Mending Yesterday

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Loud techno covers up the laughing, screaming, and the occasional ambiguous sounds that are carried by the wind, drift over the lawn. Tightly packed bodies move against each other, empty bottles take up every free surface, the floor seems to be quivering under the constant, rhythmic steps of the students dancing in drunken ecstasy. It’s your first university party, the first time you drank enough for the world to gain a vague haze, the first time you danced with a stranger, the first night you stayed out so late. Now that you left high school behind, it’s a new chance to make friends, find a group you can belong to, no longer sit alone at lunch, and spend more of your free time outside of your home. You have never been shy nor truly unpopular, sometimes people would invite you somewhere and you would go, have a nice day with classmates, and participate in their chatroom at night. Instead of saying that you used to be an outcast, it’s more that you’ve been interchangeable, not liked, or disliked, but simply… there. One out of many, a face people will forget as soon as it leaves their sight. You brother always insisted that you only have to put some effort into fitting in, or standing out, to show that you really care about the people you want to be friends with. Hear the same music, watch the same shows, laugh about their jokes, just say //yes// even when you think //no//. Maybe he was right, but you never wanted to betray yourself to make friends that like you because you pretend to be someone they would click with,'' [[instead of the person you truly are.]]

[[Bonds]] <<if hasVisited("shines so brightly")>> [[Talent]] <</if>>

Mending Yesterday <h1 style="font-size:14px;">By MoonlightPeddler</h1>

<<set $gaze to 0>> <<set $gaze = Math.clamp($gaze, 0, 10)>> <<if $gaze >= 1&& $gaze <= 2>> You did something, but what it is eludes you. <<elseif $gaze >= 3 && $gaze <= 4>> You can feel it, but it’s unstable. <<elseif $gaze >= 5 && $gaze <= 6>> You start to understand it, but it's hard to control. <<elseif $gaze >= 7 && $gaze <= 9>> You’ve become familiar with it, but there are a few flaws. <<elseif $gaze is 10>> The green of your eyes is feared by all. <</if>> <<set $hunt to 0>> <<set $hunt = Math.clamp($hunt, 0, 10)>> <<if $hunt >= 1&& $hunt <= 2>> You did something, but what it is eludes you. <<elseif $hunt >= 3 && $hunt <= 4>> You can feel it, but it’s unstable. <<elseif $hunt >= 5 && $hunt <= 6>> You start to understand it, but it's hard to control. <<elseif $hunt >= 7 && $hunt <= 9>> You’ve become familiar with it, but there are a few flaws. <<elseif $hunt is 10>> Nothing can hide or run from you. <</if>> <<set $wander to 0>> <<set $wander = Math.clamp($wander, 0, 10)>> <<if $wander >= 1&& $wander <= 2>> You did something, but what it is eludes you. <<elseif $wander >= 3 && $wander <= 4>> You can feel it, but it’s unstable. <<elseif $wander >= 5 && $wander <= 6>> You start to understand it, but it's hard to control. <<elseif $wander >= 7 && $wander <= 9>> You’ve become familiar with it, but there are a few flaws. <<elseif $wander is 10>> You wander through the night unseen. <</if>> <<set $JamesAffection to 5>> <<set $JamesAffection = Math.clamp($JamesAffection, 5, 20)>> <<if $JamesAffection >=4 && $JamesAffection <=9>> You are his little boy, he's happy with your situation <<elseif $JamesAffection >=10 && $JamesAffection <=14>> You are his little boy, he can't help but be nervous <<elseif $JamesAffection >=15 && $JamesAffection <=19>> You are his little boy, he will do whatever needs doing <<elseif $JamesAffection is=20>> You are his little boy, please remember that <</if>> <<set $AileenAffection to 5>> <<set $AileenAffection = Math.clamp($AileenAffection, 5, 20)>> <<if $AileenAffection >=4 && $AileenAffection <=9>> She loves you, she's hopeful and content <<elseif $AileenAffection >=10 && $AileenAffection <=14>> She loves you, but you make her worry <<elseif $AileenAffection >=15 && $AileenAffection <=19>> She loves you, regardless of the consequences <<elseif $AileenAffection is=20>> She loves you, please remember that <</if>> <<set $AlfredAffection to 5>> <<set $AlfredAffection = Math.clamp($AlfredAffection, 5, 20)>> <<if $AlfredAffection >=4 && $AlfredAffection <=9>> A brother's love runs deep, seeing you well lifts his spirit <<elseif $AlfredAffection >=10 && $AlfredAffection <=14>> A brother's love runs deep, he feels responsible for your state <<elseif $AlfredAffection >=15 && $AlfredAffection <=19>> A brother's love runs deep, like the dark depths of the ocean <<elseif $AlfredAffection is=20>> A brother's love runs deep, please remember that <</if>> <<set $Reme to 0, $maxReme to 10>> <<set $Obliv to 0, $maxObliv to 10>> <<set $Memory to false>>

''Template parts & Inspiration'' <ul> <li>Pellicule by <a href="https://lapinlunaire-games.itch.io/pellicule">Lapin Lunaire Games</a>. </li>  <li>Twine-Template by <a href="https://nyehilism.itch.io/twine-template">Nyehilism</a>. </li>  </ul> ''Intro & Music & Art'' By <span style="text-decoration:overline;">MoonlightPeddler</span>

‘University is different’, is what your brother said. ‘University values individuality’, is what your mother claimed. ‘Just have fun’, is what your father added, ever so helpful. ''[[You really wanted to believe them.]]''

And yes, you do have fun right at this moment, surrounded by boys that treat you like a close friend, and beautiful older girls trying to dance with you, with the alcohol that’s pumping through your bloodstream, and the music that’s adding an addicting buzz. You fumble your way outside at four in the morning, the arm of a senior slung over your shoulder, you are working hard to make sense of what the man is saying but end up just laughing along. Freezing wind burns your face and your eyes stay on the older schoolmate’s lips for a little too long, follow the white clouds that are obscuring the young man’s chiselled face, and the misty brown eyes that gaze at you like you actually are an interesting person. A female voice drifts over from afar, shouting your name, followed by a laugh that ends in an embarrassed, drunken cough that might turn into vomiting any second, eliciting a round of laughter from those nearby. //“Cailean!”// Senior is taken over by a boy you don’t know the name of, they board a taxi still screaming about a topic you’ve stopped keeping track of long ago. //“Cailean!”// You turn around towards the voice, a young woman in modest attired waves at you from the front door. It's Kathrine, who sits next to you in psychology. She screams, tears are falling like raindrops, her face contorted with utter terror. ''[[Kathrine...]]''

<center>@@.reveal;''[[...who couldn't make it to the party.]]''@@</center>

Stiff branches are cutting into your face, blood is rushing in your ears, your feet are stumbling through the woods, every painful breath burns away your strength. Scrunching sounds of frozen leaves behind you are driving your tired body forward, the darkness is surrounding you, your body is covered in sweat and shaking from the icy air that’s drilling its way under your coat. The world behind unseeing eyes twists and turns, earthy smell invades your nose, ''[[overwhelms your lungs.]]''

Ice seems to spread on the back of your head and near your ''[[heart.]]''

Warm currents trickle down your temples and wet your ''[[clean white coat.]]''

<center>''[[It hurts.]]''</center>

Voices speak words you can’t comprehend, your body is filled with lead. You still have to write something for literature. ''[[What was it about?]]''

<center>''[[It's no longer cold.]]''</center>

Footsteps move further and further away, the party must have come to an end. Light breaks the darkness, the rays are spreading from the centre of your vision, slowly drive away the night. You breathe it all out, together with the ''[[warmth that’s blocking your throat.]]''

