Break Stuff

<img src="https://amyfontaine.files.wordpress.com/2019/09/break-stuff-new-resize.jpg?resize=500%2C500"> [[Credits]] [[About]] [[Begin]]

(if: $listening is "yes")[Libby nods. "Damn right." But she noticed the lack of enthusiasm in your voice.](else:)[Libby rolls her eyes. "Typical."] Her brow furrows in concern. She glances behind her at the photograph of you and David. Then she turns back to you. "I know what'll help you feel better." An impish grin spreads across her face. [["Let's break stuff."]]

Libby snatches the framed photograph of you and David off the wall and hands it to you. "Starting with this." You gaze at the photograph behind the glass. A snapshot of a happier time that will never return. [["Hell yeah. Let's do it!"]] [["I can't break this, Libby. Not right now."]]

(if: $breakpic is "yes")[Libby smiles like she did sophomore year when she put that lizard down the back of Mr. Anderson's shirt. "Awesome." She jerks her head toward the door. "Best to do it outside, though. I'm not //that// much of an anarchist." She looks around vaguely. "Do you have a hammer to smash it with? Or you could just toss it down onto the street from above?" [["I have a hammer."]] [["I'd rather drop it from above."]]](else:)[Libby sighs. "You're no fun." She glances at the photograph in your hand, then looks into your eyes. "I mean, I get it if you can't right now. This shit takes time. But you have to stop thinking about him, and you can't do that if you're staring at his picture every day." You nod, setting the picture on the coffee table. "I'll put it away later." [[You're not sure yet if that's a lie.]]]

(set: $breakpic to "yes")(goto: "David Pic Decision")

(set: $breakpic to "no")(goto: "David Pic Decision")

(set: $photoweapon to "hammer")You go to your tool drawer in the kitchen. Nails, screws, batteries, and various odds and ends rattle about as you open and rummage through it. When you return to the living room with the hammer, Libby grins. "Perfect." You step out onto the third-story walkway of your apartment complex, carrying the picture and the hammer. Then you walk downstairs into the courtyard. Libby follows. The night is illuminated only by the few lampposts in the courtyard. Moths flit about the enclosed lightbulbs, yearning for what they can never have. You and Libby are alone. Taking a deep breath, you set the framed photograph down on the pavement. You stare at it intently from above, testing the weight of the hammer in your hand. The light of the nearest lamppost glints off the glass. Libby twirls in a circle, looking up at the apartments that surround you on all four sides. No lights are on in the windows. She turns back to you. "Are you sure you want to do this here?" [["Good point. We might wake people up, or someone might step on the glass in the morning. Let's go to the alley instead."]] [["Yeah. I don't give a shit who hears or sees. Let the world know that I'm over this bastard."]] [["Hmm. Maybe we could do this here, but clean it up afterwards?"]]

(set: $photoweapon to "roof")Libby nods. "Sounds good." You step out onto the third-story outdoor walkway of your apartment complex, carrying the picture. Libby follows you up the stairs to the fifth-story walkway. From that floor, it's easy to step from the railing of the walkway onto the sloping roof of the apartment building, if you're careful. Libby stands on the walkway for a moment, staring up at you. "You do this a lot?" she asks. You nod. You took David up here once, to look at the stars. You shove the memory from your mind. Libby swiftly follows your lead, pursuing you onto the roof. You beckon her to the other side. The side of the roof you first climbed onto faces the courtyard of the apartment complex. But the other side looks down on the street. The empty street looks ghostly in the sallow glow of the streetlights. "Okay," Libby says. "Are you ready?" "Sure." Your voice shakes. Taking a deep breath, you turn your attention to the photograph. [[His arm around your shoulders.]] [[His lips on your cheek.]] [[The flowers. The blue sky.]]

(set: $lightsource to "that reaches the alley from the street")(set: $courtyardcleanup to "alley")Libby laughs. "Okay, let's go into a dark alley after midnight. What's the worst that could happen?" You frown. "Hey, you're the one who asked." She shrugs. "It's fine. At least if I get murdered tonight it'll be with someone awesome." "Aww," you say, touched. And then, "Wait, what?" She grins. "Don't worry. We have a hammer, a glass object we could throw, and my tae kwon do skills. If all else fails, I'll just shank them. We'll be fine." You glance at her mid-calf boots. "All right then." You and Libby leave your apartment complex and walk down the street to the alley. Of course, you don't actually run into anyone there, except a cat wandering around near the dumpsters on the other end. Libby's morbid jokes aside, your neighborhood is really pretty safe, as far as you're aware. In the middle of the alley, you place the photograph down on the pavement. You watch Libby step back a few feet and light a cigarette, leaning against the brick wall. "Go on, then," she says, blowing a thin trail of smoke. You turn your attention back to the photograph. [[His arm around your shoulders.]] [[His lips on your cheek.]] [[The flowers. The blue sky.]]

(set: $lightsource to "of the lampposts")(set: $courtyardcleanup to "no")"Nice," Libby says with a smirk. "Good acting there. I like it." You shove her playfully. "Shut up! It's true! You're supposed to be my moral support, remember?" "Yup. As supportive as a training bra." Libby rolls her eyes. But then she reaches up and taps you lightly on the shoulder. "It's true," Libby says seriously. "I'm here for you, whatever you need." Your eyes water. You'd hug her, if she was the hugging kind. "Thank you, Libby." Libby nods. Stepping back a few feet, she lights up a cigarette near the ashtray by the gazebo, watching you thoughtfully. You turn your attention back to the photograph. [[His arm around your shoulders.]] [[His lips on your cheek.]] [[The flowers. The blue sky.]]

(set: $lightsource to "of the lampposts")(set: $courtyardcleanup to "yes")Libby snorts. "Clean up after ourselves? Who are you? Do I even know you anymore?" You elbow her. "Shut up. It's the right thing to do." She shrugs. "Okay, whatevs. It's your breakup party." You wince. "I mean, do what you think is right," she adds quickly. "I respect that." Stepping back a few feet, she lights up a cigarette near the ashtray by the gazebo, watching you thoughtfully. You turn your attention back to the photograph. [[His arm around your shoulders.]] [[His lips on your cheek.]] [[The flowers. The blue sky.]]

(go-to: "Drive to Rest Stop")

(set: $memory1 to "arm")(goto: "Hammer Pic")

(set: $memory1 to "kiss")(goto: "Hammer Pic")

(set: $memory1 to "sky")(goto: "Hammer Pic")

(if: $memory1 is "arm")[You remember the way his arms used to hold you. How his embrace made you feel like a little forest creature nestled in its den: safe from the wild, crazy world for a moment. Able to simply breathe. You try not to imagine his arms around that other woman. To picture his hands tracing promises across her skin. Will he break her heart, just like he broke yours? The thought doesn't bring you any pleasure. It only makes you feel worse.](else-if: $memory1 is "kiss")[You remember how his lips felt on yours. The words they said that made you laugh. The lies they told that you believed. The whispers in your ear in the dark. Your whispers back, which you wish you could forget. An elderly woman took the photo for you. She and her husband had you take their picture, and then David asked if they could take yours. You were so happy that day, and you both wanted to remember it forever. The fragrance of the flowers. The buzzing bees. The feel of the sunshine on your backs. The way your summer dress caught the sunlight, and you felt like a sunbeam yourself, floating free. The photo beautifully captures your candid laughter when David surprised you with that kiss. Afterwards you felt a bit embarrassed that the older couple had to bear witness to that public display of affection. But they didn't seem to mind. They were smiling their knowing smiles at you. //Ah, young love,// their eyes seemed to say. You and David didn't last as long as they did.](else:)[You look around yourself and David, trying to focus less on the two of you and more on the beauty of that day. Trying to isolate that happy moment, to excise it from all the pain and anger and heartbreak that eventually followed. Is it possible, you wonder, to remember the good times without remembering the bad? (if: $photoweapon is "hammer")[The weight of the hammer in your hand acts as a touchstone, bringing you back to the present.](else:)[A cold wind stirs around you, sending shivers down your spine, bringing you back to the present. To the roof.] Even if such acts of selective memory were possible, you wouldn't want to make them. Remembering the bad times will keep you from getting hurt like this again by someone else. And remembering them also kept you from staying with David, for which you are, ultimately, grateful. Or you will be. Right now, loneliness wells up inside you. You hunger for a relationship that never truly existed. The one represented by this picture, which you must destroy.] (if: $photoweapon is "hammer")[You take a deep breath and swing the hammer down as hard as you can. [[Crack!]]](else:)[You inhale sharply and toss the photograph off the roof. [[It falls.]]]

The glass splinters. The impact jolts up your arm. Your heart pounds, and fire burns in your belly. You bring the hammer down again. And again. //Crack. Crack. Crack.// Your pain melts in the heat of this moment. Shards scatter, winking like fireflies in the light (print: $lightsource). You feel raw and powerful. Victorious. Ferocious. Wiping the sweat from your brow with the back of your free hand, you gaze down once more at the fragments of the framed photo, strewn across the pavement. Libby cheers gleefully nearby. [[You bring the hammer down once more on David's face.]]

And it's over. Nothing left of that day in the garden, except a few pieces of glass and a photograph rumpled beyond all recognition. You stand staring down at the remains, the hammer held aloft in your hand. And then you start laughing. And laughing. You can't stop. Before long, Libby joins in. You look over at her and smile. "This was just what I needed. Thanks, Libby." Libby winks. [["We're not done yet."->Drive to Rest Stop]]

(if: $courtyardcleanup is "yes")[After sweeping up the glass, y](else:)[Y]ou (if: $photoweapon is "roof")[climb down from the roof and ]follow Libby to her car in the parking lot of your apartment complex. You swing into the passenger's seat seconds before she starts driving. "Where are we going?" you ask. Libby smiles, her eyes on the dark street ahead. "What matters is //how// we're going: so fast and far and wild that the past will never catch us." Quickly, the streets and corners of your town dissolve into highway, stretches of empty fields. Libby pulls off at a rest stop. It looks like it was abandoned during a zombie apocalypse. "Here we are." You glance out the window. "Where?" Libby grins. [["Exactly."]]

(set: $itemchoices to 0)(set: $cds to "no")(set: $phone to "no")(set: $lightbulbs to "no")(set: $tapes to "no")(set: $bowls to "no")(set: $tv to "no")(set: $vase to "no")(set: $necklaces to "no")(set: $records to "no")(set: $wineglasses to "no")(set: $backpack to "no")Libby opens her trunk and hands you a large cardboard box, then grabs a second one herself. You look down at your box. "What's in here?" Libby wags a finger. "Tsk, tsk. No spoilers." Together, you and Libby trek across the rest stop and into the woods behind it, hauling the boxes. Libby stops on the other side of a small rise. The light from the rest stop's flickering lampposts still illuminates your patch of woods just enough for you to see, but you and Libby are no longer visible from the rest stop—or the highway. You are hidden, tucked away under the trees behind the rise. With a grunt, Libby carefully sets down her box. You do the same. Libby opens her box and starts pulling things out, unwrapping them from their newspaper padding and setting them on the ground. CDs, an ancient flip phone, a pack of lightbulbs, VHS cassette tapes, ceramic bowls, and a miniature television set emerge from Libby's box of tricks, as well as one more thing, which explains why Libby's box was so much longer than yours: a baseball bat. You pull from your own box a vase, beaded necklaces, vinyl records, two wineglasses, a slingshot, and a small backpack with a picture of a character from an animated children's television show on it. You survey the [[assortment of items]] before you. "You outdid yourself, Libby. I'm impressed."

(set: $itemchoices += 1)(set: $cds to "yes")Libby nods enthusiastically. "We can chuck 'em like frisbees at the tree trunks!" She hands you half the pile of CDs. You examine each plastic case before you open it, remove the disc, and set the case aside. There's a three-person folk group called Gentle Wind. A surly rock band named Badger's Revenge. A cute teenybopper boy band, The Pheromones. An easy listening instrumental album from various artists you've never heard of, titled //Morning Coffee//. "I feel a little guilty," you tell Libby. "What if breaking these CDs is like musician voodoo? What if they can feel the way we're disrespecting their art from across space and time?" She laughs. "You worry too much. This'll be fun, and you know it." You can't help but grin. "Yeah!" Taking turns, you and Libby fling a CD at a time at the nearest tree trunks. The sight of the discs spinning through the air like flying saucers mesmerizes you. When they collide with the trees, they crack, and then the pieces bounce and roll. Watching them, you feel happy. You haven't felt happy in weeks. "Have you ever noticed that a lot of songs are about lost love and stuff?" you ask Libby. Libby hurls another CD like a discus. It hits a tree and shudders to the ground like a crashed airplane. "Huh?" You look thoughtfully at the pile of CDs at the edge of the forest. They are tougher than they looked, so most have only been split in half by this first round of throwing. You and Libby pause to go collect the incompletely broken CDs, like archers on a shooting range retrieving their arrows. Then you return to the top of the rise and continue throwing the CDs at the trunks. "A lot of songs on these CDs are probably about heartbreak and junk," you explain. "Seems like mopey feelings inspire most songs and poems. I guess it's harder to capture what it feels like to be happy." Holding a jagged third of a CD, Libby swishes it through the air experimentally, as if she is wielding a magic wand. Or a knife. She bites her lip and turns to you. "When you're sad, do you listen to happy songs to feel better?" she asks. "Or sad songs?" [["Happy songs."]] [["Sad songs."]]

(set: $itemchoices += 1)(set: $phone to "yes")"Flip phones were the best," you say fondly, picking it up. "Functional. Indestructible. Perfect in every way." Libby makes a face. "Liar! Smartphones are way better!" You chuckle. "You may think that now, Libby. But when a giant lizard man steps on your phone, would you rather it be one of those skinny, fragile smartphones, or a solid brick phone like this that can take a hit and survive?" She gives you a weird look. "So you want to destroy it because it's indestructible?" You grin sheepishly. "I always love a challenge." You flick the phone open. "My mom thought these were so cool and high-tech when they came out. Like communicators on a starship." She laughs. "For real?" "Well, yeah. Remember, this was the era of pagers." "Touché." She watches you turn the phone in your hand. "So if a giant lizard man can't break it, how will you?" Luckily, you've given this some thought. [["I'll snap it in half."]] [["I'll throw it against the pavement at the rest stop."]] [["I'll smash it with a rock."]]

