"HELLO? HEY... HELP?... FUCK!"
At last - word from our comrades. I'd almost given up hope on a rendezvous with them; they'd been lost for a good six hours.We were soon to find that they'd spent three of those hours belligerently wasted on wine, trying to find us.
Well, they'd found us. We could hear them crashing about in the bush a few hundred meters away, shouting for us.
I guessed it was time to face the fury of psychedelics and leave my shell. I crawled out of my sleeping bag like a snake shedding skin; offering Hades and Kevin a mumbled greeting with haggard eyes. Gathering myself, I joined their conversation, sharing answers and responses that I'd concocted in regards to Hades' philosophies.
Fernweh and Scrib continued to lumber towards us through the underbrush. As their voices came within reasonable distance, we arose and went to help guide them towards our camp spot. We found them barely fifty feet away, presently stuck in a prickly ravine; lost and guided only by starlight.
There was nothing we could do to help without sticking ourselves in the mass of sharpened agony - all we could do was chastise them for neglecting to notice the path that lay ten feet next to them.
They eventually made their way out, and the night's atmosphere twisted itself upside down; a trapeze artist flipped to come crashing on its head. We found out that Fernweh hadn't just been screaming for help identifying his whereabouts - he'd been shouting to something above, shouting for some sense of liberation from Scrib. Scrib had resumed the bullying that he'd inflicted on Fernweh the week before.
The scene the week prior had been more than enough - Scrib's fists would fly through the air unmediated; his presence too profoundly infuriated (and infuriating) for anyone to intervene. If anger had a physical form, it had been Scrib that day - and anger's favourite meal was fear. Today, Fern was clearly afraid, and Scrib was a starved vulture. He hissed threats, growled demands and promised to provoke Fern into a fight before the end of the night. The last time I'd heard Scrib snarl this sadistic voice had been enough to burn it into my memory; writing this paragraph digs up charred sections of burnt remembrance.
The psychedelics enhanced the intensity of Scrib's rage and, likewise, our perception of its incredulity. Scrib's rage had become manifested into his entirety. The four of us remaining could feel his fury as it transcended past his outer shell and into our own bubbles; the waves that breathed around Scrib's body pulsated with vermillion and crimson. His words, however veiled by his rage, remained articulate and terrorizing.
"YOU ARE SCARED.
YOU ARE AFRAID.
IF YOU TRULY LOVE ME
THEN YOU WILL FIGHT ME."
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