<center><<timed 0s t8n>><<fadeout 5s 200ms>>''It doesn't hurt anymore.''<</fadeout>> <<next 5.2s>> \<<goto "here">> \<</timed>></center>

//Moveless eyes stare upwards into barren trees, at the sky obscured by grey clouds, the pale moon casts its sight down at the lonely body for but a second, while the fleeing figures scatter in all directions, and the discoloured patch under the boy stops to spread. Wind rustles through the trees, plays a song that has no audience, drowns out the soft footsteps of a tall shadow that walks around the lifeless young man. Long fingers caress the quickly cooling face, gently move over his chest, paint the spectre's pale skin a warm red. Ice blue looks into dim green, long hair forms a curtain, separates light from darkness, embraces the life that has found its end ''[[unjustly.]]''//

<div id="titleCont"><center><<include "Title">></center> <center><<include "Author">></center> <div id="splashLinks"> <<link "Start" "Start">><</link>> <span>✦</span> <<if (Save.autosave.ok() and Save.autosave.has()) or (Save.slots.count() gte 1)>> <<link "Load">><<script>>UI.saves()<</script>><</link>> <span>✦</span> <</if>> <<link "Warnings">> <<run Dialog.setup("Warnings");Dialog.wiki(Story.get("Warnings").processText());Dialog.open();>> <</link>><span>✦</span> <<link "Credits">> <<run Dialog.setup("Credits");Dialog.wiki(Story.get("Credits").processText());Dialog.open();>> <</link>> </div>

<center>The game is in active development, some bugs might be present,<br> and future versions could be incompatible with your saves. You can follow the progress on <a href="https://moonlightpeddler.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a></center>

<h1 style="font-size: 5;">''Mending Yesterday''</h1>

<ul> <li>Blood </li> <li>Violence </li> <li>Death </li> <li>Murder </li> <li>Assault </li> <li>Brainwashing </li> <li>Dysfunctional relationships </li> <li>Co-dependency </li> <li>Self-harm </li> </ul>

<<nobr>> <img src="images/dadd.png" width="200" height="200"> <<if $JamesAffection >=4 && $JamesAffection <=9>> You are his little boy, he's happy with your situation <<elseif $JamesAffection >=10 && $JamesAffection <=14>> You are his little boy, he can't help but be nervous <<elseif $JamesAffection >=15 && $JamesAffection <=19>> You are his little boy, he will do whatever needs doing <<elseif $JamesAffection is=20>> You are his little boy, please remember that <</if>><br><br> <img src="images/mam.png" width="200" height="200"> <<if $AileenAffection >=4 && $AileenAffection <=9>> She loves you, she's hopeful and content <<elseif $AileenAffection >=10 && $AileenAffection <=14>> She loves you, but you make her worry <<elseif $AileenAffection >=15 && $AileenAffection <=19>> She loves you, regardless of the consequences <<elseif $AileenAffection is=20>> She loves you, please remember that <</if>> <br><br> <img src="images/alf.png" width="200" height="200"> <<set $AlfredAffection = Math.clamp($AlfredAffection, 5, 20)>> <<if $AlfredAffection >=4 && $AlfredAffection <=9>> A brother's love runs deep, seeing you well lifts his spirit <<elseif $AlfredAffection >=10 && $AlfredAffection <=14>> A brother's love runs deep, he feels responsible for your state <<elseif $AlfredAffection >=15 && $AlfredAffection <=19>> A brother's love runs deep, like the dark depths of the ocean <<elseif $AlfredAffection is=20>> A brother's love runs deep, please remember that <</if>><br><br><</nobr>> <<link "Return" $return>><</link>>

At first, it’s a whisper, chaotic, fading in and out of existence, words tumbling into each other, fizzle out into static. Sometimes you think you can hear your name, on some days it sounds sad, desperate, on others it’s hopeful, pregnant with expectations. Then it becomes clearer, parts of sentences, and smells that remind you of your grandmother, clean, too clean. The first time you open your eyes, all you see is a white ceiling, swallowed up by darkness before the source of the voice that's drifting closer can enter your vision. The second time you open your eyes, your brother’s tear-stained face is angled down at you, then the man looks behind himself, his mouth opens and closes in what must be a scream. Blinding lights force your eyelids to stay shut, the pain under them so strong that tears are accumulating in the corners, overflow quickly and trickle down your cheeks, leave a wet, cold touch that prickles on your skin. "Cailean! Mam! Mam!" It’s Alfred’s slightly muffled voice, trembling warm hands grip yours that seem so chilly in comparison, the difference in temperature causes goosebumps on your covered arms. A flurry of voices surround your body that is laying on a soft bed, your eyes open after what feels like hours, and three people break down in tears the moment you look at them one by one. Your gaze wanders over your older brother who is clinging on to your hand, then to your father, holding your mother in his arms, their eyes a deep shade of red. “Daddy?” Your voice is raspy, brittle, so strange that you aren’t sure that it’s really your own, just like the body that feels too light, or the view before your eyes, tinted in colours that seem so vibrant that they shouldn't exist in this reality. “Cailean, welcome back.” Soft lips touch your forehead, your father’s tears fall down onto your chest clad in a soft pyjama. “Do you feel uncomfortable?” You aren't sure, everything feels fuzzy, intangible, but you do know that you are confused. How did you get home? Why does everyone look so haggard, so tired? And where even are you? The room isn’t yours, yet it doesn’t look like a hospital, you recognise some of the furniture, the photos on the wall, the clock you made for a school project in elementary, and yet it’s different; too clean, the blue of your walls too new, the carpet too fluffy, the lamp above your head one you have never seen, as are the curtains. “What happened?” Thick fog covers up the last night, you remember drinking, dancing, the charming senior, and how cold it was. “Where am I?” There must have been an accident, the vague impression of pain still lingers in your chest and head, but apart from that, only darkness remains. “Let’s talk about this later when you are fully awake, okay?” Your mother takes the hand that isn’t held by your brother, the relief in her voice slows down the racing thoughts, smothers the fear and panic that are trying to break through, even when you aren’t sure what exactly you are afraid of – or frightened by. You make small talk, about father’s latest case he’s not actually allowed to share, your mother’s favourite new student, and about the cute intern at your brother’s workplace. Every word lessens the surreal feeling and haze, slowly the world returns to how it should be, with the right amounts of sound and colour, even your body doesn’t feel so foreign anymore. No one says anything about it, but now with a clearer mind, you can guess that whatever happened to you must have been serious, just going by the heartrate monitor in the corner, and the small medical knickknacks laying on your nightstand. “So, I’m awake. What happened? Was I run over by a car?” Three people look at you in silence, the happy atmosphere turns solemn, causing a stone to form in your chest, pressing down on you so heavily that it threatens to take your breath away. “You don’t remember?” Alfred is the first to speak, the smile on his face strangely morphed, unfamiliar, it has an edge to it that you’ve never seen before, one that sends a jolt of fear through your body. “I was saying goodbye at the party. My chest and head hurt – I think.” Your eyes roam back and forth between your family members, noting the expressions full of pain – you regret having asked. “That night you came home late; we thought you are just drunk and sent you to bed.” Her voice is brittle; you look up to your mam, there are tears hidden in her eyes and voice, tears only a grieving mother can shed. “But the next morning – you didn’t wake up. We couldn’t wake you up.” Warm fingers glide through your hair, you look to your father who seems so much older than you remember him being, with dark circles under his eyes, the usually cleanly shaven face dotted with hair. “You’ve been in a coma for 13 months. Some kind of genetic disease that suddenly broke out, your organs were failing, and you had signs of encephalitis.” Your brother pulls out a folder from your nightstand, you look at it in shock, notice that it’s as thick as the history book you had in high school. “The doctors didn’t know what was going on, we tried so many hospitals. So many. You just wouldn’t get better.” The pages are packed with test results, reports you can’t understand anything of, the names on them change every time, sheet after sheet of bloodwork and what you think must be MRI images. “Finally, the treatment worked. We moved here because it’s closer to the hospital, this is your new room. I tried my best to make it look like your old one.” He smiles with red eyes, points at the parts he seems to be especially proud of, shows how familiar he is with everything you hold dear, arranged just like they were in your former room. “Three weeks ago, you showed signs of waking up, we took you home and have been waiting here the whole time.” Then, what you thought was being drunk was actually your body breaking down? You’ve read this kind of story on the internet, people would suddenly develop blood cancer or suffer from organ failure out of nowhere, faint in the middle of the road, fall into a coma, and die a few days later. “Am I cured? I’m not going to die, am I?” It should be a smile, one that puts your family at ease, instead it sounds like you are about to cry, the shaking of your body just won’t stop no matter how much you want it to, the shock and fear too great to keep them bottled up. “No! Honey, you won’t die.” Frail arms pull you against a warm chest, they remind you of the day you fell down from the roof of the garbage bin; your mam held you so tightly in her arms that it hurt more than the scrapped hands and knee, frightening you into crying because of the implication that you must be gravely hurt. “You just need to take your medicine; everything will be fine.” She wants to reassure you, you know that, but the way your brother and father avoid your eyes says the opposite of her words, easily unveil her lies, even if they are meant well. Maybe you won’t die, yet it doesn’t seem like you will be able to continue the life you had, or dreamed of building, all your grand plans for the future – go up in flames. “It can’t be cured, right? I will stay sick.” No one answers your question with words, only with more tears. “Okay, it’s fine. Really. Can I go back to university? Can I live… normally?” Alfred clears his throat, blinks away the moisture that you can see in his eyes, how much he wants to look composed. “No, at least not now. There’s a lot we have to be careful with, and the treatment – the side effects are severe. But you can continue your studies online once you have stabilised enough.” The smile he gives you does nothing to calm your worries, quite the opposite, it looks so uneasy, so devastated, that you can already guess the truth. “Like what? I mean, what are the side effects and what do I have to avoid? I feel fine, really.” You do, apart from your mouth being incredibly dry and your body very cold, both maybe due to the fear you can barely ignore. “Photodermatitis. Sunlight will trigger a bad rash; you have to avoid daylight. You might feel very sleepy during the day and hyperactive at night because your sleep circle is reversed. Your diet has to be strictly managed, your digestive system is fragile, and you need carefully controlled nutrition to aid your body’s faulty metabolic system.” Your father narrates it in such a calm voice, that you nearly feel bad for how your face is distorting against your will, the mere thought of what all of that says, the limitations it puts on you, and how small your life will now be, too grave for you to keep a straight face. No more going out during the day, no more of your favourite food and drinks, no chance of having a social life, or doing anything else someone your age should be able to experience. Studying online is great, but for what? If you won’t ever be able to work, then what’s the point in wasting money on studying? How are you going to find someone to fall in love with when you can’t go anywhere? What about meeting friends, or just eating ice cream in summer, anything normal people do? “Don’t look like that, it’s really not as bad as it sounds. The current treatment is aggressive to get it under control, it will change over time and your life will go back to nigh normal.” It doesn’t seem like your father is lying, his smile is the same as back when you were children, and your brother tricked you into believing that a demon is living in your bathroom mirror. A helpless, doting smile you would use on your children when they crawl into your bed to hide from monsters. ''[[“Just hang in there.”]]''