(set: $itemchoices += 1)(set: $lightbulbs to "yes")Libby picks up the pack of lightbulbs. "Okay, here's my idea," Libby says, pointing to the top of the hill. "You stand there, and I'll stand near the middle of the slope and toss the lightbulbs up to you." "And then I'll bite them in half?" you suggest. She chuckles. "Smart-ass." She hands you the baseball bat. Then she strides to the midpoint of the slope with the lightbulbs. She opens the pack and grabs the first lightbulb, and then she levels her gaze at you. "Ready?" "Um, not quite. I have a question." She looks at you curiously. "Oh?" [["These are dead, right?"]] [["I'm not going to hurt you, am I?"]] [["Where did you get these lightbulbs?"]] [["Where did you get this bat?"]]

(set: $itemchoices += 1)(set: $tapes to "yes")You stare at the VHS cassette tapes, your head swimming with memories. "Did you ever go to those video rental stores when you were a kid?" you ask Libby. "They were filled to the brim with cassettes like these." She grins. "Of course I did! I was so fast that I could usually ditch my mom and wander off into the horror movies." She chuckles. "Mom always got so mad when she finally found me there." "Those places were the best." You smile wryly, picturing a younger Libby perusing shelves of forbidden cassette tapes. More memories rise, unbidden, from the turbulent waters of your mind. "Did your family have one of those home video cameras?" you ask. "The kind you could use to make tiny cassettes to pop into a larger one you could put in your VCR?" "Oh yeah!" Libby laughs. "I totally embarrassed myself on those stupid home movies." You flash back to the night you showed David some of the home videos your own family made back when you were growing up. He laughed at your ridiculous eight-year-old singing and dancing, the snails you picked up and held proudly up to the camera. He put his arm around you when you cried over the footage of your father, who you had just lost to cancer the previous month. He made you feel known and embraced, accepted for who you truly are. He made you feel loved. Libby snaps her fingers in front of your face. "Earth to—" "Yeah, yeah," you mutter. "Sorry. I'm here." You brush away your tears discreetly with the back of your hand. She frowns. There's an awkward silence. "So," she says finally. Slowly. "Uh. Which of these tapes do you want to destroy? Maybe you should just do one and I'll do one, and I'll put the others away. You seem upset by them." "I'm not upset!" you snap. She raises an eyebrow. You sigh. "Fine. Sorry. I'll just choose one." "Okay. Which one?" You survey the selection before you. [["Nursery Rhymes with Hester Hen."]] [["Danceroo Studio: 10 Minute Toning Workout."]] [["Sunrise Sunday School: Balloon Adventures with the Risen Lord."]] [["Joseph Peabody's Travel Europe: Volume 1: Switzerland."]]

(set: $itemchoices += 1)(set: $bowls to "yes")"I made these in middle school." Libby brings them over to you. You gaze upon the lopsided, weirdly-colored ceramic bowls. "I believe it." She elbows you. "You're just jealous of my mad artistic skills." You shrug. "Hey, imperfect art isn't always a bad thing." You study the asymmetry of Libby's bowls. "Ever heard of //wabi-sabi?//" She shakes her head. "What's that?" "It's a Japanese philosophy. The idea that flaws actually make a piece of art more beautiful." She smiles. "I like it." She looks at you curiously. "Do you think that's true of people? Can our flaws make us more beautiful?" [["Yes. Our flaws make us more beautiful."]] [["No. Our flaws make us less beautiful."]]

(set: $itemchoices += 1)(set: $tv to "yes")You gaze deeply into the blackness of the blank screen. "My family had a portable TV like this," you tell Libby. "They put it in the backseat on long road trips to shut my brother and me up." She laughs. "My family had one too! This one, in fact!" "Oh?" Your face falls. "Are you sure it's okay for us to break it?" "Of course. We have smartphones now. Portable TVs with built-in VCRs have gone the way of the dinosaurs." "Right." You stare at the miniature television and its VCR. "Is it bad that our parents had to turn us into little screen zombies just to get us out of their hair?" She shrugs. "I dunno. They were doing the best they could with the tools they had." You nod. "True." She grimaces. "I mean, I'm sure it really sucks to be a parent. You probably get so desperate for relief from your needy love-parasites that you'll take whatever form of it you can find." You frown. "I guess it sucks to be married too. Seems like my parents were always watching movies and shows together to avoid actually talking about the hard stuff." You and Libby stare at the TV together in silence. At the natural barrenness of its screen, no longer disguised beneath colorful pixels meant to represent ideas. At last, Libby turns to you. "So. What is your weapon of choice for defeating this monster?" [["The slingshot."]] [["The baseball bat."]]

(set: $itemchoices += 1)(set: $vase to "yes")It's a glass vase with rows of delicate flowers etched across it. "That was my grandmother's," Libby says as you pick it up. You gape at her. "//What?// Libby, I can't break your grandmother's vase!" She shrugs. "Sure you can. She was a bitch." You frown. "I can't believe what I'm hearing! We've done a lot of questionable things together, Libby, but I have no regrets about them. This is the first time I actually feel ashamed of you." Libby glares daggers at you. Her voice rises. "You have no idea what you're talking about! She abused my mom! Mom moved us clear across the country just to get away from her!" You wince. "I...I'm sorry, Libby. I didn't know." "Of course you didn't." Libby turns away. But her voice was softer just now. Cooler. You have a feeling she accepts your apology. At least, you hope she does. You return your attention to the vase. You feel too awkward to meet Libby's eyes at the moment, but you hear her speak. "Do you think..." She hesitates. "Are you more likely to paint a rosy picture of someone who's no longer in your life? Remembering their virtues while glossing over their faults? Or...or do you think it's easier to focus on the bad and forget the good?" You sigh. "That really depends, Libby." "I know. But, I mean, as a general rule. Discounting lovable, heroic superhumans and shitty abusers like my grandma. What do you think?" You turn the vase in your hands thoughtfully. [["It's easier to remember the good and forget the bad."]] [["It's easier to remember the bad and forget the good."]]

(set: $itemchoices += 1)(set: $necklaces to "yes")Libby hands you the beaded necklaces. "Where did you get these?" you ask. She shrugs. "Thrift store. Probably some idiot Girl Scouts made them." She grimaces. "They should have been free." You examine the necklaces. Their strings are made of flimsy plastic. The beads on them don't form any discernible patterns. Instead, they present an eclectic riot of chaos. Blues, reds, yellows, greens, purples, pinks, oranges. Round beads. Square beads. Heart-shaped beads. Teddy bear beads. Glow-in-the-dark beads. Letters to names that look misspelled. "Amdy," you read. "Do you think that was their real name? Or was it supposed to be Amy? Andy?" Libby looks at the letters and shrugs. "I dunno. On the one hand, kids are stupid. On the other, parents will name their kids basically anything nowadays." "I've often thought that would be the best part of having kids. Not //doing// anything with them. Just naming them." She raises an eyebrow. "I thought you didn't want kids." "I don't. I just like naming things." She laughs. "You could do that professionally. Have parents hire you to name their kids for them." You grin. "I'd name them all after comic book characters. Or colors. Clouds?" She rolls her eyes. "On second thought, //don't// do that?" You pout. "Come on! Wouldn't Cumulus be an awesome name?" She makes a face. "More like the worst name ever! That kid would get stuffed in //all// the lockers. Hell, even the teachers would probably beat them up." You sigh. "Guess I need to find a different dream." She purses her lips thoughtfully. "Maybe Amdy is short for Amadeus." You light up. "Okay, //that// is a cool name. You can have my job." She frowns. "Is it, though?" [["Well, yeah! It's the middle name of an influential musical genius! That's hot as hell."]] [["On second thought, maybe not. Kids aren't into classical music."]] [["On second thought, maybe not. Mozart suffered a lot."]]

(set: $itemchoices += 1)(set: $records to "yes")Libby smiles and clicks on her lighter. "Hand me one of those." You oblige her. She takes the record with her free hand and holds her lighter up to its edge. The record starts to curl away from the flame, like a snail retreating into its shell. "It's melting!" you gasp. Libby chuckles. "I saw a video online where a guy baked records in the oven to mold them into bowls. But I don't have time for that shit." Libby admires the glowing edge of the record. "They do seem to respond to heat quite nicely." You cough, and your eyes sting from the smoke. "Are...you sure...this is...safe?" you sputter. Libby's eyes spark mischievously. "Safe is no way to live." You wave the smoke away from your face. "Unsafe is a proven way to die," you retort. But you find yourself hypnotized by the record's red-hot glow. Before you know it, the corners of your mouth twitch upwards into a smile. With a breath, Libby blows out the fire. She looks at you. "Wanna try it? I have some tongs in the front pocket of that backpack. I can burn, and you can pull on the edges of the record with the tongs to stretch it out. Or you can burn and I'll pull. What would you like to do?" [["Burn."]] [["Pull."]]

(set: $itemchoices += 1)(set: $wineglasses to "yes")Libby neatly places the wineglasses side by side on the grass at a distance from the two of you, each a few yards from the other. You flash back to a picnic you had with David one warm summer day. He brought wine, an oaky red, and you brought a smorgasbord of food: cheese, crackers, grapes, meat, a ripe, juicy watermelon the color of blood. You clinked your glasses together with a toast: //"To us."// All of that's gone now. You will never clink glasses with David again. Not in this lifetime. You snap back to the present when Libby hands you the slingshot. Only then do you notice the pile of rocks she has gathered at your feet. "You break one, and I break the other?" Libby suggests. "Sounds good." You hand her back the slingshot and then give her a rock. "You can go first. I want to see a pro in action." Libby smirks. "Watch and learn, my pupil." She loads the slingshot and closes one eye, clearly aligning her shot with the glass on the left. When she pulls back the band and releases, the rock flies straight at her chosen wineglass. The glass bursts apart with a satisfying //chink// sound. You cheer. Libby grins, twirling the slingshot and then blowing on it, as if it's her pistol and she's the sheriff in some old Western. "Thank you," she says. "Thank you very much." She contemplates the shards of glass, scattered on the ground to the left of the intact wineglass. "I don't really like wine," Libby admits. "This just seemed like a traditional Singles Awareness Day sort of thing." She glances at you. "Are //you// into wine?" [["Yeah. I love wine."]] [["Actually, I'm a bit of a beer snob."]] [["I like cider best."]] [["Hard liquor all the way!"]] [["I'm more of a coffee drinker myself."]] [["Tea is good for the soul."]] [["Meh. Just water for me."]]

(set: $itemchoices += 1)(set: $backpack to "yes")Grinning, Libby unzips the main pocket of the backpack and pours the contents onto the ground. An assortment of plastic dolls and a pocket knife tumble out. "//Carly's Cuties//," you say incredulously. "I can't believe that show is still going." Libby shakes her head. "I never liked it." "Me neither." You grimace at the exaggerated smiles on the big-headed dolls. "I was into other stuff. Stuff traditionally marketed as 'boy' stuff." Libby's face lights up. "Oh? Like what?" You smile, fondly remembering your favorite childhood obsession. [["Dinosaurs."]] [["Bugs."]] [["Model planes and rockets."]] [["Plastic cars and trucks."]] [["Robots."]] [["Fighting games."]]

(set: $childhood to "dinosaurs")(go-to: "Kill Carly's Cuties")

(set: $childhood to "bugs")(go-to: "Kill Carly's Cuties")

(set: $childhood to "cars")(go-to: "Kill Carly's Cuties")

(set: $childhood to "robots")(go-to: "Kill Carly's Cuties")

(set: $childhood to "games")(go-to: "Kill Carly's Cuties")

(set: $childhood to "rockets")(go-to: "Kill Carly's Cuties")

Libby hands you her lighter. "Be careful with this. It's my baby." You study the design printed on it: a painting of a female centaur shooting an arrow into the cosmos. "Fancy." Libby shrugs. "I thought the centaur was hot." You raise an eyebrow. "Oh?" Libby scowls. "Not her horse parts, jackass! The human ones." "Ah." You avert your eyes from the centaur's most prominent human parts. "So, uh, how do I do this?" Libby fishes around in the front pocket of the backpack. "Hold on." She pulls out the metal tongs. "How do you do what?" she asks. "Uh. This." You wave the lighter at her. She bursts out laughing. "Really?" she gasps. "You really don't know how to... Oh my God!" Tears form in the corners of her eyes. "How old are you again?" "Shut up!" you growl. Libby takes the lighter from you and smiles, clearly fighting back more laughter. "Don't worry. This won't hurt our friendship. If anything, it just reinforces my belief that you're a precious baby who needs my guidance and protection." You roll your eyes. "Whatever, dude." Libby demonstrates how to spin the sparkwheel and click the ignition button. Then she hands the lighter back to you. After a few tries, you get the flame going. Libby holds the record out toward you. You examine the label in its center. "Vinny and the Vigor Sloths?" "Never heard of them." Libby shrugs. "Got it at a thrift store for twenty-five cents." "Mmm. I bet this was somebody's jam back in the day." "Bet some chick with a bubblecut and a poodle skirt danced to it every night." "Awwww yeaaah." With a shaking hand, you move the lighter toward the record. [[Hiss.]]

Libby nods. "Okay." She hands you the backpack. You fish around in the front pocket, pulling out the metal tongs. "What else is in here?" you ask. "I felt something soft." Libby looks over at you from the other side of the flame she has flicked into being at the end of her lighter. "Oven mitts. Grab those too." You do. Libby slips her free hand into one of them. "Put the other one on and hold the record for me." You put the remaining oven mitt on your hand that isn't holding the tongs. Then you scoop up the record with the oven mitt. With your mitt cradling the label at the bottom, you hold the record out towards Libby. As she moves the lighter toward the edge of the record, you study the oven mitt she's wearing. It's got a picture woven into it: a smiling sun with sunglasses, a palm tree, and ocean waves before a sandy beach. //San Diego, CA//, reads the text below the picture. "Have you ever been to California?" you ask Libby. [[Hiss.->End Pull]]

There's a burst of smoke. Your eyes sting. The edge of the record begins to glow. You cough, but somehow the pain excites you. The heat. The acrid taste of death. You move the lighter along the edge of the record, watching the vinyl bubble and melt. Someone else's music. Someone else's memories. Burning. Curling inwards like a wilting flower. You revel in it. It's beautiful. You would do this to the whole world if you could. "Ow!" cries Libby. You yank your hand back, startled. The lighter clatters to the ground beside the record. Libby is holding out her reddened thumb. You both stare at it. "Oh my God, Lib. I burned you?" She sighs. "I told you to be careful!" You try not to cry. "I'm so sorry!" She forces a smile. "Eh. It's all right. It's not like I haven't done it to myself before." "On purpose?" you ask, before you can stop yourself. Libby doesn't answer. She looks down at the record. "I bet it's cool by now." You shake your head. "Don't risk it, Libby!" "Oh! I forgot." She pulls out two oven mitts from the backpack. She chuckles wryly. "Wish I had remembered these sooner." Using the tongs and one of the oven mitts, she stretches the edges of the record outward, until it looks like a demented black sun, or some kind of photophobic sea creature. "Grab the other mitt and help me," Libby says. You put on the remaining oven mitt and hold the dilapidated record from its base as Libby uses the tongs to stretch each of its macabre petals out, one by one, farther and farther, until at last each petal snaps like taffy. You grin. "This is very satisfying." Libby grins back. "Sure is." You repeat the process with the other records. You enjoy lighting them on fire. You don't burn Libby again. When you're done, you both cough hoarsely at the cloud of residual smoke. "I can feel the cancer starting," you croak. Libby shrugs. "Worth it." You nod, still high on pyromania. Then you turn your attention to the [[remaining items->assortment of items]].

