Another thing on the to-do list

“Hey, haven’t you guys read this one already?” Brightney felt her hands twitch, fingers slid over the rough binding of the book, pressing on the word “Algernon” so hard they almost left a mark. Razzle glances at everyone here with a bored look before settling on Brightney herself. He just woke up, a thought runs through her head as she tries to speak. “A-and so what if we did? It was interesting after all, sad, so, uh…” Dazzle mumbles, hid head butts his brother’s mask before he awkwardly looks away. Again at her. “I…” Brightney looks at the blue moon nearby, at another fluffy blanket draped over his shoulders, then finally at Astro’s face. Before forcing out the biggest smile she can. “I thought it would be nice if we go back to basics from time to time.” Razzle spreads their arms—you’d know it’s him because of the jerkier, weaker movements—and leans back, closing his eyes again. Dazzle frowns but says nothing. Astro carefully takes the book from Brightney and starts reading out loud himself. She’s grateful about that. After all, Astro wasn’t very outward toon himself, it probably took a lot to do that. Even if he was in their company. All of them continue their book club meeting. Though, Brightney feels her thoughts getting too loud, so much so that she has to grab her pen, perhaps less quiet than wanted. In any case… another thing appears on her to-do list. Another one to add to the dozens of other things, she’s done and has yet to do. But what difference does it make anyway? It’s just a “plus one”. So small, it could never hurt anybody. She’ll manage. Even if today she goes to sleep later than usual. Either because of their book meeting ending later, or because of that one thing.

Look for new books.

That turned into two. Make a list of what to propose for the next meeting. Which became three. And ask them what they would like more! Which became four. Help Poppy with her bow. Which became three. Check supplies, we should still have some Coke, right? Which became three. Go get supplies. Which… Tomorrow. All tomorrow. Brightney’s eyes close. Tomorrow is a new day. New beginning. With new things to do. She can handle it. She always has, especially with the mind like hers. Brightney feels how her lips twitch in a tired smile. Of course. Her eyes close, and dreams fill with endless corridors and staircases, all in red-red-red light. So much so that eyes would fill with tears that drip-drip-drip onto the wooden floor, everything’s too much, and she might choke. And then tears turn black and hands won’t stop shaking, as knees buckle and bring you down-down-down. Before she realises, she could only walk in circles down the same corridor, over and over, and over, until—

—until the morning comes and she opens her eyes.

Brightney gets up, quickly throws her pink cardigan on, scribbling a couple of words on a piece of paper, the most ordinary ones, like “hallway, lamp, RAEE—”. Her hand twitched, she thinks. And the words are stupid, completely unrelated, why did I even write them down, — follow next. She shakes her head, crumpling the piece of paper and throwing it into the already overflowing trash can. She should clean it. Probably later. She grabs a yesterday’s to-do list and quickly copies it to another sheet. New day should start from a clean slate, after all. Yeah. That’s right. So, having made a list and made the room seem tidy, Brightney goes to collect some resources. Just some, she thinks. Just as much could fit in the pockets, so the others feel better. Would be nice to see them smile, especially with the latest events in Gardenview… Even though nothing was wrong! Sure, a little quiet, maybe, more than a little, but it was morning anyway! And what’s a usual routine of walking and checking the floors in silence? They had been doing this for a while now, just after… After. Brightney frowns as she steps into an elevator, presses one of the many buttons — dozens and dozens, it’s hard to concentrate and count them all. The elevator’s gears rattle too harshly, too loudly, but she supposed that’s how it’s always been. Yet as the doors close and the machine carries her down the shaft, Brightney thinks that kids were never that quiet. While also suddenly realizing that her head still hurts. She sighs, wishing for it to go away soon. But it already was with her for a while, like some sort of seasonal migraine. Could toons even have them? If