You listen to your family‘s soothing words and tales about the hospitals you have stayed in over these 13 months, until your eyelids grow heavy and the sounds around you distant, their comforting presence, familiar and warm, embrace you gently. The pressure, fear and sadness melt away with the receding darkness, makes way for the day that’s blocked out by thick curtains, leaving not a single shimmer of it into your room. Black retreats in favour of a gentle red, the house that lay dead for so long finally illuminated from the inside, and with the first rays descending onto the little garden under your window, the weight becomes too much to fight. You hear gentle words of love, lulling you into a ''[[deep sleep.]]''

//Husband and wife are standing before their son's bed, holding each other against their chests, the oldest son leaning on his father’s shoulder, and together they gaze at the sleeping youngest. Shaking breaths calm down into soft exhales, six eyes never leave the boy that seems to have fallen into an endless slumber, the blanket moves up and down so slowly that one might feel it could be for the last time. A door closes with a quiet click, footsteps echo through an empty hallway, down a flight of stairs, and come to a stop in the living room full of unopened boxes piled up to a person’s hight. “He’s awake, really awake.” Aileen sinks into the half-covered sofa, drags her husband down next to her; his arm quickly finds its way around her back, hold her close, burry his nose in her soft, curly hair. “It’s all going to be okay; he’ll get used to it, we just have to be more careful.” Alfred touches his stiff arm, massaging it to get some feeling back into the parts that are numb from holding Cailean's in a vice grip. “I get off work right after the meeting at 8pm, I have to be there. Call me if he wakes up earlier than expected, I come back right away.” James shakes his head, turns down his eldest’s kind intentions. “No, you and your mother can both go to work with ease, I stay home with him. We can’t afford either of you losing your job.” Their life can continue only when they have enough money, it’s not easy to find a job as a lawyer in such a remote place, until he can figure something out, they have to rely on the mother’s and son’s salary. They part in silence a minute later, hurriedly pack up their things, and shortly after the front door opens and closes two times, leave the man alone in a house that has fallen into a stupor once again. At least this time he’s not lonely, just knowing that the boy is sleeping upstairs lifts the heavy stone from his chest, makes it easier to breathe in the cold fresh air coming from the open window, ignore the darkness caused by their tinted windows, focus on the presence upstairs. He watches the sun rise up into the sky, the minimal warmth that penetrates through the cover tries to guide him into a restful sleep; it would be the first since he found Cailean’s lifeless body in the woods, the first that isn’t haunted by ghosts he wants to forget. It was hard to let him go to a party with total strangers, harder than it was with Alfred, his strong, determined personality much more suitable for nightly outings than the boy’s mellow spirit. In contrast to their eldest, their youngest has never been one for parties, never drank or went wild, he was the quiet, good child that every parent wants to shelter and can’t help but worry about, especially when he’s out at night. When he didn’t come home the next morning, both of them thought of the worst, they called his phone, the university, and even found the only two people in his elective that he talked about but came back knowing only that he left the party in the early morning – and never made it home. They waited, and waited some more, until the sun started to descent, and Alfred tracked his brother’s phone, the only hope they still had left after the police declined any help with finding an adult whose vanishing seems deliberate. Running over frozen ground, the rising moon behind his back, frozen trees casting their shadows; James still remembers his own voice, hoarse from shouting into the extent of black, running after the beam from his flashlight, searching around blindly, following a vague direction. His son’s white coat shining from between logs and brittle leaves, the visceral scream forcing his mouth open, how madly he ran to what he still thought of as his little boy, is a hazy memory yet one he will never forget. How ice-cold the body was that he cradled against his chest, and the sound fabric makes when it separates from a ground covered in dried blood, ''[[has burned itself into his mind.]]''//