(if: $childhood is "dinosaurs")["I was //obsessed// with dinosaurs," you tell Libby. Libby sighs wistfully. "Who wasn't?" "//Right?//" You gaze toward the shadowy depths of the forest. "I used to dream about them all the time. I had a bunch of plastic dinosaurs, and an illustrated dinosaur encyclopedia for kids. I memorized all the different species in it. And I loved going to the museum and seeing their bones." Libby nods approvingly. "I was super into bones myself." Your brow furrows. "I used to wonder what colors they were, when they were alive. The dinosaurs. Nobody really knows." Libby laughs. "I love the thought of a hot pink //Tyrannosaurus rex//. Inflicting her tyrannical hot pink doom on the Cretaceous jungle." You grin wickedly. "Sometimes when I played outside I pretended I was a //T. rex//. And when other kids made me mad, I could just step on them or eat them." Libby sighs. "I wish life were that simple." Your expression falters. "Me, too." Libby smiles viciously. "What would David taste like?" You flush. "Whoa. Um. This got weird." Libby chuckles. "Sorry. I just like the thought of you ripping him to shreds with your teeth." She glares into the shadows, as if David were standing there listening. "It would be what he deserves."](else-if: $childhood is "bugs")[You laugh. "One of my earliest memories is of a day when we were coloring in preschool and my teacher shrieked like a banshee. All of us kids looked up and saw that she was cringing away from a cockroach under her chair. Without even thinking about it, I went over, coaxed the cockroach onto my coloring page, carried it outside, and let it go." Libby beams. "You were one fearless kid. The others must have been pretty impressed with you." You frown. "Actually, they thought I was weird after that, and they stayed away from me." She nods sympathetically. "I get that. When I was a kid I was really into skeletons. I collected plastic action figures of skeletons, and anatomical diagrams of skeletons. One time when I found a dead stray cat in our neighborhood, I crouched next to it and drew its skeleton. I wanted to be a mortician. The kids on my block thought I was creepy as hell." You can't help but giggle. "No wonder we became friends. Just a couple of creeps, the both of us." She shoves you teasingly. "Speak for yourself."](else-if: $childhood is "cars")["I collected a whole bunch of toy cars and trucks," you tell Libby. "I went through a phase where I thought it would be neat to be a truck driver." "It still might be neat," Libby says. "Meh." You shrug. "I dunno. But the thought of always being on the move //is// appealing." "Yeah." She lights a cigarette. "I could use a change of scenery. I'm so over this fucking town." You nod. "Same." You glance in the direction of the rest stop. "But being a truck driver would still get old, wouldn't it? You wouldn't really get to //see// places. You'd just be passing through, going from Point A to Point B. And you'd probably be assigned just one route you'd have to drive all the time. The same highway. The same truck stops. The same smelly diners." "Hey." She flicks her ashes onto the ground. "Don't ruin my new dream. It was yours once."](else-if: $childhood is "rockets")[You laugh. "I was fascinated with space, and with flying. I had light-up star chart posters all over the walls of my bedroom, and I filled a photo album with pictures of planets and spacecraft that I cut out of magazines. I had all the different models of aircraft in use by the military, and even a good number of historical ones that are no longer active, memorized. I wanted to join the Air Force and eventually become an astronaut." Libby beams. "That's so cool!" You grin sheepishly. "It was a phase." She frowns. "Fascination with the awesomeness of the universe shouldn't be just a phase." You shrug. "Well, yeah, but we can't all be astronauts. Most of us have to settle for life here on Earth." You remember the day you learned how slim the odds are of a person actually becoming an astronaut. Learned that you could train your whole life, work hard and do everything right, but in the end, there still would probably be an applicant who was better than you. You think about how you gave everything you had to David, and it still wasn't enough. You wanted him more than anything else in the universe. But he cheated on you anyway. "You okay?" Libby asks. You wipe the tears you hadn't realized were building discreetly away. "Sure."](else-if: $childhood is "robots")["I was a little inventor," you tell Libby. "I was fascinated with how electrical and mechanical systems worked, and I kind of had a knack for fixing and building things. And I absolutely loved the idea of robots." You smile. "I had a little robotics kit that I got from our elementary school book order one year. But it wasn't complex enough for me. So I got some spare parts from the junkyard and the auto shop to build on the simple stuff in the kit. And I created my own kind of robot." "Wow." Libby's eyes widen. Then she breaks out in a grin. "What did it do? Finish your homework? Brainwash your brother into doing your bidding?" You laugh and shake your head. "Nah, nothing that fancy. It could sweep. It could open doors. It could recite an autotuned version of the alphabet song." She giggles. "Nothing fancy? That actually sounds pretty great." She sighs wistfully. "I wish I had a robot that could sweep for me." You grin. "I still have the blueprint somewhere, if you ever want to make one." She shrugs. "I'm not an inventor. It would probably take me years to figure out how to build something like that, even with a blueprint. My floor would be pretty nasty by then." She wrinkles her nose.](else:)["I was really into those," you tell Libby. "I loved analyzing the strengths and weaknesses of different characters, different items and move combos. I quickly mastered the mechanics of any fighting game I played. So I always beat all the neighborhood kids. Including the boys." You laugh. "They were kind of sour with me about it." Libby grins wryly. "Sounds fun. I was too busy getting into real-life scraps to play games much, myself." You wince. "I wish all the hours I sank into those games had given me any useful real-world skills." She shrugs. "Well, you had fun. That's good enough, right?" You think about that. You "had fun" with David, until it all went up in smoke. If only your careful analysis of fighting games had translated into an ability to analyze real people. Their strengths and weaknesses. Their tactics for gaining power over others. But you never analyzed David's motives. You just fell head-over-heels for him. You let down your guard. And he dealt you a blow that defeated you. "I guess," you mutter.] Libby glowers at the dolls. "Man, fuck society. Telling kids what they should or shouldn't like based on their genitals. What bullshit." "Yeah. Good thing we didn't listen and just kept on liking whatever the hell we wanted." She presses one of the dolls into the dirt with her boot, a vindictive grin on her face. "Yup. And good thing our families didn't buy into that shit either." She tosses a doll in your direction. You catch it by its hair. The garishly eyeshadowed face of titular character Carly Caramel smiles up at you. "I'm guessing you know what to do," Libby says, picking up another doll. You stare at the doll. A smile spreads across your face as inspiration strikes. [[Pop her head off.]] [[Snap her arms and legs off.]] [[Cut off all her fingers but the middle one so she's permanently flipping the bird.]] [[Give her a sassy Mohawk and a new outfit.]] [[Carve her some cool tattoos with the pocket knife.]]

Gripping the rest of Carly's body in one hand, you pull on her head firmly with the other. The oversized head separates from the rest of the body with a satisfying pop. The plastic eyelids on the freakishly large eyes, wreathed with impractically long eyelashes, bob open and closed accusingly as you lift the head to your eye level by its hair. "Alas, poor Carly!" you declare. "I knew her, Horatio." Libby shoots you a weird look. "What are you on about over there?" "Nothing." You chuckle and toss the doll's head in the air and catch it, toss it and catch it, like a child with a rubber ball. The action soothes you. You look down at Carly's decapitated body, discarded on the ground. "I feel liberated," you tell Libby. "Like somehow, by cutting off the head of this monster, I've rescued girls everywhere from the empty-headed drivel of her show." Libby giggles. "Those girls will look to new role models now. Us." You shudder. "Oh God. I hope not." You decapitate half the remaining dolls while Libby destroys the rest. Then you turn your attention to the [[remaining items->assortment of items]].

Gripping the rest of Carly Caramel's body with one hand, you use the other to twist her right arm upwards. Then you pull on it with all your might. //Snap.// The arm separates from Carly's body and falls to the ground. You giggle as the primal euphoria of aimless destruction rushes through you. You proceed to her other arm. //Snap.// Then her legs. //Snap. Snap.// You examine Carly's limbless body. Then the pile of arms and legs. "This is how some men see women, isn't it?" you muse. "Not as whole, individual humans, but a composite of physical pieces they either find attractive or don't." "David can burn in hell like the blobby sexist marshmallow he is!" Libby yells, so unexpectedly that you jump. You look over at her, your heart still pounding. She is stomping a doll of her own into the dirt a few feet away from you. "Geez! I didn't know you were listening." "Uh, sorry," she says. "I'm just angry, for your sake. You should date girls instead. They're not dicks. Bitches, sometimes, but not dicks." "I'll think about it," you say dryly. You snap the limbs off half the remaining dolls while Libby destroys the rest. Then you turn your attention to the [[remaining items->assortment of items]].

Picking up the pocket knife, you look intently at the doll in your other hand. "I saw the angel in the marble," you murmur, "and carved until I set her free." "What?" Libby asks. You laugh. "Oh, nothing. Just paraphrasing Michelangelo. Give or take a pronoun." "Ah." Libby turns her attention back to the doll she is kicking around with her boot. You flick open the knife and get to work. On Carly Caramel's left arm, you carve the words "Fuck Men." On her right arm, you carve the words "Nobody's Queen." You're pretty handy with a pocket knife, thanks to your vandalism of school bathroom stalls back in ye olden days. You draw a broken heart just below her neck, and then you flip her dress up and start etching a rearing snake on her stomach. "She doesn't even have a belly button," you complain to Libby. "What is that supposed to teach young girls?" "That babies come from storks?" she suggests. "That girls are made, not born?" "Heh. That last one's kinda true." When you're finished with your carvings, you hold the doll out in front of you, turning her from side to side to admire your work. "She looks tough now. Despite her precious face." Libby comes over to take a look. She laughs. "She looks like she belongs in a dive bar instead of the Caramel Castle now." You laugh too. "I hope the men who see her there will know better than to mess with her. For their own sakes." You carve badass (and sometimes inappropriate) designs on half the remaining dolls while Libby destroys the rest. Then you turn your attention to the [[remaining items->assortment of items]].

Using the pocket knife, you chop off Carly's long caramel curls. Then you deftly shave each side of her plastic head, leaving a jagged, cockatoo-like crest in the middle. There's still a bit of bounce to it, but short of an act of God, it will have to do. You smile and turn the doll from side to side in your hand, admiring your work. "You look like a rock star now," you tell Carly approvingly. But you're not done yet. With the help of the knife, you shred Carly's yellow and black dress into artful tatters. Now it looks like some kind of weird celebrity fashion statement. Or like Carly jumped into the lion enclosure at the zoo and then climbed out, leaving a dead pride in her wake. You tie one of the severed scraps diagonally across Carly's body, so that it covers her right eye like an eyepatch and extends to her left hip. You're not sure exactly what you're going for here, but somehow, in some primal child-toy-instinct part of your brain, it makes sense to you. More sense than other aspects of your life have made lately, anyway. Libby comes over to look. "Whoa. Impressive makeover. She could give Lady Gaga a run for her money." "Yeah," you agree. "This outfit is a gateway drug. She'll be wearing slabs of meat next." "Drizzled in hot sauce," Libby contributes. "You know it." You give sassy makeovers to half the remaining dolls while Libby destroys the rest. Then you turn your attention to the [[remaining items->assortment of items]].

"Sounds good," she says. "Let's find rocks." You and Libby wander across the rise, searching for rocks of the right size. Small enough to fit in the sling, yet big and heavy enough to make an impact on the television. Soon, you have a small pile gathered at your feet. Libby hands you the slingshot and steps back a few feet. You take a few steps back yourself, studying the television. The blackness of its screen swallows you whole. Suddenly, you remember something from your childhood. The couple who lived across the street from your family got a divorce. The man moved out to an apartment of his own. Before he left, he had a rummage sale with a lot of his old things that he couldn't take with him and his ex-wife couldn't stand. One of those things was a huge, bulky television set, a behemoth from a bygone era. Of course, no one bought the man's television, even though he was charging very little for it. And he couldn't afford to haul it to the dump or the thrift store. So you watched him and his son drag it, grunting, sweating, into the alley behind their house. There it stayed, long after the man left. Rotting in the weeds. Becoming little more than a dessicated husk. An American dream, abandoned. You and the other children used to pretend it was a blind, tragic monster, guarding a wicked wizard in some far-flung cave. But it wasn't. It was a broken symbol of a broken life. Your hand holding the slingshot quivers. Taking a deep breath, you load it and fire into the blank screen. //Blam!// The rock makes a surprisingly loud noise. You jump. Peering at the screen, you spot the point of impact. Libby claps. Giddy, you fire rock after rock, until the television is peppered with holes. Soon enough, it's no longer identifiable as a television. It might as well be a blind, sad monster, stalking the alleys of someone else's past. With the television thoroughly destroyed, you turn your attention to the [[remaining items->assortment of items]].

"Sounds good." Libby hands you the bat and steps back a few feet. You take a step back yourself, studying the television. The blackness of its screen swallows you whole. Suddenly, you remember something from your childhood. The neighbors who lived across the street from you got a divorce. The man decided to move out to an apartment of his own. Before he left, he had a rummage sale with his old things that he couldn't take with him and his ex-wife couldn't stand. One of those items was a huge, bulky television set, a behemoth from a bygone era. Of course, no one bought the man's television, even though he was charging very little for it. And he couldn't afford to haul it to the dump or the thrift store. So you watched him and his son drag it, grunting, sweating, into the alley behind their house. There it stayed, long after the man left. Rotting in the weeds. Becoming little more than a dessicated husk. An American dream, abandoned. You and the other children used to pretend it was a blind, tragic monster, guarding a wicked wizard in some far-flung cave. But it wasn't. It was a broken symbol of a broken life. Your hands quiver on the handle of the baseball bat. Taking a deep breath, you reel back and swing the bat as hard as you can against the blank screen. //Blam!// The impact travels up your arms. Cracks spread across the glass like the veins of a butterfly's wing. Libby claps. Giddy, you make swing after swing, smashing the bat wildly into the television. Soon enough, it's no longer identifiable as a television. It might as well be a blind, sad monster, stalking the alleys of someone else's past. With the television thoroughly destroyed, you turn your attention to the [[remaining items->assortment of items]].

