This is it, my friends, foes, and other readers: the final chapter of Socks. Fresh out of a video game binge with my brothers, I’m fully pumped up for what is sure to be one of the most idiotic chapters I have read in my life.
It was midnight of the next day, or so I’m told, that I truly woke up from the fairy puberty or whatever it was. Abbey tried to explain everything to me while I was still waking up, so I didn’t remember most of it.
Well, isn’t that convenient, G? Now you don’t have to explain all of that to us. You could have had a situation where the readers know something the characters don’t and created some suspense that way, but of course you had to take the easy road out.
Abbey, Tim and I were in a cold, heavily locked room in the basement of the Lab. The only furniture inside of the room was a thin mattress.
( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
“I’m sorry that I have to heap this all on you two,” Abbey slowly said, “but the other day, when I was walking around the building, I took a wrong turn into a room. Before I was pushed out and the door locked behind me, I saw that Tomorrow was trying to make a freak that was telepathic, or can hear people’s thoughts.
How exactly do you know this if you only saw a little bit before you were no doubt kicked out? Did you overhear them saying exactly that? And anyways, I think they know that “telepathic” means.
She knew that you two could do that, and she desperately wanted a freak that could do that as well. She desperately wants you two back, and she’ll do anything to accomplish that.”
Again, how do you know this? Explain, Abbey.
“But what does that mean for us?” I asked. “It’s not like Tim and I can just stop thinking. Nobody in both worlds can do that.”
There was silence in the room for a couple of minutes.
“I have a solution, but I fear it’s not the best.” Abbey pulled out a thin piece of metal with a bunch of short needles sticking out of it and handed it to me.
Because drugs fix everything.
“I’ve made a little device thingy that, when you press it onto the back of somebody’s neck, will just stop all conscious thought within a couple of minutes. It works beautifully. And, then, when it is taken off, they regain their senses within another couple of minutes.”
I don’t think that’s how the nervous system works. And how does the device distinguish between conscious and unconscious thought? Wouldn’t just putting them into stasis work better?
“When are you going to do this?”
“In a couple of minutes. The sooner the better. Oh, and by the way, your new name is Mriri.”
“How long are we going to be like this?” All I wanted to do was ask questions.
“As long as it takes for me to-” There was a boom outside, and then I heard a crash outside.
“One last moment,” Abbey quickly said. “Just have one last moment with Timothy, just in case it’s the last.” Abbey looked about ready to cry.
I’m not one to advocate for drugs, but my point about sedation still stands. And seriously? You really want that suggestive of a sentence to be the last thing your niece hears, Abbey? Why are you even suggesting such things? Whatever happened to your self-respect? I thought that, since you helped Algeria escape last time, you would have some sort of magical plan this time. And where’s Emma? Couldn’t she just swoop in and fix all of this?
TL;DR I’m angry at G for wasting such a good concept for a book. Damn, I think after Me Before You (previously known as The Lilyborn) I’ll make another Socks, one much better than any of this worthless drivel.
Over the last 8 months, ever since I fell from somewhere into Emma’s street on that rainy day and just about broke my leg, Emma has been spiraling into eccentricity. She’s been getting crazier every day. Not that it’s a bad thing, but it means that since that event Emma and I were no longer the same.
Honey, you and Emma were never the same. From conception to grave, you two will always be different.
I am much different today than the innocent girl who walked into a cherry orchard about 9 months ago.
That girl’s name was Algeria Maximilla Radine-Fisher.
My name is Mriri Amelia Lluckifdepahoki.
Thank you for that info dump, you contrived waste of ink.
Tim looked at me, understanding that even though we are not related by blood in any way at all, I have taken his last name as my own. Something in me says that he is the person I will be spending my life with. I cannot wait for the far-away day of my 21st birthday to us to start our lives together.
All sorts of thoughts are racing through my head now, like will I ever wake up again and will I ever be in love and where did everybody else go. Tim and I are leaning towards each other as we read each other’s thoughts, possibly the last thoughts of our lives and-
His lips are so soft.
G, you had the chance to write a closing sentence so profound that it would make up for the sheer idiocy of this entire waste of time and effort, and you chose to go with “His lips are so soft”? I suppose that would make sense in a romance novel, but I thought this was science fiction with a smattering of autistic dreams induced by three straight nights of insomnia?
Son, I am disappoint. So, in true Vane Vander fashion, I am going to take this pile of manure and make it the best novel anybody has ever seen. Throw out all the pre-TPI canon that hasn’t been canon for a damn long time and go back to the drawing board with the original concept- abused girl coming to terms that her entire world is a figment of imagination inside someone else’s head, and when she comes down to their world, whoever controls her controls their entire universe.
Your socks just got upgraded.