//Aileen walks up to the sofa, looks down at her husband sleeping peacefully, and covers him with her warm winter coat. It’s only six in the evening, he can make up for all the sleep he lost in the past months, regain the energy he needs to stay with Cailean during the night, a task he has taken over with determination, never wavering in his resolve. She enters the sparsely furnished kitchen that holds everything they took away in haste, the bare minimum to make it functional for their family of four, none of the old gadgets they have been used to utilise every day anywhere to be seen. Her hands search around inside the fridge, take out the vegetables and fish they will eat for dinner, gathers pots and pans with a skip in her steps; it has been so long since they ate together, all of them on the same table, like they did for the past nineteen years with very few exceptions. At first, they ate in Cailean’s room, until they realised that his restlessness was caused by the smell of food; since then, they have optimised their time, made sure that the next person on shift wouldn’t go hungry, too afraid to leave the boy alone in his room. Deft hands make short work of the food, soon vegetables bubble in a big pot of water and fish slowly grills right under the wide-open window that lets the cold in and the smell out; it drifts over the small porch and on to the streets, leaving a trail of the homely scent that she missed so much. The fridge opens and closes, Aileen unwraps a small package, takes out the pieces of lean, red meat, and the aroma mixes with the rest, creates an orchestra of aroma that plays out of tune. One piece after another falls into the discoloured mixer together with the unknown liquid that's sloshing inside the package; it gets shredded into semi-paste, a thick, sticky mess that used to make her sick just by looking at it. Today it makes her smile. She fills it into a medium sized bottle and closes the cap tightly, places it back in the fridge, silently counts how long their stock will last before they have to find a way to get more. Her blue skirt falls around her thin legs, keeps out some of the cold, while she sits down on a chair next to the stove, the novel in her hands is well-used, its cover slightly frayed, showing how much delight, or solace, its owner must receive from it. It’s a melancholic story about a family building a home in a war-torn country, fighting for their children’s safety and happiness at the cost of their own morality and life, leaving behind what they used to be in favour of adapting to the brutal new world. Time gets lost between the pages, the sun ends its way on the other side of the horizon, blue sky dips into darkening orange when a gentle kiss falls on her head. Alfred smiles hat her warmly from above. “I go up first, he should wake up soon. Don’t worry, it will be fine.” He waves at his father who sits drowsily on the sofa, still half asleep, walks up the stairs and opens his brother’s pitch-black room, the light from the hallway barely enough to see vague outlines. With a soft click, warm white radiates from the lamp at the boy’s bedside, illuminates the sleeping figure, hypnotic green eyes still closed, the fragile body so pale that it looks more dead than alive. It takes for the sun to vanish completely before the young man begins to stir, sluggishly blinks several times, a glowing green that finally focuses on the man sitting by his bed - ''[[a smile blossoms on the slightly immature face.]]''

“Did you sleep well? It’s nearly time for dinner, do you need help with freshening up?” Alfred folds the blanket and lays it down on the foot of the bed, while you stretch yourself lazily, wait for the satisfying pop of your back, and rub the remnants of sleep from your eyes. “What about dystrophy, is it safe to walk?” You lift your legs up, wiggle your toes, but apart from a mild heavy feeling, there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with your muscles, no pain or stiffness. “We did physiotherapy with you; it should be okay if you don’t overdo it. The doctor told us to take it slow, don’t run around too much and sit down whenever possible.” Your brother smiles, now it's the typical warm and tender expression he always had when he looked at you – it makes you wonder if the sharp look you've seen before was an illusion caused by your own unease. You keep your sight on the ground, put both feet down firmly and take your first step; it feels too airy, too light, like your body has the weight of a feather, moving seem so effortless that every gesture comes out with more force than you intended. The second attempt is better, and by the fourth, everything is back to normal, or at least what you think should count as such. Some dissonance sets in when the bathroom door is closed and the shirt falls to the floor, your snow-white skin that feels smooth to the touch, cold, unnaturally so, makes you wary. Looking around for a mirror but finding none, you check the bathroom and notice that it’s empty except for a few towels, soap, and shampoo, none of the products you are used to seeing in your family's bathrooms are there. How long have they been living here, could it be that they didn’t have time to set up properly? Your hands roam over your naked arms, run through your hair that feels freshly washed and too neat for someone who has just woken up, especially you, who tends to move around in your sleep. <hr> <<nobr>> <div class=“choices”><div class="choice-item">''[[You could check yourself even without a mirror, see how your body dealt with 13 months of coma.|Cold water flows][$Reme +=1]]''</div></div> <div class=“choices”><div class="choice-item">''[[It doesn't really matter, does it? You are awake, you won't die, that's good enough.|Warm water flows][$Obliv +=1]]''</div></div> <</nobr>>

You wet your hands with icy water, splash your face with it, eyes fixed on the veins so clearly visible under your skin, wandering upwards, and you wonder how your face might look like. Touching along your ribcage makes you aware of how pointed your bones are and circling your wrists with your fingers is too easy; it seems that you’ve lost weight, which isn’t surprising for someone who could have easily died, but you certainly grief for the bit of muscle you managed to build in your last year of high school. Your eyes fall on your chest, follow the thin trickle of water running down on it, the translucent skin glistening wherever the drops pass over, giving it a soft, white sheen. The image shakes ever so slightly, flashes at the corners, and the transparent drops turn into red, spread quickly over your chest, radiating from your heart, blooming like a rose. For a moment you think you can hear screaming, it sounds too much like your own voice. It sounds too much like gruesome pain. Closing your eyes tightly, your hands grip the sink, try to anchor yourself to reality through solid touch, repeat the mantra that everything is fine, the pictures and sound nothing but hallucinations. It takes several minutes for your mind to calm, and when you open your eyes, your chest is back to normal and the bathroom quiet, the unexpected assault on your senses over. Maybe you should tell them what just happened, but saying anything would only make them worry more; you can keep it to yourself, see if it happens again or was an isolated incident, caused by your brain not being used to a wakeful state. You grab the shirt that’s quietly waiting for you on the edge of the bathtub and ''[[open the door.]]''

Warm water flows over your hands with clearly visible veins, they splash it on your face, rub over the neck that’s stiff from lying down for too long, and over soft brown curls that gently wind around your fingers. 13 months seem like an eternity, too long for any of your schoolmates to still think about you, someone they have known for just a couple of weeks, mostly spoken to in passing or over a small bite between lectures. Making new friends should be even harder now that you can’t go out during the day, leaving only the internet as an option to find some connection, maybe with people suffering from similar conditions, find some solace in knowing that you aren't alone, that there are people sharing the same hardship. It’s just not the same, not what you wanted to do with your new, adult life, you won't be the person you decided on becoming, were ready to work towards, make genuine efforts and change everything around. There’s a shirt waiting to be put to use on the edge of the bathtub; you shake off the water and get dressed, still thinking about how to bring some social aspect into this bleak reality and push away the thought of what kind of treatment you might have to endure from now on. Finally decent enough to go out, you ''[[open the door.]]''