(set: $cassettechoice to "hen")(go-to: "Destroy Cassette")

(set: $cassettechoice to "jazz")(go-to: "Destroy Cassette")

(set: $cassettechoice to "sunday")(go-to: "Destroy Cassette")

(set: $cassettechoice to "travel")(go-to: "Destroy Cassette")

(if: $cassettechoice is "hen")["I remember this one!" Libby cries. "That was one ridiculous cartoon!" "Right? It was so weird!" You laugh. "It was a British show, yeah? All the characters had those accents." She nods. "Mm-hmm." A smile spreads across her face. "Remember that hippo on the roller skates?" "The waiter hippo? How could I forget?" "He was always sneezing on the customers' food, and then he had to redo their orders." "Yeeeep. Gross." You and Libby laugh at the memory. You survey the flamboyantly colorful cartoon animals prancing across the case of the cassette. Then you pop the cassette out of the case. "I had a love-hate relationship with this show," you admit to Libby. She nods. "Same. It was so bizarre. But pretty funny." "I was kinda creeped out by it. But also morbidly fascinated by it." "Like a train wreck?" "Exactly."](else-if: $cassettechoice is "jazz")["This looks like it's from the '80s," you say, examining the poofy hair and sparkly tanktop and shorts of the fitness trainer depicted on the plastic case of the cassette. "Yeah. Guess so." Libby peers at the man's smiling face. "Men on the covers of workout videos nowadays are generally shirtless and sweaty. And not smiling. God forbid a man to smile." "God forbid a woman not to smile," you reply flatly. You and Libby share a short, dark laugh. A shot of bitter espresso to make the poison go down. "Society's rules about what can and can't be considered masculine are about as bad as its rules about what can and can't be feminine," you muse, pulling the cassette from its case. Libby shrugs. "Almost," she mutters, scuffing the dirt with her boot. "But not quite."](else-if: $cassettechoice is "sunday")["We watched this video in Sunday school when I was a kid," you tell Libby. "It's a cartoon about Jesus rising from the dead and taking good girls and boys on a hot air balloon ride into the sunset." "You don't say?" Her expression is hard to read. "I do." You smile sadly. "I used to love this video, actually. I daydreamed that I could go up in a balloon one day with Jesus." You lower your eyes. "But later I thought I must have been a bad kid, because he never came for me." "That's awful!" Libby sounds genuinely horrified and sorry for you. She's not usually very demonstrative of such feelings unless she first bends them into rage, so you're surprised. "It's okay. That didn't last forever. Eventually I figured out that none of the other kids had gotten to go on a balloon ride with him, either." You laugh awkwardly. "Even though it created that misunderstanding, I have happy memories of this video. And Sunday school. Part of me feels guilty about wanting to destroy this." "Then don't think of this as a symbol of Jesus and those people. Think of it as a symbol of that misunderstanding that made you feel sad and inadequate. You didn't deserve to feel that way. And now you can be free." You nod. David also made you feel sad and inadequate. But now you're free of that too. With your guilt assuaged, you open the plastic case and pull out the cassette.](else:)["Joseph Peabody!" Libby exclaims. "My aunt //loves// Joseph Peabody. She's really into travel shows." "Travel shows make me sad." Her face falls. "Really? Why?" You sigh. "Because I'll never get to see all those places in my lifetime. All those beautiful, wonderful places." You dreamed of going so many places with David. Riding a gondola in Venice. Dogsledding in Alaska. Lying on the beach in the Bahamas with the sun on your skin. But they were only dreams. "You don't know that," Libby says sternly. "Stop talking like you're on your deathbed. You still have your whole life ahead of you." You laugh wearily. "Sure. Except the parts I've left behind." You gaze at the middle-aged man pictured on the plastic case of the cassette. Joseph Peabody has gray hair, a diminutive stature, glasses, and a huge grin on his face as he sips a glass of wine with a majestic, snowy mountain in the background. He looks to be in peak health. Perhaps it's the Switzerland air. "This guy has it made," you muse. "Traveling to exotic places and drinking wine, as your //job?// He's pretty lucky. Looks like he's happy with his life, too." Libby frowns. "Peabody's dead. Passed away five years ago. The episodes my aunt watches are reruns." You feel like the world just slapped you in the face. Suddenly the beautiful picture of the happy little man sipping Swiss wine makes you sad. To avoid looking at or thinking about it anymore, you open the case and pull out the cassette.] You stare at the cassette tape. "Uh. What do I do now?" Libby hands you a big rock. "Have at it." After a moment's hesitation, you smash the rock down on the cassette tape, breaking one end of the black casing open. Then you start to pull the reel of tape out from inside. Unraveling the story, the memories. It feels a little uncomfortable. Like gutting a roadkilled rabbit with your hands, extracting fistfuls of warm innards. But you can't stop. You wish you could do this with the memory reels in your mind. Purge the black thoughts of David from your brain. The arguments. The makeup sex that never made up for anything. The nude photos of a stranger that you found on his phone.(if: $cassettechoice is "travel")[ You wish you could replace it all with something happier. Like your fantasies about traveling the world together.](if: $cassettechoice is "jazz")[ These memories fester amid the dark thoughts that arose from your banter with Libby just now about how screwed-up gender norms are. Your stomach churns, and bile rises in your throat.](if: $cassettechoice is "hen")[ That was a love-hate relationship too. And a train wreck.](if: $cassettechoice is "travel")[ But you can't. Your memories can't be altered, nor can the past. It's gone, just like Joseph Peabody.] Beside you, Libby pulls out another cassette. Breaks it open with a rock of her own. Starts unreeling the tape from within. "I worked at a movie theater once," she says. "I ran the projectors sometimes. They had reels of tape like this." She smiles. "I used to stand up there in the booth and watch the movies from above, feeling like the Phantom of the Opera. It was the best part of the job." "Did you get free popcorn?" you ask, grateful for the distraction. "Yep! One time on my off day I just went in there, ordered a large popcorn, and left. No movie, just the popcorn." You give her a weird look. And then suddenly you're both laughing so hard tears form at the corners of your eyes. "Popcorn is the best!" you gasp, once you can speak again. She licks her lips. "Mmm, yeah." You smile, looking down at the broken cassette tapes. You feel a bit better now. Libby puts the other cassettes away. You both turn your attention to the [[remaining items->assortment of items]].

(set: $lightbulbq to "dead")(goto: "End Lightbulbs")

(set: $lightbulbq to "hurt")(goto: "End Lightbulbs")

(set: $lightbulbq to "where")(goto: "End Lightbulbs")

(set: $lightbulbq to "jb")(goto: "End Lightbulbs")

Down, down, down. Time seems to slow. There's something so serene about watching the framed photograph sail through the air. It brings you an odd sort of peace. Like you threw your anger and sorrow away when you threw the photograph. And then... //Crack!// The photograph hits the street below. Glass shatters into pieces on the tar. The sound is like a clear, piercing note from a crystal bell. Pure. Sweet. Final. You stare down at the shards twinkling in the street. Fragments of a life that's gone, which will be ground to dust by tire treads in the morning. A strange combination of satisfaction and restlessness overwhelms you. "That was cool," Libby says. You turn to her and smile. "It was. Thanks, Libby." Libby winks. [["We're not done yet."->Drive to Rest Stop]]

(set: $wabi to "yes")(go-to: "Break Bowls")

(set: $wabi to "no")(go-to: "Break Bowls")

(if: $wabi is "yes")[You run your finger along a crack in one of the bowls. "Our brokenness makes us more sympathetic. More human. We become compassionate toward others once we've been broken, because we come to realize that everyone else has cracks of their own. Scars they don't always show. Faults that make it harder for them to navigate the world." You turn the bowl in your hands. "But those scars help us grow. They are our teachers." Tears well up in Libby's eyes. She brushes them away and then acts like they were never there. She looks off into the forest. "You think so?" You tap her on the shoulder. When she meets your eyes, you smile reassuringly. "I know so."](else:)["I disagree with the //wabi-sabi// ideal. Our flaws make us uglier. We must compensate for them or overcome them, not blindly embrace them. We have to strive constantly to improve ourselves." Libby shakes her head and frowns. "But wouldn't you rather have someone love you as you are than nag you constantly about your flaws and how to improve them?" You flinch, hearing David's voice in your head. //"I liked your hair better when it was longer."// //"You should go to the gym more. You need to lose weight."// //"You're too damn reckless. It drives me crazy."// And now you hear some of the words you fired back at him. //"You're obsessed with that job. You never make time for me anymore."// //"Stop wasting our money on your stupid craft beers."// //"Don't be such a whiner. The world doesn't revolve around ''you.''"// You blink rapidly, noticing a hand waving back and forth in front of your face. "Hey," Libby says. "You all right? Did I say something dumb?" You shake your head. "No, you didn't." David did. You did. Everyone does, constantly. Always saying the wrong things, making the same mistakes. You wish you could sweep a paintbrush over humanity and make people better. Kinder. Less likely to say hurtful things to the people they're supposed to love. "Humans are sick," you tell Libby. "We have to cure ourselves. It's our biggest responsibility."] Libby shakes herself like a wet dog. "We're getting too philosophical here. Hurry up and smash some shit." "Fine. But you //did// ask." Libby hands you the baseball bat. You accept it and study the first bowl. It is purple and pink, lumpy, misshapen. "Stand back," you warn Libby. She steps away. Taking a deep breath, you toss the bowl straight up in the air and then swing the bat as hard as you can. The bowl cracks into ceramic pieces that fall to the grass. The impact travels up your arms. You clench the bat so tightly you feel like your hands will merge with the ringing, vibrating metal. You pick up another bowl, toss it, smash the bat into it. Then the next. And the next. (if: $wabi is "yes")[The bowls become more beautiful as they are broken, like a mosaic of mysterious colors scattered across the ground. As different and beautiful as people and the unique scars that make them who they are.](if: $wabi is "no")[You let all your anger at your conflict-fraught relationship with David out with each aggressive swing, trying to seal old wounds by creating new ones. But it's too late to fix the flaws in that relationship. The gulf between you grew too wide.] Before long, there are no bowls left. You turn your attention to the [[remaining items->assortment of items]].

//Like the wine David brought to that picnic,// you think to yourself. Libby nods. "You're not the only one. It's pretty popular." She makes a face. "I have some French cousins on my dad's side who love the stuff. Every time we go to their house, they offer us wine. I always take some out of respect, but I never enjoy it." You bite your lip thoughtfully. "I wonder how much better the world would be if we abandoned social niceties in favor of blunt honesty about what we like and dislike." Her brow furrows. "Are you sure that would be a good thing? Wouldn't people be a lot meaner to each other if they didn't have those filters?" You fold your arms. "Not necessarily. They'd just be a lot less fake around each other. They wouldn't have to endure severe pain and discomfort just to please others over things that don't really matter. And they wouldn't make other people do that for them." You sigh. "I think it's harder and harder as we get older to just be truthful about how we feel. Society trains us to shove our feelings aside, to shut up and be nice even if we hate what's going on around us." You frown, staring toward the remaining wineglass. "I think that's why people love to drink so much. Because when they drink they're finally able to speak their minds." "You sound like you're familiar with that," she says quietly. You sigh. "Maybe a little." She looks toward the wineglass too. "I don't drink much," she admits. "My dad's an alcoholic. He doesn't exactly make that lack of filters look appealing." You wince. "Oh. Right. I'm really sorry, Lib." She exhales softly, fidgeting with her lighter. "It's whatever." After handing you the slingshot, she stands back and lights a cigarette, watching you through the smoke as you pick up a rock. Taking a deep breath, you load the slingshot and [[take aim]].

Libby blinks at you in surprise. "Oh?" "Yeah. Well, I was." You look down. "I didn't like beer at first. David got me into it." "Ah. It's an acquired taste, or so I've heard." You gaze up at her. "You haven't had it?" She shakes her head. "I figured if it was probably something I wasn't going to like the first time, I didn't want to keep drinking it until it eventually tasted good. Guess I just didn't see the point." "That's fair." You scuff the dirt underfoot with your shoe. "I kinda felt the same way. I had it once years before I met David and it was awful, and I didn't want to try it again. But David persuaded me to drink it." You sigh wistfully. "It was sort of a hobby of his. Visiting all these hipster microbreweries." She makes a face. "If you didn't like beer right away, that must have not been all that fun for you." You shrug. "Like you said, it's an acquired taste. I got used to it, and I even came to like it. In fact, I got pretty familiar with all kinds of beers. All the different lagers and ales, the subtle variations in the taste of the same type of beer from two different breweries. I got a sense of what makes a quality beer and what doesn't." You smile wryly. "Besides, in the end, drunk is drunk. And beer's pretty good at getting you drunk." Libby looks away. "I don't drink too much. My dad's an alcoholic, in case you forgot." You wince. "Oh. Right. I'm sorry, Lib." She exhales softly, fidgeting with her lighter. "It's whatever." Handing you the slingshot, she takes a few steps back and lights a cigarette, watching you as you pick up a rock. "Was it worth it?" she asks quietly. You turn toward her. "Hmm?" She frowns, blowing a thin trail of smoke. "Getting used to beer for David's sake. Even though initially you disliked it." "Hmm." You stroke your chin. "I'm not sure. On the one hand, I felt like I was trying to force myself into liking something I didn't naturally enjoy, or being someone I was not. So that was uncomfortable. On the other, when a relationship encourages you to try new things you otherwise wouldn't, that can also be a very positive experience, because it helps you discover things about yourself and the world that you would never have found out otherwise." You glance at the wineglass and then turn back to Libby. "So, uh, I don't know how to answer that question." She nods. "Gotcha. I understand." Taking a deep breath, you load the slingshot and [[take aim]].