so, she’s probably the first to get one. Why? What time of year is it anyway? It seemed like it was just Christmas, maybe a couple of weeks after. Though, it felt a bit too warm for winter. Or maybe it was just a warm year… Pain shoots through the temples, and Brightney squints, shaking her head. What difference does it make? It’s not like the time of year changed anything, especially in Gardenview, right? The little heart in this not-exactly-inhuman body speeds up its rhythm. Brightney shifts from one foot to the other and almost falls over when the elevator suddenly shakes, stopping. The massive doors creak open, letting in a single toon, bent under the weight of his bag. Each step he took made a clanking sound, like glasses clinking against each other. Brightney two eyes meet his one, and she smiles at a semi-friendly, semi-tired expression. It takes her a few seconds to recall his name, before greeting the toon: “Rodger! Greetings, glad to see you here,” she hums. “Up so early?” “Of course, after all, you know how they say, solution may slip away if you don’t catch it fast enough!” Rodger sounds unusually upbeat, adjusting the strap of his bag, that dug into his shoulder. “Do they say that, really?” “Perhaps not all, but I do and it fits the case.” “Sure.” Brightney chuckles. “And how’s the… catch going?” “It’s… hard to say, frankly. But something’s wrong, and I won’t let it go, not until I figure everything out,” Rodger frowns, before sighing. “And I believe Miss Keen is the first clue.” “Keen… Delilah?” he nods and now it’s Brightney’s turn to frown. She vaguely remembers Delilah. Rather through the harsh tones and white gloves that were firmly ingrained in ichor, — Tisha definitely would complain about this, — but her face remains blurry. “She left?” “She did! After there was an ichor leak, one of the handlers got hurt and…” Rodger suddenly cuts himself off, frowns, looks at her closely. “But I thought you were one of the first to know about it?” “I… was?” “Of course, you were! You… it was you who got us books on survival, on gardening, other, some, of course, were skeptical about this method of preparation, but anyway,” with each word, Rodger’s gestures became more and more erratic, as if he was onto some new thread, a new facet of events. Brightney, though, has nothing to answer. And that is how the ringing silence fills the elevator. It hangs over them, over her, seeps under her clothes, under her skin, enveloping her insides, her brain. It makes everything feel somehow distant. She can barely notice how her hands move and clasp together, they seem weak, not at all like usual. Brightney wants to squeeze them, or maybe grab onto something, but it feels impossible. And silence continues to ring and ring, and ring, and ring, and ring, and— “Brightney,” she jolts, shaking away those feelings. Rodger! Rodger? Wasn’t she alone in here? “Everything’s fine?” Those three words sound strange. Especially after the noise of the machinery and that constant ringing in her head. So much so that Brightney doesn’t immediately understand what she should answer. “Yes, yes I am.” Rodger looks in her eyes intently, almost with scientific curiosity. No wonder, he’s a scientist, although with that suit he could easily be mistaken for some sort of detective or a businessman. Funny. “Please, tell me if something is wrong. I suspect that ichor and its extraction can cause some… consequences. And I wouldn’t want any of you to suffer with them.” His words give a strange feeling, that sank its teeth in Brightney’s soul. Something was wrong. But what? And was it? She nods: “Of course.” The elevator eventually stops at a floor, different from the one Brightney had hoped, but she decides to go out anyway. After all, there were items on each floor, right? She walks out, nodding to Rodger goodbye. If there were any supplies here, she’ll take them. Who knows, maybe she’ll find a new book of sorts. That’s what she came here for, right? Right. As the elevator door slams down, her footsteps, muffled by the black, patterned carpet, seem like the only sound on the gift shop, once full of children and their parents, but now… Now it was eerily quiet. And this silence wraps its hands around her neck, just like in the elevator, gets on her nerves, Brightney close her eyes, pacing back and forth, before finally moving on. After all, she was here for… supplies, yes. Fortunately, her eyes — perhaps not as sharp