Chapter Text
The all-consuming darkness parted as Stanley’s vision came back to that same maddening computer, his body sat at his desk as always. Stanley stays there for a moment, in silence, his hand over his eyes in a pale imitation of the black relief that comes from a reset. If only, just once, it would be permanent. But no, the narrator is too cruel for that. How many resets has it been? Stanley has no way the check, the building reverting perfectly into it’s initial state every single time leaving no way for Stanley to remember the number of resets. He forgot the number of resets at some point and it became fruitless to count. So he gave up. Giving up is so easy, at first, but even giving up becomes difficult when you have to give up for years and years on end.
Stanley contemplates just sitting here and staring at the screen of his computer for some time before deciding to stand up. Maybe he will pick up the Bucket and go to the group therapy room, as Stanley thinks of it. Though, then he would have to deal with the narrator’s waffling about the Bucket Destroyer. Stanley has too much of a headache for that right now, the Bucket Destroyer is just so loud.
Either way, he trudges out of the room, his footsteps somehow heavy and lazy at the same time, as if reluctant to move. As he leaves his office and walks down the corridor the narrator’s voice rings out, familiar and comforting in its repetitively.
“All of his co-workers were gone. What could it mean?”
How is it that the narrator’s voice is comforting in the fact it’s almost always the same, yet the building is eerie for that same trait? Stanley doesn’t understand, but he has forever to think about it so he doesn’t dwell on it too long, he’s not in the mood to think right now.
Stanley’s mind starts to blank a little as he rounds the corner, entering into the room with the Bucket in. How Stanley was thankful when he first found it. Stanley stands still for a moment to admire it. The carved stone pillar, the top designed with some rope-like detailing and magnificent swirls on the stone that stand out prominently. It is a glorious pillar, the only thing worthy of holding the Bucket. Well, almost the only thing worthy of holding the Bucket. The soft velvet cushion under the Bucket is also worthy, Stanley supposes, the golden tassels a testament to the royal glory of the bucket. The gentle give of the cushions gentle against the bucket’s metal.
And Stanely hadn’t even started to appreciate the Bucket yet! It’s metallic gleam, the sturdy ridges on its side. It’s the metal handle a glorious circle standing up proudly at a 90 degree angle from it’s rim, the actual wooden grip at the top of the handle smooth with slight divots to make holding it a pleasurable experience. Stanley can hardly dare to touch it, lest he mar it’s surface. But the stickers on it’s surface reassure Stanley of his right to hold the Bucket, as it proclaims itself to be property of Stanley. Did the Bucket come with those stickers or did something else put them on, was it the Narrator? Stanley can’t remember but he finds he doesn’t care, all he feels is a deep longing for the Bucket.
But Stanley stakes a few more moments to truly appreciate the Bucket’s glory. Time have no meaning for him after all. Though, the Narrator does not seem to share that sentiment.
“Stanley felt the bucket calling to him, begging him to pick it up.”
“Why was he not doing it?”
Stanley felt a pang of immeasurable guilt tug at his heart. Why had he not picked the Bucket up? He spent all this time looking at the Bucket, admiring it. But never once did he stop to consider how the Bucket feels. Such a thought greatly saddened Stanley and he couldn’t bare to leave the bucket without the warmth of a human embrace for much longer.
Stanley takes the Bucket into his arms, hugging it to his chest. The Narrator’s voice rang out, as if sharing his joy on holding the Bucket in his arms.
“It’s bucket time!”
Stanley just stood there, embracing the Bucket. He can feel the cold metal against his skin, rejuvenating him from his mental fatigue. Whatever headache he had vanishing as if it had never existed at all. He looks down into the Bucket, looking at the curvature of it’s side and the round base of it. It is quite a reasonably sized Bucket, a perfect size for Stanley to fit his head inside, it looks to be … welcoming.
In that one moment Stanley feels an overwhelming urge to put the Bucket on his head. The darkness he craves, perhaps it can be found in the Bucket’s embrace. Could he truly defile his precious Bucket in such a way? Yes. It turns out he could.
Stanley turns the Bucket upside down and starts to lift it over his head. The Narrator reacts, Stanley can’t remember the Narrator saying this before but he is too enthralled by the Bucket to notice the wrongness present.
“S-Stanley? What are you doing? You’re not meant to be doing this.”
Stanley shows no meaningful reaction to the Narrator and just stares into the abyss that is the Bucket’s inside. It seems to be getting darker somehow, Stanley feels a thrill go through him.
“Stanley, this isn’t in the script. Don’t do this.”
“I don’t know what will happen and can’t protect you from it.”
“Stanley? Just take a moment to think about this.”
Stanley ignores the Narrator, placing the Bucket on his head. For a moment it is bliss, with the cool Bucket surrounding his head so entirely and the pure blackness as he closes his eyes within the Bucket. For a moment the only disruption to the peace is the incessant blathering of the Narrator.
“Wha- Stanley! Take. It. Off.”
“I know you can hear me Stanley.”
“Really? You’re not going to listen?”
Stanley cannot understand why the Narrator seems so against him wearing the Bucket. It seems so comfortable looking and the Bucket is always so reassuring in Stanley's arms. How many times more reassuring would it be if Stanley were to wear it on his head? He can hardly imagine the amount of bliss such an act would surely give him. Stanley cannot think of a single reason not to wear the Bucket as a hat, such an act could only improve his wellbeing.
“I’m trying to help you Stanley, why can’t you see that?”
“Stanley, You can’t trust the bucket, please.”
“Please, Stanley you don’t understand.”
Stanley ignores the Narrator, nothing but annoyed by his rambling pleads. He just adjusts the Bucket's position until he can feel the Bucket's approval, until he gets it right. Then a pain shoots through the back of his skull, a sticky warmth dripping down his neck. The Narrator has gone quiet, or has he? Stanley can't hear the buzzing of the ceiling lights anymore. Can Stanley hear at all? Stanley doesn't think so. Stanley opens his eyes but it’s black, the Bucket is still on his head. Stanley pushes one hand up to the rim of the bucket, resting on his shoulders, and pushes up. The pain worsens and the Bucket doesn’t move. But then Stanley starts to lose sensation, the blackness of a reset taking over, the familiar darkness coming back to him.
Usually, the Narrator does not let Stanley feel the pain of his deaths, so why this time did the Narrator not take that pain away? Did something about putting the Bucket in his head stop that? But Stanley doesn’t think for long, his thoughts fading away into the darkness of the reset, he can always think about it later.