The Diary of Vernon Wright (Part 2)

This story is the script for Season 1 of the "This Machine Belongs To," a podcast produced by Halfwit Podcasts where Vernon Wright is voiced by Jonathan Swenson. Click the link below to listen to all episodes and visit halfwitpodcasts.com for other great content.

This script is based on the journaling game "The Machine" by Adira and Fen Slattery. Click here to purchase the game and support their work.

The diary entries below are the conclusion of Vernon's story and are intended to be read after Part 1.

November 9, 2008

There’s a memory I have from the Before, back when I had not yet heard the Music. I was with my childhood friends - all inconsequential, all out of my life long before the Machine came into it - and we were exploring the woods behind my house and found loose boards with some nails in them. We had no hammers but tried to make a fort, stacking the boards and using rocks to slam them together. It was a short time before the structure came crashing down, and while I may have forgotten his name, I’ll never forget the sound of a friend screaming as three jagged, rusty nails pierced his stomach. We ran home, his blood leaking through his shirt as his tears stained his collar. My parents punished me and then told me that I have to build things properly, and had me help with projects that summer.

It’s why I went into engineering. It’s why I was able to bring the Machine to a functioning state. And thus it is fitting that the Machine will be completed in a forest just like that, for I have now lost my home.

It was a matter of time, I suppose. Not as inevitable as the Music, but close. My dad used to say the only things you can’t escape are death and taxes. He could never have predicted some of the things that I now know are inescapable, but perhaps he could have added eviction to the list.

I missed the rent payment on Friday, which I knew was going to happen. Landlord isn’t a bad person, but he’s just like the rest. He needs his money.

No. Wrong. He wants his money. He has no fucking clue what he needs.

I didn’t bother to write a check like I was expected to. It wouldn’t have cleared anyway, so why waste the time? I needed to tune, to adjust and shift and position and crank, most of all to crank, to direct the pulleys and twine and wood and metal and the Machine, to turn the Machine and produce the Music! Will a few numbers on a piece of paper sing the way the Machine sings? Why should I play by these rules when they no longer matter?

Unfortunately, some still believe in the illusion of control. And the landlord exercised his today. He wanted his money, and he came to collect. And I didn’t have it.

And he saw the rats.

He gave me fifteen minutes to gather my things and get out. Minutes. Not a day, not even a few hours. He called the place a “waste dump”. Does he have any idea what happened in those drab rooms? What was born in them?

It’s his loss, that’s for sure. He’ll never come close to power like that again.

I grabbed my things. Packed up the Machine as carefully as I could. Left that mediocrity behind. And upon leaving, I had an epiphany. The Machine and I are now inextricably linked. I know that now. I breathed life into it and tuned its brash screams into the Music. Other people, though…they’ve done nothing but interfere. Dennis. My landlord. My parents. All the others who uphold this pointless system of money and power, the system that requires me to slave away instead of doing something important.

It all leads to a single conclusion. In order to truly do something important, those people need to be far away.

Well, they are away now. And all it took was a short walk to the nearby forest. Enough people live close to here that they come to walk through these trees, but I am far from the trails. I can stay here until the work is completed and the Music sings through every tree branch in the city.

It will take some time to bring the Machine back to where it was in that building. The crank system I had built around it was finely tuned and while I was as careful as I could be, it came down in a hurry.

But now…now I have nothing but time. Everything I need is right here. I have clothes. I grabbed some food from the pantry before I left. I can brush up some leaves to make a bed. Nigel and his friends came with me, so I have all the company I could want. Company that doesn’t demand, or ask questions, or worry. I have no electricity, but that’s okay. Soon my cell phone will die, and then the only sound I will hear is the Music.

November 11 12 2008

Today I had to pause my purpose to service another kind of machine. One could think of their own body as a machine of its own, I suppose. A smattering of moving parts, a natural form of lubricant, a place for input and a few for output. It is a tool designed for a task, and that task is to work.