as she’d like — spot a red can nearby. Coke! Amazing start! Brightney smiles, picking it up and stuffing it into one of the pockets before walking further into the floor. But it seems that this was where her luck ended, since even after the next twenty or so minutes all Brightney could find was gumbles and a protein bar. She sighs, frustrated, but still stuffs them into her pockets, continuing to wander deeper into the store, where the souvenirs lie scattered around the floor. The air feels thicker. It smells of dampness, dust, and something else — a faint, barely noticeable smell, similar to oil and spoiled paint. Brightney tries to distance herself from it by looking at the pile of stuffed toys on the shelves — Main Characters. Shelly, Astro, Sprout and… Vee. Brightney feels a smile creep onto her face; about to go over and pick up this toy, when suddenly her eyes fall on a door nearby. With a sign “staff only”. Maybe someone left something there? She chuckles, ponders for a second or two whether she could go there, but then steps towards it with a grin. In theory, she was also a staff. The door thankfully gives in, but inside… It’s dark. So dark that the light from the lamp doesn’t help seeing anything. Weird. She takes a step forward. Another one. And another. Floor feels slippery. Something drips on the lampshade from the ceiling, she shudders, her leg goes forward and she automatically stretches her arms forward to soften the fall. One sinks into something sticky and cold. Black substance spread over her fingers, fills the lines on the skin, soaking into the fabric of her clothes. Brightney quickly scrambled to her feet, barely resisting the urge to wipe her hand on the first thing she came across — her cardigan. Disgust rolls up to the throat, almost forcing her to break in half, but she holds on. It takes a bit of running before she finds something that looks like unused paper at one of the counters and tries to wipe the ichor off. It works. Maybe not as good as she thought it would, but it’s better than nothing. Brightney feels a weird pulsation on the tips of her fingers, goosebumps running down her back. She should leave. Now. But what about supplies? She bites her lip, looking at a couple of gumbles, a can of cola, and two protein bars. Not much. Maybe… she could find something more? Brightney stands there for a moment before nodding. Yes. She should look again. It’s for them after all. For everyone. For the better. So she lingers on the floor for a while longer until after the fifth time she’s finally convinced that there’s nothing left to take. She finished the machines somehow — dried ichor, as awful as it feels on her skin, thankfully leaves no trace on the valve, — before heading back to the elevator. The amount of supplies is still… not exactly satisfactory — she should’ve gone to the other floor, just like intended! — but, she supposed it’s better than nothing. And again, if anything, Brightney can always do another run. She just has to remember to write it down on the list. Another thing. To which then adds another. And another. And another, layering and twisting into whole days, from morning to night. But Brightney doesn’t mind. She’s used to it, after all. Just a routine. Though, she couldn’t deny that everything would be easier if those headaches went away. Her body shivers, for some reason. And it’s just… so wrong! It never happened before! But then, before she falls into a panic, Brightney thinks if that was a simple cold and shrugs. Sure. That’s a good explanation. Toons can get sick, after all. So she rushes about her business, helping whoever she can, adding more and more things to the to-do list, ordering them, trying to be as most effective in manoeuvring between the deeds, as possible. Which… didn’t always work out, unfortunately. But, as Poppy said, things were “just going”; no ups, no downs. Brightney wasn’t exactly sure how to feel about it. In the end of the day, time was moving forward. And it’s the afternoon, when she decides to sit over her puzzles. Relax or… something. It’s a rare thing to do in Gardenview, but, oddly enough, it’s been happening more often lately. At least one positive side from Delilah’s departure, a thought comes through her head, before she brushes it off. Thoughts about Miss Keen weighed even more heavily; too many questions and uncertainties. Why was she forced to leave her post so suddenly? Was it because of