~~~

Edgar remained on his bed, staring at the blurry area where Johnny had departed for a length of time he could not exactly quantify. When he finally did move, his arms and legs felt stiff and moved jerkily, and immediately were accompanied by the uncomfortable pricking sensation of renewed blood flow.

He picked up his glasses and put them on before stepping off of his bed. He sighed softly to himself as he walked towards the door.

Is he really gone...?

Most likely.

Edgar opened the door cautiously and sure enough, his apartment was empty. Although Johnny had apparently been rather busy after Edgar had gone to sleep. Most of the books on his shelf had been pulled down and scattered on the floor, open to seemingly random pages. Some of his drawers had been pulled out and their contents spread across tables and desks. On closer inspection, he noticed that all of his pens had their caps removed. Odd.

The TV was still on, although on a low volume. He could faintly hear more noticeable syllables as actors spoke, but on the whole the sound had faded back into a comfortable hum. All the lights were on as far as he could tell. Apparently Johnny had gone exploring when Edgar had left.

He opened a closet to find its light on, but its contents mysteriously undisturbed.

Why would he turn on a light only to close the door on it?

It probably meant something to him. Considering you don't have an exactly stellar record in the 'understanding Nny' department, I doubt any of your guesses could be more valid.

Edgar felt a general sense of unease in the back of his mind, something that he was unfamiliar with. Something was amiss, something important and yet easily fixable. Something...

Where are you?

What?

Are you near my bed?

....Are you referring to the toy that that small, wide-eyed boy gave you?

Squee, yes. Where are you?

Hold on. You're asking me where your little toy is. Why?

You...

Is that how this is going to work? I don't suppose reminding you of how futile this is will change your mind, right? Reminders of how I'm a part of you, a mental piece of yourself, would any of that change your mind? Because to be perfectly honest, I think this is bordering a little on the 'crazy cat lady' side here, Edgar.

You really don't want me to do this, do you? Why is that?

Obviously because it means you're going insane. You've personified me enough, haven't you?

No...no, I think I know why you're doing this. You're still trying to hide in me, pretend to be a part of me. I'm not falling for that because I know that you aren't a part of me anymore.

Anymore, hmm? Implying that, at some point, I was? Do you see what I'm getting at?

Where are you?

You mean, where is your little Scriabin toy.

...Scriabin...

Yes, that is, in fact, his name. I'm glad you were paying attention.

Edgar smiled to himself at the excessive sarcasm in his mental voice's tone. He was defensive, struggling. He had him now, he knew it.

Your name is Scriabin.

You're giving me a name, Edgar? This is not a good sign. You know that, right?

And now I'm one step closer to getting rid of you. Just pull you farther out of myself and eventually I'll go back to normal.

I'm sorry, but that has to be one of the funniest things I've heard yet. There's no more normal for you, Edgar. Not while all the lights in your house have been turned on and there's some homicidal maniac wandering the streets out there with a bizarre connection between love and death and you. How are you going to sleep tonight?

Scriabin, where are you?

Edgar paused in the hallway, waiting for his response. He heard him give a soft sigh before the familiar mocking tone was audible again.

Fine, I'll play your demented game. But don't say I never warned you. I've been fighting this from the beginning. You just keep giving in.

Where are you?

I believe your psychotic friend put your action-figure in one of the drawers in your bedroom.

No wonder he felt so ill at ease. Scriabin had been moved from his appointed place...he should take care of that.

As he walked back towards his room, he nearly tripped over an open book that had been left in the hallway. Mumbling angrily to himself, Edgar leaned down and picked it up, glancing at the words for a few seconds before snapping the book shut.

I didn't know he liked to read. He seems to read a lot, actually, considering all the books he pulled down. But he seems so interested in television and movies...

Excuse me for breaking your enthralling reverie, but I don't think Nny was reading.

Edgar unconsciously carried the book with him as he went back to his room. Flicking on the light, he noticed that his room had also been tampered with while he had been asleep. Noticeably his curtains and window were open, which he swiftly remedied. One of his desk lamps had been knocked over, although it did not look damaged.

How could he have knocked that over without me noticing...?

