Not Murphy himself (though, all things considered, he feels as if he's very well about to). It's difficult enough to pull himself together. To keep himself from falling apart at the seams. He shivers and shakes himself awake.
This definitely isn't Kansas anymore, that's for damn sure. Any memory he's had of his home is now gone. He's lying down on something hard. While the pain is still real, he doesn't feel the injuries from before cover his entire body.
How long he's been out of it, he's got no idea. For several minutes, he lays there, worrying if he can even see at all -- it's so dark.
At some point, he takes notice to something swinging nearby.
It's a noose.
That's when Murphy finally sits upright from what appears to be a cot, sans the mattress. He was then greeted to a homely space. Three walls, and prison bars. He looks down, only to discover that his sleeves are different... No, not just his sleeves. His entire clothes fucking changed again. The shirt and jeans are gone, replaced by a jumpsuit with a prison number printed across the side of his chest and leg. From what he remembers, he is wearing the colors from the Overlook Penitentiary--
"No, oh God no..." This isn't happening. It can't. He's been through all of this. 'Free'. Right? But when Murphy stands up and moves to the prison bars, they're real. So real, they're cold when he touches them. This time, they don't move to release him from his terrible living space.
It's different now. There's no Frank in a wheelchair to help guide him out of his personal Hell, because Frank is dead and gone. No mysterious release to unlock him from his cell, setting him loose to face the other horrors that this place has to offer. He's given a wide view beyond his cell. However, there's not much to look at. The cell blocks are silent, accompanied only by the creaking sound of rusty metal and distant running waters. Way out there is a clear view of the guard tower. So far, but when there are solid bars between you and a possible escape, distance doesn't seem to matter for shit anymore.
There's not even a way out, when Murphy gives his space a closer inspection. Black fluids secrete from the walls, draining across the cell floor and into the main hall. Background noise was accompanied the constant dripping sound from the plumbing and the sink. There's also a ventilation shaft, which lets out a soft breeze of cool air. It has to lead somewhere, he's sure of it. When he checks out and even attempts to pry the bars covering the ventilation system, he doesn't even make a bit of progress.
"Great... Now what?"
Far as he can tell, there's no escape at all.
From elsewhere, Murphy hears the disembodied sound of something tripping. The cell blocks echo with the guttural death throes of a person choking to death.
Murphy hurries back towards the front gate, slamming himself against them and crying out between the prison bars: "Hello! Can somebody hear me?! Hello, is someone... is someone th... there...?"
He stops and stumbles away from the bars, and looks down. The water from the outside begins to pour its way inward. Murphy watches this, stumbling backwards until he hits the other side of the wall. Even then, the fluids keep on backwards-draining, until they climb up the concrete.
As Murphy looks up, he sees that the rope is now swinging on its own. Behind it, a shadow fills in the empty space. A hanging body sways in midair, though not one that can be so plainly seen.
"What...?"
What the hell is he looking at?
For some time, he stands there in the corner, almost hoping for something to happen. Little by little, the hanged man in the wall begins to fade away.
Gripping a handful of hair, Murphy shakes his head and sighs. "C'mon man, you're losin' it. You're losin' it... You gotta think. Just think..." What could have happened? Why was he here? What--
Murder's a mortal sin.
Then it dons on him.
"Shit, Carol..."
You go to Hell for murder!
"Oh Jesus, what've I...?"
Suddenly, the remains of his actions leading up to this point makes sense. Still grabbing his head, Murphy moves back and forth in his cell. The small space is all he has to move in, as he brings himself back to the memory of his wife's face. His hands on her throat. Watching her life fade and her skin go cold. Carol, his wife, his best friend... who started looking at him with hatred and blame long after Charlie was gone.
He tried. He really, really did. But no matter how many 'head doctors' they had ever gone to, none of them could ever convince her to stop looking at Murphy that way since their son was murdered. How she regarded him in even the most casual of conversations with snappish retorts. Christ, half of their arguments had been over such asinine, mundane bullshit that Murphy can't bring himself to remember what they were about anymore. It's all another time, another life. If one thing remains far clearer than any picture he's ever seen, however, it was the words his wife had said to him after Charlie was born...
I don't know what to do.
Just be a good father to our son. That's all I ask, Murphy.
Murphy was so scared back then. Terrified of screwing up, of failing. It was exactly as Carol had said... He did fail. He failed his wife, he failed his son, and nothing he could ever do would be able to undo the things he'd done.
It's not your fault.
How can he ever accept that? They're just four words, spoken by something that wasn't even really his son. It should be enough, but it wasn't. So then, when would it ever start to be enough?
Maybe he should stop lying to himself. That's what the moral of this all is, right? That's how it works? There's supposed to be something he has to finish. Well, case closed, it should be over now, right?
When Murphy looks up, the cell door remains sealed tight.
