Underwater [Alice Wake/Alan Wake]
Everything and everyone is made out of a word made out of many words. An all-encompassing expression, a term which creates what has been not created.
Alice is a word out of many words falling away from its nature—for she could never escape a paragraph wherein she has been shaped out of. Fingers wrote her; a hand thought her character; from the thought inward is the mind; and the mind remembers the feeling out of its soul.
Alan is a blurred face across waves of an ocean. She sees him: in her madness-inducing fear, in eyes filled with tears, in the memories she cannot wring herself out of. He is there in the middle of darkness. He is a perfectly framed picture, because he cannot be anything else but.
Is it not curious, this change in roles? Alice falls but never reaches the bottom. She’s suspended in this past-future rupture of a present, a halve of her heart wanting to save and another wanting to end, both regretting and spilling in love sentences cannot convey. Is it not paradoxical, to be a word without meaning? Alice should be a piece from a bigger whole of Alan’s own making, but placeless, she prefers to define the undefinable: whispering the memory of her pain as the man which may never return, and seeing how he stares at her with the same tenderness as if never lost.
Alice surfaces from her bathtub, runs a hand over her hair, and hears her name echo across the hall of her empty apartment.