the incident? Or Arthur? All the glances, expressions, reactions, at the mere mention of her weren’t helping in feeling better about this either. Especially when it came to Dandy. And Dandy… Brightney rubs her eyes, leaning back in her chair, feeling nausea rising. He and Astro stopped showing up at the meetings, but if she knew Astro was here, she saw him, talked to him, Dandy, on the other hand… She feels uneasy. Probably because of the rising heat. Strange. Brightney slips her hand—the one she didn’t hurt during that one run in the gift shop—under her lampshade, touches the glass of the light bulb and immediately flinches away. Hot. Burning hot. Her hands twitch, fingertips sting. Oh… dang. Light bulbs don’t handle high voltage well, and with everything that’s been going on lately… There’s a knock at the door. She clears her throat, rubbing her hands together, and moves away from the table. “Yeah?” “Brightney!” a smile appears on Brightney’s face when she hears Vee’s voice, the one of a main character, the most famous and perhaps the only showrunner of Gardenview. “How is my truly talented contestant doing?” “Wait,” she squints, cocking her head, “you mean “truly talented” as opposed to the “un-truly” talented here?” Vee freezes in the middle of her way to the table along with her wide smile, and Brightney can hear a barely noticeable buzzing sound, as it usually happens when her program encounters an error. But eventually she moves: “Yeah…?” “Really?” Brightney laughs, feeling the light bulb in her head beginning to cool slightly. “Thank you, Vee, I appreciate it.” Vee immediately relaxes, stirs, broadens her shoulders, coming closer and leaning on the table, as the buzzing sound disappears: “Having troubles with these huh?” “A bit.” Brightney smiles and looks back at the puzzle with a sigh. “I just feel like… I can’t figure this one out! As if I lost a piece. Maybe not only one.” “Lost a piece! Well that definitely doesn’t sound like you.” “Ah, heh… I suppose.” “But I’m sure you’ll figure this out eventually. And if you don’t, well you can always count on your good old gameshow host to know all the answers, can’t you?” Brightney glances at her, taking in her pompous attitude, before tilting her head to the side: “Wouldn’t that be cheating?” “Mmm, I don’t know. Would that?” Vee throws her hands up with her usual mannerism, making Brightney laugh. And Vee laughs along until both of them feel better. Brightney grins, scooping up the puzzle pieces with her hand. Vee leans over, looking over her shoulder before stepping back. “Okay, okay. But I’m serious. If there’s something that’s bothering you, come over. I’ll help with anything.” the lamp toon opens her mouth to protest, but Vee interrupts. “Or you could go to Sprout. If it’s something with your eyes or something. I’m sure he can help too.” “Sprout? Since when did you start recommending him as a specialist?” “Well, for someone who hasn’t fully developed the knowledge of cause-and-effect relationship yet, he has plenty of good qualities. Would be unfair to just ignore it all.” “Oh, really?” “Yeah, but don’t tell him I said that. Wouldn’t want to bust his strawberry ego.” Vee chuckles. “But anyway, apologies, it was good talk and all, but I think I should take my leave.” “Show’s not waiting, m?” Vee laughs again: “I wish, you know, I’ve missed the losers’ bawling their eyes out and screaming in hysteria so much! But no. Astro said he was going to go get supplies and… why not keep him company, huh? I wanted to talk to him for a long while now, seriously, it’s like he’s avoiding me, avoiding everyone, ever since the incident! And I…” she shakes her head, the fan in her body getting louder, simulating a heavy sigh. “Never mind. I should go…” “Vee…” Brightney stands up, “Is there anything I can do to help you? If you want, of course.” “No, don’t fill up your head. You have plenty going on in there already,” Vee doesn’t continue, just smirking before shrugging. “But thank you.” “Good luck.” Brightney mumbles, nodding, watching Vee leave, closing the door more carefully than usual this time. She turns her gaze back at the piled up puzzle pieces, sighs. The sound of a clock ticking echoes through the room. …Maybe going to Sprout isn’t such a bad idea. That’s how she gets back in the elevator, going up and down the floors, finishing machines, trying to find one of the show’s Main Characters. But when Brightney gets to the