{Are You Dead Or Are You Sleeping? | Part I.}
Not Murphy himself (though, all things considered, he feels as if he's very well about to). It's difficult enough to pull himself together. To keep himself from falling apart at the seams. He shivers and shakes himself awake.
This definitely isn't Kansas anymore, that's for damn sure. Any memory he's had of his home is now gone. He's lying down on something hard. While the pain is still real, he doesn't feel the injuries from before cover his entire body.
How long he's been out of it, he's got no idea. For several minutes, he lays there, worrying if he can even see at all -- it's so dark.
At some point, he takes notice to something swinging nearby.
It's a noose.
That's when Murphy finally sits upright from what appears to be a cot, sans the mattress. He was then greeted to a homely space. Three walls, and prison bars. He looks down, only to discover that his sleeves are different... No, not just his sleeves. His entire clothes fucking changed again. The shirt and jeans are gone, replaced by a jumpsuit with a prison number printed across the side of his chest and leg. From what he remembers, he is wearing the colors from the Overlook Penitentiary--
"No, oh God no..." This isn't happening. It can't. He's been through all of this. 'Free'. Right? But when Murphy stands up and moves to the prison bars, they're real. So real, they're cold when he touches them. This time, they don't move to release him from his terrible living space.
It's different now. There's no Frank in a wheelchair to help guide him out of his personal Hell, because Frank is dead and gone. No mysterious release to unlock him from his cell, setting him loose to face the other horrors that this place has to offer. He's given a wide view beyond his cell. However, there's not much to look at. The cell blocks are silent, accompanied only by the creaking sound of rusty metal and distant running waters. Way out there is a clear view of the guard tower. So far, but when there are solid bars between you and a possible escape, distance doesn't seem to matter for shit anymore.
There's not even a way out, when Murphy gives his space a closer inspection. Black fluids secrete from the walls, draining across the cell floor and into the main hall. Background noise was accompanied the constant dripping sound from the plumbing and the sink. There's also a ventilation shaft, which lets out a soft breeze of cool air. It has to lead somewhere, he's sure of it. When he checks out and even attempts to pry the bars covering the ventilation system, he doesn't even make a bit of progress.
"Great... Now what?"
Far as he can tell, there's no escape at all.
From elsewhere, Murphy hears the disembodied sound of something tripping. The cell blocks echo with the guttural death throes of a person choking to death.
Murphy hurries back towards the front gate, slamming himself against them and crying out between the prison bars: "Hello! Can somebody hear me?! Hello, is someone... is someone th... there...?"
He stops and stumbles away from the bars, and looks down. The water from the outside begins to pour its way inward. Murphy watches this, stumbling backwards until he hits the other side of the wall. Even then, the fluids keep on backwards-draining, until they climb up the concrete.
As Murphy looks up, he sees that the rope is now swinging on its own. Behind it, a shadow fills in the empty space. A hanging body sways in midair, though not one that can be so plainly seen.
"What...?"
What the hell is he looking at?
For some time, he stands there in the corner, almost hoping for something to happen. Little by little, the hanged man in the wall begins to fade away.
Gripping a handful of hair, Murphy shakes his head and sighs. "C'mon man, you're losin' it. You're losin' it... You gotta think. Just think..." What could have happened? Why was he here? What--
Murder's a mortal sin.
Then it dons on him.
"Shit, Carol..."
You go to Hell for murder!
"Oh Jesus, what've I...?"
Suddenly, the remains of his actions leading up to this point makes sense. Still grabbing his head, Murphy moves back and forth in his cell. The small space is all he has to move in, as he brings himself back to the memory of his wife's face. His hands on her throat. Watching her life fade and her skin go cold. Carol, his wife, his best friend... who started looking at him with hatred and blame long after Charlie was gone.
He tried. He really, really did. But no matter how many 'head doctors' they had ever gone to, none of them could ever convince her to stop looking at Murphy that way since their son was murdered. How she regarded him in even the most casual of conversations with snappish retorts. Christ, half of their arguments had been over such asinine, mundane bullshit that Murphy can't bring himself to remember what they were about anymore. It's all another time, another life. If one thing remains far clearer than any picture he's ever seen, however, it was the words his wife had said to him after Charlie was born...
I don't know what to do.
Just be a good father to our son. That's all I ask, Murphy.
Murphy was so scared back then. Terrified of screwing up, of failing. It was exactly as Carol had said... He did fail. He failed his wife, he failed his son, and nothing he could ever do would be able to undo the things he'd done.
It's not your fault.
How can he ever accept that? They're just four words, spoken by something that wasn't even really his son. It should be enough, but it wasn't. So then, when would it ever start to be enough?
Maybe he should stop lying to himself. That's what the moral of this all is, right? That's how it works? There's supposed to be something he has to finish. Well, case closed, it should be over now, right?
When Murphy looks up, the cell door remains sealed tight.
Nothing changes.
I never want to see you again.