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“Good morning, John!”
Kill me, John grunts, with less venom than his usual – even, he considers, a note of warmth. A kill me that secretly means I’m happy to see you. Lilly’s entrance is John’s final sign that he made it through another night.
Two weeks, give or take. He hadn’t been good with keeping track at the beginning, certain that he didn’t need to, certain that Arthur would just wake up.
(John tries not to think about it.)
Beyond her usual clipboard, Lilly holds something else. John tries to peer at it, but if she would just fucking turn… there! Oh.
A glass vase, filled with weeds. Okay, maybe they’re not weeds. He’s pretty sure the half-gray yellow and white heads are meant to be flowers, and that Lilly wouldn’t put a bunch of dead weeds in his room. Then again, Arthur has been a frustrating patient. Lilly hasn’t said that. John fully believes it.
“From the children’s ward,” Lilly mentions lightly. She gives the flowerheads a tweak and turns to begin her morning checks on Arthur. “It was a lovely day outside yesterday.”
It was. Fuck him, it was. John had surprised himself by how badly he yearned to go outside – largely because he was trapped here, yes, but he’d missed the sunlight for sunlight’s own sake. The warmth of it on his hand, god damn it.
“They wanted to pick flowers for everyone in the hospital. Isn’t that kind of them?”
John doesn’t say anything.
“Think they must’ve picked the front lawn bare, but… well, anyone coming to the hospital is a little too busy to stop and look at the flowers, aren’t they?”
He chuckles at that, a little. It’s funny.
Arthur is poked and prodded. Sometimes they draw blood, sometimes they move him, sometimes they wipe him down with a sponge. John doesn’t really care what they do to Arthur’s body – you’re comatose, Arthur, what are they going to do to fuck you up further – and as such, it’s little more than something to break up the day.
As it is, it’s over too soon, and Lilly is brushing her hands on the front of her uniform. “Maybe it’ll convince you to perk up a little,” she mutters, under her breath. John recognizes that tone. It’s a tone he hates, because she would never use it in front of a conscious patient, and it’s yet another fucking reminder that, to all the world, Arthur Lester is three heartbeats away from being dead.
Fuck off, he growls at Lilly, because what’s it matter? She can’t hear him, but that doesn’t necessarily stop the prickling guilt as she leaves – and the feeling that, somehow, he deserves to be alone.
***
Cch. Cch. Cch.
The lights in the hallway flicker off, one at a time. John holds his breath.
Saving electricity, he thinks. That’s why they turn off every fucking light in the hospital at night. There’s a night nurse, somewhere on staff. John doesn’t know her name, she’s never came into his room. Sometimes he sees her, a lantern held high, wandering the halls. That is all the light he receives, if he’s not lucky enough to have a cloudless night.
Okay. Okay. Another night. It’s just another night, John thinks, trying not to peer too hard into the dark. You’re in Harper’s Hill. Massachusetts. Uh, America. Earth. There’s another patient in the room next to you, and soon, you’ll hear the night nurse down the hall. A pause, and then an insistence: It’s just one world here. One set of choices. That’s all.
He knows it’s stupid. He’s not transported to the fucking Dark World, every time the moon comes up. And nothing lingers in the shadows. There’s no monsters here in this hospital. It’s just… it’s just a hospital, and if anything wanted Arthur dead, then there’s not a whole fucking lot John can do about it – that’s not helping.
John tries not to listen to the wheezy breathing of the air vent above Arthur’s dead. Again, he returns to familiar thoughts: Okay. My book might’ve been in the basement, where a ritual took place. Two girls survived –
A sudden light flashes from the darkness. John gasps.
It’s gone, just as quickly. Did he imagine it? Shit, if he’s starting to hallucinate, then –
No! There it is, again. A slow flash, every few seconds. Near the flowers, on the wall, but for the life of him… John doesn’t know.
Who’s there? He calls out, uncertain. John’s not particularly surprised at not getting a response, but given Kellin… might as well try.
Either way, the light continues, insistent and yellow. What are you? John asks, again. He can’t move as such, and yet – as best he can – he hides his presence in the back of Arthur’s mind. Let this being think they’re both dead, let him think…
Christ. Whatever the fuck his life was before, he’s reduced to this: some decomposer peeking out of a carcass.