kitchen floor, — she was sure this is the one! — Sprout’s not there. The shelves are lined with food of varying degrees of freshness, stale bread, lumps of flour, leftover eggs — wonder if they were still edible, — and, among all… Cosmo. Crouched on the floor. “Cosmo, do you, by any chance, know where,” she glances around again before approaching the toon, “Sprout is?” “Uh…,” Cosmo jumps to his feet, with his back still to her, though she can see his hands reaching up to his face. “I’m well—S-Sprout, um—” Brightney takes a step closer to him before asking, “Is something wrong?” “I…” Cosmo’s shoulders hunch, before he shakes his head and finally turns around. Brightney feels like something happened to his face, like it’s not there, like… She blinks. And everything magically goes back to normal, no black spots, no… nothing. She should check her glasses, probably. “I was just thinking about… Ginger. It’s been a month since they all left, and I just can’t shake this feeling like…” he shakes his head again. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.” “Ginger…” Brightney frowns. This name. “Yeah! I… I couldn’t say a proper goodbye to her and… I don’t know, it’s been playing around in my head for too long. What if something happens to them while they’re on the road or something, and then she’ll just—!” “Hey, hey, everything will be okay, Cosmo,” Brightney says, brushing off the realisation who Ginger actually was. How could she just… Well, we haven’t talked that much, — she hopes it’s enough to drown out the growing anxiety. And guilt. How could she forget about her! “She’ll come back, Cosmo, and then you’ll tell her everything!” “A shame we can’t even send anything to them… I hope they’re okay. Especially with…” Cosmo sighed. “So… you wanted Sprout, right?” Brightney blinks: for some reason something in his tone… doesn’t sit right with her. Something that sounds like a hidden grudge, like a silhouette peeking through the curtains. “Something’s… with my head,” the sentence itself sounds silly, enough to make her shake her head. “It’s uh, just a headache, but it doesn’t seem to go away. I thought Sprout could help me, but since you’re here, maybe…” Cosmo perked up, dusting his hands on the kitchen apron. “Oh, of course! I… how long have you had this headache for?” “I…” she doesn’t remember. Honestly, it seemed like it had been there forever, or a couple of weeks, or months, or… “Just a couple of days, I guess.” Cosmo hummed thoughtfully, placing one hand on his cheek again, squinting his eyes. Habit, Brightney suppressed a smile, focusing on what he had to say. “And you… How much sleep do you get? Maybe that’s the problem?” “Oh… I suppose I get a normal amount of sleep. For a toon.” Whatever “the normal amount” even meant, especially to them. She’d read about it in books, but sometimes it was so hard to really understand what they were and what was 'being a human'. An actual flesh and blood, bones, laughing loudly or muttering. How different were they and their needs, anyway? “I suppose sleep wouldn’t hurt either way,” Cosmo pauses before clearing his throat, clasping his hands together. “I’m sorry I can’t give you any pills or… um, m-maybe compresses or anything, we still can’t find any medical supplies. That would be, um, safe to use.” “Are we out of them already?” “Uh, huh? For about a week now, I suppose. You… didn’t know? “Oh… right. Sorry.” They stand in the silence, right there in the middle of the kitchen, unable to even look at each other. Before suddenly speaking at the same time: “Maybe you need to—” “Thank you, Cosmo!” Brightney shouts over Cosmo before he can finish his sentence. “Thank you. I’ll… see you again.” He says something back to her, but she can’t really hear what. I’m just too far, — Brightney fills her head with this thought, running downstairs. She won’t stop. No-no-no. She… can’t. Can’t stop, can’t return and have this conversation. And why?! No idea! It’s just Cosmo, after all. Cosmo would never hurt anyone in his life. But… No! He’s fine. Brightney just—She has things to do! Absolutely no time! Gotta run and complete thing after thing on this to-do list of hers. Of course. He’d understand. These thoughts drown out everything else, until she realises she was back in her room again, breathing heavily, shaking. She breathes out, walks to her desk, opening drawer after drawer, taking out paper and some pens, pencils. Ginger. — she writes, word comes