You know, considering whom we're dealing with, I bet he just put it down sideways because it looks better that way.

Edgar sighed and continued looking around. The stack of books near his bed had been toppled, although they were not open, and his closet had also been rummaged through. His clothes still remained in their drawers, although they looked hastily refolded, and the drawers themselves had been left inexplicably open. One of his spare trench coats was on the floor next to a few empty hangers.

"Do I really sleep that heavily?" Edgar mumbled to himself as he opened one of the few closed drawers. Scriabin's plastic form greeted him, both of his arms now directed straight upwards. Johnny must have played with it while he was asleep.

I wonder how long he was in my room before he spoke...

Edgar shivered slightly as he replaced Scriabin by the phone. The feeling resided, finally, and Edgar felt as he could relax. Fixed.

Look at that book.

Edgar finally noticed what he had been holding in one hand.

"It's a book, I don't see what's so peculiar about it..." Edgar grumbled to himself as he began flipping pages without paying a great deal of attention.

The book had a single blank page in the back, typical of the printing process. When he reached it, Edgar stopped.

Scrawled across the page were random sharp lines, zigzagging across the paper with such violence that it had left physical imprints. There were a few grooves that he could feel when he ran his fingers over them that had no markings to accompany them.

A black, jagged mess.

I think he was testing your pens.

...Why?

Well, why don't you get the other books and find out?

Edgar sat silently for a while, plotting out his next actions carefully, and put the book down purposefully on his bed. He would systematically pick up all the discarded books in all the rooms and after organizing them by length, go through them one by one, checking for any other signs of Nny's presence.

You really are a piece of work, aren't you Edgar?

Edgar put his plan into effect with a simple-minded focus, struggling to quiet his general fear at what the books would contain. Dates for his impending death? Methods? Or just all too personal looks into Johnny's mind?

There's the problem, Edgar. Do you really want to know what goes on in Johnny's head? It frightens you, doesn't it? That's hardly a scientific way of looking at things.

Edgar ignored Scriabin as he made his way back to his room, arms full of books of varying lengths and sizes.

Quick perusal discovered that Nny had experimented with several books before apparently he found a pen he liked. In the particular book where this was located, the scribbles and jags had formed coherent words, although they were disjointed and made no sense. A few syllables, random letters thrown together, Johnny's name.

Finally, he found a book with actual legible writing. It was a printing that had two blank sheets at the back. Johnny's writing was cramped and jagged and written entirely in capital letters, occasional spots or blemishes between words from his designated pen. Any space not filled with letters had small drawings instead or phrases that must have occurred to Johnny after filling a page.

Dear

Edgar closed the book with a twinge of conscience.

I don't know if I should be reading these...it's an invasion of privacy...

Oh please. You went through all this work to locate and classify all of your books that he mangled and graffitied in and now you're claiming the moral high ground? You're just scared of what they'll say. Go ahead and read them.

Edgar reluctantly reopened the book, his eyes staring at the words and looking away several times before he finally forced them to stay still.

Dear

The next word had been scribbled out and rewritten several times until only a black blotch remained. Beside this, with a few lines crossing it out, was the final word that Johnny had apparently decided on.

Dear book,

I shouldn't be doing this. These aren't my books. This isn't my house. It's just...so quiet here. Felt like I should say something. Edgar went to sleep.

He's not going to like me writing in these. Couldn't find any paper though. Unless it's in his room. I don't want to go in there yet.

The next few sentences were written in larger, angrier letters.

Fuck! Why doesn't this man have any soda?? What ungodly manner of house is this?! I want my sugary fluid! I want it!! If I can't go out and get it myself, he should have it for me! Why? Why, God, why!?! Why must I be cursed to be without my precious caffeine?

Although more words scrawled across the opposite page, the sheer ridiculousness of what he had just read caused Edgar to pause.

Marvelous. The inner workings of Johnny's brain right here at your fingertips. Is it all you thought it could be, Edgar?

I have soda in one of the lower drawers. Edgar thought indignantly. Why didn't he check there? I'm not some godless heathen just because he couldn't find my soda.

Yes, Edgar, that is exactly what you should be focusing on right now.