The thought gives him some strength, or righteous indignation. He stares back at the light and how gently it blinks out of existence, only to return again. Not a particularly strong light, but he can see the shadows from the flowers, and the reflection off the window, and it’s… it’s something he didn’t have before.
And John just stares: cautious, wary, and alone.
***
“Good morning, John!” Lilly sweeps into the room, the same as she ever is.
I could have died last night, and nobody would ever have known. Is it insolent? Sure, but John has the luxury of being stuck in someone else’s head. You think your fucking night nurse would have found me in time?
“The clouds are back again. Guess we’ve had our one sunny day of the year, hm? At least it’s getting warmer.”
Kill me.
And Lilly proceeds to her morning checks. John doesn’t flinch as Lilly leans over Arthur again, staring directly into his eyes. It’s something he’s grown accustomed to. Never feels like she’s looking at him, the searching way she explores Arthur’s pupils. It’s only Lilly’s greeting that ever feels like it’s for him, and John has no idea what the difference is – other than he’s the only one who can hear her.
The light disappeared in the early rays of the sun. John looks towards it now, and sees an empty patch of wallpaper. Fucking frustrating. He watched that little blinking light all night, and now it’s just… gone?
What the hell is it? He asks Lilly in vain, sulking as his wrist is taken. It’s not fucking – About as fair as stealing a man’s eyes, he guesses, and cuts himself off with a derisive snort. This isn’t how he wants to go back to the Dark World. He’s no longer bound to that book, destroyed back on an Arkham roadway, and if he goes back now…
What is it? He asks again, a little quieter, a little more pleading. Please.
Lilly finishes her morning checks. John figures that’s the end of it, that he’ll be left alone for another few hours, with some thing that may or may not wish him harm. He huffs to himself. Goodbye, Lilly, he grouses, but a thoughtful look passes over Lilly’s face.
She wanders over to the window again. Gently, she takes a stem between her fingers and rearranges it to sit neater among the rest. “Holding up well. You know, it’s funny, I… I took notice of them this morning, out front. What little there is, anyway. Things could be a little less bleak out there, couldn’t they be? Even if nobody else notices?”
John doesn’t know what to say to that, not really, but he thinks… he thinks he might understand. Lilly, after all, leaves this place every evening, and he supposes – if he had his preference – he’d rather her walk back to town be a little more cheery. And since there is Lilly, there’s people beyond Lilly, all with their own walks back to town, and…
Oh. Something’s crawling out of the bouquet. John can see it creep forward: a squat, black thing no longer than Arthur’s fingernail.
“Would you look at that?” Lilly asks with a laugh. “A little firefly.”
***
Okay. You’re a firefly. The word doesn’t sound familiar. What he’s gathered from Arthur’s head seems to be largely unconscious; knowledge of New England insects hasn’t made the cut. It’s crawled out of the bouquet and onto the wall, blinking in the otherwise abyssal blackness of his hospital room. John can see it reflecting itself against the window.
Outside, he can hear rain: falling along the roof, dripping down the windows, echoes from further beyond. That calms him, somewhat. No rain in the Dark World.
It blinks at him. Slow.
What are you doing that for? Are you trying to communicate? I don’t speak your language, friend. He recognizes his own tone: the same he practiced, the same he used for a scared little detective waking up from unconsciousness.
You’re just a fucking insect. You’re not trying to talk to me. Jesus. I’m just talking to a bug.
The issue, of course, is that it’s hard to look away. Looking away from the one source of light in his room means looking into the darkness, so he has to look at the firefly, and…
And to hell with it. How much more nonsensical is talking to a bug, anyway? Lilly and this insect can both hear him equally well.
At least it’s not totally dark in here, John admits. The place where I came from… yeah. It’s, it’s hard not to remember it. And the place where I am now, at least that’s… at least there’s hope here. He can’t shove down the sigh. Maybe not hope. Things don’t seem fucking hopeful right now. This vessel I’m stuck in, I think he might be dying.
The firefly blinks its sympathy.
Yeah. He got stabbed. I thought you were going to kill us when I first saw you. That’s how things have been going. John tries to relax against the pillow. Getting worked up isn’t going to solve anything, clearly. Don’t know what I’m going to fucking do if he dies. I was drowning, I had to pin all of my hopes on him.