out uneven, crooked, unlike her usual handwriting. Her hand was shaking. She forgot Ginger. And maybe Rudie along with her, and Bobette, and Coal. Who else? Flutter, maybe? Or Shelly, or, God forbid, Connie? She swallows a lump in her throat, closes her eyes, tapping the end of the pen on the table. The memories are fading. Why. Black dots and puddles and red-red color immediately flash behind the eyes. Just like in a dream. It’s not a cold, — her heart skips a beat at realisation. But it’s also not like anything she’s ever read about. Though. She could’ve forgotten it, a voice whispers, feeding into twisting anxiety, before Brightney decides to spend time in the library trying to find something that could explain what was happening. And what could be a solution. But… after a while. After countless books and even more pages, it feels like there is nothing. And it’s the worst feeling in the world. That makes people run around, grabbing at everything. Despite knowing that nothing will ever… Brightney doesn’t quite understand how she ended up at one of Teagan’s tea parties. As well as realising that she is really there. Everything feels so… fuzzy and red, and just too bright! Her thoughts seem to run away. The light bulb seems to have warmed up again. They — she and some other toons, Boxten, Scraps and Teagan, though the latter went away somewhere and were nowhere to be seen — were on one of the floors where Dandy wasn’t paranoid about letting them go to. Why? She had no idea. Only the gossips about a weird, twisting sickness. Maybe she should go and learn more about it? Maybe she can help! She’s Brightney after all. Her fingers lightly tap the porcelain cup of tea before she finally dares to pick it up and take a sip. The drink burns inside her mouth, but still makes her feel better. Calmer. “Heeey! Brightney! Whatcha' thinking about?” Brightney winces, looking up at Scraps… and also Boxten, who are sitting across the circle table from her. Boxten was already there when she arrived, but Scraps joined later, more for company than anything, since Brightney couldn’t recall her drinking any of the tea. “Oh…” She clears her throat and plasters on a smile. “Oh, not much, actually.” “You did seem pretty focused!” Boxten speaks up, but then immediately looks away, taking a sip of his tea. “Is… something wrong?” “I’m fine. Just thoughts.” “About what?” Scraps leans down on the table, her claws lightly scraping its surface. “You want the honest truth?” They nod. And Brightney smiles, shrugging. “Okay…” She pauses dramatically, the way Razzle probably would, before blurting out first thing that comes to her head: “I’m thinking about Trigonometry! “Oh,” both of them say that almost at the same time, making her smile. And then Scraps asks, not even hiding a bit of disappointment: “That’s it? Really?” “What else am I supposed to think about right now, Scraps?” Brightney continues smiling to them, adjusts her glasses, and all of them sit in silence for some time. At least until she finishes her tea, quickly, to take her leave, saying she had to run errands. They nod, wave goodbyes and… …It takes her a moment to realize that she was running. Fortunately, the realization slows her down, otherwise Brightney would probably trip and fall down the stairs. Looking back at what happened at the party—and she didn’t even say goodbye to Teagan, or thanked her! —makes her sick. But this… probably can be counted as her normal state, judging by how often she feels that. At least her hand doesn’t hurt or go limp for no reason or… worse. It’s been happening for a couple of days now. Well, actually weeks months, but every month consists of days and then weeks, so that shouldn’t matter, right?! So just like that Brightney kept walking down that endless staircase of “everything was fine” carved into each step. Lower and lower, clutching her notebook with those ink-stained fingers. It was getting harder to write. To read. Sometimes to speak. For some reason. Thinking, too. And this is just so dumb, is it? Considering who she was, how she was perceived still, despite how often she just kept failing everyone! It’s because of this stupid pinkish-reddish fog getting in front of her eyes, she knew it. Because of it, everything around slowly was becoming indistinct, sometimes pulsating with pain, in the head, in the lungs. Bit by bit. But she won’t let it win. She’s Brightney after all. She’ll figure this out.

