to that one freakin’ bug just sitting there. Just going about like I wasn’t even there. Just doing the work. Y’know, like I was supposed to be doing.

I forced myself to take some deep breaths and look away from her. If she could pretend, then I could, too. I would not give in and lose to her in this battle of willpower. I would outlast her. I would outlast her. I would not back down. No matter what. I would win. 

I meditated on that thought. I let it loop around my light, dizzy head. Over and over and over.

“Mavis?”

I jolted.

It was just Clyde. I think he noticed me sweating bullets, because he had floated just the tiny bit closer to whisper to me while the rest of the group was occupied. “Are you okay? You look a bit faint.”

“Uh-huh,” I answered automatically.

He asked me something else, but the words didn’t quite make it into my brain. I’d noticed that someone was speaking to Worluk about something -- maybe some experience they’d had -- and I was listening hard for any response from her. Any brief window into that sick brain she was hiding. But she was stoic. Cool and calm. Wretchedly silent. 

Still, I absent-mindedly answered the question from Clyde I didn’t hear. “Uh-huh.”

“Wonderful,” he said, and after the monologue pointed Worluk’s way ended to a small round of golf claps and no further insight about the bug, Clyde announced calmly, “Alright everyone. Mavis is ready to take her first step with us.”

Oops.

I jumped and stammered just a bit, but tried to just roll with it. “Uhhh-- yeah, yeah, let’s do it.”

Everyone was looking at me. Waiting.

Those few seconds were an intense struggle. I was scouring my brain for any memory of what the first step was, all while fighting the overpowering need to keep my guard up with Worluk watching. I had to say something, and the obvious answer came to me when I remembered how everyone introduced themselves before speaking. I let it come out on autopilot, so absent I barely heard myself.

“My name’s Make-it Mavis, and I’m an addict.”

More golf claps.

I was confused until Clyde spoke. “Congratulations, Mavis, you’ve taken the very first step to recovery: Honesty. We all begin by admitting that we have a problem. You’re already on your way to recovery.”

It felt weird, hearing all that. I never liked to be told I had problems, but if all it took to get started was admitting that things were bad… Well, that seemed obvious enough.

“Really? That’s it?” I asked suspiciously. “I just gotta say it?”

Clyde gave a gentle laugh that was a little annoying. “No, not quite. Admitting it once might be easy, but moving forward into sobriety, you must always be honest with yourself. Never fool yourself into not taking your addiction seriously.”

“Right,” I said, trying to take paraphrased notes in my head while I watched Worluk in my peripheral. She still wasn’t looking. Unless she was doing the same thing I was. Did she have those compound eyes that some insect sprites have? Could she see me even when it seemed like she was looking away? It’d be hard to sneak up on her, then, with those bulging red eyes. They practically took up her entire head.

These are the sort of thoughts that drowned out the rest of the meeting. But I got more out of it than I did the first one, at least. I’d completed a whole step, apparently. Hooray?

Except the second step, I’d find, would be vastly more daunting than the first. And even after that, I’d still have ten more to go. All of increasing difficulty, and all, assumedly… with Worluk.

Hooray.