2020-02-20 - The Lost, Reprise

It's a little known fact that Anne is actually an extremely part-time librarian; it was mostly a thing for her to do to fill the gaps in her schedule, but that was before she'd started heavily exploring the other side, re-involving herself with a very specific Addington, and getting involved in empty grave robbing. Now, it was almost impossible to find the free time, but she managed this evening.

But let's be honest. It was creepy here in the library after closing time, when all the children were gone and it was just you and the books. Which is probably why she texted Alexander asking if he'd like to come over and talk while she worked - there was a promise of coffee and maybe pastries if he would. So hopefully he said yes, else there'd be no point to this scene.

For what it's worth, the front doors remain unlocked and Anne let him know she'd be upstairs in the research section, so that's where she is. There's a cart of books that need to be put away, but she's plopped herself down at one of the long oak tables with her own cup of coffee and some kind of pumpkin-apple-turnover thing, picking at it while she flips through a book. This is what 'volunteering' looks like, apparently.

Maybe Alexander is going to stand her up, and this scene can just be Sad Anne in Library, reading books all alone. But no! Alexander is still too new to the idea of people voluntarily inviting him to come and do things in a social context to turn down an invitation. So he shows up, all bundled against the weather, looking his haggard and underslept self. He opens the doors and sidles inside like a thief, making his way through the downstairs. Because he's Alexander, he takes the opportunity to snoop around a little, and can probably be heard idly reaching across the circulation desk to open a couple of random drawers, study the content, and then moving on.

He does make his way upstairs to the research section, though, looking around until he can find Anne. He smiles, just the barest hint of it at the corners of his mouth, before moving in and plopping himself at another chair across the table from her, and nosily tilting his head to try and get an idea of what she's reading. "Hello, Anne."

Who could be sad in a library, even if they are all alone?! There's so many books! But it's probably for the best that Alexander arrives, even if his thief-like skills could use a little work. She hears him creeping around downstairs like a creepy creeper, so there's little surprise on her features when he finally comes upstairs and plops down in front of her. Unfortunately her book is not about anything exciting like Ferris wheel deaths or boardwalk fires; it's just general history of the 1500s.

"Hello Alexander," she pushes the book to the side, so he can snoop more freely, and points to the other cup of coffee and box of pastries on the table. "As promised. The pastries are good, apple and pumpkin spice. Though, it's February, so I have no idea why pumpkin is still a thing," she shrugs her shoulders and cants her head, looking across the table at him for a long study. "How are you doing?"

"I've never been entirely certain why pumpkin is a 'thing' even in October," Alexander says, with a grimace. "I've never understood the appeal. It's an inoffensive taste, but not a compelling one." Which doesn't stop him from reaching for one of the pumpkin spice pastries, and taking a tentative bite. "Thank you, though. For the snacks." He also pulls the coffee cup close, the warmth enjoyable after the cold walk. He stares at her. Alexander isn't much for lying, so it's a while before he answers the question, and then it's just with a shrug, and a, "Alive. How are you? Are you recovering from the...bad trip, let's call it?"

"Well it was either the pumpkin apple things or heart cookies, and I didn't want to be presumptuous," it's a quiet tease, a little dry laughter following as Anne reaches for her own coffee to take a sip. "But you're welcome. For the snacks. Thank you for the company," she offers up, quieting at the long stare and the silence that follows her question. The answer is unsurprising though, and if there was any lingering humor from the joking, it dissipates now in an instant. "I'm.." There's a touch of hesitance, before she admits with a long sigh, "I don't know. I'd like to think I've done an exceptional job of just flat out ignoring what happened. But between you and me?" There's a subtle furrow of her brow as she frowns down into her coffee. "It's hard not to think about it."

"As long as they're not made of real hearts. Which is not as hyperbolic as it would otherwise be, considering it's Gray Harbor." Alexander takes another bite, alternating with a sip of warm coffee, and a pleased sigh. "These are good, though. And your company is good. It's my pleasure." He looks around. "I like the library." His attention returns to her as she talks, though, and he continues to stare. It's not blank; quite the opposite, and his nod is brief, but not reluctant. "I've thought about it a lot. I think that's natural. Some threats are physical, and can be dismissed once they're gone. Others are existential. That's harder. Can I help?"