Eventually.

Her room was now littered with previous to-do lists. Some of the points are written on both sides and, she’s sure, kept going on another sheets of papers. She winces, grabbing her to-do list to write down another “tidy the room”, before realising that this to-do list wasn’t for today. Or, hell, even yesterday! It makes her sigh in irritation, looking around the room again. Books, pieces of paper, documents. More and more information. Because that’s what she wanted and needed. Who knows, maybe she will help Rodger with his… detective case? About the Twisteds appearing. About… And so Brightney reads. From time to time, when she gets a free minute. But sometimes the words seem to float out of the sight, tie themselves into knots with others, even disappearing from the page from time to time, depriving the sentences of their sense before reappearing, as if mocking the way she kept forgetting again and again what she just read. Sometimes so often that she wants to give up and just go to bed. But she couldn’t. Because… She finds herself on the pile of books the next morning. Her back hurts, her arms hurt, she couldn’t feel her legs, and the lightbulb felt like exploding right there and then. But she had to get up, and drag herself further, trying not to step on all the rubbish dumped on the floor or fall into a more comfortable bed. Toons woke up. It was a new day. New things to do. New lists. Brightney gives her room a last look and decides to leave the mess for the evening, before going outside, closing the door tightly. Her day goes on. She can’t remember all the details, maybe even most of them, especially those, covered in some kind of pinkish haze, pressing on the head. But she continues. Everything is fine. Everything is fine. Everything is fine. She was running again, she realised. God knows where and why. To the elevator — quick, quick, it will close, leaving her here forever! — or maybe looking for another machine here? Or to another toon? Or maybe away from those terrifying versions of- Brightney bumps into something or someone, papers fall out of her hands, flying in all the directions possible. The bump makes her head ache again. Ah. As if she could’ve gone a day without it. “Oh!” a yelp that almost makes her crouch down to pick everything up and just run. Tisha, whom Brightney’s accidentally bumped into, immediately begins to collect the fallen papers. “So, so sorry! Didn’t mean to!” “It’s fine, Tisha…” Brightney responds, trying to ignore the lump in her throat. She leans down too, trying to gather at least something, just so she won’t end up standing there like a statue while the others do all the work. She manages to do it, though Tisha still was the one to get most of it. The other toon smiles, handing the papers and lists: “Never ending work, am I right?” “Something like that,” Brightney chuckles, tired. “Oh, yes, I completely understand! This ichor makes me so, so frustrated, it’s so hard to scrub off!” Tisha scoffs, mechanically shaking her hands on her apron. And then suddenly she adds, her face lit up, when an idea comes in: “You know, Brightney, we should start like a cleaning club! If you’re not busy of course!” Brightney gives it a thought. She’s not busy, is she? No, not that she remembered. She has time. “I think a bit of cleaning control won’t hurt, Tisha.” Tisha gets excited, of course. Those words definitely helped her feel better, and this gives Brightney some sort of energy boost, even if it lasts for a way shorter time than she’d like. She’s still very tired. Unlike Tisha, who kept on chattering: “How about three o’clock? Today! I’ll just have to make sure and find you an apron, gloves, other things maybe, we’ll see, so you don’t get too dirty.” Doubt settles in. But Brightney pushes it away: “Of course, Tisha.” Astro finds her that same day, cleaning up with Tisha in one of the abandoned rooms. She didn’t show up for the book club meeting, which was every Wednesday, exactly at three o’clock. Brightney shudders, feeling something— sheforgotsheforgotsheforgot! — twisting her insides into knots, something rising up the throat. So as soon as she realises what’s going on she crashes out. Well, almost. More like she waves goodbye to Tisha, — her voice, hands shaky, — and goes away with Astro. In the corridor, Brightney speeds up, hoping that at least that way she’ll still be able to get through the meeting on time. Astro catches up with her, or at least tries to, but she doesn’t stop or slow