Chương 182: Book Five, Chapter 85: Last-call Return

~Antoine~ The forest was endless, but I ran anyway. The trees bent and swayed unnaturally, their shadows clawing at me like they were alive. My paws tore at the ground, but no matter how far I went, the air clung to me, thick and heavy. The wolf snarled in the back of my mind, restless and wild, but I forced it down, forcing myself forward. Forward to where? I didn't know. I had messed up; I had ruined everything. They had talked about shame, heck, I had talked about a young wolf's shame, and I knew best.

It took everything I had not to wring myself into a knot just thinking about my shame. I was cursed. I was a monster. I was broken. It was my fault. No, the wolf said in my mind. Just let me take over. It will all blow away. I can run fast. I can run faster than the shame. I fought the urge to just let it win. It felt like I was fighting gravity. Eventually, gravity wins. Always. I still ran. My mind was weary, but my legs were not. The world twisted as I went along. Was I losing my mind, or was it losing me?

The trees began to shimmer, their bark sliding into the shape of smooth wooden beams. Hallucinations. Just like old times. The underbrush curled and darkened, becoming carpet underfoot. The scents of dirt and pine dissolved into something sharper—lemon cleaner and old upholstery. A sound broke through the woods, a faint ringing, high-pitched and insistent. My ears twitched toward it. What is that? The wolf didn't know. I stopped running. I stopped fighting. I needed to see this.

The ringing grew louder, sharper, joined by the flickering of light. Between the trees, shapes began to emerge—solid shapes, angular and familiar. A chair appeared first, then a couch. Beyond it, the static glow of a television flickered. The wolf growled, uneasy, but I pushed it down and stumbled closer. This was the place I went in my mind when I really wanted to hate myself. On-Screen. No! Not On-Screen. Don't show the audience this. Don't show… Riley.

As I approached, the ringing turned into the unmistakable chime of a phone. A corded house phone. The shapes solidified, snapping into place, and there it was: my living room. Not just any living room. My living room. The one I hadn't seen in years but knew in every detail.

The scuffed coffee table my mom had "resurfaced," the well-worn leather couch with the cigarette burn in the arm that my dad insisted was there to let the air out of the cushions when you sat down, the little television perched precariously on the old TV stand. It shouldn't have been here. Not in the woods. Not ever again. The air shimmered; there were no walls, no ceiling. The furniture stood alone, surrounded by trees that crept impossibly close, as if the forest were trying to consume the scene but couldn't.

The wolf stirred inside me, pacing, growling low and uncertain. This scared him more than silver. The phone rang again. It sat on the coffee table, old and beige, the cord coiled like a snake. My fur bristled as I took another step forward. I had to watch. This was my punishment. The sound of muffled crying broke the tension. My head snapped toward the couch. Two figures were there now. My mother, her face buried in her hands, shoulders shaking.

Beside her sat my father, his fists clenched on his knees, his face red and twisted with anger. It's not them. I knew it wasn't. They were NPCs. In the Straggler Forest, it wasn't like this. There, it was all in my head. Here, Carousel was reenacting my worst memory with NPCs. But I couldn't stop myself from stepping closer, pulled by something deeper than fear. Farther away, I saw the staircase. It shouldn't have been there—it had no place in the middle of the woods—but it rose in the distance, dark and familiar.

On the steps, half-hidden in shadow was me. A smaller NPC version of me, fourteen years old, hunched down with wide eyes, peering at the adults below. He didn't notice me—or couldn't. The wolf howled inside me, restless. This isn't real! it screamed, but its voice was drowned by the sharp ring of the phone. It is real, you stupid wolf. It is real and everlasting. My mother reached for the phone, her trembling hand lifting the receiver. Her movements were jerky and mechanical.

