Very heavy trigger warnings for suicide, self-harm, a little bit of dissociation, and general mental instability. Stanley is... well, honestly, he's not really a fucked up little guy any more. He's mostly just very tired and detached. (And sad, although he doesn't really register it.)

Again and again and again and over again-

So many times. Resets making his mind foggy, rearranging his memories. Had there been anything before this? Did he have friends? Family? Hobbies? If he had, he couldn't remember. Could barely have remembered his own name, if the voice didn't repeat it every five minutes.

Yes. The voice was getting quiet. Hardly spoke anymore. It wasn't like he needed to. It never changed anything.

Never, never, never. Nothing ever changed. The same endings, repeating and blurring together and fading into background noise. They were all the same.

Until it did. He bumped into the door frame and felt something new.

It took him a long moment to realize it was there, and another to remember the name for it. Pain. This was pain. He glanced down at his shoulder.

This was familiar. From earlier, much earlier. He had vague memories of falling, falling, falling, and then breaking.

The voice desperately asking why, and flatly mocking him. And then, a little later, confusion and concern.

Long gone. The paths weren't there any more. He had tried. Succeeded once, and then failed again and again until he finally gave up.

The voice forced his attention back to the present. "Stanley?" He seemed hesitant.

No answer. It wasn't like he could, but even so, he didn't react. Just rubbed his shoulder and thought silently.

Something new. His mind was scattered, hard to think with, but that kept his attention. The pain kept him here, in the office. Out of his rotting mind.

What if he found more? More pain, more ways to hurt himself? Could he jump and fall again? Maybe something even worse?

What about the voice? Would he react? Would he do or say something new?

For the first time in a very, very long time, Stanley smiled.