//Cold//, that’s the first thought you have when your lips touch the content of your glass, the smell now so strong that it’s overwhelming, even if not in a necessarily unpleasant way. Aroma mixes with flavour, the careful sip you wanted to take is stopped halfway by the overpowering taste of iron that lies heavily on your tongue. An impulse tells you to spit it out, but then it twists and turns, something from deep within screams for it; your hand moves on its own, tips the glass back a second time, and your body swallows it all greedily, like it’s something that it craves desperately. The empty glass makes a dull sound on the table, red liquid runs down its inside, the residue on its edge is swapped away by your slender finger that’s enclosed between your pale lips just a second later. Your family observes you closely, not letting go of the smallest reaction, you see it all, and the warmth it brings when their smiles start to bloom with happiness makes it all worth it. Not that you have anything to regret, the concoction tastes surprisingly well, good enough even that you might have the nerve to ask for seconds. “That was really good, seriously. The iron is a bit strong at first but then the taste hits you and it’s not that bad anymore.” It’s hard to tell what it actually tastes like, there’s a bit of meat flavour and different nuances you can’t clearly identify, but it’s still tasty, not like the flavourless, unidentifiable mess your nana used to eat. Certainly, it’s just different when you can use meat instead of only vegetables and some poultry every now and then, or maybe it's the iron that somehow works well with the other ingredients. You watch your family eat and laugh, their relief so obvious that it makes your eyes water, force you to focus on the new kitchen, look around curiously, blink away the tears that you don’t want them to see. It’s a rather small room, so much smaller than what you had before, just like what you have seen of the rest of the house, the size and standard so different from the lavish one you remember. Even the style has little in common, more rustic, simple, something you would hardly find in a big city, making it likely that you have moved to a rural place. But would a hospital that treats a complex disease like yours really be in such a remote location? A bit of expectation builds up inside your chest, ideas about the outside, the town you might be in and how it looks. Maybe this is just on the outskirts of a bustling city you have never been to before? Traveling has always been something you wanted to do during university, preferably with the friends you made there, or even a new partner. “When did we move in here?” The kitchen might be new but looks empty, containing only a few bits and bobs, much like the living room and hallway, you haven't seen any of your mam’s beloved trinkets, not even the glass figurines of which she was always so proud. Alfred cleans his hands on a napkin, the smile he gives you is blinding, he looks much more relaxed and at ease, just like his old self, never bothered by anything. “Last week. We were in such a hurry that most of the house hasn’t been properly renovated yet, there are a lot of things still packed up.” You nod thoughtfully, “When do I have to go to the hospital?” It would be good to prove that you are fit enough to at least help around the house, considering that university, learning, or just taking a walk seem to be out of the question, and continuing to stay in bed sounds like a guaranteed way to get depression. And, maybe, someone could accompany you to take a look at the new town, even if it’s just up and down the street. “The doctor was here while you were asleep,” your father puts the last piece of freshly grilled fish into his mouth, “most tests have been done yesterday morning, they think it’s better to avoid any kind of stress - you don’t have to go for now as long as you are feeling fine.” Mam glances towards the empty dishes, “Your medication is given intravenously every three months,” she puts away the plates and glasses, your eyes follow her without blinking, “do you want to see the new house?” her warm hands gently grab yours, pull you up to show off the new home. You really want to ask questions, so many, but you don’t want to agitate them again, not after what they have been through, what they have done for you and are still doing. What you notice first, is how strange the windows look, somewhat milky, unreflective, like they have been pasted with something. Your mam explains that every window has been fitted with protective films that won’t let sunlight in and block out everything that could irritate your eyes or skin; one can still look outside, see vague outlines and shadows, the dim light from what might be a neighbour’s house, but it’s impossible to get a clear image of what your surroundings really look like. A bit of disappointment swirls around in your stomach, but you simply smile while you listen to her explanations, try to force some sort of positive feeling for this new place into existence. All the boxes confirm your brother’s words, and you belatedly realise that there isn’t even a TV in the living room, neither did you see one in your own. According to your father, who might have very well read your mind, they didn’t have time to get cable nor internet, and it would take a while to set both up, the house still needs to be modernised and never had access to either before. Your expectations have fallen to zero before you could set foot in front of your door, it’s now obvious that you must be somewhere deep in the countryside, probably in a small village surrounded by farmland, definitely not a bustling city. And even then, you can’t help but be surprised that there really are still places without cable, without internet, and it makes you wonder if your family bought this ancient place because they have no money to get a better one, if they have pumped all of their earnings into consulting professionals your insurance didn't cover. Maybe living here is better for someone as sick as you, someone who couldn’t participate in anything bustling anyway, and probably shouldn’t spent too much time online, considering how the internet can be – at least that’s how you decide to see it. A small hallway housing the stairs and two doors, one leading to the garage and basement, as well as a tiny storage room is all the ground floor has to offer. There’s a new car they must have bought while you were out, it’s not expensive, not shiny like the old one, and likely second-hand; a lot of boxes are standing around, the basement door is secured with a lock, and paint is falling off the walls. Alfred mentioned that it’s one of the two places that need renovations to make them safe for use, at least you vaguely remember him saying something like that over dinner. The first floor has five doors and brittle looking folding stairs that should lead to the attic – the second place that will stay off-limits until the needed work has been done. While the house is nice, cosy, and reminds you a bit of your grandparent’s old place, it’s painfully obvious how dilapidated it is, neglected, and certainly not something they would have lived in back when everything was well. Your family must have been desperate to move here, that they give up so much, comfort and luxury, just to be there for you, makes it hard to keep the smile natural, ignore the guilt that’s eating away at your heart. “Can we look outside? Where do we live, is it very rural?” The words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them, you look away in embarrassment, but your mam only laughs good-naturedly. “Yes, very. The hospital is a town over, but this house was the only one currently on the market and still close enough to reach it in a few hours.” she guides you to the front door and opens it wide, “There’s nothing here, really. Neighbours, three shops, one bus stop and anything else you would expect to find in the countryside.” The street is lit by the kind of streetlight you haven’t seen since you were a small child, the houses are modest, with small gardens in front that are well-taken care of, while your eyes fall on your family’s, partially overgrown with weeds, and the mailbox that has seen better days. Compared to your old little garden, methodically taken care of, adorned with flowers, it’s a shocking sight that doesn't match with the image of your parents. “Are the neighbours nice, are there any people my age around?” You look away from the empty, slightly creepy street that gives you a strange, unwelcoming feeling, and focus on your mother’s strained smile – you can guess the answer just from that. “They are nice, a bit reserved maybe. You know how people in these places are, they need time to accept you.” she pulls you back in and closes the door “We know there are a few teens around, but they don’t live on our street.” you walk back into the living room where she sits down and pulls you next to her with an encouraging smile. “In a few days we can take a walk, it’s too early, first I want to be sure that you are fine.” She beams at you, combs through your curly hair; seeing the dark shadows under her eyes makes you feel guilty for keeping her up so late, asking questions and being difficult. “Mam, daddy.” Alfred catches your parents’ attention, his larger frame fills out nearly the whole space that the new armchair offers “Go to bed, I stay with Cal.” Despite their agreement, both continue to fuzz over you and have to be reminded several times; when they finally retreat back to their bedroom, it’s already two in the morning, the night so deep and quiet that it’s unnerving, and the indirect light cast by the only lamp really doesn’t help. As if sensing where your mind is going, Alfred starts to talk about this and that, avoids the topics you don’t want to talk about, and gives you so much attention that you have to think back to your childhood, when your big brother just wouldn’t leave your side. It’s close to five when you start to lose concentration, something seems to be pulling at your consciousness, you hear Alfred speak but what he says makes less and less sense. At first you try to ignore it, then try to hide it as not to cause him worry, but by the time you should probably start to feel concerned about what’s going on with you, your brother has already ushered you to your room, dressed you up in your pyjama and pulls the blanket up to your nose. ''[[The last thing you see is his warm smile.|last thing you see]]''