Edgar got up and headed for the kitchen; increasingly incensed that Johnny could have ranted so angrily about something that was not even his fault. Despite the ridiculous over-the-top manner of Johnny's small rant, Edgar felt as frustrated at him as if it had been a valid complaint.

Smiling as if he had won the non-existent argument, Edgar found his collection of soda cans in one of his fridge drawers, rolling about freely. See? He should have been more observant.

Scriabin's words came very slowly. Congratulations, Edgar. You are amazing.

Edgar headed back to his room, flipping the pages to where he had last stopped.

This house should have a cat in it. I told Edgar that and he looked at me funny. He's not too good at this sort of thing. His house makes me feel strange. It'd be better if there was something else here other than him. All those obnoxious little cat hairs and that cat food. Not that I would like that. Fucking allergies. I just think that he would. It seems like a nice normal thing for him to have. And this house really needs something in it. It's so quiet. Maybe it's just because I am far away, but I don't think so. Everything talks if you listen hard enough. Nothing talks here. Except Edgar. Sometimes even if I don't ask him too.

Scared of him.

The last line cramped on the very bottom of the page, along with Johnny's simple initials, ended the small entry.

Scared of me?

He's scared of me?

Why on earth would he be scared of me?

Well, let's be logical here. When has Nny ever been frightened?

He seemed rather frightened back when we were talking a little while ago.

So he's frightened of you?

Well, that's not exactly it. I think he was more frightened about how I accepted--

No, you're over-specifying the situation. Let's step back and see the forest again. He was frightened about how you felt about him. He's frightened of how much or how you care about him in general.

That makes this sound all too personal. I think he's frightened I may reject him.

Very true. I won't deny that. But I think you're trying to declassify him again. Pull yourself out to look at it from a logical standpoint. It's not healthy to do that sometimes, you know.

It's worked well for me so far. Either way, Nny also focuses on how I seem so lonely...

So lonely indeed. Edgar doesn't get lonely, does he?

I've heard it all before. Let's stay on topic, alright? Nny talks about how this place seems empty. I think that's just because I'm so neat about everything compared to his house.

Your powers of analyzation amaze me, Edgar.

Either way, he seems fixated on this cat thing.

You know what would be funny? If Nny wished he was your cat.

...That's not funny at all.

You should lighten up.

Anyway, so far this says that Nny is both frightened of how I feel about him and thinks I'm lonely as well. Rather conflicted, really.

Johnny IS contradiction.

No wonder he ran out of here so suddenly...I bet he had to think.

Does put some perspective on things, doesn't it. I bet he wrote more in one of your other books. Go look.

Edgar closed the book, putting it in the separate pile he designated for read books, and picked up the next one. This book was one of the rarer kinds in that it had three sheets of blank paper at the end, a comparatively large number. There were some large scribbles near the top of the sheet as Johnny tested his pen once again, an unhappy stick figure sulking on one side, and some random jags for reasons Edgar couldn't determine. In the margins a few random words appeared amidst other blotches of ink...moon, dark, where am I, what is this, not here, noize, incessant buzzing...

Dear book

Not going to get used to that, but maybe this'll be the last time I write that. Ruined so many of his books now. Now I'm permanently in his life. That both elates me and depresses me deeply. I shouldn't be doing this. Everything is going to end like it has before.

Can't do this. Going to run. Going to run before it dissolves. But how? Wanted to wait till things were perfect, but now I feel like maybe I missed it. Should I kill him now so that I don't risk things getting worse? But this isn't perfection yet. He's mad at me, I'm sure of it. He didn't like me throwing things around in his kitchen. Didn't know where anything was. Should have been more careful.

Everything is complicated with him now. Don't know how to feel around him anymore except terrified. Don't know if I hide it very well.

Edgar shook his head despite himself. Johnny certainly did hide it well.

He doesn't hide it well at all. He gets this terrified look, like I'm wearing some kind of dead moose on my shoulders. It's kind of funny, actually. Sometimes it is. Other times it reminds me that I'm only making things worse.

At this point several words were begun, crossed out, scribbled over, and started again. A few of them trailed into nonsensical loops and jagged ends and others just stopped midword.

