Sir-leoondrawsalot - Hello Travellers!

The Confessional Booth

or: There's something not quite right with the rookie. No one is willing to bring it up.

Wow, look at me, working my way through my inbox. I've honestly lost a lot of confidence in my writing but this was fun. The next two weeks I'll only be posting smut.. so, yeah, send in ur requests luvs

,,,maybe This Request Is Weird But I’m A Sucker For Vague Horror Stuff,,, But What If The Rookie Is

"WELCOME BACK, KYLE"

The laptop monitor winks to life, the blue light maps the planes of his face. He does not look at the HAVE YOU BEEN SAVED YET HAVE YOU BEEN SAVED YET HAVE YOU BEEN SAVED YET below.

Kyle doesn't remember what he's writing even as his fingers linger above the keys of the next word. His earphones have long stopped playing music, only white static drifts to his ears.

He bought them yesterday. He doesn't know when yesterday was. He thinks he's lived this day before.

"No casualties encountered.." the document stares at him, the clock in the corner has stopped its solid tick of time. In the corner of his eyes, he sees a single crow linger by the windowsill.

Footsteps sound in the hall outside. The door opens, a hint of malaise and rot fills the room. This is routine.

"Hey, Gaz," they say. Kyle fights the instinct that tells him not to turn around. The Rookie doesn't go inside, face obscured by the harsh fluorescent light overhead the corridor.

"Need somethin', Rookie?" He thinks he sees them grin at him, teeth jagged and laugh wrong in all the way humans aren't. "Got any idea where the Captain is?"

"Think he's out for a smoke," he says, not meeting their eyes. He is the only person in the base with them. The beads of his rosary dig against his palm. Kyle doesn't know to whom he prays to. All he knows is that no one is listening.

(Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee;)

"Alright. Want to go to a pub? Wouldn't do us any good to be rotting down here," they ask him. Kyle ignores the unmarked grave that flashes over his vision. He looks over his shoulder and meets the too-dark gaze of the crow. "Sorry, mate. Need to finish this report."

"Come on, Captain wouldn't mind-"

"Sorry," they pause. "I really have to finish this or Price will have my head," he insists. They stare at him from the doorway, shifting from one leg to the other as if weighing what this lie will cost him.

They can't read minds, he has to echo, he has nothing to fear.

They inch forward and the iron cross of his rosary bleeds a bead of crimson from his palm. Their unseen eyes flicker to his trembling knuckles, then to the window. Their lips pull up into a smile. "Maybe next weekend?"

"Definitely. Sorry for turning you down, mate. Just.. busy." No casualties encountered screeches at him from the screen. They're not-quite-face suck him in. It is a sinkhole of dark decay. Everyday he treads closer to the brink of falling.

"Don't worry, I'll catch you next time." They grin, smile a little too large on their face, voice without any discernible accent. They mean it.

"See you then." He doesn't.

(blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus—)

The door closes and their footsteps echo away. There is still a figure standing behind him, their reflection on the screen of his laptop. Kyle doesn't turn around. He knows better. His mama taught him to never look.

When they are gone, for what feels like hours later, he stands and locks the door. He knows it won't help them from breaking in.

He has followed all the rules. He has nothing to fear. Kyle looks to the clock. It's 3:14.

The crow is no longer by the windowsill. The window latch is closed. He draws the curtains and blinds.

—

The light in John's office flickers, the sky outside is dark. The cicadas are shrilling and singing and he is glad for it. When they stop, a different being roams the corridor.

The Rookie's file reads a long string of [redacted]. The paper holds a reddish stain on the right corner. He tells himself it's spilled ink.

Every week he checks what their name is, every week he forgets. The note in his pocket reminds him to never check more than once every seven days.

There is a roll in-between his fingers. The air is hazy and humid. The smell of tobacco in his nostrils, the taste of smoke on his tongue. John leans against the chair and follows a crow's path above the cornfield.

It lands on the shoulder of a scarecrow. There are footsteps outside the door. The cicadas stop singing.

There is a knock on his door. He pans the CCTV as far right as it goes.

He knows who it is. It is routine.

The crow. The cicadas. The knock.

The Rookie stands there, shadows pooled at their feet. They stare at the camera, unblinking and empty-eyed. John is being watched even if he is the one watching. His breath stops short in his chest.

(Holy Mary, Mother of God,)

There is another knock on the door. It is already dark. He does not answer.

"Captain, can I come in?" they whisper, voice crawling through the cracks of the walls. They almost sound human, but there are no other soldiers who leave their rooms at night. He does not answer.

"Captain, I'm coming in." The door is no longer locked. They step inside, crossing the boundary of the doorway.

This is new. They were never able to enter rooms without permission before.

"Rookie," he speaks through clenched teeth. Their eyes gleam in the dark.

For a second, he thinks they're looking at him.

They are not.