You look at the glass, the thick liquid that’s sticking to its sides, then at your mother, noting how her face falls more and more the longer you hesitate. “Can’t I eat what you gave nana? If you remember right, it was made of mixed vegetables, green and slightly grainy, at least optically much better than what is standing in front of you, even though it tasted like nothing. “I know it doesn’t look great… I’m so sorry.” Your mam’s eyes seek out your father’s, and while they communicate silently in their own peculiar way, you think of ways to get out of this, or at least bring her to add something for afters to your meal plans, anything that would make it easier to swallow the things that are now your main course. Alfred takes your hand without warning and pulls you closer, so close that you can see the fine hairs on his shaven face, the sprinkles of brown in his blue eyes, and the look in them that makes your heart race, fill it with a sense of dread, shocked by how piercing his gaze is. He’s studying you from up close, the way his eyes wander over you systematically makes you self-conscious, wonder if there’s anything wrong with you that you haven’t noticed, or if you are being difficult again and the look he gives you is an accusation, prompting you not to act spoiled. “You need a lot of iron. Your body will break down if we don’t supplement it, then we have no choice but to give you an infusion that will cause gastrointestinal issues.” Your brother’s voice is but a whisper, he’s holding your hand so tightly that it borders on hurting, his painful expression, like he’s remembering a devastating experience, brings your resolve to crumble. But a strange feeling deep inside your heart tells you not to drink it, that you shouldn’t touch the glass, that things would never be the same if you did so. That something just isn’t right. You look at it again, take in the dark red colour, breathe the aroma of iron into your lungs, let it sink in deep. A strange murmur coming from the depths of your mind tells you to take a sip, take the glass and down it. That this is how it’s meant to be. You take a deep breath, shove away the feelings, the murmur, and decide to ''[[just smile and drink]]''

//A door closes with a soft click, quiet footsteps vanish inside the farthest room; Alfred sits down on his own bed, turns on a nightlight, retrieves a thick book from under the bedside table and opens it. Two pens are pulled from its side, neat handwriting immortalises the date and everything that happened since his brother woke up in the evening, not leaving out the smallest detail, every move and expression, and ends the entry in red, with a concise summary. The book vanishes back under the table and is replaced by one taken from the tightly packed shelf, so inconspicuous between the others that one couldn’t possibly notice it. Half of the notebook is already filled with dates and symbols, accompanied by lists and places, he adds today’s date and marks it with an X, takes one look at the inventory list, and puts the book back in its place. They have passed the first hurdle, thirteen months of trying, hiding, doing everything they deemed necessary, have finally born fruit. Everything they sacrificed, all the unspeakable things they have done to bring him back, the pain they have gone through, and have caused, are now justified. What happens in the future needs to be explored slowly, carefully, and how to treat Cailean, keep harm away from him, has to be adjusted with every change taking place in the boy and their surroundings. Maybe someday they might have to flee, leave everything behind and vanish, or openly fight their way out. Should this day come, then they can only hope Cailean might understand. That Cailean might forgive them the sins they have committed. With the last person going to bed, the house lies silent once again; despite the sun shining on it brightly, neighbours pick up their pace when they walk by, whispering, gossiping, about the new family with the sick son that happens to rarely go out, and their house with tinted glasses. Rumours spread fast in such a small place, it takes but a few hours for everyone to be informed, some believe the friendly couple and contemplate to offer their help, while others contemplate ways to avoid them, maybe even move away, before their little village makes it into the evening news. No one wants to be the next unlucky dead, a new emergency report that warns people about the cult having come to another place, claiming another victim, using their blood for God knows what kind of unholy thing. Or worse, being another missing person that got taken away, never to be seen again, likely subjected to unspeakable torture. All they know for sure, is that these attacks often happen near people like the new family’s son, someone who hides at home, avoids the light, sneaks about during the night. And yet, officially they aren’t related, and while it might be unusual in their small village, most of them do know a city-person or two that rarely goes out or prefers to sleep away the day. Still, many of them believe there to be a connection. Some claim these people are cultist making sacrifices to an unholy being, others say they are terrorists trying to wear down their minds before they start the real attack, and others… think of something much more fantastical. ''[[Vampires, they whisper.]]''//

You wake up with a dull pain, it’s throbbing, piercing, and itching all at once, starting from your head and quickly traveling throughout your whole body. Brightness stings your eyes, you look towards the window that seems too clear despite the heavy curtains that leave in barely any light, and sit up with a pounding heart, drenched in sweat yet shivering. Your throat feels dry like sandpaper, a pulling, unbearable sensation in your mouth makes you want to scream, the sounds coming in from outside so loud that they hurt your ears, just like the colours before your eyes, so intense that you close them in pain. Unidentifiable noises storm into your brain, mix into a deafening choir, worsening the pain that seems to grow with every passing second, drowning out everything else. <hr> <<nobr>> <div class=“choices”><div class="choice-item">''[[Give in, scream for help.|scream for help]]''</div></div> <div class=“choices”><div class="choice-item">''[[Try to bear it.][$JamesAffection +=1, $AlfredAffection +=1, $AileenAffection +=1]]''</div></div> <</nobr>>

It’s loud, your own scream is so loud in your ears that it sets off a sharp pain inside your head, ignites a burning flame that’s consuming your consciousness, gnaw its way through your insides. The door slams into the wall behind it, voices join the cacophony of sounds, hands are touching your burning skin, you can feel your body being pressed into the bed, but the sight before your eyes is nothing but a chaotic mess, unable to discern what they are looking at. You are sure it’s Alfred who is binding your hands and feet to the bed, while your father uses his weight to hold you still, supress the struggle you wish you could stop but are helpless against, like it’s an instinctive reaction. The wetness on your fingers gives off the smells of iron, you aren’t sure if it’s your own blood or someone else’s, but the aroma seems to make it worse, penetrates your nose, rips apart the bit of clear-headedness you are desperately fighting to keep. Voices drift in from everywhere at once, all you can make out are scattered words that make no sense, then something is inserted into your mouth, it’s metallic and burns. You taste it long before your brain catches up with how much stronger the scent of iron has become, something thick and sticky trickles down your throat, and by the time the last drop slides down your tongue, you feel a deep sense of content that pulls you back into ''[[the darkness.]]''

The pain is excruciating, you can’t even say where it is exactly, like it’s traveling around at an incredible speed, while the sensation in your throat changes to severe itching, a raw feeling that makes you think of festering, inflamed skin. You focus on the noises, but they tumble into each other, so many voices and sounds that it’s impossible to separate them, and the more you want to pull them apart, the worse the feeling inside your pounding head gets. Opening your eyes, you notice first how everything seems to have a greyish sheen, the colours are muted, bleed out at the edges, flicker, then vanish completely. It’s cold yet hot, freezing and burning, but most of all it’s hard to breathe, too little oxygen inside your room, too little to fill your lungs. You pull yourself up as far as your shaking arms allow, slowly turn over towards the window in a fruitless attempt to get yourself up and let in more air. Everything is swaying, the furniture, the thick curtain, and the dim light that makes it through them burns your eyes, something about it keeps you away, installs a kind of deep fear you can’t comprehend. In the middle of all the grey is a spec of red, a beautiful glow that’s wandering from one side to the other, then you notice several more, smaller, hazier. They attract your attention, keep your eyes glued to them, follow their slow movements. <hr> <<nobr>> <div class=“choices”><div class="choice-item">''[[Go, go to the window - see - see what it is that shines so brightly.|shines so brightly][$Reme +=1]]''</div></div> <div class=“choices”><div class="choice-item">''[[Think of your family, just scream for help.|scream for help][$Obliv +=1]]''</div></div> <</nobr>>

