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When the Bullet of Light entered my forehead, I had a sense of deja vu. Like this happened before, like it was meant to be. I panicked, was this part of the loop? Was Scratch still in control? What about Saga and Casey? Are they alright? Then there was nothing… No internal monologue, no ideas, just nothingness…
I was falling!
I jerked awake in my seat in the writer’s cabin.
My manuscript was gone. There was nothing on my desk but empty pages and the typewriter. Saga and Casey were nowhere to be seen. Did my Ending work? I walked to the storyboard, hoping for some clues, some signs, something to tell me it all worked out in the end. But all that greeted me was a vast, black void. There is nothing on the storyboard. Maybe nothing is good, nothing means it has ended. A period to the nightmare.
A sudden sense of hope washed over me. It drove me to the door of the writer’s room, the door of the spiral. I put my hand on the handle.
“I do hope this is what you wanted,” a voice said. It was a voice that haunted me, a voice that should sound strange to my ears. My own voice. I turned in the direction of the voice behind me.
There he was, Mr. Scratch, sitting in the writer’s seat with his feet propped up on the desk. He was still dressed in that bloody flannel and leather jacket. The blood of his victims still splattered on his face.
“Well, what's the point of cleaning up when I’m stuck here?”
Did he just-
“Yes, I did, genius,” Scratch said with a sigh. I would say he looked exhausted, if an evil comic entity can experience exhaustion. How can this monster feel anything?
“Hey, don’t insult me!”
Somehow, not even my thoughts are private anymore. I wasn’t writing any of this. If this isn’t my story, how is Scratch reading my thoughts?
“How is this happening? You are gone! Saga killed you with that bullet of light.”
Scratch let out a mirthless laugh, “Yet I am still here,” he said bitterly.
“No, no, you are gone! I wrote the Ending!” This isn’t real. The nightmare had ended, we ended it. “Oh, Alan, what even is ‘real’? I mean, come on! Do you think Alex Casey, Saga Anderson, Brightfalls, Alice, or any of that stuff out there is ‘real’? Are you real, Alan Wake?”
I advanced towards Scratch, reaching into my holster for my revolver. “Don’t you talk about Alice! You are the reason she’s dead!”
Scratch stood from the writer’s chair, “She never understood you, Alan. She only thought that she did! Remember why you came to Bright Falls in the first place?”
My hand felt only emptiness where my revolver was. Where is my goddamn gun?
“Shut up!”
“Or what, Alan? Shoot me in the head again? Been there, done that.”
I can’t do this with Scratch, he is trying to get under my skin. I need to get out of here. I turned toward the spiral door, the only way out of the writer’s room.
The air shifted and Scratch was before me in a blur. “Don’t,” he ordered. I’ve had enough of this. I mustered all the strength I had in me and punched that bastard in the face. It knocked Scratch off balance and he stumbled. I took the chance and ran toward the spiral door. I held on to the doorknob like a lifeline and turned it.
Suddenly, Scratch was next to me. He grabbed my wrist in a death grip. It was so tight I could feel the bones on my wrist grinding together. Pain registered in my brain and I was forced to let go of the doorknob.
“Don’t leave,” Scratch ordered in that cold voice. This close, I can smell the blood and rain on him. It is uncanny looking into your own face, your own eyes. They look familiar yet foreign. I recognized the face but I’ve never seen that feral expression, a combination of intense anger and bitterness. It twisted my face into something I barely recognized.
“Let go of me.” I tried to pull my hand from his grasp, but it was useless. Scratch’s hand held on to my wrist firmly, like a snake coiled around its prey. Scratch leaned in close, “All I ever wanted, was for us to be one. To change this world together.” There it is, the whispers of the devil.
Deep down, I know you want it. I have seen the darkness in you, Alan.
“Get out of my head!” His words echoed in my mind. “We are one, Alan. You cannot hide from me.”
Scratch stared into my soul and I felt like I was drowning, hypnotized. We were so close I could feel his warmth. He pulled my wrist closer and closer to him and I felt my resistance give.
Then Scratch kissed me. And identical lips touched.
Scratch kissed like a hurricane, rough and destructive. I tried to get away from him but he was able to snatch my other wrist in his grip. Scratch forced my wrists together and pressed them toward my chest. He pushed me into the door and I felt my back against it. There was nowhere to run now.
Nowhere to hide.
When Scratch finally broke away I felt almost lightheaded. This was an unexpected evolution of our relationship. I couldn’t run and I couldn’t fight. I don’t know what to do.