Libby smirks. "Remember when we bobbed for apples junior year?" You groan. "Oh God. You're never gonna let that go, are you?" "Never!" she says gleefully. "It was awesome! You spat that worm right at Ricky's face!" You blush. "That's not what I think about when I drink cider." You sigh and kick the dirt. "I ruined my chances of being a cool kid completely that day." "Oh hon. Don't worry. You had no chances to ruin in the first place." You elbow her. "Hey! Watch it!" She laughs. "At least //I// thought it was cool when you did that. I hated that guy." You frown. "I had a huge crush on him!" Her brow furrows. "Oh. Right. You always had a thing for the bad boys." Her words feel like a slap in the face. "I thought he was funny," you mumble. "And smart." She rolls her eyes. "Well, you never overheard his locker room talk with his football friends. And he never pulled your hair and called you a dyke." Your eyes widen. "Wait, //what?// He did that to you?! Why didn't you tell me?!" She shrugs. "I never liked to let on when people bullied me. I didn't want to show any weakness." "I will go back in time and spit that worm at him again! I will dunk his head into that bucket of saliva-water! I will bite his ugly nose off!" She holds up her free hand. "Whoa, calm down! It's history. He can't hurt me now. He's off somewhere flipping burgers and making babies. Hopefully they won't grow up to be bullies like him." "Bleh. The thought of him begetting progeny is disgusting." She raises an eyebrow. "So much for Mr. Funny and Smart." You laugh awkwardly. "I'll remember that apple incident with pride from now on." Handing you the slingshot and a rock, Libby takes a few steps back, watching you. Taking a deep breath, you load the slingshot and [[take aim]].

"I do like that one brand of vodka," Libby muses. "But mostly because it has a bat on it." "Bats are pretty great." "Yeah! Such cuties!" "Mm-hmm!" "Tequila tastes like worm piss, though." She grimaces. "Hey!" You frown. "Tequila is delicious." She shakes her head. "Only when you drown it under a shit ton of juice and sugar and salt and lime." "Hmm." You gaze thoughtfully toward the remaining wineglass. "In college I met this girl from South Texas. She said over there, they make margaritas with chili powder on the rim of the glass. Not salt." Libby licks her lips. "Okay, not gonna lie. That sounds really fucking good." "She said it is. I've never been, though, so I wouldn't know." You shrug. Handing you the slingshot and a rock, Libby takes a few steps back, watching you. Taking a deep breath, you load the slingshot and [[take aim]].

"Ha! Really? That's weird." She looks at you curiously. "I never saw you drink it in high school." You grin sheepishly. "I came to see its usefulness in college. As a wakefulness aid. Besides, working as a barista, and being around those delicious smells all day..." You sigh wistfully. "How could I resist?" She smirks. "I guess some of us are late bloomers. I was drinking it back then, and you started years later." You shrug. "I finally realized it's just one of those gross things adults have to do. Like sex." Libby's eyes twinkle. She lowers her voice. "So if you put enough cream and sugar in, it goes down better?" You smack her arm. "Oh, grow up." Laughing, she hands you the slingshot and a rock and takes a few steps back. Taking a deep breath, you load the slingshot and [[take aim]].

"It calms me down," you explain. "A warm cup of tea before bed, a good book..." Libby sticks her tongue out at you and then chuckles. "Wow. Still in your twenties and you already sound like a retired old lady." "Shut up." You smack her arm. "I gotta take my relaxation where I can get it. I don't give a damn what you think." She bites down more laughter. "Okay, okay. It's cool. You do you." You glare at her. "Lots of people like tea. From all ages and backgrounds." She rolls her eyes. "Yeah, but they don't talk about it like you do. Like drinking tea and reading before bed is the one thing you have to look forward to." Your face falls. You sigh. "Maybe it is." You're both silent for a moment. Then she hands you the slingshot and a rock. "Here," she says. "Have at it." You nod. She takes a few steps back, watching you. Taking a deep breath, you load the slingshot and [[take aim]].

Libby narrows her eyes. "That's the blandest thing I've ever heard." You shrug. "I like things plain and simple." Libby sticks out her tongue. "Plain and simple is the worst." You shove her playfully. "You're the worst!" Libby shoves you back. It feels good when you and Libby tease each other like this. It takes you back to high school, when you didn't have to worry about the things you do now. Bills. Depression. The man you almost married sleeping around behind your back. Libby hands you the slingshot. Your grip on it tightens. Hard. Like a clenched fist. Like if David were in front of you you'd... "Hey. Focus." Libby hands you a rock. It seems like she could tell your thoughts were somewhere else. She probably has a good idea of where. You relax your grip. Then you load the slingshot and [[take aim]].

"Indestructible, huh?" Libby snorts. "If you can just snap it in half, that isn't the case." "Okay, okay. I exaggerated." You look thoughtfully at the phone, thinking about how some seemingly solid things can break so easily. [[Your relationship with David, gone in a heartbeat.]] [[Your faith in God, swept away by the wind.]] [[Your strong, constant father, lost to cancer.]]

"If I throw it hard enough, multiple times, that'll break it. For sure." Libby nods. "Okay. But let's make it quick. In case anyone shows up." You raise an eyebrow. "Do you think that'll happen?" She laughs. "No. But you never know." "This is my party, dude. We'll take all the time we need." She holds up her hands in surrender. "Fine, fine. But if we run into anyone weird..." She puts the tip of her index finger to her lip and sucks it thoughtfully. Removing it, she continues, "On second thought, that would be great. Weird people are the only ones worth knowing." "Case in point: us." "Mm-hmm. Let's go." You head down the rise to the rest stop with Libby, carrying the cell phone. Some faded interpretive signs and maps illustrate attractions in the area. The restrooms, probably meant to look eye-catching and modern, resemble stacks of wadded gum. A vending machine glows like a jukebox from the shadows untouched by the winking light of the lampposts. You step to the center of the cement walkway with the cell phone. Libby leans against a wall and smokes a cigarette, watching you. Reeling back your arm like a pitcher, you throw the phone at the pavement as hard as you can. //Crack!// With that satisfying sound, the phone bounces and skids across the cement, leaving a few digital crumbs in its wake. Your heart flutters, and you can't help but grin. "This reminds me of something!" you tell Libby. She blows a thin trail of smoke. "Of what?" "Well...it's kinda weird?" "Try me." "Okay. It reminds me of an animal." She looks confused. "Say what?" [["Otters."]] [["Bats."]] [["Coyotes."]]

"Neolithic," Libby remarks. "But effective." You grin, showing your teeth. "There's no better stress reliever than smashing something with a rock." She grins back. "Don't I know it." Her joy turns swiftly to rage, like a hawk wheeling sharply in the sky. "I wish you could smash David's face with a rock." Your face falls. Your hand shakes violently, still clenching the flip phone. All the texts he sent that were lies. All the texts he sent to //her// behind your back. All the times you waited for a call that never came. All the times you called and he didn't pick up. All the miscommunications, the crossed signals, omissions and deletions and hidden signs. The evolution of technology has made it easier than ever for people to communicate. It has also made it easier than ever for people to miscommunicate. To mask their true feelings, or to accidentally say the wrong thing. Emojis are imperfect tools for conveying the complex nuances of human emotion. But so are words. So, even, are facial expressions. All the tools used in human communication are imperfect. And they always will be. Because //people// are imperfect. As a result, you can never truly know another's mind. How does this thought make you feel? [[Happy. It would be boring if we immediately knew everything going on in other people's heads. The experience of getting to know someone is half the fun.]] [[Lonely. We are all, ultimately, isolated from one another.]] [[Angry. People are always hiding things from me.]] [[Scared. How can I ever know if people really mean what they say? How can I ever know if people correctly interpret the things I say to them?]]

(set: $phonefeeling to "nostalgic")(goto: "End Phone Rock Smash")

(set: $phonefeeling to "angry")(goto: "End Phone Rock Smash")

(set: $phonefeeling to "scared")(goto: "End Phone Rock Smash")

(if: $itemchoices is 0)[Libby shrugs. "You wouldn't believe the stuff people on the Internet are willing to give away. Thrift stores are good, too." Despite her nonchalant tone, her smile tells you she appreciates your compliment. "I only have time to wreck maybe three kinds of things before I should head home," she continues. "I still have to go to work tomorrow." She checks the time on her phone. "Er, today." Her eyes gleam. "Where should we start?" [["The CDs."]] [["The phone."]] [["The lightbulbs."]] [["The cassette tapes."]] [["The bowls."]] [["The TV."]] [["The vase."]] [["The necklaces."]] [["The records."]] [["The wineglasses."]] [["Whatever's in that backpack."]]](else-if: $itemchoices is 1)["Well, that was fun," Libby says. "What's next?" (if: $cds is "no")[ [["The CDs."]]] (if: $phone is "no")[ [["The phone."]]] (if: $lightbulbs is "no")[ [["The lightbulbs."]]] (if: $tapes is "no")[ [["The cassette tapes."]]] (if: $bowls is "no")[ [["The bowls."]]] (if: $tv is "no")[ [["The TV."]]] (if: $vase is "no")[ [["The vase."]]] (if: $necklaces is "no")[ [["The necklaces."]]] (if: $records is "no")[ [["The records."]]] (if: $wineglasses is "no")[ [["The wineglasses."]]] (if: $backpack is "no")[ [["Whatever's in that backpack."]]]](else-if: $itemchoices is 2)["Cool," Libby says. "Good times. This has been great. I hope it's taken your mind off things." You pout. "What's with the closing statement? You said we could break //three// kinds of things! We're not done yet! We have one more act of destruction left!" She holds up her hands in a placating gesture. "Chillax, girl. I wasn't going to deny you your last hoorah." She surveys the remaining items. "What will it be?" (if: $cds is "no")[ [["The CDs."]]] (if: $phone is "no")[ [["The phone."]]] (if: $lightbulbs is "no")[ [["The lightbulbs."]]] (if: $tapes is "no")[ [["The cassette tapes."]]] (if: $bowls is "no")[ [["The bowls."]]] (if: $tv is "no")[ [["The TV."]]] (if: $vase is "no")[ [["The vase."]]] (if: $necklaces is "no")[ [["The necklaces."]]] (if: $records is "no")[ [["The records."]]] (if: $wineglasses is "no")[ [["The wineglasses."]]] (if: $backpack is "no")[ [["Whatever's in that backpack."]]]](else:)[There are still some destructible items left. But after a quick stretch, Libby starts to pack them back into the boxes. "That's it for now, I'm afraid. I have work in a few hours, and I need to get some sleep." She smiles softly. "But I had fun tonight. I hope you did, too." You bend down to help her put stuff away. "I did." "We should hang out more," she says. "It's been so long. I've missed you." You feel a pang of guilt. While you were with David, you let a lot of friendships fall by the wayside. Your relationship was all-consuming and destructive, like a wildfire. And now it's dead, leaving nothing but scorched ground behind. Libby takes you back to your apartment and heads home. (if: $breakpic is "no")[You glance at the photo on the coffee table in the living room. Do you put it away? [[Yes.]] [[No.]]](else:)[You [[head to bed.]]]]

(set: $effect to (text-style: "italic") + (transition: "dissolve"))$effect[ [[The following night]]]

You're alone in the kitchen of your apartment, cutting onions. You're making a lasagna for dinner. David never liked your cooking, for a valid reason: you've never been very good at it. You're a bit clumsy. Like a self-fulfilling prophecy, your finger slips. You suck in a breath between your teeth as the knife slices your thumb. You stare at the (color: red)[blood] leaking onto the cutting board. The cut stings. But somehow, you have a hard time processing what just happened. As if you were in another world entirely, and the pain brought you back to reality. Pulled you out of the thick fog in your brain. Made everything crystal-clear again. You //liked// it. That frightens you. You tremble, staring at your thumb. Your gaze wanders to the knife on the counter. "No," you say aloud. "No no //no!//" What you are thinking is wrong. But you want it. Your eyes dart about, desperate for a distraction. Your phone sits on the kitchen table. Libby's working tonight, but she said you could call if you needed anything. "I don't need anything," you mutter. "I cut my thumb. Big deal." You laugh, but the laugh shakes like a tree in a storm. The sound of your own voice scares you. [[Call Libby.]] [[Go to the bathroom to get a bandage.]] [[Pick up the knife.]]

(set: $songs to "happy")(goto: "End of CDs")

(set: $songs to "sad")(goto: "End of CDs")

(if: $songs is "happy")[Libby smiles softly. "You just implied that those are few and far between." You shrug. "Okay, maybe I lied. Maybe I'm seeing things through the lens of my shitty breakup." You wince, but then your smile returns. "There are plenty of peppy pop songs, about dancing and being young and alive and such. And all those sappy love songs about fairy tale romance and happy endings. I kinda hate to admit it, but...](else:)[Libby looks thoughtful. "It would seem counterintuitive on the surface. But it makes sense." You nod. "When I'm sad and I hear a sad song, it's like a friend is beside me, holding me while I cry. Sharing the burden of my pain. But without me having to actually burden anyone else." "A private pity party." The words would sound like a cruel joke if spoken with a different tone of voice. But Libby's tone is somber, and her voice is quiet. Her eyes shine wetly in the light spilling over from the rest stop. "You don't have to suffer alone, you know. It's okay to reach out to actual people when you're sad. That's why I'm here." "I know." You smile at her and chuck another CD. "Music can't replace a real person. But there are some sad songs that just strike a chord that resonates with me. ]I like to listen to those. When I'm down, they cheer me up." //Sometimes.// You think that but don't say it. The truth is you're hard to cheer up. But breaking these CDs was doing the trick for a while there. You fling the last few discs against the trees over and over, until they're shattered beyond recognition. From the rise, you and Libby admire your handiwork. The fragments sparkle like crystals on the forest floor. There's something oddly magical about it. "Musician voodoo." Libby flashes you a grin. You burst out laughing. It feels foreign but nice. "Musician voodoo," you agree. [["All the way."->assortment of items]]

You pick up the phone, but then you hesitate. Do you really need to call her? You hate yourself for feeling like it. A mature, responsible, //sane// adult doesn't have to call up her friend and make said friend leave work early just because she cut her thumb. Putting down the phone, you stare at the cut. The sting of it soothes you. A deep, wild longing tugs at your heart. You glance at the knife. It sits on the counter, waiting for you. [[Go to the bathroom to get a bandage.]] [[Pick up the knife.]] [[Call Libby. NOW!->Phone Convo Libby]]

You hurry to the bathroom, eager to leave the kitchen. Getting a bandage for the cut is clearly the rational thing to do. You are a rational person. Your brain isn't broken. You're fine. //You're fine.// In the bathroom, you get sidetracked by the face in the mirror. It's a blemished face. An ugly face. No one could ever love a face like this. The sink drips. You notice your razor lying on the counter. [[Get the salve and a bandage.]] [[Pick up the razor.]] [[Go call Libby. NOW!->Phone Convo Libby]]

You think of all the broken things. How breaking them helped you feel better. You think of Libby. How much she cares about you. How upset she would be if she saw you right now. Your hand is shaking terribly. But suddenly, a cold determination washes through you, hard and uncompromising as steel. As you bring the knife down, one thought fills your head. //[[This is what I deserve.]]//