down. “Brightney, wait, please, stop! There’s—I already told everyone to leave.” she feels his hand trying to grab onto her cardigan. She flinches away from him. But stops. “Oh?” Brightney turned her head to look at him, too quickly. “Why?” “I figured you may need to… take a rest.” Astro pauses before continuing. He looks straight into her eyes. “Are you… Are you okay? I’m sorry, it’s just that all I can see is you going—” “IAM!” Brightney winces and clears her throat. “Yeah. Everything is… Yes. Of course it’s okay, Astro. I just…” “You forgot about our meeting. And—” Brightney suddenly finds herself right in front of him, face to face. And it’s… weird, because she could’ve sworn she didn’t take that step. Astro’s eyes widen, before he frowns: “Brightney, I just want to know if I can help you. And how! Maybe I…” “Help! Oh yes, of course, I could use some help,” a laugh escapes her lips, sounding… just a bit wrong, the words become muffled, distorted, and the light feels so disgustingly bright. “No, Astro, I can handle this myself, honest. Thank you, I appreciate it, but,” she staggered before placing both hands on his shoulders. “No. I appreciate it, again, but I think you should try helping someone else.” Before it’s too late. Before it’s too late Before it’s too late. Before it’s too late before it’s too late before it’s too late— “Brightney!” Astro suddenly hisses, flinches back; Brightney realises that her fingers were clinging into his blanket too tightly, digging into his shoulders. She immediately retreats, looking down at her hands. They’re still clenched, as if clinging to, choking, the air. Brightney shakes her head, looking back at Astro, at his worried, scared eyes, at his raised, tense shoulders. “I-I…” she coughs. Her head is spinning. What is happening, what is happening, I don’t understand, whatwhatwhat— “Brightney… You…” She locks herself in her room after that. After running away, so fast, she didn’t register that she had run away. Brightney slides down the door on the floor, crumpling some scribbled sheets of paper underneath, buries her face in the knees. She thinks. No, no, not cries, not at all, although her head feels like it’s about to split in two. The light bulb is literally burning, too brightly, maybe just under two hundred volts. Who knows. Definitely not her. Not anymore. She twitches, throws her head back, hitting the back of her head on the door. And brushes off the faint sound of something cracking. Dear God… Brightney can hear someone walking behind the door, light steps, not hasty at all, they don’t seem like Astro’s or anyone she can recall. Feels as if they’re about to knock on her door, but… they don’t. Fortunately. This person — maybe a toon, or maybe not, maybe it’s a human, they will come back soon after all, won’t they? They will help everyone, they will solve everything, — just passes by, making Brightney let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Her fingertips still feel tingly after how she grabbed on Astro. Had that happened before? With someone else? Had she… hurt someone? It’s so hard to think straight now, when her head was burning. She couldn’t remember anything. Only register how her hands are shaking, weak, as she tries to clench her fists. Her vision is still shrouded in red, and everything feels like a dream. If she could just slip out… rest. Rest. Sleep. But Astro’s frightened face keeps her awake. Brightney frowns. No, this isn’t a dream. She could have hurt him. And not only him. She doesn’t want to hurt anyone, despite this headache, despite the noise and redredred, despite that her head swells with things that need to be done, despite the fact that she can’t remember even the half of them. Despite the fact that she wrote all those to-do lists, now scattered around the room. They don’t help anymore. And she loses track of time. And space, sometimes. And so she ends up spurred on by a feeling of anxiety that she is late, that she has forgotten something. Again. That’s why she was running. And asking everyone around if they needed any help, trying to solve it at that same moment, because who knows if she’ll remember it later. But… sometimes people just can’t keep up with everything. And they break. Or give something up. Or run away. Brightney doesn’t remember what she did. But she definitely did something. At least while she still could and the control didn’t fully slip away. While her legs are able to hold her and move like she wants them to.

While the red hasn’t completely blurred her eyes.