When you wake up again, your mind and body are a groggy mess, the memory of what happened vague, only the pain is still vivid, and whatever it was that burned in your mouth. Of course, being sick wouldn’t be easy, yet you never expected it to get this bad, that it would torment you and your family so much. And there you thought hallucinations would be a problem, in your mind there wasn’t even the possibility to be in so much pain or hurt someone. You’ve been naïve, that is clear now. A warm hand grabs your own; your eyes shift to the side, to your father sitting on a chair next to your bed, his tired expression more painful than the one you felt, not as devastating, crushing. “How are you feeling?” His voice sounds exhausted, raspy in the way you only ever heard it after a long trial, when he had to speak in a loud voice for hours on end. “I’m okay. Did I hurt someone?” Your father doesn’t answer, only shakes his head. “Daddy – I’m so sorry.” And afraid, but you don’t have it in you to say it aloud, not when the ones who truly suffer are others, not when you are the one who drags down your family, hurt them so much. “Don’t be, it’s not your fault. Blame the illness, that’s what we do, too.” He smiles, it’s a heavy, sad one. “This happened a few times before, when you weren’t fully conscious, the doctors said it would get better with time. You did the right thing – calling for help. Do that whenever you feel unwell, we know how to handle it.” You study his face, search for signs of a lie in those bloodshot eyes but find nothing but love, genuine care, yet believing it just like that would be foolish, for that you are too sure that they have lied to you several times already. ''[[“Okay” is all you can say - for now.|think things through]]''

<<notify>>Talent Unlocked<</notify>> Your feet step on the plush-carpet, stumble forward just a step, the glowing red that’s slowly leaving your sight forces you to turn your head, follow it through the walls, and for a moment you think you can hear a rhythmic thumbing, a low drum, so steady, and the tap, tap, tap of footsteps. From somewhere comes the crunching of twigs and frozen leaves, the grey wall in front of your eyes shifts, grows dark, the drum in your ears makes way for laboured, hasty breathing that feels like it’s coming from your own throat despite your still position. A cold, cutting pain spreads from your chest and head, screaming, shouting, then a collision. Pain, freezing air, and the darkness obscuring your vision. There is a glimmer of blue in the black, a vague spec at first, so piercing and clear, a tender hand caressing your face, the sensation so far away that it might be an illusion, a gentle touch that lifts your head, closer, so close that the spec turns into two beautiful ice blue irises sprinkled with red. Warmth drips into your mouth that is opened by the motion, it flows down into your body. Unbearable pain pulls a scream out from between your lips, the view changes from those captivating orbs back to your room, and your hand that has found its way between the curtains, the shock brings you tumbling backwards and down onto the floor. Your back hits the ground hard, yet all you can focus on, all that you feel, is the hand that you are holding by the wrist, and the panic that overshadows the strange impulse you felt before, your whole attention is on your fingers and the back of your hand that came into contact with the light. The voice of reason says, with trepidation, that you are burning, you can hear the crackling of your skin, see the flesh fall downwards, coloured like ash. Darkness comes so suddenly that you can’t react in time, a violent impact pins you to the floor, something is bound tightly around your head, covers your eyes, then your hands and feet. What’s left of your thoughts tells you that it must be your family, you don’t want to struggle, afraid to hurt them, but your body seems to have a mind of its own, you feel the restrains around you stretch while they cut into your skin, trying to break free at any cost. Something shifts, moves under and around you, disorientates your senses, a constant shaking that makes your stomach lurch, then your mouth is forced open wide, you taste metal, cold and hard, unyielding. It makes you want to fight, scream, tear it apart. Instead, the scent of iron fills your nose, shortly after it fills up your throat, your trapped tongue tries to catch it, presses against its restrain, but the taste calms your nerves. You can feel it, deep in your soul, the red warmth that pulls you under just before ''[[the last drop lands on your lips.]]''

Your eyes flutter open and you know, somehow, that it’s the middle of the night; your gaze falls on your father who is sitting by your bed, and despite the sparce lighting, you can clearly see the bone-deep exhaustion, the smile that he gives you so different from anything you have ever seen on his face. And you understand, you really do. What happened, no matter how much you want it to be, wasn’t something known of any kind of illness you’ve heard of or can imagine. You might be young, but you aren’t stupid. There must be something terribly wrong with your psyche, maybe caused by the disease you contracted, a side-effect of your medication, or simply… it has always been there, sleeping. Whatever it might be, it’s clear to you that you are potentially dangerous to those around you. <hr> <<nobr>> <div class=“choices”><div class="choice-item">''[[Be direct, ask to be send somewhere with professionals knowing how to handle it.|be send somewhere][$JamesAffection -=1, $AlfredAffection -=1, $AileenAffection -=1]]''</div></div> <div class=“choices”><div class="choice-item">''[[Don’t mention it, act like nothing happened, hope it was a one-time accident.|not hiding or speaking]]''</div></div> <</nobr>>

<img src="images/hunt.png" width="200" height="200"> <<if $hunt >=0 && $hunt <=2>> You did something, but what it is eludes you. <<elseif $hunt >= 3 && $hunt <= 4>> You can feel it, but it’s unstable. <<elseif $hunt >= 5 && $hunt <= 6>> You start to understand it, but it's hard to control. <<elseif $hunt >= 7 && $hunt <= 9>> You’ve become familiar with it, but there are a few flaws. <<elseif $hunt is 10>> Nothing can hide or run from you. <</if>> <<link "Return" $return>><</link>>

You look down at your hand, the one you have been sure was burning, crumbling into ashes, but it looks nearly normal except for a few spots that seem raw, the skin an angry red, stinging mildly, there’s nothing left of what you think you saw during the day. “Daddy.” Your eyes stay on your hand; you just can’t muster the confidence to look at him, instead you steal yourself for a conversation you wish wouldn’t be necessary, the fear you feel so great that it takes every ounce of your willpower not to drown in desperation. “There’s something very wrong with my mind. I had hallucinations, really bad ones, and violent impulses.” A soft sob comes from next to you, you know he’s crying, he’s as devastated as you are – or maybe even more. “Please send me to a hospital or institute before I can hurt someone.” You didn’t expect to hear a laugh, and when you look up, you see your father with tears in his eyes, but he looks so relieved, the weight that seemed to press on his body gone. “Cailean, we aren’t sending you anywhere. This wasn’t the first time, that’s why we knew how to manage it.” He gives you a smile, one that looks sad but genuine. “We were just afraid it would frighten you, and we hoped it would change now that you are fully awake, that’s why we didn’t tell you.” His hand wraps around yours, holds it so tenderly that you are now the one holding back tears. “It’s a potential symptom that’s caused by the damage to your brain, we told you that you had something like encephalitis. But there’s a good chance that it will heal over time.” You do remember them saying something like that, but your limited knowledge doesn’t extent to what an inflamed brain actually means, or what kind of effect it has long-term. Maybe if you had told them what happened in the bathroom, about the blood and scream that weren’t really there, they could have been better prepared, wouldn’t have been at risk of getting hurt. “I’m so sorry, daddy. I had this before, once, the hallucination was short, and I didn’t want to worry you. I should have told you.” Your father shakes your hand, a soft chuckle that makes the skin around his eyes crinkle draws your attention. He didn’t have those before, back when you weren’t sick. ''[[“It’s fine. We can get through this together, just don’t hide it anymore.”|not hiding or speaking]]''

