All language subtitles for The Fall of Usher - 2022.eng

- Let me call myself
for the moment, William.

I'm a storyteller by nature
and a liar in my freer times.

No part of what I convey is true,

but every part is truthful.

You will come to despise
me and your revulsion

will be rightly warranted, I swear it.

Now, however,

by way of staying execution and
mitigating these accusations

against me, I offer this sad history.

Most abhor my commitment to
pretension and inconsistency,

but I implore you, listen.

Only then might you understand completel

I hated the old man.

It's not that he had
wronged me or given insult.

Those things I'd come to
accept as a matter of course.

I think it was his

breath.

That shallow rasp of a man
on the edge of a maelstrom.

Too weak-spirited to indulge
his nobler instincts.

Desperately grasping within
the darkness for deliverance

from the inescapable and
ever-present specter of death.

I became terrified he'd
find miraculous salvation,

shake the noose once more,
become somewhat his former self.

And the whole miserable
ordeal would begin again.

It is impossible to say how the
idea first entered my brain,

but once conceived, it possessed me.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Before I continue,

I must first impart my
breathless impression

of that singular element to the
story that quickens my heart

and awakens my better
nature, assuming I have one.

Let me lift your gaze to her.

- Hi.

I'm here to see Mr. Usher.

He won't be needing the blood thinners

or the chemo medication anymore.

We'll be replacing those
with the morphine drip.

Now, keep this away from
all the other injections.

It's pretty strong stuff.

And everything else just give to him

as you normally would, okay?

All right, now I need you to sign this.

This just states that
we went over everything

and that you understand.

Do you have any other questions?

- When will he be going
back to the oncologist?

- He won't be going back to the doctor.

I need you to understand that I'm not he

to make him better.

I'm here to make him comfortable.

Did the two of you talk about
this before you decided to--

- Yes.

I'm sorry.

It's just a lot to take in.

- No, I understand.

Take your time.

- How long does he have?

- A few months?

- Will he get worse?

- Yes.

We'll give him some strong
medicine to help with the pain,

but I'm afraid it'll make him less lucid

Of course, if you're having
second thoughts about this,

then the two of you
should really talk about--

- No, thank you.

I understand.

The idea that my love for her
in as much as I am capable

of feeling such emotion would
begin at our first moment

of somber introduction is
the substance of delusion.

Still, I cannot with
quiet conscience deny it.

We set about the comfort of the old man

and that alone we
pursued with pious vigor.

Never would our eyes meet
or our pulses quicken

at the sight of the other.

Never would we smile or swoon or sigh.

We would instead passionately
declare the depths

of the love which we
both felt most assuredly,

and as a matter of absolute
certitude for the old man,

and yet the sympathies of a
scarcely-intelligible nature

existed between us.

We would find ourselves stealing away,

always in the interest of
respect for the old man,

for no dutiful son or
physician's assistant

would discuss the tragedy of a man's

absolute and incontrovertible death

within 100 yards earshot
of the hero himself.

Thanks for coming by.

Then it was finished.

- Hi, I'm here to see Mr. Usher.

- Where's Anna?

- Oh, Anna cut back on some of her cases

and I'm taking a few of
her patients for her.

Can I come in?

- Hello?

- Hey.

I missed you today.

Where were you?

- William, I'm sorry.

I can't care for Mr. Usher at this time.

- But he loved you, I mean--

- I'm so sorry.

I just don't think it
would be appropriate.

I hope you understand.

- I don't.

- I'm sorry, William.

I have to go.

Give him my love, okay?

I'm sorry.

- And thus joy suddenly faded into horro

and the most beautiful
became the most hideous.

I continued my endeavors
of faithfulness, tending,

with the help of the
nameless nurse who scurried

and busied herself as a soulless beast

in preparation of his demise

to the old man's every want and need

and principle of
arrogant, entitled desire.

It was now that my hatred
for him blossomed and bloomed

as a cancer of thought and obsession.

He who through unholy
fate brought us together

and with some gleeful aspiration,

I know not the particulars
of how nor do I care,

drove her from that accursed
house of false modesty.

I longed with the most
earnest and consuming desire

for the old man's decease.

I refuse to deny it.

But the obstinate spirit
clung to its tenement

of clay for many days,

through many weeks and irksome months

until my hatred obtained
a mastery over my mind.

And I grew furious through delay

and with the heart of a fiend

to curse the days and the
hours and the bitter moments,

which seemed to lengthen and
lengthen as his despicable life

declined like shadows
in the dying of the day.

- William.

- I'm here.

There was not a singular moment
when the task was decided.

Instead, the fate of the old man unwound

as a fable whose gruesome conclusion

is both hideously unnecessary
and fully predetermined.

