Masky's Arc

Chapter 3 of 7

Brian dragged Tim to the wall by the waterfall and chained his wrist to a bolt in the stone. Then he took down a coiled leather whip from a hook. Tim knew what came next. Brian meant to punish Masky, the proxy he saw in Tim's place. But Masky was also the only self strong enough to bear this. If Tim let that self rise, he would survive the whip and lose the man who could still reach Brian. He had to stay Tim. The first lash tore across his back. Pain white-hot, and something old woke inside him. The mask-mind. It offered its cold quiet, its numbness, its silence. Take it, it said. Feel nothing. Tim's jaw locked. He pushed it down. He kept his eyes open. He kept feeling every hit. "Brian," Tim said. His voice shook. "It's Tim. You know me." The whip came again. Brian's arm moved like a machine. The stitched frown on his mask never changed. He did not answer. He never spoke while masked. But Tim saw his hand hesitate at the top of the swing. "You dragged me in here," Tim said. "You crushed my pills. You stabbed your own sister." His breath broke. "Ellie came back for you. She said your name. Brian." The whip stopped mid-air. Brian's shoulders rose and fell, fast, ragged. Tim pressed on, though blood ran warm down his spine. "You gave her that cat mask," Tim said. "You gave her the necklace. That was you. Not this thing wearing you. Brian Thomas. My Brian." A sound came out of Brian. Not a word. A cracked, wet noise behind the ski mask. The whip slid from his fingers and hit the stone. His gloved hands went to his own head. He staggered back a step. Then he sank to his knees. Tim reached with his free hand. His fingers found the edge of the black balaclava. He pulled it up, slow. Brian let him. Underneath was a face Tim had not seen in weeks. Hollow eyes. Tears cutting through the grime. "Tim," Brian whispered. His real voice. Broken, small. "What did I do. Ellie. Where's Ellie." Tim's throat closed. He could not tell him yet. "You're back," he said instead. "Stay with me. Stay here." Brian gripped Tim's arm. His hands were steady now, human. He was Brian again. The fugue had let go. Then Brian saw the chain on Tim's wrist. He saw the whip. He saw the blood on Tim's back. His face went gray with horror at what his hands had done. His breathing sped up again, sharp and rising. "No," Tim said. "Brian, look at me. Don't go back under." But Brian was already shaking. The guilt was pulling him down the same dark hole the fugue had used. Tim had won his mind back. Now he had to keep him from drowning in what that mind remembered.