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PRELUDE - Harry du Bois was not a hugger. He wasn't even a very touchy person in general. He didn't normal hug, he didn't "bro hug", he didn't do super elaborate handshakes. He didn't linger to hold a lover, he didn't do partner dancing. Dora had resented him for all of that.
What he didn't tell anyone was how it made his throat close up, and his hands shake, and his adrenal glands start working over time. Touch (and, sometimes attraction) scared him on a primal level. It was a fight against his very nervous system any time anyone's hands lingered a little too long.
YOU - Hunched over the cold porcelain of a toilet seat, you hurl your guts out.
PAIN THRESHOLD - It's not withdrawal sickness, we won't be here for long.
COMPOSURE - Actually, we might be. That nightmare fucked you up pretty bad. You can still feel the hands on you.
INLAND EMPIRE - That was not a nightmare. It was a memory.
YOU - What? No, that didn't happen.
LOGIC - If it did, it'd be a flashback. It would explain some things.
ENCYCLOPEDIA - Flashbacks can often manifest in dream form. It's not out of the realm of possibility.
HALF-LIGHT - It did happen. You feel the fear in your bones.
EMPATHY - You could mourn for that kid. For yourself. Someone has got to.
INLAND EMPIRE - It is the loneliest feeling in the world.
YOU - You wash your mouth out with water and mouthwash, and sit on the bathroom floor. It seems only suitable for this emotion.
PERCEPTION - The leaky faucet continues to drip even after you turn it off.
EMPATHY - Are we going to talk about it?
YOU - I'm not sure I want to. I feel disgusting.
ENCYCLOPEDIA - That's normal. According to your training, up to 95% of victims of childhood sexual assault feel that way.
HALF-LIGHT - He doesn't fucking want statistics.
ENCYCLOPEDIA - Sorry. I was just trying to help.
EMPATHY - In what world does "don't worry, that's normal" help with feeling a deep grossness inside?
YOU - You guys arguing isn't helping, either.
EMPATHY - Sorry.
YOU - You let your head fall between your knees. The cold tile of the bathroom floor is your only solace.
INLAND EMPIRE - You are an island with horror etched into your soul.
SHIVERS - Wind comes in through your open window.
YOU - Tilt your head up and feel the breeze.
SHIVERS - On the other side of the city, a young woman sits awake, leaving a heated voice memo for her therapist. Her voice shakes with the horror. Somewhere else, an old man takes some of his old clothes, much too small for him now, and burns them, and their horror infected fabric, in a dumpster fire.
YOU - Why are you telling me this?
SHIVERS - Elsewhere still, a young man tries to drown the horror with a cocktail of alcohol, drugs and adrenaline. Just apartments from him, an older person turns away from their lover and apologizes, the horror gets to them sometimes still, even now. Several miles north, another person tries to chase the high of the horror. This will end in tragedy. Then recovery will start, again.
INLAND EMPIRE - Dozens of landlocked islands, sending smoke signals into the night.
EMPATHY - You don't have to be alone right now. And you don't have to talk about it.
YOU - Ugh. I don't want to call anyone. I just want to go to sleep.
ENDURANCE - You can do that, too. Actually, my vote's on that one.
YOU - You pull yourself out of the bathroom, resisting the urge to try to wash away the feeling with a cold shower. You collapse against your bed. The mattress is a little hard, but its ours. This whole apartment is.
HALF-LIGHT - It is our safe haven. At least, it is now that you've cleaned it. Everything that happens in here happens on our terms.
EMPATHY - And isn't that all that recovery is about? Your terms?
SHIVERS - You will be less scared, one day. You know it in your soul.