You think of all the broken things. How breaking them helped you feel better. You think of Libby. How much she cares about you. How upset she would be if she saw you right now. Your hand is shaking terribly. But suddenly, a cold determination washes through you, hard and uncompromising as steel. As you bring the razor down, one thought fills your head. //[[This is what I deserve.]]//

(set: $phonememory to "David")(goto: "End Phone Snap")

(set: $phonememory to "God")(goto: "End Phone Snap")

(set: $phonememory to "Dad")(goto: "End Phone Snap")

(if: $phonememory is "David")[You thought things were going great for you and David. That no power on Earth could keep you apart. It seemed like your relationship was solid, a fact as immutable as gravity. You felt sure that the two of you would be happy forever. And then you found the photos on his phone. The texts to a number you didn't recognize. Memorabilia from the life he was living without you, stashed in a corner of the closet. And just like that, your "strong" relationship was gone.](elseif: $phonememory is "God")[As a child, you were very devout. You always said your nightly prayers. You loved going to church. You believed with all your heart that God was watching over you and all His people and creatures. You trusted in a mysterious power greater than your own, and this filled you with awe and wonder and peace. And purpose. Then you grew up and found out what the world was really like. That no matter how often you called, there was no one on the other end of the line. You wish you could still believe in a loving God. That there really is a Someone watching over you. That there's meaning to the madness of the universe. But you can't.](else:)[Your father was your rock. Your world. A shoulder to cry on. A man to rely on. He raised you with patience and wisdom. Through your every joy and sorrow, your every victory and disappointment, he supported you with his strength and love, time and time again. No matter what, he was always there. And then, one day, he was gone. He fought the cancer with everything he had. But he lost. //Too soon//, everyone said. //A life cut short in its prime. Such a pity.// But then the world kept spinning. People moved on, acted as if he had never existed. A clean break. It infuriates you.] "You okay?" Libby asks, her brow furrowed in concern. "Yeah," you reply, more angrily than you intended. "Sure. Of course." Gritting your teeth, you bend the two halves of the flip phone backwards. //Snap.// The phone breaks. The two pieces drop to the ground. Like (if: $phonememory is "David")[former lovers, losing each other forever](elseif: $phonememory is "God")[a teenager falling away from the convictions that once carried her](else:)[a father and daughter saying their last goodbye]. You pick them up and throw them into the woods. Suddenly, you feel like a weight has been lifted from your chest. Despite yourself, you laugh. "After all these years, we're still just high-schoolers," you remark. "Still doing the same stupid shit." Libby shrugs. "Gotta entertain ourselves somehow. Pretending flip phones are starship communicators won't cut it these days." You both laugh. For a moment, you think not about the darkness of the past, but the brightness of future stars. Eventually, you turn your attention to the [[remaining items->assortment of items]].

You pull out the salve and a bandage from a drawer. With a trembling hand, you turn on the sink and rinse the cut with soap and water. Next you apply the salve and the bandage to your thumb. You breathe a shuddering sigh of relief. Then you sink to the cold tile floor and cry. You sit there for what feels like centuries, hugging your knees. Afraid to get up. Afraid to move. Afraid of your thoughts, and what they might do to you. And then you hear the doorbell. Then, after a minute or two, your front door opening. Boots clomp through your apartment. "Hey! I got out early. Where are you?" Footsteps. "Something's burning. I'm turning off the stove!" More footsteps. Then Libby's face pops around the corner. Her eyes widen and her jaw drops when she sees you. "Oh my God! What happened?" You shake your head and continue to cry. She kneels on the tiles beside you. "I'm scared, Libby." "Don't worry. I'm here. It's going to be okay." She puts an arm around you and helps you to your feet. With a hand on your back, she guides you to the couch. You collapse onto it like a rag doll, shaking. She sits beside you. "Tell me what happened." After wiping your tearstained cheeks, you gesture at your bandaged thumb. "I cut myself. By accident." Pulling a tissue from your tissue box, she reaches out and dabs a fresh wave of tears from your face. "Oh. Is that all?" You shiver. "No." Her eyes are wet too. "I didn't think so." The truth flows out of you like tears. Your unexpected reaction to the pain. Your yearning for more. Your thoughts about the knife, and the razor, and yourself. You and Libby cry together until your tears run dry. "I...I miss him," you sob. "I loved him and he just...just..." "Shh," Libby murmurs, her fingertips brushing your cheek. "I'm a basket case," you whimper. "I don't deserve love." "Don't say that." She lifts your chin and looks into your eyes. "There's so much to love about you. You're funny and smart and brave and strong and really cool to talk to. You're //so// special and if he couldn't see that, if he thought you were replaceable, that's his own goddamn loss." You shake your head. You can't stop trembling. "I'm broken, Libby. Damaged. Messed-up." "We all are, in our own ways. But you're beautiful, and unique, and //important//," she says firmly. "You're just going through a really hard time right now. You'll get through it. I know you will. I believe in you. And you are not alone." Suddenly, she pulls you into a hug. You blink rapidly in surprise. "I thought you hate hugs." She laughs shakily, but doesn't let go. You hug her back. For a moment, one shining moment, you feel whole again. ''~The End~'' --- Refresh the page in your browser to replay the game.

(if: $phonefeeling is "nostalgic")[You enjoy the sense of adventure and discovery that comes from learning new things about another person. You don't mind letting a relationship unfold gradually over time, or the fact that some things about other people will always remain mysterious to you. In fact, you consider this part of the joy of relationships. If human communication were perfect, humans would be more like eusocial insects. A hive mind, thinking and feeling as one organism. You find the thought disturbing and invasive. People have a right to be individuals, to have private experiences they can share or not share with others as they see fit, utilizing their own imperfect modes of communicating about the experiences. You wouldn't want to deprive people of that right. Thinking about all this makes you nostalgic for your first year with David. You enjoyed getting to know each other. You were both so happy back then. You sigh. You shouldn't be nostalgic for those days anymore. You have to move on.](elseif: $phonefeeling is "scared")[The fact that you can never truly know how another person thinks or feels frightens you. When someone tells you they love you, can you ever be sure they mean it? Even if their actions and words support the idea, there's still a chance that it's nothing but an act. Or that their concept of "love" is somehow different from your own. Most of the time, social interactions fill you with dread. You'd rather be alone with the messed-up thoughts in your imperfect brain than out there in the world struggling to express those thoughts to unfathomable people who may or may not understand.](elseif: $phonefeeling is "angry")[The fact that you can never truly know another person's thoughts and feelings beyond the fractured glimpses they choose to share with you makes you mad. People get away with so much because of the loopholes and inaccuracies of human communication. They can decide what to tell you and what to leave out. They weave stories about who they are and what they want, deceiving even themselves. They paint sparkling pictures that do not reflect the grit and grime of their true thoughts. Social media did not create this discrepancy between image and reality. It has merely amplified it. Humans have always prettied themselves up and glossed themselves over, in order to gain status or feel better about themselves. It disgusts you. You used to trust easily, but you've been lied to so many times. By David, and by others. You're more skeptical now. You do your best to read between the lines.](else:)[Even when you try to communicate with others, you know, deep down, that you can never really reach them. You are an island unto yourself, broadcasting distress signals but never certain if you're connecting with other people or just tossing echoes into the void. You are condemned to a life alone in your own head, unable to fully share your experiences with others, even if those experiences involve other people. No one else will ever see your life through your eyes, just the way you saw it. When you die, all those stories will die with you. "Are you all right?" Libby sounds worried. You blink back your tears before turning to face her. You completely forgot she was there. "Yeah," you say shakily, cracking a smile. You have to pretend that you are. But you've been doing that all your life. One more night won't be too bad.] You are pulled out of your ruminations when Libby puts a big rock in your hand. Or maybe it's a broken piece of concrete. It is lumpy, gray, and pretty heavy. The perfect weapon. "Will this do?" she asks. You nod and smile. "Thanks." You set the unfolded flip phone on the ground and take a deep breath. Raising the rock, you smash it down on the phone. The screen cracks. You swing the rock again. You put all your $phonefeeling feelings into this strike, willing them to flow out of you through the force in the rock, liberating you of their power once and for all. Electronic guts spill from the phone. You've beaten it to a pulp. Inexplicably, you feel a bit better. Your $phonefeeling thoughts are gone for now. Instead, you feel a bizarre, juvenile sort of pride. You stand over the phone, holding the rock aloft and breathing heavily. "I am king of the cavemen," you announce. Libby tilts her head. "Don't you mean queen?" "No." Libby nods, accepting this. You both look down at the ruined phone. Then you laugh. You laugh and laugh. It feels strange. [[But oh so good.->assortment of items]]

(set: $phonefeeling to "lonely")(goto: "End Phone Rock Smash")

(set: $animal to "otter")(goto: "End Phone Pavement")

(set: $animal to "bat")(goto: "End Phone Pavement")

(set: $animal to "coyote")(goto: "End Phone Pavement")

(if: $animal is "otter")["Sea otters?" she asks flatly. "Yeah! They break shells open with rocks they put on their..." "Ugh!" She looks torn between wanting to throw up and wanting to punch you. "Sea otters are the worst." "//What?//" Your jaw drops. "Libby, I know you're countercultural and all, but seriously? Who hates //sea otters?!//" "Anyone who knows anything. Sea otters are monsters." Folding your arms, you frown at her. "They're so cute. What are you talking about?" She glares at you. "Bleh! Do I really have to explain this?" You just stare at her, until she sighs, casting her gaze toward the discarded phone. "Fine. Male sea otters are bastards. They bite the females when they mate, lacerating their faces. They hold them down forcibly in the water. Sometimes they even drown them." Bile rises in your throat. "Oh God. Really?" She puffs on her cigarette and nods solemnly. "I won't even tell you what they do to harbor seal pups." You shake your head quickly. "No. Please don't." You sigh. "So much for my love of otters." "Well," she says, her face wreathed in smoke, "they're not special. All animals are bastards. Lions commit infanticide. Dolphins engage in sexual coercion. Et cetera." For the first time tonight, you feel angry at her. "Libby, I didn't invite you over so you could make me feel bad about literally every living thing on Earth. I have enough thoughts like that on my own. You were supposed to cheer me up, not make things worse. I can't handle your emo crap right now!" There's an awkward silence. Libby snuffs out her cigarette, then turns to you. You see that her makeup now has streaks running through it. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. Sometimes I say the stupidest shit. And it really screws things up." You take a deep breath and collect yourself, giving her a reassuring smile. You feel bad for snapping at Libby simply because she said something true. You're probably angrier at the brutality of nature than you are at her. "It's okay, Lib. Don't worry about it." "Animals aren't always bastards, you know. That was an overgeneralization on my part." "Yeah, dude. I know." You bite your lip, resisting the urge to laugh. Sometimes Libby talks to you like you were born yesterday. And sometimes that annoys you. But right now, you find it oddly comforting. She isn't being condescending. Just sort of older-sisterly. Which is funny, since she's only a few months older than you. "Anyway," she says, waving you away. "Get on with the smashing. That phone ain't dead yet." You grin. "Will do."](elseif: $animal is "bat")["I love bats!" she squeals. "Such adorable little night squeakers!" You're a bit stunned at this outburst. Libby rarely gushes over anything. But if anything deserves such enthusiasm, it's bats. "They're the cutest," you agree. "But they get such a bad rap." She pouts. "Yeah! It's so unfair! Vampire bats rarely bite humans. And bats control the world's worst bloodsuckers: mosquitoes!" "Yup yup." She looks over at the discarded phone, then back at you. "So, uh. Why does this make you think of bats?" You pick up the phone. "Because they echolocate. They use echoes of the sound waves they emit to find their way through the dark. And those waves bounce off objects. Just like this phone bounced off the pavement." "This made you think of //that?//" Libby laughs. "I take you out here to smash shit as an empowerment exercise, and you come up with high school biology demos." She sticks out her tongue. "You're such a nerd." "Shut up. Echolocation is cool, and you know it." "Yeah, it is. But so is smashing stuff. And bats can't do that like we can."](else:)[Libby looks even more confused. "Why coyotes?" "Because they're so damn smart," you clarify. "If I could talk to an animal on the phone, it would be a coyote. But it's not just that." You stare into space, remembering. "I saw a graph online one time, a spectrogram. A picture of sound, if you can imagine that. Showing the frequencies of sounds over time." Libby raises an eyebrow. "O...kay...?" "Let me finish." She does. "This spectrogram showed sounds from a pack of coyotes. And they were all over the fucking place. Just bouncing around like a rabbit on drugs. And it looked so cool. And I was like damn, I wish I could sing like that." Libby frowns. "I think you need more sleep." Your eye twitches. "Maybe. But...uh...well, I guess you'd have to have seen it." You sigh. "I probably just liked it because it looked so quirky and interesting compared to the wolf howl spectrogram next to it. The wolf howls were basically flat, horizontal lines. The coyote sounds were mountains and valleys and god-knows-what." Libby smiles. "I think I understand."] You go to the phone and pick it up. (if: $animal is "otter")["I dedicate the annihiliation of this phone to all the victims of bastard animals around the world. May their cruelty be smashed to pieces on the concrete of kindness."](elseif: $animal is "bat")["I dedicate the annihiliation of this phone to repairing the reputation of bats everywhere. May the peoples of the world recognize what adorable night squeakers they are or suffer the wrath of sexy vampires."](else:)["Wooo-woo-woooo-waaahhhoooeeeeyoooo!" you cry, in your best imitation of a deranged coyote yip-howl.] Libby chokes on the smoke of her cigarette. As she sputters, you throw the phone again. And again. (if: $animal is "bat")[It bounces like echoes in the dark.](elseif: $animal is "otter")[Like a sea otter cracking open a mussel on a rock.](else:)[It bounces wildly like a coyote chorus.] Its electronic innards scatter across the sidewalk. Eventually, you've smashed it beyond recognition. A wave of calm washes over you, as if some primal part of you has been satisfied, and you and nature are now at peace with each other. With this thought in mind, you collect the scraps and toss them in a trash can. Then you and Libby return to [[the rise->assortment of items]].