Never going to get this right. Never ever going to get this right. It's different now. Devi...ruined it with her too. Still think about her now, think about her whenever I think about him. But I know Edgar now. Know that he could never hurt me. He would never fight back. He's not a fighter. If I did decide to freeze him like I tried with her, I would succeed. But I was going to freeze her perfectly. Loved her then and knew she loved me. Never felt so happy in my entire life, but then she fought. Someday I'll explain it to her, and she'll understand. Maybe we can start over.

Don't want to ruin this with Edgar. I want to do this right.

His now familiar initials ended the long entry. There were a few more scribbles, marked out words and small circlish shapes littered among the page.

He felt a wave of pity sweep over him when he thought about what he had just read. Along with this came the recollection of what he had seen that night at the movie theater. The image that the cramped words presented was not the Johnny he had met, he had seen tonight, who had stormed out in inexplicable rage. This one seemed to be the picture of a typical abandoned, lonely person, desperate for some kind of affection but more intensely afraid of acceptance.

So tell me Edgar, how many Lifetime movies did you watch before you could psychoanalyze people SO accurately?

"I can't believe..." Edgar thought back to his initial conversation with Johnny after he had met up with Devi. How he had to guess as to what happened. Now that he had a glimpse of Johnny's perspective, it gave him a whole new twisted outlook on the entire affair.

As well as on what Johnny had planned to do with him.

"I'm so important to him...I almost...validate his existence..." Edgar closed the book as he spoke quietly, narrowing his eyes in thought. He carefully put it with its companion, balancing the two books neatly as he selected another one from his other pile. He opened it, flipping through to the end carefully and cautiously, almost morbidly afraid of what he would find out next.

"And of course, he's just so important to you too, isn't he?"

Edgar very slowly turned away from the book and looked at Scriabin, who remained perfectly still. He waited.

The calm, mocking voice had he become so familiar with over time again spoke, this time cutting physical air. Its undeniable source was the inanimate plastic figurine. "Oh, you can't say you're surprised now, can you? In a great many religions, maybe somewhere even in your own, Edgar, you know that giving a name can also give power. That sounds so ridiculously cliche though. Let's just say that if you want to speak out loud, fine. Let's speak out loud."

Edgar stared at Scriabin for a few minutes before he spoke calmly and slowly. "You are not speaking to me this way."

Feel better? The familiar mocking tone was back in his head. This is all up to you. Besides, I thought you wanted to make me separate from you. You know, pull me out and heal all nice and normal-like, right? You've become quite the hypocrite.

"Look, I'm not going to deal with this right now." Edgar spoke with a strange tinge of frustration. "There's more important things for me to think about than you."

"That's right." The voice again displaced to the action figure. "You have to think about Nny again, right? You care so much for that boy. Amazing. He is going to kill you, you know."

"I know that." Edgar turned back to the book, wishing he could shut Scriabin out entirely. Strangely, the fact that Scriabin had moved to the action-figure that had inspired his name did not surprise him as much as Edgar thought it would. He viewed the transference with a strange detachment, convinced that this was a normal occurrence.

He isn't me, therefore. He's getting away from me. That's a good thing.

"See, Edgar, this is what I was talking about. I told you not to name me. You've gone from 'mildly unsettled' to 'full-blown talking-to-yourself' crazy."

"I'm not crazy."

"And look at the proof! You're talking to a plastic toy!"

"That's not going to work now. I know that you aren't me anymore. You can't trick me."

"You idiot, that's not what I'm trying to do. Is it so amazingly difficult for you to go back and put all the pieces together? What have I been trying to do all this time? It certainly hasn't been trying to make you crazy. I've been trying to keep you sane."

"You're lying."

Edgar focused his attention on the end of the book, his hands trembling. Only one sheet at the end of this book. The writing was cramped and tighter than ever before, the scribbles around the words angrier and darker.

Dear book.

I don't like that name.

I wonder if Edgar is dreaming right now. I wonder what he dreams about. Sleep must not be hideous for him. That would make sense. He's not insane.

I want some chips. God fucking dammit. Why doesn't he have any chips.

Feel bad about doing this still. But maybe he'll find them and read this. I don't want that. I should put them back when I get the chance. The books. Clean everything up, and that way he won't know I did anything. At least, not until it's too late. Then he won't care. I mean, I don't think he would make a big deal out of it anyway, but I still feel bad about doing it. This isn't my die-ary. But I feel like I should write something. It still feels wrong though.