Scratch leaned in close and whispered my name in my ear. He kissed my neck tenderly like a lover would but his hands were unyieldingly tight around my wrists.
“Stop this,” I begged.
“No,” was his reply.
Scratched pressed his body into mine, as if he was trying to merge us into one. One of his thighs nudged between mine and I felt that unfamiliar pleasure between my legs. I thought I had forgotten what arousal felt like after these 13 years trapped in the Dark Place. But when the mind forgets, the body remembers.
“I know you want this, Alan.”
It is true. My body craves that long-lost pleasure. The torturous build-up then desperate release. That little-death that brought so many men to their doom.
Scratch shifted his thigh against my clothed member and I let out an uncontrollable moan. With a thud, the back of my head hit the door behind me. Scratch took the advantage of newly exposed skin and kissed further down my neck. Small, hitched breaths left my mouth and they excited my tormentor. I can feel his hardness pressed against my leg as I am sure he can feel mine. We were both desperate for more.
Scratch held me by my wrist and dragged me to the writer’s table. A wave of his hand and the typewriter fell onto the floor with a clutter. I felt a wave of vertigo and the next thing I knew, I was lying on the desk with Scratch on top of me. His legs trapped my hips beneath him, his weight providing the pressure I desperately needed. But it was not enough, my body demanded more.
“Please… ” I whispered. I don’t know what I was begging for anymore.
“Don’t worry, I’ll make it good for you,” Scratch promised.
Scratch removed his clothing piece by piece on top of me. Layer by layer, that familiar body was revealed to me. I felt that long-forgotten excitement deep in my gut. I shouldn’t feel this way about this body, it is my body too.
Scratch finally took off the final layer and relieved himself to me. Everything was familiar except the lack of a penis between his legs. Instead, brown curls surrounded a soft mound with a slit behind it. I can see his wetness glistening in the dim light, peaking through the curls.
“I made some alterations last minute. Just how you like it. ” Scratch reached down to touch himself, as if demonstrating his new femininity to me. His fingers rubbed that precious pearl and he moaned. More slick gathered on his fingers and Scratch’s eyes glazed over, he seemed lost in the pleasure. My hands found themselves on Scratch’s thighs, holding them, balancing him on top of me. My erection was starting to hurt inside my pants. Finally, with his free hand, Scratch freed my desire from its confinement. I was painfully erect and wetness was starting to leak from the tip. I wanted nothing but to be inside him at that moment.
I watched Scratch’s hand as it left his pearl, a trail of his slick followed his fingers. He touched my erect member and I gasped. He adjusted his position, aligned himself with me, and slowly sank into me.
“Ahh..” I don’t know who let out the moan. Me? Scratch? Us both?
Scratch threw his head back and I gripped him by his hips. He was so wet, so warm, so tight. His walls embraced me perfectly. Scratch moved at a slow pace, still getting used to the sensations. With each movement of his hips, he was sucking me into that depth of sin.
“Alan…Alan…Alan…” He chanted softly. It seemed words failed him as it did for me.
With each passing moment, I felt more and more pressure building. Our bodies were working together toward that sweet release. I held on to Scratch’s hips and anchored myself. I moved with Scratch, meeting his movements with mine. Answering each of his rhythmic weaves with my own. The pace increased, and I could hear a faint wetness from where we were joined together. The sound intermingled with the sounds of our breaths and moans in the writer’s room.
Scratch’s hooded eyes found mine as we increased our pace. The pleasure was building to our climax. Scratch reached out and grabbed my necktie. He pulled me up by the tie to the seated position and kissed me hard on my lips. I felt myself sink deeper into that warmness in this new angle.
“Al… Alan… Right there!” Scratch moaned.
My hands held on to Scratch’s waist and hips as I repeated the thrusts on his sweet spot. I can feel his warm channel spasm around my cock with each thrust. I reached between us to touch that bundle of nerves I knew would please him. Immediately, Scratch’s warmness tightened, sucking me further inside him.
“I’m…close…”
“Me too. Ahhh..!”
We held onto each other tightly, embraced together as one. With a hard thrust of our hips, we came together. An explosion of pleasure erupted simultaneously as my cock filled him up and Scratch spasmed around me. My mind went blank as the pleasure overwhelmed me. Our la petite mort- the little death.
I remember laying back down on the desk and Scratch collapsed on top of me, with us still connected. My mind began to fade and the lights around me dimmed. The last thing I heard was Scratch’s whisper, “We are one, Alan…”