Anne crinkles up her nose at the mention of real heart cookies; she's not going to touch that subject with a ten foot pole, tyvm. "I like the library, too. I was volunteering here nearly every weekend, but.. life's gotten a little more complicated, lately," she shrugs, picking off a piece of her turnover thing. It isn't spoken as a complaint, mind. Just a statement of facts. But she's quiet for a moment as she thinks about the latter point and the question he tacks to it, the frown she wears deepening. "I don't know," if he can help. "You know, there's a part of me that just wants to know what went wrong. We should've ended up on the other side, but that door felt almost impossible to open. And I've never opened a door into a Dream before, I've always just been.. taken there," she tells Alexander, going quiet again as she takes another bite out of her food.

Then, quietly, after a long pause: "But it was right, you know. The wall, that voice. I didn't want to accept it, but it's true. I am lost. I think I've been lost for years."

Look, if Alexander wasn't here, where would Anne get her required daily allotment of horrible and gory images? Not from Patrick, that's for sure. He is providing a valuable friendship service. And slumping a bit in his chair, acknowledging the general 'more complicated'ness of life with another tired nod. "And what was the purpose of the Dream?" he adds, to the questions. "If it wasn't FOR us, originally, then who was it for? Are Dreams prepared in advance? Or are they just...prisons of potential, and we fill it with whatever shit is currently running around in our heads?" He stares morosely at his coffee lid. "Yeah. We're lost. We're all lost, Anne. Probably in many important ways. I'm sorry, though. It hurts to be lost."

Apparently, Alexander also provides the service of starting headache-inducing philosophical discussions, because Anne winces a little at the question and briefly rubs at her temples. "If you had asked me two months ago, prisons of potential would be the most likely explanation. But I haven't thought of Kelsey in years, so why would her name be on that wall? And I don't know who Alistair Carver is. I heard of Vivian Glass, but I didn't really know her. So was it a mix of all our heads and it just so happens that those people are actually gone?" She drums her fingers anxiously against the side of her coffee cup. "I don't want to be lost. I'm so tired of searching for answers, Alexander. I've gotten confused as to what I'm even looking for anymore," she admits sullenly.

"Maybe it wasn't really meant for us - we weren't drawn into it, you sort of broke into it. But because of what a Dream is, once it had us there, it changed to accommodate our fears. The entire Veil seems psychomorphic to some degree, but Dreams more strongly than the rest of it, maybe because they're self-contained in some way, or targeted to specific people. But maybe there is a memorial out there to everyone that someone or something considers Lost, and we just happened to find it." He falls silent. "That's a lot of names."

He contemplates her as he sips his coffee. "You can stop," he points out, quietly. "Do what Patrick is trying to do and just...stay out of it. Don't use abilities, don't poke at the Veil, do everything you can to just live your life. I don't think that'd be a bad decision. It might even be the most sane and wise decision you could ever make."

"But that would suggest this memorial is open for interpretation. If I just consider myself lost, my name should still be there," Anne says with a furrow of her brow. "Did my name stay, when I accepted that I didn't know what to do? When I accepted that I was lost? Did your name stay, did Isabella's? Because then I think we could agree that it's just a construct of our fears. But if our names disappeared? Then being Lost is something concrete, and that memorial goes well beyond our fears. Oy, I think I'm giving myself a headache now," she lays her forehead in her hand and shakes her head a bit.

It takes a moment for her to get beyond this, but she eventually drops her hand and wraps it around her coffee cup. She considers Alexander for a long moment, before she asks plainly: "Can I really? Just stop?" she doesn't sound convinced. "Patrick didn't just stop. He had to leave, he walked away from everything. And maybe I don't disagree that it's the sanest course of action, there's still..." This takes a moment, it tumbles out with a sigh: "There's still so much to learn, Alexander. What if there's a way to stop this for good? And not just for myself. But for you and Isabella and Patrick and everybody. What if we can find a way that none of us ever have to be in danger again, without having to leave and walk away from it all?"

"I've been thinking about that," Alexander says, quietly. He takes another bite of pastry before elaborating, "What if 'lost' means something in specific but not conventional? The temptation is to think 'dead' or 'emotionally or existentially lost', and I have no doubt that Over There wants to think in horrors and dreads. Because everything Over There is awful." That's stated as a simple fact. "But all those names? That's either every single person who ever died or was emotionally lost in the entire history of the planet...or maybe it means something else. The names I recognized are all people who stand out. Who have abilities. I've been thinking that maybe when it said 'lost' it meant more 'separate and unknowing'. Maybe the pieces of us that make us have abilities don't really belong here. Maybe those pieces belong somewhere else, and they - and thus we - are 'lost'." He shrugs. "It's just a theory, though. Insufficient data."