Once the plan had thus matured,

over the course of weeks or
months absolutely unknown

to myself throughout the
entirety of that period,

it sprung fully-formed from my psyche.

I endeavored to do the deed.

And so I did, that very same night.

I prepared myself for
the finality of the task.

It was not my intention
to allow the old man

to pass all together peaceably.

A wrong is unredressed
when the avenger fails

to make himself felt as such
to him who has done the wrong.

For more than an hour I waited,

listening the whole time
to that raspy breath.

That terrible inhalation
and exhalation stole my will

and replaced it with a
malice few have glimpsed

and fewer can comprehend.

And so I killed the old man.

The slightest pressure to the
throat allows the futility

of hope to slip through with
each hideous passing breath,

while the morphine seals
the inevitability of demise.

I held him at the edge of the abyss

for hours, days, or mere minutes.

Time was a matter for other men.

I could feel the torturous breath

ebbing mercilessly from
him and taste the panic

seeping from his pores.

Decades of wasted thoughts
and fears, hopes and regrets

descended violently on the man's soul,

subduing his spirit.

And in that moment, I
forgave him completely.

My own spirit lifted
through the perverseness

of the endeavor.

Then all was silent

and I was alone.

- Hello?

- He's dead.

- I'm so sorry.

- Will you come?

Please?

- Yes.

Have you contacted any of
the other family members?

- No.

- That's okay, take your time.

There's no rush with any of this.

- Will there be an
autopsy or an examination

to find out what happened?

- We know what happened.

He was a very sick man.

I don't see a reason to do an aut--

- I mean, there's no way to know

for sure what happened, right?

And no one else was here, and I, he was.

He was banging on the
wall and it was so loud,

and I was angry.

And he could...

He could barely breathe.
- William.

- And it was just so awful.
- William, William.

Look at me.

This isn't your fault, okay?

You both knew this was going to happen.

He died peacefully at home, in
his bed, just like he wanted.

- Beneficiaries of the
estate will receive and share

all of the property
and assets not required

for the payment of any debts owed.

All property given under
this will is subject

to any encumbrances or liens
attached to the property.

I direct my executor to
distribute the residue

of my estate as follows.

- What do you want me to say?

He made some mistakes.

He was a piece of shit.

- Don't say that.

- He gave you nothing.

You wiped his ass.

You gave him food.

He gave you nothing.

- He...

He had his reasons.

- Yeah, he did.

But he could have shown
one little shred of--

- Pity?

- Mercy.

Fucking pride.

You're a lot like him.

Take it as a compliment.

Listen, as far as I'm
concerned, house is yours.

- I don't want this fucking house.

- He wouldn't want you to be homeless.

- You think he'd care?

- Just stay here as long as you want.

I don't wanna see my little brother

get kicked out on the street.

- I never fully expected the old man

to acknowledge my devotion.

He was able somehow to see
beneath my facade of concern

and illuminate the
insincerity of my emotion,

even when I was myself
incapable of doing so.

The ever-present gaze of his consciousne

stretched seemingly across eons and back

to the moment of my absolute
unapologetic betrayal.

I can see now how such knowledge
in defiance of all laws

of causation informed
his behavior towards me

from the very moment of my birth.

Such postulation and only
that may explain his peculiar

disdain for my existence,

An antipathy my myopic mind
could never quite grasp.

Suffice it to say the old
man never laid a hand on me,

never abused me, barely scolded me.

He'd expressed his
displeasure not with words,

which the old man rarely
spoke in my direction,

but by emanating a palpable
air of frustration,

which actively impressed upon
me my general unwelcomeness,

as well as my inability
to ever generate a modicum

of joy in his, or perhaps anyone's, life

I have carried this with me,

although I can understand its falseness

upon recollection and analysis.

The aura of this energy
has seeped into the marrow

of my bones, where it will lead me

towards his same lonely
and disinterested end.

I would've borne the entirety
of this insult with grit

and grace, excepting the
fact that he pointed it

not just at myself, but at another.

Just that singular breathing entity

to whom I owe the entirety
of my miserable existence.

Hers was a disposition
of deepest melancholy,

the sadness of a thinking woman.

Nothing could have infuriated
the old man more than

such a creature whose depth,
both intellect and emotion

he could scarcely understand,
even on his most affable days.

His disdain for her queries,
which were often rightly

pointed squarely at the idiocy
and futility of his scheming,

coupled with a callous demeanor

with which he met her most earnest pleas

for patience and understanding drove me,

I swear it, toward my intense
and inevitable hatred.

Drove him, I say, to his
very own demise by my hand,

for it was his being, his core state

of unrelenting coldness,
which ushered forward

that hideous moment that
would forever consume my life.

I did not return to that house.