I wonder what Edgar would do if he knew. Knew everything. He doesn't really know everything yet because I don't think he'd understand and I think it would scare him. I don't want him to be scared. That would make things ugly again. He does look really amusing when he's frightened though, but it's not worth it.

It's still kind of funny though.

He seems so normal. So amazingly normal. Maybe he can teach me. Maybe he knows. Maybe in one of these books there's a cure. He's put up with me for so long, he's dealt with everything I've thrown at him so far without cracking or trying to crack my head open. Maybe he knows something I don't. A special thing. Something about me or people like me. Maybe he knew other people like me. Am I not the first? Is that why he wasn't frightened back then? Is that why he isn't frightened now?

He says he doesn't trust me yet. That hurt. But I'm going to make him trust me somehow. He has to trust me first before anything better can happen. Have to get him to trust me. I don't know how. He asked me if I hated him. Of course I don't. If I did he'd be dead already and I wouldn't be trying to do this. What a ridiculous question.

I wonder why he asked it.

He's so calm about everything. What's it like to be so calm all the time? To never have all those hysterical fits I read about in other entries I made.

I wish I brought his coat with me. I like that coat. I like like that coat. The first 'like' was crossed out. I t feels calm.

Maybe I should tell him. If I told Devi, maybe she wouldn't have tried to hurt me. Maybe she would have understood. Edgar's understood everything I've told him so far. I know he'd understand this. He'll nod and look all thoughtful like he does and he won't punch me in the face. I should tell him.

But what if he doesn't? I didn't think Devi would hurt me. What if he does come after me? What if he says no?

Maybe I shouldn't. Maybe...I should. I hate being indecisive. It's all I am anymore.

The end of another entry.

"Amazing, hmm?"

"I wonder where he is now..." Reading through such melancholy and confused entries was beginning to have an effect on him, sympathetic emotion clouding his thoughts. His voice reflected this. "Maybe at the movie theater or somewhere else he feels safe..."

"Wake up, Edgar. The only place he has that's safe is you. Therefore, you're the most terrifying thing in the world for him. It's not that complicated, is it?"

Edgar glanced at the plastic toy. "And you accused me of cheap psycho-analyzation."

"Yes, but I'm afraid I actually know what I'm talking about. I'm an actual part of your psyche. I think I have a little experience in the field, particularly with your friend Nny. And you haven't really denied that what I'm saying is true."

"Fine. I think that saying that he's frightened of me because I'm not a threat to him is an over-simplification of the entire matter. As you've reminded me so many times before, he's insane. Therefore we can't truly understand his motivations."

"You've used that as a blanket excuse for so many things."

"Me? You've got a little problem with your pronouns there."

"I don't think so."

"Either way, I'm not sure why Nny ran out on me like he did, but I'm beginning to understand why he stayed here."

"I understand why he left. Remember? He wants to make things perfect with you, although what that exactly means I'm not sure. Maybe a nice white picket fence, house, two point three kids. Whatever. Either way, he had perfection on the bed with you while you held hands in a classic tear-jerking moment, all rights reserved. Guess what that meant, Edgar? It meant he had to kill you. But our dear conflicted boy doesn't want to."

"And why wouldn't he want to?" Edgar sighed as he picked up another book, exchanging it for the finished volume. "That's why he's kept me alive this entire time."

"Well, you can think of it in various ways. Either he cares too much about you to kill you--which I doubt considering he loved that Devi person and tried to kill her right away--or he needs you now for some reason that conflicts with his moral philosophy-"

"Wait, needs me?" Edgar turned back to his figurine as he flipped through pages in the book. "Why would Nny need me? I don't do anything for him. He doesn't need anyone."

"Well, what do you provide for our friendly neighborhood maniac? What can you do with him that he can't do with anyone else?"

Edgar paused and ran a hand through his hair. "Well, talk I guess, but he mentioned that he has enough mental voices to talk to himself forever."

"He also mentioned that he was glad to be away from them here. He wanted it to be quiet here."