He takes another sip of coffee, studies her over the cup. "Can you? Yes. I think so. You're not a slave to this town, Anne. None of us are. I stay here for a lot of reasons, not least of which because anywhere else I'm just another middle-aged failure saddled with mental illness, without any of the conventional requirements to stay above water. And people won't hire me to kill rogue Elves on Shelves." His voice is dry, touched with self-mocking humor. "But I could leave. I have to believe that I could, at least. You could leave. Walk away. But do you really want to? Because, yeah. It would mean that you're not going to know any more about what's going on than you do right now. You'd have to accept that. It'd probably be a good thing to accept." A pause. "Doesn't mean I'm gonna accept it, even if sometimes I wish I did. But I'm crazy, so you probably shouldn't do the things I do."

"It could always be something very simple," Anne points out, frowning around another mouthful of coffee. "That our definition of lost is different from those on the memorial. That they went over there and never found their way back. And that we're.. at risk of that, too," she shakes her head, dropping her gaze to her cup and inspecting the label as she considers the rest of his conversation.

"If I wanted to walk away, I would've ten years ago, when Patrick told me he was leaving," she murmurs quietly, like it is a secret. "I had a bag packed, I had every intention of demanding he take me with him. But I didn't go. I didn't even go to say goodbye. Because the part of me that wanted to leave, that really truly wanted to go? Was eclipsed by the part of me that feels I need to stay." She looks back up to him, and there's a certain sad shimmer to her blue eyes. "Everyone I have ever loved has left this town, Alexander. And every single person that's gone away has forgotten me, with the exception of Patrick, and I only think he remembered because he never left for good, not really. And maybe I can't accept that you have to leave to be safe. There has to be a way to make this place safe. And sure, maybe I could leave and my family might remember who I am, but does that mean having to forget everyone here? Forgetting everyone who stays behind? And how is that fair or right or good?" There's a sniff as she looks back down, shrugging her shoulders. "If you're crazy, so am I. I don't want to accept that anymore than you do, even if it risks my own self preservation. Because there's going to be someone else someday and their family will forget them, too, and what if there's something we could do to make sure that never happens to anyone, ever again?"

Alexander slumps down further in the chair. "And what if there isn't? What if we're just going to," he pauses with a crooked sort of smile and reaches up to touch his gashed forehead, "slam our head into the ungiving rock of this mystery over, and over again until the inevitable happens? What if getting out, and making the people you love get out is the only victory there is to be won?" His tone is bleak and empty.

Oh, there's such sorrow in Anne's eyes when she looks back up to Alexander. "Then they're right," she says quietly, mournfully. "And we're all just lost, and that will never change. And it just so happens that some of us more lost than others." She sniffles, wrapping both hands around her cup now to leech the warmth off of it, but she keeps her eyes upon Alexander. "I can accept I'm lost, Alexander, but I can't accept that I'll never be found. I can't lose hope." There's a small pause. "You can't, either."

"If you start crying, I will probably have a meltdown," Alexander tells Anne, solemnly, at that sniffle. "I don't deal with crying well. Freaks me out." He takes a sip, and sighs. "But no. I'm not saying lose hope and be lost forever. Or anything. Just - you don't have to kill yourself trying to solve something that maybe isn't solvable. You're young, smart, and accomplished. You just shouldn't forget that you can walk away, and that's not morally bad, or anything. You're not responsible for not fixing the lives of other people in this town. You can choose."

"I'm not going to cry," Anne lies. She'll just cry later. "Patrick doesn't deal with crying well, either. You two have that in common." She slumps back against her chair to frown over at him, giving her head a shake. "I've already chosen, Alexander. Smart or not, I made my choice ten years ago. I made my choice the night we went to Billy's grave. I'm not suicidal, but I need to figure this out for myself. I need to know it's not entirely hopeless," she was still so very stubborn. "And just because you can walk away from something doesn't mean you should." She shrugs and looks up to the ceiling for a moment, perhaps to make sure she doesn't actually cry. Then, with a shake of her head, she sets her cup aside and starts getting to her feet.

"These books aren't going to put themselves away," she decides, waving a hand to the cart. "Do you want to help me?"

"Yes, but that's because he has no soul, while I just don't know what to do about it. Hugs are standard, but I'm very bad at them," Alexander points out, amused and sympathetic at the same time. "And it's not bad to have made your choice. It's not...I don't think it's hopeless. I'm just not," a long pause, "it's hard to see any hope for me at this moment. That's not your fault. I'm sorry. I'm not good at comfort, or hugs." He stands when she does, and offers a tentative smile. "I am good at shelving books, though. So I will be happy to help."

And he does! And is! Even if he's inclined to ramble about popular conspiracy theories whenever one book or another provokes an association in his mind to one.