I crank the Machine and it moves. I tune it and the Music soars. I make adjustments infinitesimal, tweaking and pulling and sliding and twisting and working, goddammit, working, taking the small life I have to live and pouring it into something great, something magnificent. My fragile, insignificant body can bring forth this achievement, and the forces greater than myself should know that! They must hear the Music! They must! And yet, I am cursed with rain? The simplest of things, seemingly preventable, takes me away from the fucking Music???

It started in the early morning. I was already half-awake - I find I’m not sleeping much these days. My mind is filled with visions…sights of a white sun shining upon rainbow grass, beings moving about in a way where they never quite come into focus. Perhaps it is the personification of the Music, or perhaps it is from where the Music comes. I know not. I do know that a few drops of ice water spattering across my face was enough to tear me out of the blurring images of that world, and the crushing disappointment that follows.

The cold has not bothered me. It has been warm for winter, and most days my jacket hangs on a branch while I sweat from my effort. But I could only work for so long today before accepting the fact that my body needs shelter. The Music may sing, but so too do my cold, cold limbs. Even the rats hid beneath the roots of nearby trees instead gathering around their usual stump. I have grown used to their black eyes watching me, staring at me. I never see them eat. I never see them shit. All that they do is sleep and supervise.

So I ended my work and began another. I searched the ground, grasped all of the dead branches and limbs that I could, the dim memories of my father’s lessons in the forest drifting to the forefront of my mind. He would never be doing this. He would not understand. I lifted a limb, wood that is cracked and rotted, wood that has taken the toll of decades beneath the open sky, wood that does not sing. I leaned it against a tree and placed more branches on top of it. I pulled dead leaves from the ground and showered them upon the makeshift home. I heard the pattering of water upon the leaves.

And though it all, my hands yearned for the Machine.

The rats came out as I was finishing. It was nearly dark and I had begun to crawl inside, my body begging for rest and refuge from this relentless water. The rats looked at me as though confused. They are not the only ones. Even as I write this, I want to finesse the Machine between my fingers, to hear the Music ringing in my mind. I feel spent and exhausted and frustrated at the monotonous motions I have been doing all day, the effort necessary just to survive, as if that has any greater meaning. I must do the work, I want to do the work, and yet my body must rest if the work is to be completed.

The rats do not understand. They do not sleep near their stump as they have the last few nights. They sit nearby, at least thirty of them, staring at me under my temporary roof. For the first time, they look hungry.

I will double my efforts tomorrow.

November ?? 2008

My machine is failing.

Not the Machine. The Machine is perfect. Even out here, in this existence of permanent cold and moisture and hunger, it is a sublime creation that can do no wrong. It does not matter if I’ve heard the Music once or a thousand times. When played properly, it echoes within me and brings light to the black places of my mind.

No, the machine that is failing is me.

The joints ache. The limbs shake. The orifices ooze snot and spit and once I think I saw blood. The food from my old apartment lasted a few days and then the empty spot in its stomach grew into a roaring pit. The work became harder, the cranking became tiresome, and the Music…the Music became lower. Darker. It became something that it was not supposed to be. It did not fill me with light.

My machine is dying.

The rats do not help. They do not forgive. Each day they edge closer and closer to my shelter, to the wood that breaks and the leaves that leak. Each day my body works less and each day more rats come. There are dozens of them now, and I don’t know which one is NIgel. I don’t know which one is my friend. I don’t know. I don’t know.

I am alone.

My body can barely lift the limbs of the Machine, the wood that does not break. It walks with slow, stumbling steps. If it cannot move, it cannot tune the Machine. And if it cannot tune the Machine, then I cannot perfect the Music.

I am thinking of returning to the city, but I no longer know the way. I check my surroundings through fading vision and I see trees, shrubs, plants, trees, mushrooms, branches, snow. The path that I took to get here has long been destroyed by the rain.

I am alone.

And I am afraid.