‘Him’ is said with significantly less vitriol than before. He’s not angry at Arthur for getting hurt. After all, the man might be dying. John finds it hard to be angry when he jumped into Arthur’s head, took his eyes, and killed him in less than a day. Maybe he’s growing selfless near the end.
Anyway. John digs his thumb fingernail into the bedsheet, where he’d steadily been pulling out threads from boredom. Not your problem. I’m John, by the way.
The light shifts a little closer to the window. John sympathizes. The air is stale in here, from that wheezing vent. Best to get whatever air it can from the poor insulation.
It’s not… I didn’t always have this name. I don’t know what my name was, before. If I used to have one.
He doesn’t particularly care if he did. For one thing, there’s far more useful information he’d like to have about his past. For another… he knows nothing for certain, but vague impressions have left him feeling uneasy about the kind of person he was. He’s started to wonder if that person might be best left behind.
I chose it. Sort of. I… took it. John huffs something approaching humor. I take a lot of things. But the nurse, Lilly, she’s – you’ve probably seen her. She’s nice. She calls me John. John Doe. They haven’t identified Arthur’s body yet, so – oh! Oh, this is Arthur Lester. He’s… yeah.
He doesn’t know how best to describe his relationship to Arthur. Arthur’s mind certainly hasn’t given any details. My driftwood seems to be the most accurate, but doesn’t quite capture… he doesn’t know. The personal connection.
Do you have a name? You don’t have a name, you’re an insect. But…
Well, why shouldn’t he call it something?
John doesn’t know many names. The ones he’s discovered all float around in his mind: Arthur, Parker, Roland, Elijah, JD, Emily, Amanda, Anna, Erik, Eddie, Lilly, Shub-Niggurath… the ones he’s mulled over every night, and how they might all connect together.
Then there are the incidental ones: the patients whose names float to him down the hall, the other nurses that step in, and – of course – the name of the hospital: St. Anthony’s.
Anthony? John questions. The firefly continues to blink. Do you want to be Anthony? It can be your hospital.
Easy a name as any. Anthony continues to blink. Alright, Anthony, John returns with some cheer. It’s nonsensical, but he actually feels better – lighter, even as his situation remains exactly the same. He has someone to talk to, now. Anthony. I can always call you something else, later. I know a few others – we’re trying to find this woman named Amanda. Her father, Roland… no. I should start at the beginning.
***
“Good morning, John!”
Anthony and I were talking about the flowers, Lilly. Who planted them? I don’t think the nurses – you’re all busy. Do you have a gardener in the hospital grounds? Would they plant the flowers? And… it’s like you said! Why? Nobody ever spends time just outside the front doors.
Three weeks in this hospital. The length isn’t lost on John. Arthur’s certainly not shown any signs of waking up. He and Anthony have fixated on every last movement and noise Arthur makes during the night, but he’s still a far cry from actually getting up.
It scares him, of course, and yet… he doesn’t know. There’s less of that weight to him. Still drowning – God, is he still drowning, but whatever brick that’s been attached to his ankle has been removed.
Maybe he’s just losing his mind, talking to an insect. Maybe this is the real definition of madness.
Better madness than misery.
Also, Anthony’s disagreed with him far less than Arthur has. Anthony may be the best friend John’s ever had.
Anthony, John has come to realize, sleeps during the day. Sometime between the sun rising and the hospital lights flickering to life, Anthony hides back in the bouquet of flowers. He still isn’t quite certain why Anthony flashes his lights, but John has come to view it as a sort of… kindness, just for him.
“The weather is lovely today,” Lilly gushes. “Let’s get some fresh air in for you, why don’t we? If only we could get a little sun with it.”
John can barely restrain himself from a cry of victory. Air. Less of the choked, damped confines of the hospital rooms – air that, John is certain, molds Arthur’s lungs with every breath. Anthony! Anthony, look, we’re…
Lilly struggles momentarily with the sash and opens the window halfway. A fresh breeze, promising rain and freshly-cut grass, ruffles Arthur’s hair makes waves out of the sheets. It’s lovely, it’s refreshing, and John wants to beg Lilly to shut the window.
He might have convinced himself otherwise, but the truth of the matter is that… Anthony is an insect. Anthony is a bug who has no more awareness of John’s existence than anyone else, and Anthony is not his friend, and the nights might become very dark and very lonely once more.
