Aether [3/?]
anonymous
March 17 2011, 23:59:33 UTC
He spent an hour in there. Maybe half. Fifteen minutes. He came back to Gilbert slurring questions at him, and played it off, nothing, silence, a bird. Alfred had seen nothing. Went home. Went to bed. Forgot his tests.
He saw something.
It wasn't much of a something, though. Alfred only saw it in the periphery, a smudge, a gap where there shouldn't have been a gap. It didn't haunt him, because it didn't exist. In reality, in life, in the fact that two and two made four, he didn't see anything. How could Alfred, when he knew it was impossible to? When he knew teenagers had too much imagination, that it was easy to make mistakes, that it was so easy to spread bullshit in such a small town as theirs.
(It looked human. It was dark. It was not much else.)
Alfred wanted it. Alfred wanted to take the impossibility of it, its falsity, if only to pull them apart in his fingers, unravel, see atoms and molecules because that's what they were. What all of them were. He needed to see how it existed because. it. shouldn't.
Alfred knew there was a madness in this. Every genius was, a little.
It had been four days.
Alfred was reluctant to go back, only because now the more he thought about it, the more stupid it seemed. He had been drunk. And scared. And it had been that hard kind of dark, swallowing, echoing, that made trees into beasts. He hadn't been thinking straight, or at all. Gossip was not the type of thing to draw facts from, never mind theorise with, and Alfred was―the logical sort, science in his fingertips, science in the inexplicable.
He was there, still, standing at the edge of the thicket.
Alfred had a chance now. This was how he convinced himself: might as well take a look, since you're here, since you're not scared, since you're sober. He could prove that there was no creature, no nothing, a being of self-induced fear.
Alfred swallowed. Step one.
(He had a camera, binds, and a knife, just in case. Just in case.)
Alfred could not breathe.
Step one thousand and forty-five. Forty-six. In the dark, and then―not.
Because it was there.
Catching it was surprisingly easy. He took three photos, blinded by soft light. It had been looking at a tree, running a hand over the bark, so engrossed it hadn't noticed Alfred a foot away. Alfred―could feel everything, his heartbeat, nerve-ends prickling. The roots were fat, rot-black under his feet. He nearly tripped.
Something like a flash bomb went off in his gut, heavy and bright, new, this discovery. This non-being.
He had used the handle of his knife. Over the top of the head, a nice thunk as it crumpled. It hit the earth without a sound.
Alfred had planned this over sleepless nights, fuelled off knowing this didn't exist, not really―bad beer on a bad night. He still thought: knock it out, tie it up, bring it back. Observe. Methodical. Put it in steps.
His car was parked not far, back seat big enough to lie down in. There were damp cloths that made the air reek of chemical, tucked under the passenger seat, as a precaution. Wouldn't want it waking up.
Alfred wound the rope around its feet, wrists. It was hard to see the creature in the new darkness, but he fumbled for its limbs and found them, curled under itself protectively. It stayed limp as Alfred made his way back, forever conscious of the presence on his back.
He saw something.
It wasn't much of a something, though. Alfred only saw it in the periphery, a smudge, a gap where there shouldn't have been a gap. It didn't haunt him, because it didn't exist. In reality, in life, in the fact that two and two made four, he didn't see anything. How could Alfred, when he knew it was impossible to? When he knew teenagers had too much imagination, that it was easy to make mistakes, that it was so easy to spread bullshit in such a small town as theirs.
(It looked human. It was dark. It was not much else.)
Alfred wanted it. Alfred wanted to take the impossibility of it, its falsity, if only to pull them apart in his fingers, unravel, see atoms and molecules because that's what they were. What all of them were. He needed to see how it existed because. it. shouldn't.
Alfred knew there was a madness in this. Every genius was, a little.
It had been four days.
Alfred was reluctant to go back, only because now the more he thought about it, the more stupid it seemed. He had been drunk. And scared. And it had been that hard kind of dark, swallowing, echoing, that made trees into beasts. He hadn't been thinking straight, or at all. Gossip was not the type of thing to draw facts from, never mind theorise with, and Alfred was―the logical sort, science in his fingertips, science in the inexplicable.
He was there, still, standing at the edge of the thicket.
Alfred had a chance now. This was how he convinced himself: might as well take a look, since you're here, since you're not scared, since you're sober. He could prove that there was no creature, no nothing, a being of self-induced fear.
Alfred swallowed. Step one.
(He had a camera, binds, and a knife, just in case. Just in case.)
Alfred could not breathe.
Step one thousand and forty-five. Forty-six. In the dark, and then―not.
Because it was there.
Catching it was surprisingly easy. He took three photos, blinded by soft light. It had been looking at a tree, running a hand over the bark, so engrossed it hadn't noticed Alfred a foot away. Alfred―could feel everything, his heartbeat, nerve-ends prickling. The roots were fat, rot-black under his feet. He nearly tripped.
Something like a flash bomb went off in his gut, heavy and bright, new, this discovery. This non-being.
He had used the handle of his knife. Over the top of the head, a nice thunk as it crumpled. It hit the earth without a sound.
Alfred had planned this over sleepless nights, fuelled off knowing this didn't exist, not really―bad beer on a bad night. He still thought: knock it out, tie it up, bring it back. Observe. Methodical. Put it in steps.
His car was parked not far, back seat big enough to lie down in. There were damp cloths that made the air reek of chemical, tucked under the passenger seat, as a precaution. Wouldn't want it waking up.
Alfred wound the rope around its feet, wrists. It was hard to see the creature in the new darkness, but he fumbled for its limbs and found them, curled under itself protectively. It stayed limp as Alfred made his way back, forever conscious of the presence on his back.
Step one.
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