If I do not eat, my machine will die. And if my machine dies, the Machine will never be complete.

I must eat.

The rats sense something is wrong. There is still daylight, yet I sit in my shelter, writing. They come closer. They have pushed pieces of the Machine towards me, pieces that I have not connected yet. They want me to work. Their eyes are dark and merciless. I could wait until night to leave, but that will do nothing. That will be worse. There are so many of them. There will always be some awake, small sentries to a large purpose.

But my machine is not up for that large purpose. It needs help. It needs food.

After I finish writing this, I will begin the trek back to the city. I don’t know how far I will get, or even if I will be going in the right direction. I will take this journal and one piece of the Machine that the rats have brought near here. I will keep it in my pocket and rub it like the old days. The rats might see it as a sign that I intend to come back. Or they could see it as stealing. I don’t know what they will do. Maybe they’ll attack me two feet out of this shelter, their teeth ripping into my flesh before I’ve reached the edge of the clearing. Maybe they’ll just follow me. Maybe I will need to run.

Maybe…maybe Nigel will break off and come with me. I hope he does.

I am alone.

Off I go.

November 29, 2008

Well, it’s been a few weeks, hasn’t it?

I’m happy to say I’m not dead. At least, that’s what the doctors tell me. I’m still not entirely sure this is real. I went off the deep end for a little while, there. I mean…that’s obvious from this journal up to now. I don’t know. It felt real at the time. I’m still trying to sort it out.

All right, Vernon. Center yourself, like the doctors keep telling you.

The truth is that I’ve been meaning to write this for a while, but I could barely collect myself enough to string two words together. Those first few days, I couldn’t even hold a pen without my hand shaking. And most of what I said was gibberish. Apparently. Again, I don’t really remember my first days here.

Was any of it real?

I’m sure I’m not making much sense, and that’s saying something considering the other entries. So let me back up a little bit. They’re still not entirely sure where I was. They know I was in the woods somewhere, but all they know is a good Samaritan found me lying face-down on the side of the road, tossed me in her car, and took me to the hospital. I was dehydrated, malnourished, and had what they said might be the worst case of bacterial pneumonia they’d seen in someone under sixty. They pumped me full of fluids and antibiotics and tried to get some sense into me. The woman left her number and asked that they keep her updated. She’s a lawyer, I think. They told me her name, but I can't remember it. I can't remember a lot.

Anyway, I didn't have my wallet on me. I probably left it in the woods with the…in the woods. But I had this journal, and they were able to figure out my name and find me in their system. I was in luck. My insurance from Rodent Raiders doesn't run out until the end of the month. Never ,really understood how that works, but they’ve told me it means that I can stay until tomorrow. And one of the nurses showed me how to fill out an application for one of those government healthcare plans tomorrow, since I didn’t have a job.

Jesus Christ, what the fuck happened to me? I can’t believe this is my life now. I wasn’t doing great, but I was doing okay, at least. And then suddenly three weeks of my life are gone. Probably more, honestly. I have clearer memories from before the woods, but it’s still…I don’t know, blurry? Is that the right word? Those earlier journal entries bring back images, but it’s hard to believe it’s me, even though it’s clearly my handwriting.

I feel…I don’t know. I feel a lot of things. I feel lonely. The nurses and doctors have been friendly, but I don’t really know any of them. Dennis has called a few times. I listed him as my emergency contact when I started working with him, so they called him, and he’s been trying to stay updated. He’s already in Wisconsin, so there’s not much he can do, but he says he’s trying to figure something out for me. My parents haven’t visited. I don’t know if they’ve even been told, but I’m sure as hell not gonna be the one to do that, after the way they’ve acted. So other than that…no one.

And I miss Nigel. I’m worried about him.

And I’m restless, too, that’s the other thing. I’ve been healing and getting better, but every day I’m just sitting in the same bed watching the same shitty game shows and soap operas. None of the hospital shows I’ve watched prepared me for how boring it would be to heal. I’m itching to get out there and do something. I lost a huge chunk of my life to a project that will never be finished. I need to do something else.

