As Dwayne descended into the basement, the lights flickered and died. He fumbled for a lighter, the small flame his only defense against the rising insanity. He was searching for his "true self," a version of Dwayne that wasn’t buried under bottles of alcohol and bottles of Chlorpromazine.
In the final moments, as the house seemed to warp into a cavern of suffering, Dwayne reached for an apple. He dropped it into a well, just as he had done decades ago at the plant. As the fruit hit the water, the surface broke not with ripples, but with the floating bodies of his past. He fainted, only to wake up once more in his living room, the cycle ready to begin again. Visage free
A distorted voice, sounding uncannily like his wife Claire, drifted from a television left running in an empty room. On the screen, a man in a plague mask stared back at him, mocking his attempts to find peace. The man spoke of a place where everyone "enjoys their newfound home"—a hell of Dwayne’s own making. As Dwayne descended into the basement, the lights