(if: $lightbulbq is "where")["Dumpster," Libby says, matter-of-factly. You wrinkle your nose. "You still dumpster-dive, Libby?" She glares at you. "People throw out all kinds of good shit they shouldn't! It's free stuff, damnit! Don't judge me for my savvy opportunism!" You cringe, shrinking back briefly from her vitriol. "Uh. My bad." But then you recover your spunk, and a smirk spreads across your face. "You //are// a savvy opportunist. A brilliant mastermind. The spirit of the trickster Coyote dwells within you. The rest of us wish we had your sound entrepreneurial sensibilities." She rolls her eyes. "Okay. You can stop." "I'm not done. You are as clever as a magpie and..." "//Stop,//" she growls. You do. "Better," she says. "You do know I found my copy of //Red Cage// in a dumpster, right?" You gape at her. "What?! That game was awesome! Someone threw it away?!" "Yup. So you'd better thank me and my dumpster-diving skills for all those hours of entertainment you got at my house afterschool." You give her a mock-bow. "I stand corrected, sensei. I have seen the error of my ways." "Good," she says smugly. "But what matters is not from whence these lightbulbs came. What matters is that we smash them to pieces now." You nod. "Wiser words hath never been spoken."](elseif: $lightbulbq is "jb")["Because it looks really familiar for some reason." Libby shrugs. "Garage sale." Examining the bat more closely, you see that it has initials carved into it. You look closer: //JB.// "Oh my gosh!" you exclaim. "I knew the kid who owned this bat! Jared Browning. He lived right next door to me!" Libby studies you and the bat from further downhill. "Are you sure? There are a lot of JBs in the world." "I'm sure. He was always carrying this bat around." She bites her lip. "I wonder why." "To be prepared, he said. For the monsters." She laughs. "Smart kid!" You shake your head. "Nah. He was an idiot." She smiles softly. "What's he up to now?" "Oh, he and his family moved to the East Coast years before you moved here. I have no idea where he is now or what he's doing." Her smile fades. "That happens a lot, doesn't it?" she says thoughtfully. "Most people we meet just disappear from our lives. And we never know what happened to them." "Probably doesn't happen as much as it used to. I bet I could look him up on social media if I really wanted to." Libby makes a face. "That would be really weird." "Yeah. 'Hey I know we haven't seen each other in over a decade but I was just thinking of you because my friend bought your childhood baseball bat at a garage sale and I was using it to smash lightbulbs. For...reasons.'" Libby sticks out her tongue, and then she chuckles. "Nope. Not creepy at all."](elseif: $lightbulbq is "dead")["Dead as doorknobs," Libby confirms. "I tested them in a lamp earlier. You worried about the environment all of a sudden?" "Well, yeah. Who isn't? Don't wanna waste good lightbulbs." "The world is dying and so are we." Libby shrugs. "I've kinda stopped stressing about it. Otherwise I'd be an alcoholic like my dad." "Is that why you smoke?" you ask. You flush as you realize how rude and judgmental that sounded, even though you didn't mean it to. You're simply curious. She laughs. "Nah, I smoke because I should know better. So much for freshman health class." She shoots you a wry look. "You know by breaking things here we're polluting the forest, right?" "Yeah." You've actually been worrying about that since you got here. You've seen so much trash strewn beside highways and rest stops. It always bothers you. Under normal circumstances, you wouldn't consider yourself a litterbug. But you're filled to the brim with rage tonight, and you need to release it somehow, and this spot in the forest feels anonymous and safe, and you're with your old friend from high school who always brought out the troublemaker in you. At least no one will come and step in the glass here. You hope. "If it makes you feel better, consider it an offering to the forest gods," Libby says. You stare down at her. "What?" She beams. "The forest gods. When I was little there was this patch of forest at the end of our street. I guess it wasn't really forest, just a lot nobody had bothered to build a strip mall on yet. But it had trees, so we thought of it as a forest. And the kids on the block told rumors that if you left items of value there, under this one really messed-up-looking oak tree, the forest gods would grant you good luck." "Ah. Dirt-worshipping pagans, the lot of you." "Damn straight." You look at her curiously. "What kinds of 'items of value' did you leave there?" She laughs. "I'd leave packs of gum. Fake gems that I filched from the dresses of my sister's dolls. Bobby pins, quarters. Dead roly polies. All kinds of stuff." Rolling her shoulders, she stretches, the box of dead lightbulbs still clenched in one hand. Then she looks back up at you and grins. "But enough about me. Let's get on with the smashing."](else:)["Nah," she says breezily. "I'm far enough below you that when the glass shatters, it won't hurt me." Your brow furrows. "Are you sure?" She shrugs. "Sure. Plus, I'm fast enough to get out of the way." You smirk. "Remember your stint on the track team?" She groans. "Oh God. I wish I could forget." "Your final heroic attempt to get Tracy's attention." "Yeah." Libby sighs deeply. "But she never noticed me. Not the way I wanted." She laughs a little. "I sucked at track. I was fast, but sloppy." "That's what she said." Libby makes a face. "Why are you making one of those jokes? They suck. Worse than Tracy did." You blush. "Sorry." Then you look at Libby curiously. "You weren't out to your parents yet back then, were you?" She shakes her head. "Nope." She laughs sadly. "I was barely even out to myself." Setting the box of lightbulbs briefly on the ground, she bends down to tie the loose shoelaces of one of her boots. "Well, at least your time in track trained you for this moment," you muse. "Not the physical training. I was so undisciplined. But it trained me to understand how selfish people are." She glares into space. "Most people don't pay attention to others. They're lost in their own little worlds. There's no point breaking your heart over people like that. It's a waste of time." She grins viciously at you as she picks up the lightbulbs. "And that memory fires me up to help you break stuff. Let's pretend these lightbulbs are David's balls." You flush. "Uh. Let's not." She chuckles. "My bad. Just thought it might help."] She withdraws a lightbulb from the box. "Ready?" You put yourself into a batter's stance. "Ready!" She tosses a lightbulb up toward you. Rage courses through you like lava, burning you from the inside out. Embracing the scorching heat of it, the way it devours you, you swing the bat as hard as you can. The piercing //crash// of shattering glass fills your head. The shards scatter downward like sharp, glinting snowflakes, falling toward the ground below the rise. The sight of it feeds the fire in your heart. It fills you up with delicious anger, leaving no more room for pain. You crave more. //More!// "Again!" you shout to Libby. She throws. You swing. You dissolve into the rhythm of it: the thudding of your expectant heart as the lightbulb flies toward you, the hard swish of the bat, the //crash// upon impact, the beauty of the twinkling, falling glass. Before long, no lightbulbs remain. Your ravenous rage sizzles out, replaced by a cavernous emptiness. The magic is gone, and you're back in the real world. You stand holding the bat, staring down at broken glass. "What the fuck are we doing with our lives?" you sigh. "What?" Libby asks, returning to your side. You shake your head. "Nothing." [[Nothing. Nothing at all.->assortment of items]]

Libby's right. You can't get over David if his likeness is here in the living room, smiling at you every day. Making you want things you can never have. Picking up the photograph, you take it to your room and stash it in a drawer. Then, feeling a brief, fleeting spark of pride at this accomplishment, you [[head to bed.]]

Despite what you told Libby, you can't bear to put the picture away. Not yet. You're attached to the image. That sunny, fragrant day in the botanical garden. Your sparkling dress. His arm around your shoulders. Your surprised laughter as he planted a kiss on your cheek. Of course, you can't gaze at it for long before your heart shreds to bits. But as much as you hate to admit it, part of you relishes the pain. It's better than feeling nothing at all. With one last, long look at the photograph on the coffee table, you [[head to bed.]]

"That's often why people fall back into abusive relationships," you continue. "They remember the times their partner seemed charming and wonderful and minimize or dismiss the times their partner was abusive." Libby grimaces. "Don't I know it." She rummages in her pocket for a cigarette. "You do that too?" "Yeah. When you miss someone, of course you remember everything you loved about them. Even if they made mistakes and weren't actually the best influence on your life." You stare at the vase in your hands. Despite knowing better, you find yourself drowning in sweet thoughts of David every night. Even though he hurt you badly. Even though he's with another woman. The smoke from Libby's cigarette tickles your nose, bringing you back to the present. "Better get on with it," she says. You nod, examining the elegant floral pattern on the vase. "Are you sure, though, Libby?" When she scowls at you, you hold up a hand to placate her. "I don't mean it like that!" She stiffens. "I mean, this is an antique. You could probably get good money for it." Libby studies the vase, her face ghostly in the light of her cigarette. After a long, wispy inhalation of smoke, she shakes her head. "Nah. It'll serve a better purpose this way." She laughs sadly. "Catharsis for both of us." You trace the rows of flowers with your finger, wondering. Did Libby's grandfather see the good in her grandmother and overlook the bad, at the expense of his daughter's safety? How long did it take Libby's mother to decide that the bad outweighed the good in their relationship, that she needed to get her own family away? Was Libby's mother blinded by love until that day? Blinded by the few good memories, shining brightly against the backdrop of darkness? "Now," Libby croaks, her voice hoarse with smoke. In this moment, you're filled not with your pain, but hers. You take a deep breath, then throw the vase hard at the ground. //Crack!// The vase splinters into shards, the flowers splitting between the fragments. You glance at Libby, who surveys the shards with grim satisfaction. Picking up the biggest pieces, you offer them to her. "Want to help?" Libby stares at the pieces, then turns away. "No. All yours." You chuck the pieces, breaking them even more. You keep doing this until there's nothing left of the vase but microscopic bits of glass, hidden in the grass. When you turn to Libby, you see that she stopped watching a while ago. She's staring into the distance, at a memory you can't see. "It's done, Lib." She turns to you and nods. "Good." You shiver as a cool breeze rasps across the rise. Then you both turn your attention to the [[remaining items->assortment of items]].

"Especially with someone like David," you continue. "Once you've been hurt in a relationship, that pain bleeds into everything else. And then it's hard to remember even the good times without crying." Libby frowns, rummaging in her pocket for a cigarette. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked you that." You rotate the vase in your hands. "It's okay." It isn't, though. Not anymore. The smoke from Libby's cigarette tickles your nose, bringing you back to the present. "Better get on with it," she says. You nod, examining the elegant floral pattern on the vase. "Are you sure, though, Libby?" When she scowls at you, you hold up a hand to placate her. "I don't mean it like that!" She stiffens. "I mean, this is an antique. You could probably get good money for it." Libby studies the vase, her face ghostly in the light of her cigarette. After a long, wispy inhalation of smoke, she shakes her head. "Nah. It'll serve a better purpose this way." She laughs sadly. "Catharsis for both of us." You trace the rows of flowers with your finger, wondering. Were there good qualities in Libby's grandmother that Libby can't recall? Did her grandmother try to make amends at the end of her life? Perhaps she did. Perhaps Libby's mother even forgave her, but Libby could not, too blinded by anger to see that her grandmother had changed. Blinded by the cruelties of the past, which, in her eyes, blotted out any hope of a better future. "Now," Libby croaks, her voice hoarse with smoke. In this moment, you're filled not with your pain, but hers. You take a deep breath, then throw the vase hard at the ground. //Crack!// The vase splinters into shards, the flowers splitting between the fragments. You glance at Libby, who surveys the shards with grim satisfaction. Picking up the biggest pieces, you offer them to her. "Want to help?" Libby stares at the pieces, then turns away. "No. All yours." You chuck the pieces, breaking them even more. You keep doing this until there's nothing left of the vase but microscopic bits of glass, hidden in the grass. When you turn to Libby, you see that she stopped watching a while ago. She's staring into the distance, at a memory you can't see. "It's done, Lib." She turns to you and nods. "Good." You shiver as a cool breeze rasps across the rise. Then you both turn your attention to the [[remaining items->assortment of items]].

"Yeah," Libby agrees. "They're not." Picking up one of the necklaces, she twirls its beads around and around the string like the whirling reels of a slot machine. "I wonder what they //are// into, though." You smile. "I know what they're into. I have a very trendy young niece." Libby grins. "You don't say? What kinds of things does she like?" You say the first thing that pops into your head. [["Boy bands."]] [["Motorcycles."]] [["Interactive fiction games."]]

"Did he?" Libby asks. "I honestly don't know much about him. I was always more of a punk rock girl, as you know." "As I know all too well." You smirk. She laughs awkwardly. "That was a fun concert, wasn't it?" "Hell yeah. Anyway...Mozart." Your smile fades. "Yes, he suffered. He struggled with mental health issues, financial difficulties, and serious illness. He died young, even for his time. He was passionate about his work, certainly, but that passion sometimes bordered on feverish mania." You sigh, staring at the four letter beads. "I wouldn't want to condemn a kid to such a tortured fate." She frowns. "But that wasn't all there was to his life, was it? I'm sure he experienced joy, beauty, love. Just like the rest of us." Your brow furrows. "Yeah. I guess that's true." She looks at you thoughtfully. "Do you think it's possible to be a groundbreaking, world-changing genius and //not// a tortured soul? Can artistry, innovation, and brilliance also come from stable, happy people? Or only the ones who've descended into deep, deep darkness?" You purse your lips, contemplating this. [["Tortured souls create the world's greatest innovations and works of art. Not happy, stable people."]] [["Stable, happy people can be brilliant and change the world. Not just tortured souls."]]

She smiles wryly. "Are you sure this isn't about your taste in boyfriends, not names for kids?" You snort. "Very funny. I just meant that the kid would appreciate the attention the name brings them when they're older." She frowns. "Would they, though? If I were them, I'd rather earn people's attention on my own merits, instead of getting it just because of my name." [["Hmm. Good point. Maybe it's better not to name a kid after someone famous."]] [["Dude, in this day and age, it's so hard to hold anyone's attention that I'm sure a kid would be glad for whatever edge they could get."]]