"Glad was not the exact word-"

"Why did he come here, Edgar?"

"He...wanted me to fix him."

"There's your answer."

"That's not an answer. What does that mean?"

"Well, it means that you have the power to influence his behavior. Or at least, Nny thinks you do."

"...Why would he give that power to me?"

"You don't just give away power, Edgar. It's something you either have or don't have. For example, Nny has power over you. You didn't consciously give it to him, and even if you unconsciously did give it to him, you're not removed enough from the situation to have a logical view on it. Power is immutable and natural. Although Nny has spent almost his entire time with you terrorizing, confusing, and startling you, somehow he thinks you can change him. He thinks you can help."

Edgar shook his head slowly. "I...I don't understand why."

"Well, probably because so far you haven't attacked him like Devi has. In fact, I don't think you've attacked him in any way excepting tonight. You're a doormat, Edgar. Perhaps because he feels so comfortable, he lets himself be changed by you."

"That still doesn't work because that means he's giving power to me, and this is all sounding like cheap pop psychology again." Edgar gestured with one hand, regardless of the fact his audience would not be able to see it. "I don't understand Nny."

"That's the understatement of the decade. I still haven't given my last motive yet."

Edgar took a deep breath, struggling to calm himself down. "Alright, what is it?"

"Johnny may have deliberately sabotaged your relationship."

Edgar looked back down to his book. "And why would he do that?"

"Well, remember how he said it was perfect before? That's what Johnny wanted, right? But what if that wasn't exactly what he wanted? Like he wanted something more. But how could he convince himself that he didn't actually have perfection, that he'd have to try harder? He'd have to find something to focus on, blow that out of proportion, and use that as an excuse. Therefore, more time for the two of you to spend together and be delightfully monosyllabic."

"But why would he do that? He has no reason. If he was happy with me before, why would he put off killing me and ruin his own plan? It makes no sense."

"Well, let's say that Johnny reached the perfect peak of friendship. You following me?"

"Yes." Edgar could not hide his irritation at Scriabin's snide condescending tone.

"Well, maybe that wasn't enough for him. Say he reached that pinnacle and realized how easy that was. Maybe he wants to reach higher than that. Maybe he wants to reach that special level of happiness that Devi inspired in him before. So make a new goal and work for that. Make sure you eliminate your previous statement of victory and move on."

"Wait wait wait wait." Edgar placed a hand on his forehead, feeling a distinct headache coming on. "What exactly are you saying? Are you insinuating that Johnny is trying to make me into Devi?"

"Not my exact words, but you've got the general concept. I think you're missing the big picture here. You tend to do that. Ooo, I felt your heartbeat quicken. You're getting awfully emotional over this. Does it bother you?"

"Does what- Well, yes it bothers me." Edgar struggled to keep his voice level. "I mean, this is transference at its basest and yet most twisted level. This won't end happily for either of us."

"Edgar, please. Was it going to end happily before? Think before you speak. Maybe Johnny doesn't want you as a friend anymore. Maybe that doesn't make him happy enough."

"I don't have to listen to this." Edgar turned his attention back down to his book, his hands now shaking violently along with his voice. "This is just a theory of yours."

"You seem rather agitated by it. I think you doth protest too much. What if, Edgar?"

"Scriabin, be quiet."

Dear book.

"What if, Edgar, Johnny didn't have perfection back then? What if he was wrong all along?"

Dear book.

Maybe I should tell him.

"Maybe..."

Maybe I should tell him. I think he'll understand. I'm frightened though. But he's understood before. Maybe he'll understand. I should tell him.

"Maybe Johnny loves you, Edgar."

"Shut up." Edgar glared at the frozen figure, his voice tight and soft. "I know what you're doing to me, Scriabin. I know you now, and I know what you're trying to do. I'm not going to fall for it."

"My goodness that thought frightens you, Edgar. You're breathing fast and your heart rate has jumped through-"

"I'm going to read now. I'm not listening to you."

"So quiet and confused before. 'Oh help me Scriabin, I can't figure this out on my own!' The minute I present something that has one iota of truth in it, you throw a tantrum. What are you going to do, Edgar? If your physical reaction is any indication, the thought of him-"

"I'm not listening."