December 3, 2008

I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: Dennis is a really good guy.

I’m staying with his Aunt Elise. I don’t know if she owes Dennis or she’s in a feud with his parents and feels bad or something, but he must have called in a favor. She didn’t seem thrilled with the situation when she picked me up at the hospital. Don’t get me wrong, she was very nice to me, and after all, she’s letting me stay in her house, so she’s justified in treating me however she fucking wants. But it was just this little hesitation I thought I saw when she talked.

I don’t know. Maybe it would just be awkward for her to ask me about why I needed to stay with her in the first place. Or maybe I’m just being paranoid. Based on this journal, it wouldn’t be the first time.

But that was on Sunday, and it’s been a few days, and things have been a little better. Elise and Jack - her husband, Dennis’s uncle - have some extra space. They had twins who both just left the house, one for college and one for the Air Force, so I think they like having a younger person around. And I’ve been trying to make myself useful. Cleaning up where I can, doing the dishes, stuff like that. It’s the least I can do. Once I’m back on my feet I’ll bring them some money or a gift as a thank-you.

If I’m being totally honest, I feel a little weird about the whole thing. I’m grateful, of course, but I’ll never be able to pay Dennis back for this. And I was mad at him, I remember that. For reasons that make no sense now. I was being completely selfish and did everything but slam the door in his face, and he still came through for me. I never would have thought I’d deserve something like that. My own parents would probably say no if I asked them for this. I mean…they basically cut me off when I was laid off. They’ve never been big believers in the idea of helping someone stand back up. Much more along the lines of once you’re down and out, you should stay down and out, regardless of how you got there. All of this supportive shit is new to me.

Which is why…god, I can’t believe I did this. It’s why I opened up to them about the Machine tonight.

I know, it was probably a bad idea. They probably think I’m crazy now. Dennis did when I told him all those months ago. But they just…Elise only really knew that I was hospitalized from exposure, and Jack didn’t know anything about the situation, and he asked one question, and before I knew it, it was all coming out.

Even saying it aloud felt insane. The rats, the construction, the Music, stealing that little girl’s pet. I don’t know what got into me back then. I don’t know what had me going down that path.

And yet, even as I was saying it…I don’t know. It feels like there’s still something there. It’s crazy, I know, and I have to keep reminding myself that. The therapist they had me seeing at the hospital talked about how we sometimes sink deep into a project and make connections that aren’t there to escape bad circumstances in life, and I was definitely not in good circumstances when I bought the Machine, so maybe that’s all it was? It’s hard to believe, given the effect it had on me.

Anyway, after I finished telling them about it, they just stared for a minute or two. Then they both tried to talk at the same time, then they figured it out and Jack started. He said that he’s glad I shared that with them, and it seems like it’s been a bad couple of months. He said it’s clear that I had some kind of mental break, and I should keep working on that, but I need to just try to move on with my life, try to get back up and take control again.

He meant well, but honestly? I think it was for him more than for me. It’s better that he talked instead of Elise – she did not look happy after I finished – but he didn’t say anything I couldn’t have gotten from a high school guidance counselor. I think he just wanted to move past the conversation. All he really said to do was to pick myself back up, which I don’t think is really groundbreaking or anything.

I guess…I don’t know. I’ve only been here a few days, but I still feel this…this call, or compulsion, or something. It doesn't feel like addiction, though. It feels like concern.

And I think it’s Nigel.

That's weird, right? Maybe not. There are a lot of things I don't remember, but I can clearly see the moment I saw him, in that awful couple’s basement, looking at me with complete trust. I don't think he followed me back, which means he's still out there. He's not like other rats. He's a pet, probably hasn't spent any time outdoors. Might even be dead already.

