A momentous event (at least, momentous on the scale we inhabit) has occurred since last I wrote, and I admit that my fingers itch to tell of it.
Since last I wrote, I have spent much time at work with my book. In that time, the room has again been altered, a fact to which I was wholly indifferent then, but which would later have great significance in the form of a dresser.
When I had finished the introduction to my book, I called out to Tara, who had been at work herself on her own affairs, of which I prefer not to speak.
While I had felt myself to be immensely important, I must admit that I had underestimated myself, and I said as much to Tara.
"Well..." she said. "Sort of."
" 'Sort of'? Wherefore do you qualify my import? You yourself said when we met that you were a fan, and see -" I began to turn, albeit laboriously, the pages of my book - "See what has been said of me, how scholars labor over my very punctuation even today, and look - 'Every form of drama that he touched he carried to a lofty pitch of perfection'. There are pages of compliments from other artists alone, penned as introductions to my art!"
"Okay," Tara said, "yeah, sweetie, but... I mean, yes. William Shakespeare was absolutely a really brilliant writer, and he's still famous and important. But do you personally remember writing any of these? Or any of the stuff from the introduction - London, Queen Elizabeth, all of that?"
I faltered. "I... I have unparalleled disinterestedness, unparalleled range and profundity of insight -"
"Sweetie. Enough with the book."
"I may not remember... everything, specifically..."
She regarded me quietly for some time, and then said, "Come with me. There's something I should have shown you first."
When the episode had ended, we retreated to a window (also on one of the upper levels of the house; I can see that I have much to explore here, although there are dangers in the form of three hulking beasts that lumber and slobber and yowl) and Tara said, "So that was me, kind of. A character on a TV show. She dies later." I expressed my alarm, and patted my shoulder, saying, "But I'm fine - see where this is going?" My lack of understanding must have shown on my face, as she sighed - though without irritation - and continued, "Look, Will, I remember being her. I remember Willow and Dawn - you didn't see her, but she's important later - and Buffy and everything. But Tara McClay is fictional, and she's dead, and she was never five inches tall and made of plastic. I'm not her."
I have, as mentioned, unparalleled insight, and was able to use this quality to glean her suffering. "You miss them."
She took an unsteady breath. "Especially Willow and Dawnie." But then she shook her head. "That's not the point -"
I laid a hand on hers. "I shall find them for you."
This gave her pause. "I don't -"
"I give you my word."
"...That's really nice of you." She closed her fingers around mine, and I felt that the rift between us would be healed. "I appreciate it. But I don't think you're totally understanding the situation yet."
We went back to the room, wherein she produced a sheet of cardboard and bade me look it over.
"Yes? I see nothing not already in my book, except for some incorrect punctuation and these malicious lies about others having anything like the talent or range to have written my works," I said after examining the words thereon.
"Will, it has a price tag. It says 'Made in China'. It has 'ACTION FIGURE' in big yellow letters on the front, and it says you're a choking hazard for small children. I'm not sure what you want me to do at this point to make it any plainer."
I sank down on my book.
"You're still... This doesn't change anything, you know," she said. "I just wanted you to understand."
Despite her attempt to comfort me, I admit that the blow was hard. So stricken, I wandered into the changed part of the room and onto the round table in the center. Tara followed - unfortunately without her potion. No sooner had she nearly caught me up than we were once again accosted by a spider, and this time there were no weapons on hand.
"Oh..." Tara said, and I turned to find that our situation had managed, despite the venomous spider and lack of protection, to get worse.
“Okay,” Tara said, “we can figure this out.”
I fear that we might not have done so in time, despite my admitted brilliance, for the spiders were fast approaching, their wariness over the fate of their comrade holding them back only slightly. It was then, however, that the event to which I referred at the beginning of this entry (or rather, one-fourth of said event) appeared.
A woman, tall and fine of figure, jumped before us, already wielding the lance I had availed myself of days before, and made such short and brutal work of the two monsters that I admit to being somewhat disquieted. When she turned to face us, however, she was smiling, and knelt that her height might not be such an encumbrance to our conversation.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m sorry about the creeping and spying, but we just got here, and I had to be sure you guys weren’t dangerous too. There’s some weird stuff happening in this house, and it’s not just me I’m looking out for. I’m Fa Mulan.”
“Hi,” Tara said, sounding somewhat dazed. “I’m -”
“I know.” Fa Mulan gave a moue of apology. “The spying.” She gestured to the side. “There’s the rest of us.”
And indeed, standing in the drawer above us, two more women of like size and beauty loomed.
Dearest readers, loneliness, I suspect, shall no longer be an issue.