She put it to her ear and, after a few moments, said, "It's Christian." Her voice cracked, thick with tears. She really did sound like my mother. The look wasn't far off either. Christian. The name hit me like a stone, and I stumbled back. The wolf growled, confused, but I couldn't look away. The scene unfolded as if it had been waiting for me. It was my memory of the call. The call that changed everything. The room darkened. The staircase loomed. The figures moved, their voices rising in frantic urgency.

The wolf snarled, unsure whether to attack or run, but I couldn't move. The ringing faded, replaced by a thin voice on the other end of the phone. This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it I could hear it coming out of the handset because my ears were oh so large. It was Christian's voice, but it wasn't him. And I knew— I knew —this was wrong. But I kept watching. The room tilted as I watched, the edges of the furniture blurring and shifting like shadows underwater.

My parents—the knockoff-parents —came into focus. My mother sat hunched on the couch, the phone pressed tightly to her ear. Her sobs broke the air, jagged and raw. My father paced back and forth, his heavy boots thudding on the floor that shouldn't exist, his face red with barely contained fury. His voice rose, sharp and accusing, but I couldn't make out the words. The air rippled, and the room pulsed, like it was breathing.

He was in middle management, but he dressed like a bricklayer on his days off, just like my grandad had.

"Put him on speaker!" he barked, the words suddenly clear. My mother obeyed, her hands trembling as she pressed a button. The phone's tinny speaker buzzed, and then I heard it. Christian's voice. My brother's voice. But it wasn't his voice. Not really. It sure fooled us then though.

"I'm not coming back," the voice said, hollow and distant. It carried the sound of something else beneath it, something oily and slick that I could almost smell.

"I've found a new home." The words coiled around my chest, squeezing tight. The wolf stirred, uneasy, but I silenced it. Listen, I thought. Just listen. Why was this On-Screen? What was Carousel doing? And then I realized… Carousel was going to take my worst memory and cut it up and make it my character's backstory. My character's brother got himself bitten by a wolf. My real brother got trapped by Carousel. The little boy who lost his brother. That was me in every story.

"Christian, you don't mean that!" my mother cried, her hands clutching at her chest.

"Please, come home. We can fix this."

"Fix it?" my father snapped, his voice full of venom.

"Do you know what you're throwing away, boy? All the work we put in! All the sacrifices! You're ruining everything!" In the corner, by the stairs, I saw myself—young Antoine—hunched over, trying to make himself smaller. His wide eyes darted between the adults, his fingers digging into the worn carpet. I could see the tension in his jaw and the way he held his breath to avoid making a sound. Across the room, a well-dressed third figure spoke, and as soon as he did, we went Off-Screen just for his lines.

We called him my Uncle, but he wasn't. He was Chris' sports agent, and Chris was his meal ticket. Or he would have been if Chris hadn't gotten trapped here. He stood by the television, arms crossed, his voice calm but calculated.

"Christian," he said smoothly, "we've already got scouts lined up. They're expecting you. You don't get another chance like this. Come back before you ruin your entire future."

"No," Christian said.

"You don't get it. I never wanted that future. Not the scouts. Not the games. Not any of it. I've made my decision. I'm not coming back. Not now. Not ever." Back On-Screen. The room went still. The silence pressed in, heavy and suffocating. The wolf clawed at my mind, restless, but I kept it quiet. He didn't like this. If I had to see it, so did he.

"You're throwing your life away!" my father roared, his voice cracking.

"Don't you ever say you never wanted this life! We gave this to you!" Christian's voice on the phone didn't waver. It didn't crack. It was cold, unfeeling, the edge of something monstrous in its calmness.

"I don't want it. And I don't want to see you again. Any of you." The room pulsed again, darker now, as though the shadows were swallowing it whole. My mother's sobs turned into static. My father's anger dissolved into smoke. My "uncle" melted into a dark smear. Only the phone remained, the faint hum of the line echoing. And then there was silence. When the room returned, it was empty. Just the old, broken furniture and the faint hum of the television. No adults. No argument.

