Maybe he'd imagined the whole thing, Brett wondered.

Lauren was back at her bracelet, seemingly back to normal. 

The darkness then, it was all his. 

He padded back to his hole with four walls and curled up on the bed, squeezing his eyes shut tight before he opened them wide again, to make sure he wasn't just seeing things.

He wasn't. Still pitch black. But the little light by the bathroom that was usually on in the night wasn't glowing green like it usually was. Somehow, this furthered Brett's notion that he was going quite insane. He looked at the black bubble which housed the camera for the peeping. 

Somehow, in the dark, he could see himself in it, and how crazy he did look, scrunched up like a fetus, clutching his blankets. If they saw him like this, they would be concerned. He didn't want them to be concerned. So he picked up the book he'd been reading and tried to read it. The words on the page squiggled around like little worms. He couldn't make out any of the letters. There wasn't enough light to allow him to enter the story again.

Frustrated, he tossed the book on the bed. It bounced and then lay there, dead.

Or maybe it was only playing dead. 

What the fuck kind of delusion was that? The book was playing dead? Throughout all his depression, he'd never anthropomorphized random objects lying about. This was a new symptom, his assigning evil intentions to a harmless tool for entertainment. But once he got it into his head, that's all he could see, a vehicle for chaos and misery. Maybe it was even causing the darkness around him. Because that's what books do, right? Color the world in various shades of meaning. A happy scene could put him in a good mood. A tragic scene could bring him to tears. And this book.. well, this book meant him harm.

He inched away from it slowly, never taking his eyes off the cover. He was at the edge of the bed now with no more room to put between them. How would it look if he carried the book by the tips of his fingers back into the common room and shoved it back on the shelf like the evil thing he believed it was? But the longer he pondered the situation, the more useless his position seemed. He had to get away from it. 

Finally he slid off the bed and went to the bathroom, giving it a wide berth and watching it every second. He grabbed a clean washcloth and returned to the bed, carefully wrapping it around the book so he could pick it up without touching the unbearable pages. On his way into the common area, he tried to hide it behind him so there would be no questions.

But nothing got past Cheryl. 

"Whatchya doin' there, Brett?"

Everyone turned to look at him. Ashamed, he showed her the book, so tightly wrapped in white cotton. Her brow tucked down in concern. 

"Is everything okay?"

"Yes, yes, it's fine. I just... dropped it in the sink, that's all." He preferred them to think him careless rather than certifiable. Even Lauren looked afraid. He turned away from them and transferred the book back to the shelf and removed the washcloth. "I didn't mean to interrupt you all and your bracelet-making." Without making eye contact with anyone, he returned to his room and lay back on his bed, assessing the damage done with the encounter.

It was light again. He could see.

But within a few moments, there was a knock on his door. In came Sheryl, into his personal space. He wanted to shout at her to get out, but nothing would come out of his mouth. He felt as though he'd swallowed his tongue. He couldn't breathe. 

"Brett?" she said softly, holding the book out to him. "It isn't wet. You didn't damage it."

When he saw it, he shook his head, too terrified to reply. Somehow the book had gotten her on its side and found a way back into his room. The room dimmed noticeably. A terrible nausea stirred in his stomach. 

"Is it that bad of a book?" she joked. She came closer to his bed, and he was afraid she was going to sit next to him with that, that thing.  

"Please take it away," he pleaded, giving up the ruse. "I don't want it around me."

"Why is that, Brett?" Her tone was gentle but firm. 

"I'll sound crazy if I tell you why."

The room was heating up, and the air between them seemed to be wavering, all the book's doing, he imagined. 

"I can't help you if you won't talk to me," she wheedled. 

The seconds ticked by. It was a standoff. She wouldn't leave until he gave her what she wanted, and he wouldn't explain that the book was trying to hurt him. 

Suddenly, a loophole. "It's Christian fiction," he explained. 

She waited for him to go on. 

"I didn't realize it when I picked it up. My... my mom was a Christian," she said. When in doubt, always tell medical personnel about your mother. "It brought back some painful memories."

Cheryl examined the book, then turned to look back at him. "But the washcloth?"

There was just no getting around this one. "I didn't want to touch it."

She seemed to accept this explanation, though it was clear she didn't like it. But it was enough to get her to leave his room, and more importantly to take the book away. 

She didn't tell him. She didn't need to. The whole episode was going into his file.