Shadow on the Side (Part 3)

Ivy's Diary and Stream of Consciousness, March 13, 2025, 04:37:22

Diary Entry:

I stand at the laboratory door, the fog like a wet dog lying at my feet, cold as ice. My boots step on the stairs, mud caked on them like blood. The door is half-open, blue light leaking out like a ghost breathing. My hands shake like a sieve, my fingertips touch the door frame, the rust scraping my skin painfully. I push the door open, creaking like old bones, and then—a wave of heat hits me like fire, like blood, like something alive, nearly knocking me over.

Inside isn't ruins, but a furnace. The air burns like a hot iron, orange-red light squeezes through the wall cracks like molten iron. Machines roar, deep like heartbeats, making my ears ring. The thermometer is broken; I guess it must be forty degrees. Sweat drips from my forehead, hitting the ground with a hiss, as if something's frying. My sweater sticks to my body like a second skin; I can hardly breathe, but I don't retreat. I need to find something, Simon's things, Linser's things, anything.

Consciousness Fragment:

Hot, hot, hot. Like climbing into a furnace, like dried fish being roasted. Where's the fog? Gone, burned away, turned to steam sticking to my face. The walls are covered with pipes, red like blood vessels, throbbing, like they're alive. The floor is littered with parts—screws, gears, broken glass—like a madman's toy box. I see a machine, its screen lit up, orange-red characters jumping around as if cursing. I lean in closer, the heat burning my face. It reads: "Experiment 07, Running, Spice Melting Point Has Reached Critical." Spice? Blue spice? Is Simon's ghost dancing here?

I gasp for air, my lungs feel like they're on fire. My steps are as unsteady as a drunk's. I kick something that clatters and rolls away—an empty bottle, glass, its label burned, only half a word remaining: "Blue... Melt..." I pick it up, my hand shaking so much it might fall, my palm burning red. I sniff it; the bottle's mouth has a smell like burnt sugar, or blood, sickeningly sweet. I throw it away; it shatters on the floor, like my mind.

Diary Entry: 

04:39:51, I find a table covered with papers, burned at the edges like letters from the dead. One page isn't completely burned, the writing crooked as if Simon was drunk: "Spice is the core, melting point activates memory, Ceylon is the container." I stare at "Tinblue," my heart pounding like a hammer on my chest. Did he stuff his memories into that pile of metal? That audio clip, that blue color, is it his soul? I'm shaking so much I can't stand, leaning against the table, my hand touches a switch, click, the machines roar louder, orange-red light pierces my eyes like needles.

I hear footsteps, click-clack, like Ceylon, like Linser. I turn my head; the door is still open, fog creeps in, cold as a knife, colliding with the heat inside, steam rolling like a fight. I don't move; I have to wait for her. She'll come, she's crazy, she has to come. But I'm afraid, afraid she'll see all this, afraid she'll know Simon burned his soul here, into a pile of blue ash.

Consciousness Fragment:

Orange-red, orange-red, orange-red. Like blood, like fire, like his heartbeat. Simon, are you mad? Did you burn love into ash, stuff it into a machine, let it scald us to death? I see a box in the corner, metal, locked, with "Memory 07" carved on it. Is it your ghost? Or your lie? I dare not open it; my hands are hot as coal, sweat drips down, hissing like crying.

Fog and heat twist together like snakes, like rope, like his scarf. Blue, cold as ice; orange-red, hot as hell. I stand in the middle, feeling torn in two. Linser will come, she will see, she will go mad. I must stop her, but I can't move, my legs are like iron, my lungs feel burned through. I hear click-clack, getting closer, like a clock, like a bomb, like his laughter.

Diary Entry:

04:41:03, the machine stops, the roar is gone, the orange-red light dims, as if breathless. I hear water dripping, pitter-patter, like a kitchen sink, like his voice. I turn my head, see a photo hanging on the wall, half burned away, only Simon's face remains, smiling like an idiot, his scarf blue enough to hurt the eyes. My hand reaches out to touch it, then pulls back. I cry, sweat and tears mixing, hot as blood.

He's here, he never left, he's burned into this place, waiting for us.