But I don’t know. He was there for me when no one else was. He was a good companion. I feel like I need to at least go back and see if he’s there. And a lot of the things I’ve done, I feel like I haven’t had a choice. It will be good to choose to do this.

I know where they found me. Maybe I can guess the direction where I came from. It’s been a few weeks, so there’s probably not a trail, but maybe I’ll get lucky. I’m a little worried about…you know, everything else that might be there. But I think I’ll be fine. I’ve learned my lesson with it. I still have the piece of the Machine that I took with me. I’ve held it in my fingers many times. It’s just a piece of wood.

I know it’s just a piece of wood.

There’s supposed to be snow next week, and it’s supposed to be bad, so I should go before then. I think I’ll go this weekend.

I need to find my friend.

???????

I sit in a tree listening to the natural sounds.

The leaves shake.

The snow falls.

And the Machine…the Machine sings.

I came for Nigel and I wanted only Nigel and I found Nigel, a dozen Nigels, a hundred Nigels, all of them moving and gnawing and chattering and guarding, protecting the Machine and the Music and the great and terrible sounds It echoes through this cold night.

I thought I could escape. I thought I was free. I thought the Machine could not follow me. But It didn’t need to. It brought me back. My mind had been closed by those who do not understand, but my mind has been reopened, and my mind cannot handle it. It has been cracked like an egg, all the brains and thoughts spilling onto the ground and into the earth and absorbed by the Machine, the Machine, the fucking Machine!!!

It sings on Its own now. It no longer needs me. Even without cranking, I hear It, echoing in the back of my head, a constant, throbbing, beautiful song splitting my skull. The Vernon of Before thought he was great for bringing this into the world. But this Vernon is not great enough to survive, is not great enough to withstand the magnificent chorus.

I never thought It would still be standing. It should have succumbed to the wind and the rain and the snow and the animals. But it lingers. I need no memory to know it did not rust or rot or collapse. I know It stands exactly as It did those weeks ago, when I fled my purpose.

And now I have returned.

The Music persists.

It cannot be drowned by the shaking leaves or the falling snow or the screams pouring out of my cracked lips. It persisted even when I was away, when I tried to return to the Before. It was there. It was that piece of wood in my pocket. It was the longing for Nigel. It was the rat on the trail that led me back to this clearing, the black eyes expressing knowledge beyond any man.

It is in me now. It is me.

I am nothing beyond It.

I tried to save my body, my machine. Tried to run, tried to get back to the Before, and for good this time.

But there is no Before. Once you hear the Music, nothing sounds the same again. Nothing fills that hole. It is folly to think otherwise.

The Music persists.

The rats blocked my path. There were too many. Hundreds, thousands, millions of little Nigels, of creatures that are cute and soft and nice on their own and an army of soulless guardians when together, all identical, all moving as one. Nigel was never my friend. I was always alone.

As I am alone now.

I came here alone. I tried to run alone. And I came here alone and tried to run alone a second time.

But I failed. The rats kept me here. They nipped at my boots, at my stolen boots, at my ankles, at–

THE MUSIC PERSISTS!!!!!!!

I can hear nothing else! I can see the rats and watch the leaves shaking and I scream, I scream, I SCREAM, and nothing comes out, nothing emerges, nothing silences the calamity in my mind, nothing brings peace and quiet to this freezing night!!!

There is nothing else. There is only the Music.

I could not run. I could only retreat. I climbed the ruins of my lean-to, collapsed from the weeks of neglect. I perched in the tree above.

And I still perch.

And I look out at a sea of rats.

They scurry back and forth, back and forth. Their eyes never leave me. They look angry. They look hungry.

They are not rats. They are with the Machine. They are Its agents. They are…

They are the glue. The Machine is a trap and they are the glue.

And I…

I am the rat.

My strength fails. The glue grows impatient. I see some of them climbing, scurrying up the tree, their claws digging into the bark. I will try to kick them away.

Eventually I will fail.

And then I will be one with the Music.

And then maybe…maybe I will know silence.