"It terrifies you. Well, that and something else. There's an amusing thought. Edgar and Johnny. Together forever. You could have little hearts with arrows through them that saw 'JC + EV 2getha 4eva' or something just as amusingly trite. In fact, since I can tell you're absolutely furious right now--well that or extremely aroused--you can even pretend that JC stands for Jesus Christ, because God knows you love him so much."

Edgar shut his book and stood, his entire body shaking violently. With as much grace as he could muster without speaking, he left his bedroom, slamming the door behind him as he did so.

Once on the other side, he dropped the book he was holding in one hand and grasped his head tightly, his mouth frozen in a silent snarl of rage. A fervent whine of pure fury escaped his throat, unfamiliarly breaking the now quiet air. He panted for breath for a few seconds, and then finally released the hold on his forehead, wondering if the pounding was because of his rushing blood or because he had applied too much pressure. He stood there, breathing hard, waiting for his body to calm and his typical demeanor to return. Once he felt that he was under sufficient control, he knelt and picked up the fallen book, flipping back to the last page. Another single sheet of paper.

You can't get rid of me that easily. You can't scream, slam doors, and run upstairs to your room and sob into your pillow. I'm not your parents. I'm not someone else. I'm you. And no matter where you go, I'm always there.

Edgar ignored Scriabin's voice and walked over to his couch, sitting down with trembling limbs. As he rested the book on his lap, he noticed the words jumping around on the page as his legs shook with adrenaline.

Dear book.

Maybe I should tell him. I think he'll understand. I'm frightened though. But he's understood before. Maybe he'll understand. I should tell him. I don't know. I'm frightened. Maybe he won't accept it. Maybe he won't understand the connection.

It's so clear to me. It's the only answer. It worked so well before. All those others were frozen so beautifully and so perfectly. They were so in love and I loved them so much. And now I can look back on them and they're still so beautiful.

Someday, when I look back on Edgar, it will be just as beautiful. I will have perfection. Total and utter perfection. No more fear that day. I won't be afraid anymore and neither will he. Everything will be just perfect.

I'm afraid of him. Afraid of him turning into one of the others. Turning against me. Becoming so hateful and angry. I don't ever want him to hate me. I don't want to hate him. He's the only thing I have left that hasn't turned me away so far. He and little Squeegee. I should check on him.

I wonder what he's doing. I hope he's alright.

If only I had told Devi! I know she would have understood.

That's it. I have to tell him. I have to tell him about this. About everything. Explain how beautiful this will be, how I need him to be beautiful and perfect. I know him, know he'll understand. I know he will. He'll be perfect. He'll be just as beautiful and perfect as the others.

I need to tell him. I have to tell him. I have to tell him now, before it's too late and I go back. I have to do something. I have to. He's asleep now. I'll go in there and talk to him.

Maybe later. I can't do it now, I'm too jumpy. I shouldn't have waited this long. I should have said something before. Now I have to wake him up. He won't be as understanding then, I'm sure of it.

Stop procrastinating and do it! Get up and go do it! You have to tell him. You have to tell him what this is all about, what he has to do. You have to tell him.

Maybe after this show is over.

Edgar closed the book and sat silently, pondering.

With every passing line, it becomes clearer. Every passing minute you live, he needs you more and more. I can throw these melodramatically poetic lines at you all day if I have to, Edgar. I think I'm on to something here. I think I know. I think you know.

Edgar put the book to one side and stood slowly, stretching out. With quiet resolve, he walked towards his bathroom.

"I'm going to take a shower."

Brilliant plan there, Edgar my boy. Then what?

Edgar opened the door to the bathroom, finding it almost entirely untouched. As he ran the hot water and watched steam rise up into the room, he glanced at the mirror. Directly in the center of the glass were a series of fingerprints, each more elongated and almost desperate than the last.

At the top, a meaningless scribble in almost impossibly thin lines, no doubt from the edge of a fingernail. Beside that, Johnny's initials were marked, with the thickness of an entire finger pad, into the now foggy mirror.

Edgar stared at this silently for a few moments before sighing softly. With the same calm and resolve, he spoke again, knowing that no matter where he was, Scriabin would hear him.

"Tomorrow, I'm going to go book shopping."