Only young Antoine remained, sitting on the carpet, his small fingers fiddling with the phone. His wide eyes were determined now, focused as he pressed the buttons on the machine. He pressed the buttons for * 6 9. Last-call return. My parents didn't know about it or didn't remember. It was a way to dial the number of someone who called you before caller ID. The line clicked, and Christian's voice came through again. But this time, it wasn't an argument. It wasn't shouting. It was quiet. Too quiet.

And I couldn't look away. The room was suffocating now, the air thick with something unspoken, unseen. The television's glow flickered weakly, the only light left in the shapeless void. Young Antoine sat cross-legged on the floor, the phone cradled in his lap. His small fingers gripped the receiver tightly as he leaned in, his voice barely a whisper.

"Chris?" he asked, his tone trembling with a mix of hope and fear.

"I'm here," Christian's voice replied, smooth and steady. But it wasn't Christian. It was never Chris. I had been tricked. The wolf growled inside me, restless. I knew the truth now. It was Carousel, imitating my brother's voice.

"I have a game next week," young me said, his voice picking up energy.

"You should come. Mom and Dad haven't been going since you left." The line crackled faintly. There was a pause, long enough to feel like a blade about to come down.

"I can't," Christian's voice finally said, soft but firm.

"I can't do that." Young Antoine's small shoulders slumped, but he didn't give up.

"Then… can I come live with you? Please?" The wolf inside me bristled, pacing, growling. In my mind, I screamed, No. Don't ask that. Don't say that! But the boy on the floor didn't hear me. He leaned closer to the phone, his hope stubborn and unyielding.

"You don't mean that," Christian said, his tone sharper now. There was something dark beneath it, slithering in the pauses.

"You don't know what you're asking."

"Yes, I do," young Antoine said, his voice firm, his little hands clutching the phone like a lifeline.

"I hate it here. I want to come with you." A heavy silence followed. Even the forest seemed to hold its breath. The room around me flickered again, threatening to dissolve into the shadows, but the phone stayed solid, real.

"You're too young," Christian finally said.

"Maybe when you're older." Young Antoine's face fell, but he didn't let go of the phone.

"Promise me," he said, his voice breaking just slightly.

"Promise you'll come get me."

"Are you sure?" Christian asked, his tone softening as though he cared. As though there was still a piece of my brother somewhere in the voice. But I knew better.

"I'm sure," young Antoine said, nodding, though there was no one there to see it. The line hissed softly, and then Christian said, "Okay. When you're older, I'll reach out to you. It is your choice, after all. I love you, buddy." Young Antoine smiled, small and hesitant, and the room began to dissolve. The furniture faded first, turning to ash and smoke that swirled around the boy. The television blinked out, its glow replaced by the cold silver light of the moon.

The phone fell from his hands, disappearing before it hit the ground. The boy looked up, his wide eyes locking onto mine. For a moment, we stared at each other—man and child, wolf and boy. His lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came. And then he, too, faded into the shadows, leaving me alone in the forest once more. The wolf surged forward, trying to take control again, but I shoved it back, snarling at the emptiness. The forest was still. The air was cold.

And somewhere, deep in the darkness, Carousel was laughing. I ran. It was my fault. All of it. I had gotten everyone trapped here. I had asked for it. Then, the voice I had been suppressing for so long spoke to me in the night. This, too, can be blown away in the wind, the wolf said. I wanted it to be true. I wanted the wolf to eat through the guilt and the shame and the pressure and let me sink down into nothingness.

I wanted to look up at the moon from the bottom of the pit and see nothing else, remember nothing else. Could it be possible? There were only bad memories in the Straggler Forest. But this was a different forest. I could just give in. No one would know. I would be free of it all. But even if freedom came, it would only be for a while. It would only be until we beat the storyline. The wolf would be gone. It couldn't protect me any longer once we got to The End.

Victory would be a hard yank on the leash of a running dog. If we won the storyline, even the wolf couldn't save me. If we won. If.