„What’s for dinner?“ you ask with a pained smile, a poor attempt at seeming unaffected but that’s all you can do, all you feel comfortable doing after the trouble you have caused. Your father rubs his face and for a moment he looks frustrated; you wonder with what, if it’s you or the situation as a whole, but the expression is gone so quickly that it might have been just your imagination, influenced by the guilt you feel. A small part of you wishes your family could show how much they suffer, how hard it is for them, that you could all complain and cry together instead of doing this play of false positivity. “I think your mam made the same as yesterday, there was still a lot left. Would be a waste to throw it away, wouldn’t it?” He doesn’t look at you, something about his voice is off, like it’s a topic he really doesn’t want to talk about. You start to think that this is about money, that the old car and this broken house aren’t just because of a lack of choice or limited time, but that the financial strain you are already aware of is much greater than you thought. “Sounds good to me, it really was tasty.” There’s a hint of expectation in your voice, and while you wanted to sound fine with it so he wouldn’t feel bad, most of your eagerness is genuine – much to your own surprise. “Wash up and come downstairs,” your father pats your leg that’s still covered by the blanket “we’ll wait for you.” he walks out with a shallow smile, leaves you to yourself and your thoughts. Your first stop is the window; you lift the curtains and look through the milky glass, try to make out anything, look through the strange filter, and find it to be completely useless. After what happened earlier, you have no confidence to ask for a walk, not only because of your family, there’s a healthy portion of fear, worry that it could happen outside, where you might hurt innocent people. Washing up takes you but a few minutes, the way downstairs is quiet, much quieter than it should be, the air around you seems still, heavy, the dim light above just enough to illuminate the bare minimum. It’s depressing, a stark contrast to your former home, and family, which was filled with light and laughter. When you finally take a seat on the small table, you notice the absence of your brother. “Alfred is asleep, he has a meeting tomorrow morning.” Your mam places the same glass in front of you, while your eyes drift to the clock hanging high up on the wall. Ten in the evening. Although there were times when he went to bed so early, something about it unsettles you. <hr> <<nobr>> <div class=“choices”><div class="choice-item"><<if $Reme >= 2>>''[[There's a vague image in your memory.|seen this before]]''<<else>>//You are too oblivious for this.//<</if>></div></div> <div class=“choices”><div class="choice-item">''[[You'll ask him tomorrow if there's anything you can help with.|let it go]]''</div></div> <</nobr>>

The red, thick semi-liquid in the glass before you pulls your eyes towards it, how the light reflects off the sides, never penetrates into its content, the colour a deep shade of red. Beetroot, mam said. A quiet voice inside your head echoes the words, the soft, feminine tone you know belongs to your mother distorts, drops a few octaves, loses the calming, relaxed flair, the smile in it vanishes, morphs into a pleading, tear-filled tone repeating the sentence over and over, like it tries to convince its owner of the claim. It’s Alfred’s voice, you would never mistake it for someone else's. Dark wood, tableware, and dishes decay in front of your eyes; you look up from the glass, the old yet cozy home has switched places with one that’s mostly empty, lit only by a portable lamp, your parents have vanished, too, instead you find Alfred leaning over you. His eyes are bloodshot, face pale, his lips so bloodless that they seem to be a whitish blue. He’s whispering, //it’s beetroot//, his voice is so low, so powerless and fragile. You catch a glimpse of his hand that’s holding something up to your lips. A pudding bowl, filled with red, the same colour, thickness, as the one that’s running down his wrist. “Cailean!” The fuzzy feeling on the back of your head snaps you back, all you see is your mam’s frightened face, followed by your father’s hands touching your face. You look around in confusion, at the table, the glass, the warm new home, and your parents, staring at you in shock. Something drips from your chin onto your bare arm, your eyes follow its trail, the transparent liquid that is either sweat or tears. You aren’t sure if it’s the one that’s blurring your vision, or the one that makes your shirt stick to your body uncomfortably. Thoughts trickle in slowly; at first, it’s fear, fear of yet another hallucination, a possible repeat of what happened not long ago, but then it fades, changes places with dread, dread that tells you whatever you have seen… isn’t what it should be. “I’m sorry,” you hear your own voice that sounds strangely muffled in your ears “I felt a bit unwell but it’s fine now.” Sweat and tears come off easily, you wipe your hands on the only dry place on your body - it leaves a stain on your light-blue jeans. The smile you give your parents isn’t genuine, you know it, and they know it, too, yet they say nothing, leave you wondering what they are thinking. There is a truth hidden in their expressions, in the way they look at each other, leave the incidence uncommented, instantly go on like nothing happened, with your mam patting your hand and your father smiling sadly. They are your parents, your family, and just like your brother, the people you know best and love the most. But since you woke up, there’s a sense of dissonance, a fog that obscures their features. ''[[You ask yourself, what is hiding inside the haze?|think things through]]''

It’s your fault that he‘s overworked, you’ve kept him up late, he took care of you for months, all while working a stressful, time-consuming job that was hard enough without the added burden. You aren’t versed in business matters, but there has always been a lot of tedious paperwork he would do in the evening and on weekends, something you should be able to take over now that you have nothing else to do. The same could work for your parents, at least for your mother, doing some of the easier preparation or homework corrections would make it less straining for her. Leaving the topic for later, you drink your glass of iron-concoction with a smile, take a peek at your parents who look tired but more content now that you drink your dinner without hesitation. If you want to convince them to outsource some of their work to you, a good, fool-prove approach is needed, one that they can’t turn down with the //too much stress// excuse. ''[[You can certainly figure something out.|think things through]]''

<<timed 0s t9n>><<fadeout 7s 200ms>>//The house is quiet, and so are you. It takes time to think things through.//<</fadeout>> <<next 7.3s>> \<<goto "to be continued">> \<</timed>>

@@.reveal;''Thank you for playing the first part of the prologue.''@@

Alfred smiles at you the moment the door opens, a muscle under his right eye trembles in nervousness, like it always did before a big exam, showing under how much pressure he must be. He walks side by side with you through the small hallway, you can hear your parents’ voices all the way to up here, their laughter lifts the weight from your shoulders, calms down the uneasiness, makes it seem like it’s just another evening for your family. It's hard to believe that it has been thirteen months for them, while for you only one night has passed and yet you no longer know your own home, or the people closest to you, their changes so drastic that it makes you feel lost – and left behind. A smell you can’t pinpoint envelopes you, slight nausea builds up in your stomach; you swallow it down together with the unfamiliarity the unknown house causes with every step you take through these dark rooms that are now meant to be your residence. “Honey, sit down, dinner is ready.” Your mam takes your hand and guides you to the chair between your father and brother, the table is set with beautiful cutlery and her best plates, something she only does on Christmas and birthdays. Seeing it like this, today might very well be the beginning of your new life, even if you don’t really want to celebrate what you think of as your personal nightmare. //It beats being dead//, is the only positive thought you can conjure. Fragrant vegetables and fish are placed in front of your brother and parents, while a glass painted with delicate butterflies, holding a thick kind of red juice, is put in front of you. The smell is strange, something about it makes you nervous but you can’t put your finger on a specific reason, neither if it’s the good or bad kind of nervous. “It’s beetroot with beef, vitamins, and iron solution. I did my best to make it taste good.” Mam pats your hand under the table, the unconcealed sadness in her eyes makes you swallow around the thick lump in your throat. You try to give her your best smile, but you know it must look strained at best, utterly fake at worst. “Well, it smells really good. Can I only eat liquid food?” It was the same after your nana’s operation; she could no longer eat anything solid, they had to invent recipes to make her meals less monotonous, and after tasting it once, you fully understood why grandma always seemed so dejected. “For now. It’s easier for your body. Try it?” Six eyes look at you with expectations and worry. <hr> <<nobr>> <div class=“choices”><div class="choice-item">''[[You really don’t want to touch it and maybe there’s some room for negotiation?|room for negotiation][$JamesAffection +=1, $AlfredAffection +=1, $AileenAffection +=1]]''</div></div> <div class=“choices”><div class="choice-item">''[[Being strong is the least you can do – just smile and drink.|just smile and drink]]''</div></div><</nobr>>