Lilly. Lilly, don’t –
“You’re going on a trip today!” Oblivious to John’s torment, Lilly returns to his bedside and starts adjusting something on the cot. “Let’s see if we can’t figure out what’s wrong with you, Mr. Doe.”
***
Anthony doesn’t leave.
Above John’s head, scattered across the ceiling, is a nebula of blinking lights: each following their own rhythm, communicating their own secret languages with one another. Patterns form with every pulse – perhaps a mountain here, perhaps a face there, all quickly wiped away and brought into the most momentary of darknesses. John drinks in the light like water.
More are clustered towards the window, the sill, the bouquet: there, he can see their faint reflections. They crawl, their lights gliding up and down the glass. John can’t count how many there are: several dozen, at least.
They first started to come in when the hospital lights went out, and more seemingly arriving every minute. The night nurse has walked by several times, not even raising her head to the landscape John’s had the pleasure of witnessing over the past few hours.
Like he has been for weeks, John rests there in Arthur’s body, but for once – for just fucking once – he’s enjoying himself. It might be dark, and his situation is exactly as precarious as it was before…
But Jesus Christ, it’s beautiful. It’s more than beautiful, it’s overwhelming in a way that John doesn’t understand. Maybe Arthur would, but all John has is himself and his fireflies. They’re certainly not eloquent enough to put words to it.
He almost enjoys not knowing. He enjoys feeling… small, like this, squirming in the knowledge that something he can’t comprehend exists out there for him to behold. To understand it completely would cheapen it, somehow.
Anthony?
He doesn’t know which one is Anthony. They are all Anthony, John supposes.
Thank you. What else can he say? That’s not enough. Thank you for making the nights less dark for me. I don’t think I deserve it, after… after what I think I’ve done. But you did it anyway, and I don’t know why, but… but…
But what?
But thank you.
And John settles back in his bed. No creatures linger in the shadows, nor does he focus on the labored breathing from the vent. He doesn’t even think about what might happen after, if Arthur doesn’t wake up, or how he will fill the rest of his days.
John only watches the fireflies, and hums, and laughs, and sighs.
***
“Was there anyone else, John?” Arthur asks, curious.
Anyone else?
They have their backs against a brick building, waiting for the gun shop to open. Arthur’s keeping his chin drawn close to his chest – partially, John thinks, to keep his murmuring less obvious to passing pedestrians. John thinks he’s standing up remarkably well, given how his legs remind John of tent poles.
“In the hospital. Besides the nurse – ehm, Lilly. I don’t know, that’s a long time to be on your own, I w-wasn’t sure… well, not like you’d talk with anybody, of course. Just wondering if you had any company, I guess.”
Some gut trigger of what the fuck do you care activates in John’s mind, but… John, Arthur called him. He likes hearing his name come out of Arthur’s mouth. It sounds friendly, it sounds – well, it sounds like what John wants to be called. He’s never going to tell Arthur as such, but hearing his name makes him all the more inclined to play nice.
And Arthur was very receptive to it, even if John wanted to tear himself out of that conversation halfway through. Maybe he oughtn’t warm to Arthur, but… he doesn’t know. They are in this together, at the end of the day.
Still, John would rather chew off his own hand than explain how he used to spend his nights talking to a firefly like it was a friend. Worse than Arthur’s mockery, he fears Arthur’s pity.
He can lie. He’s done it to Arthur before, a lot.
Uh, yeah. Yeah. There was a patient in our room for a little while. His name was Anthony.
“Anthony?” Arthur quips. “I’d ask what you two talked about, but… well. What was he like?”
Quiet. He didn’t talk much, either. To Lilly, sometimes, but he was… he was good company, I think, especially at nights. He was… artistic.
“Artistic! A painter?”
Of a sort, yes. He was fascinated with the flowers on the windowsill.
“And someone loved him enough to send him flowers. Well, I wish our Anthony the best.” Arthur pushes himself off the brick. John makes a vague noise when Arthur loses his balance, catching himself. Jesus Christ. “I heard the lock click, do you think…”
Yeah, it’s open now. John shelves Anthony to the back of his mind. Anthony, he thinks, will have a better, safer life without the pair of them anyway. Let’s head inside. Handle to your left.