[[Darkness]]

(set: $kidfamous to "no")(goto: "End Necklaces")

(set: $kidfamous to "yes")(goto: "End Necklaces")

(if: $kidfamous is "yes")[Libby strokes her chin thoughtfully. "Hmm. When you put it that way..." You slide the four letter beads up and down the string. "It's true. Kids already have poor attention spans. And now everybody's attention spans are dwindling even more because of technology. We're exposed to so much information and stimulation every second of our lives. It's hard to be heard above the noise. So if a kid has a name that makes them stand out from the crowd...well, it wouldn't guarantee that they'd get noticed, or that they'd succeed, but it certainly wouldn't hurt them." She nods. "Yeah. I see your point."](elseif: $kidfamous is "no")[Libby nods. "That's what I think. It's better to just let people be themselves." You slide the four letter beads up and down the string. "Yeah. Kids shouldn't have the pressure or the baggage of trying to fill the shoes of some famous person. They need to be free to make their own legacies."](elseif: $niece is "boy")[Libby snorts. "Typical hormonal straight girl tween, hmm?" You laugh. "She's fond of boy bands with cute faces and bad music. That //is// pretty typical, I guess." Libby chuckles. "I wonder if later in life she'll look back on this phase and feel mortified that she was into that trash." You shrug. "Tweens will be tweens. There's no shame in that."](elseif: $niece is "motorcycles")[Libby chuckles. "Motorcycles? Really?" "Yes!" You laugh. "My uncle has a Harley, and she idolizes him. She wants to get her motorcycle permit as soon as she turns fifteen. But she doesn't want to just drive. She wants to do stunts." Libby's eyes widen. "Really?" You nod. "Mm-hmm. She watches all sorts of videos online of stunt riders at fairs and competitions and stuff. She even takes notes on their techniques." Libby beams. "That's pretty cool." You shrug, grinning sheepishly. "We all need a dream."](elseif: $niece is "fiction")[Libby puts a hand on her hip and raises an eyebrow. "Interactive fiction games? What the hell are those?" You stifle a laugh at her sassy reaction. "They're games made of text. Some are based on clicking links to make choices. Some are based on typing words into a field to get the player character to interact with objects or other characters in particular ways. Often the game records variables behind the scenes to remember the player's decisions and generates outcomes based on those decisions." When she just stares at you blankly, you add, "It's sort of like a cross between a game and a book." She smirks. "That sounds incredibly nerdy. Is your niece a geek like you?" You nod, thumping your chest with a fist. "And proud of it."](elseif: $genius is "tortured")["The //I Ching// has a saying," you continue. "It translates roughly to //Chaos births brilliance//. Or something like that." You slide the four letter beads up and down the string. "The people who've descended into deep darkness are the ones who have the most to teach us. Suffering is an unavoidable part of life. And those who have suffered greatly have experienced the very heart of life. Pain creates wisdom, and wisdom creates insight, and insight creates great innovations and great art." You twirl the 'A' bead idly on the string. "No great dream can be achieved without great suffering. No pain, no gain, as a sports coach might say." Libby frowns. "Do you really think that's true?" You smile wanly. "I have to. I have to believe that //something// good comes out of suffering. Otherwise, it would be impossible to endure."](else:)["The idea that only suffering folks can be creative geniuses is a toxic myth," you continue. "It keeps a lot of mentally ill creators from getting help, because they believe they have to suffer for their art. That if their mental illnesses go away, so will their imaginations." Libby shudders. "That's really sick." You nod. "I think stable, happy people often do //better// work than tortured souls. If they're able to find balance and joy in their lives, people are usually more productive and more resilient. They're able to work harder and accomplish more when they aren't tired and downtrodden and struggling to survive." You slide the four letter beads up and down the string. "Very good point." Libby nods. "If people treat their depression, anxiety, and so on, they become freer to be their best selves."] You snap the fragile plastic string, scattering the beads to the ground. "A-M-D-Y" is no more. Next you rip apart a circular zoo, releasing plastic tigers and dolphins and horses into the wild. Then there's a splash of primary colors as you sprinkle red, yellow, and blue beads in the grass like drops of paint. Spheres and diamonds. Trees and flowers. //Snap. Snap. Snap.// Soon enough, you and Libby have broken all the necklaces. Suddenly, you have a flash of inspiration. "Can I see the slingshot?" Grinning, Libby hands it to you. You scoop up a handful of the disbanded beads. Aim. Fire. Aim. Fire. Alphabet soup and a rainbow of beads fly off into the trees like birds. As you watch them go, you smile to yourself. [["Goodbye, Amdy."->assortment of items]]

Text and cover art by (link-repeat: "Amy Clare Fontaine")[(open-url: 'https://amyclarefontaine.com/')] Beta Testers: -Beverly Fontaine -Tom Offer-Westort -Spencer Hills -Michael Dominguez Thank you! [[Return->Startup]]

"Fuck him anyway. You deserve better than his lying ass." Libby still has the gothic taste in apparel that she had when you met her in high school: mid-calf boots, purple-and-black striped tights, a pleated skirt, a black shirt with a blue //ankh// symbol on it, skull-and-crossbones earrings. She doesn't look much older, either; her features remain youthful and fey, and she stands almost a foot shorter than you. Right now, though, you're both sitting, she on your couch, you on your armchair, in the living room of your apartment. You're glad Libby came over. But you can hardly concentrate on what she's saying. Your mind has gone numb. You're staring blankly at the framed photograph of you and David on the wall. A window into that sunny day in the botanical garden, two years ago. Suddenly your view of the picture is blocked. Libby stands in front of you, her arms crossed. "Are you even listening to me?" Libby asks, one eyebrow quirked upwards. (link: '"Yeah, totally. Fuck David. I deserve better."')[(set: $listening to "yes")(goto: "Libby's Idea")] (link: '"Sorry, what?"')[(set: $listening to "no")(goto: "Libby's Idea")]

This game was built with (link-repeat: "Twine")[(open-url: 'http://twinery.org/')] 2's Harlowe 1.2.4 format. The mechanics are simple. Click on the colored hyperlinks in the text to proceed through the story and make choices for the player character. [[Return->Startup]]

(set: $genius to "tortured")(goto: "End Necklaces")

(set: $genius to "happy")(goto: "End Necklaces")

(set: $niece to "boy")(goto: "End Necklaces")

(set: $niece to "motorcycles")(goto: "End Necklaces")

(set: $niece to "fiction")(goto: "End Necklaces")

There's a burst of smoke. You wheeze, your eyes watering. The rim of the record begins to glow, bubble, and crumple like tissue paper as Libby holds the lighter's flame up to it. Still holding the record from the paper label at the bottom, you turn it slowly, so that she can move the lighter along the remainder of its edge. "I've never been to California," she says. "Have you?" "No. But whoever bought these mitts must have been there." You study the oven mitt thoughtfully. "It would be interesting if there was some sort of...like...nostalgic energy around used objects. If the stories of where they'd been and who had owned them sort of clung to them, and they could tell those stories to anyone patient enough to listen." Libby laughs. "And then thrift stores would be full of talking inanimate objects, whispering their stories to each other?" You experimentally pinch and release the tongs in your other hand. "That would be pretty cool, actually." Libby clicks off the lighter, watching as the bubbling record cools and the glow fades. "Very //Toy Story//. I like it." Setting the lighter on the ground, she takes the record with her hand that's in the oven mitt and holds it out towards you. "Now you pull." Clenching the rim of the record with the tongs, you pull. The edge of the record stretches, yielding to your force. You find yourself childishly amazed at the way this once-solid object melts into putty at the implement's touch, like a strange sort of magic. Giggling, you tug on every inch of the rim as Libby turns the record for you, until the record looks like a demented black sun, or some kind of photophobic sea creature. As Libby holds the dilapidated record from its base, you stretch each of its macabre petals out even further, until at last each one snaps like taffy. You grin. "This is very satisfying." Libby grins back. "Sure is." You repeat the process with the other records. You enjoy it immensely. You feel like a sculptor—or perhaps an alchemist, transmuting one work of art into another. When you're done, you both cough hoarsely at the cloud of residual smoke. "I can feel the cancer starting," you croak. Libby shrugs. "Worth it." You nod, still savoring the spark of wonder you felt while shredding the records. Then you turn your attention to the [[remaining items->assortment of items]].

Your first shot misses. You glance at Libby, expecting her to make fun of you, but she doesn't. Instead she's gazing expectantly at the wineglass. You load another rock, squinting down the middle of the slingshot with one eye to align it with the glass, like Libby did. This second shot is closer. The rock sails past the wineglass on the left, just inches from the mark. "That was good! You almost had it!" "Almost isn't good enough," you mutter. But you try again. You do everything you just did, but shift the slingshot a little to the right. //Chiiiink!// The wineglass explodes. You watch as it bursts like a miniature, crystalline firework, scattering glass in every direction. The shards fall to the ground, joining the remnants of Libby's wineglass in the grass. Libby whoops, and you smile. "Wicked," you say, pleased with yourself. "I agree. Nice job!" Libby high-fives you. You give the band of the slingshot one last triumphant flick before tossing the weapon to the ground. Satisfied, you turn your attention to the [[remaining items->assortment of items]].

To your surprise and relief, she answers almost immediately. "Hey. What's up?" You tremble, struggling to keep a stiff upper lip. Your voice quavers. "I...I...I need you, Libby. I hurt myself." She gasps. "What happened?" "I..." Your voice grows bitter. "Nothing. It's stupid. I'm stupid." "You're //not// stupid. Tell me." The truth flows out of you with the tears. "I...I cut myself by accident in the kitchen. But then I wanted to do it on purpose." You picture her shocked expression in the ensuing pause. Though your guilt about worrying her threatens to crush you, the small, strong voice that urged you to reach out to her is grateful that now you're not alone with your thoughts. "You didn't, did you? Please tell me you didn't." "No." You shiver. "But I //really// wanted to. And I still want to. I..." "I'm coming over. I got off work early, so I was actually just on my way to check on you. I'll be there soon. Please, //please// go sit on the couch for me. Okay? Just sit there, and close your eyes, and wait for me." "Okay," you sniff. "Promise me," she says sternly. You take a deep breath to collect yourself, as much as you can under the circumstances. "I will, Libby. I promise." "Good. Be there in a few. I love you, girl. Hang on." She hangs up. Stumbling out to the couch, you sink back against the cushions, covering your face in your hands. Your whole body shudders with sobs. Through the fog you're in, through the sound of your own weeping, you hear boots heading toward your front door. A rustle as someone lifts your welcome mat. A clink as your spare key turns in the lock. Before long, you feel an arm around your shoulders. "Hey." Libby rubs your back. You lift your head and look at her, your vision blurred by tears. "H...Hey, Libby." Your voice is tremulous and raw, sobs still hanging in the back of your throat. "Glad you're here." She stares into your eyes through her own veil of tears. "I'm glad //you're// here. I am so, //so// glad you called me." You nod. And then you start crying again. You and Libby cry together until your tears run dry. "I...I miss him," you sob. "I loved him and he just...just..." "Shh," Libby murmurs, her fingertips brushing your cheek. "I'm a basket case," you whimper. "I don't deserve love." "Don't say that." She lifts your chin and looks into your eyes. "There's so much to love about you. You're funny and smart and brave and strong and really cool to talk to. You're //so// special and if he couldn't see that, if he thought you were replaceable, that's his own goddamn loss." You shake your head. You can't stop trembling. "I'm broken, Libby. Damaged. Messed-up." "We all are, in our own ways. But you're beautiful, and unique, and //important//," she says firmly. "You're just going through a really hard time right now. You'll get through it. I know you will. I believe in you. And you are not alone." Suddenly, she pulls you into a hug. You blink rapidly in surprise. "I thought you hate hugs." She laughs shakily, but doesn't let go. You hug her back. For a moment, one shining moment, you feel whole again. ''~The End~'' --- Refresh the page in your browser to replay the game.

[[Moving]]

[[Lying]]

[[Pain]]

[[PAIN!]]

[[Siren]]

[[Voices]]

[[Light]]

[[Dark]]

[[LIGHT.]]

[[Eyes open.]]

"It's all my fault. It's all my fault." A sliver of light trickles through your half-open eyelids. Blinking them open more fully, you catch a bleary glimpse of a familiar face looking down at you, streaked with tears. A hand strokes your hair. A vehicle bumps and glides beneath the gurney you're lying on, moving quickly. A siren wails. A whisper: "Oh my God, you're awake!" You cry out. Your arms burn like hellfire. When you lift your chin weakly and look toward them, bile rises in your throat, and the memories come flooding back. A shudder runs through you, a toxic stew of agony and revulsion and guilt. An anguished sob escapes your lips. Laying your head back down, you close your eyes. "It's all my fault. I'm a bad influence. Always have been. If I hadn't...convinced you to break..." Your eyes flutter open again. "Libby?" you rasp. Her eyes widen. She leans toward you. "Yes?" she whispers, through the tears. You smile faintly, reaching up to stroke her cheek. "Shut up." She lets out a noise between a sob and a laugh. Sinking down onto the gurney, you slide back into [[darkness]].

[[beeping]]

Tearstained faces surround you. Your mother. Your father. Your brother. Libby. Looking down at where you lie, stricken, overcome by grief and shock. You feel lightheaded, barely here. Are you a ghost, attending your own funeral? You must be. Sorrow settles over you. You only wanted comfort from the pain. You didn't mean to push it that far. To cut that deep. You fervently wish you could go back and undo what happened. At the time, you felt certain that you deserved to suffer. But seeing your family and Libby in such agony over you, you realize that you never wanted //them// to suffer. And none of them would have told you that you should hurt yourself. They would have told you that you deserve [[love]].

[[chemical smells]]

[[mattress]]

[[Hushed, murmuring voices.]]

You [[open your eyes]].

They would have told you that you deserve [[happiness]].

They would have told you that you deserve [[to live]].

You gasp at the pain in your arms, propping yourself up on your elbows in your bed. Past the familiar people gathered around you, the bright, sterile whiteness of the room you're in comes into focus. A hospital room. You're hurt. You're broken. But you're alive. You're alive! You hear sighs of relief from all sides. Your mother, in the chair to your left, gently strokes your hair. You reach out and clasp her hand. "I'm sorry, Mom," you whisper. "I'm so sorry." She kisses your fingers. "Hush, little one. You're safe now. I'm here." You smile weakly, then gaze at the gauze wrapped around your arms. Your wrists still hurt like hell, but you know the pain will fade in time. Wounds heal. Tears dry. Joy returns. Life goes on. At times, you've felt like the world has tried its best to break you. But seeing your family and Libby gathered around you, you realize that it never will. Because this world that's rife with heartbreak is also full of hope. Light in the darkness. Love to fight the hurt and the hate. With your free hand, you beckon Libby closer. Reluctantly, your mother scoots her chair aside as Libby takes her place beside you. Libby beams at you, clearly overwhelmed by relief that you're on the mend. "Hey. What's up, girl?" You grin. "Hey. I wanted to ask you. When I get out of here, can we break stuff again?" ''~The End~'' --- Refresh the page in your browser to replay the game.

You hack away at Carly Caramel's plastic fingers with your pocket knife. It feels a bit like trying to saw through a piece of lumber with a dull machete. Nonetheless, you persist, determined to scandalize this factory-made representation of a children's cartoon character. To add spice to her vanilla personality by giving her some sass. At last, the fingers you have chosen snap off like gingerbread, leaving only two fingers behind, one on each hand. You hold up the newly deformed doll, angling its fingers just right. "Hey, Libby. This is what I'd say to David if he was here." Libby looks up from grinding a doll into the dirt with her boot. When she sees what you've done, she bursts out laughing. "My God," she breathes. "That's brilliant." You strategically remove the same fingers from half the remaining dolls, while Libby destroys the rest. Then you turn your attention to the [[remaining items->assortment of items]].