They track a silhouette in the cornfield outside, face bleak and cold. The scarecrow is a little closer than how he remembers.

Shadows spy them as their not-body passes through the room, sticking by the walls. John blinks once and now they are right behind him.

He does not turn around. Their breath is hot against the back of his neck, their hand right over his shoulder.

"Captain, did you see anything tonight?" they ask, feigning a tone that vaguely sounds apologetic. They sound too human.

"No." He hasn't seen anything. Sometimes he forgets that anything outside his office exists.

"Why are you lying?" He does not respond. John's teeth are clattering, his palms clammy. He swallows around a dry mouth.

"Are you afraid?" He doesn't turn around. It doesn't matter that he is. He doesn't flinch, doesn't check if anyone else is awake.

At night, you are alone if they come to your door. He hears a flap of wings.

"You didn't see anything tonight."

(pray for us sinners,)

"Nothing," he whispers. His blood is cold.

When they're about to leave, they linger by the doorway. They stare at him, gaze straight, eyes milky white and soulless. They do not blink. Razor sharp teeth grin at him. John makes sure not to meet their gaze.

The door closes. The lock turns from outside.

He looks to the window. It is afternoon. There is no cornfield. The ground outside is barren. Its harvest is hollow.

The skin of his neck crawls. There is something in the room with him.

A life-sapped carcass of a crow lies on the floor right below the clock.

It reads 3:15. It has always been 3:15. John hasn't seen anything.

—

The fog speeding through the streets is thick. The flickering lamp lights do not cut through the haze. Nothing cuts through the haze. The fog has been here since forever. The white-haired old man down the road says it's ne'er receded even when he was still playing by the creek.

There is no eventual dissipation. There never will be.

The fog is alive.

"Rookie, give me a sit-rep," Johnny grumbles, eyeing the mossy oak tree that is always 4 feet away. "Rookie?"

Their voice crackles, static broken. "..cHurCH.."

"Anything else?" He does not remember how they got here. A whisper from the woods behind him tell that it doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter. He is never leaving. It doesn't matter.

"I- it MaTtErs.."

""D you jus'say?"

"..hUrRY." Johnny spares the woods a last glance. It waves him goodbye.

A crow caws.

He arrives at the church some time later. Its floorboards creak with every step he takes. Mold and decay has taken the building. The Earth is taking back God.

The pews are dusted. The Bibles he sees are blank. The holy water, maggot-infested, is dark.

There are footsteps that lead to the confessional. "Good evening," The Rookie whispers inside.

He enters the booth. His skin crawls. He cannot see their face. He does not want to.

(Now, and at the hour of our death,)

"Confess your sins, Sergeant," their voice is dry. Johnny does not listen to the hymns that have started to play outside the booth.

"I don't—"

"Confess your sins or you won't be able to leave." It is not a threat.

The bell rings overhead. The tower had been empty. The organ begins playing. "Hurry," they urge him.

Murmured prayers begin rising from the church. He sees shadows roaming the aisle.

The voices are rising— give sentence with me, o god, and defend my cause against the ungodly people: o deliver me from the deceitful and wicked man.

"Confess—"

He spills open.

(Amen)

When the confession is finished, the shadows outside turn to face him. They are smiling. He grips the rosary in his pockets. It does not help.

The Earth has long taken God.

"Ego te absolvo," The Rookie whispers.

When he leaves the confessional, there are corpses of crows on the pews. They are smiling.

".. what's the time?" They tilt their head, unseen eyes turning away from the cross.

"3:16"

—

John 3:16

For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.

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sir-leoondrawsalot

2 years ago

One of my favorite metaphors of Glass Onion is the Mona Lisa vs the Glass Onion.

Miles is constantly comparing himself, whether directly or indirectly, to the Mona Lisa. He wants to be “forever remembered in the same breath” as her. He plays up the mystery and the complexity of the painting, the artistry, the skill and the knowledge that went into it; All traits that he wants others to see in him.

But when Miles is describing the painting, who gets the closeup shot? Not Miles, but Helen. Helen is the one who gets multiple shots throughout the movie mirroring the Mona Lisa- same pose, same unreadable expression.

Because Miles isn’t the Mona Lisa, however much he wishes he was. Miles is the Glass Onion. Something trying to look complex and layered on the outside, when in reality, the center is in plain sight. Miles isn’t some enigmatic genius, he is exactly what he appears to be at first glance: an idiotic, rich, egotistical, shithead.

He didn’t make his own puzzles, he didn’t write his own murder, he didn’t create his own art, he didn’t even come up with the idea for his company. His island is filled with things made by other people. He isn’t even the person who did the thing that will forever connect him to the Mona Lisa. The thing that will forever tie him to Helen Brand.

Helen is the one with complexity. Helen is the one surrounded by mystery. Helen is the one who’s more than meets the eye. Helen is the Mona Lisa, and the Mona Lisa destroyed herself to take down Miles Bron.

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