Nor did I allow myself to see the old ma

for a number of years.

But I confess, I took his money.

I continued my studies at university

and subsisted on the fruits of
his tedious business dealings

while simultaneously and
openly mocking the content

of his character for engaging
in those very same endeavors.

This hypocrisy became one of
my few and deepest regrets.

The vortex of thoughtless folly
into which I so recklessly

plunged washed away all but
the froth of my past hours,

engulfed at once every
solid or serious impression

and left memory only the various levitie

of a former existence.

Two years passed.

The wine flowed freely, and
there were not wanting other

and perhaps more dangerous seductions.

In the weeks following the
deed, I found little solace.

My hideous act had served
only to palsy the joy of fury

and righteous indignation,
but an action I concluded

would've allowed these same
phantoms to consume me entirely,

a paradox too utterly monstrous
for solution, I assure you.

Hello?

- Hi, William.

Can I see you?

William?

- Hi.

- How are you?

- Good, you know, all thing's considered

- May I?

- Please.

- So I...

I wanted to meet so I
could apologize in person.

I did a really bad job of handling thing

and I understand if you hate me.

- I don't hate you.

- I mean, I know I abandoned
you in a really terrible time,

and I swear, that's not how
I wanted things to happen.

It's just things between us, they were..

I just thought it would be
best if I excluded myself

from the equation for a little while.

I mean, you already had enough going on,

and I could tell that you were
conflicted and vulnerable.

And I didn't want you to feel
like I was taking advantage.

It was just really bad timing.

Terrible timing.

- I don't understand.

- I mean, I thought that we...

And then we kissed.

- You thought there was
something between us?

- Well, yeah.

- Oh.

- Wasn't there?

- I thought you were seeing someone.

- Not that I know of.

Well, I just wanted to
meet so I could apologize.

- Apology accepted.

So

I can call you now?

- Yes.

Yes, you can call me now.

- Never would I have dared

entertain the remotest
possibility of a resolution

beyond the realm of macabre solitude.

By what miracle I escaped destruction,

it is impossible to say.

At that moment, the truth,

the tragedy of the drama was no more.

In an instant and in every
instant thereafter for a time,

my sublime downfall was secured.

For I loved her with a love more fervent

than I believed it possible to feel

for any denizen of the Earth.

But here is where my incessant
commentary must cease,

for I have no words, alas,
to tell the loveliness

of loving well.

But I digress.

Where were we?

The illness had shaken the
old man to his foundation.

He indulged as do we
all the primitive belief

that one's demise must be forever a vagu

and distant prospect,

a telegraphed end to a fully-lived life.

But the avenues to death
are numerous and strange,

traversed at a dizzying
and invisible velocity.

And when he summon companionship
in his hour of need,

the same companionship he
would deny even his own bride,

I wanted nothing more than to abandon hi

fully and without remorse, but
I felt the air grow redolent

with death's unquenchable thirst.

It's oppressive weight took
entire possession of my soul.

So I chose without will or premeditation

to conspire against it.

Yeah.

Okay.

- Are you ready, Mr. Usher?

- Okay, Dad.

See you soon.

- I'm scared.

- To the old man.

May he rest in an overpriced
box in the ground.

- Don't speak ill of the dead.

- Why not?

They speak ill of us.

- You're drunk.
- And you love it.

I'm finally opening up.

I'm not drunk, I'm pretending.

The truth is I'm gonna miss the old man.

I don't know why I'm gonna miss him.

- But you loved him.

I know you did.

I could tell.

- You wanna see my father terrified?

Tell him you love him.

Jesus fucking Christ, I
can't even listen to myself.

You wanna know the most profound thing

that he ever said to me?

I was about six or seven.

He said, "I see so much of myself in you

"that sometimes I can't
even bear to look at you."

And it made me feel so fucking good,

proud that I was like him

and proud that he couldn't stand me,

all at the same same time.

Look, this is all just
grief, confusionable shit.

So I would appreciate it if
you just forgot said anything.

I don't think it's very fair
to hold this against me.

But, secretly, I hope
it endears you to me.

Like, you know, I'm trying
to use the death of my father

to get in your pants,

which is the exact same kind
of thing that he would do.

So maybe he was right all along.

Except now I'm the one who
can't bear to look myself

in the face, and halfway
through the speech,

I lost track whether I was
trying to open up to you

or manipulate you to try
to win your affection.

I am either the most
self-aware mother fucker

in the world or the least.

And sometimes it feels
like there's no difference.

You know that one thing I said,

about how my father said I was like him,

I don't even know if he actually said it

or if I just saw it on some TV
show and imagined he said it,

but I thought it would win
me some fucking points.

So voila, it's part of my story now.

And I have no fucking clue
how real any any of it is.

- You think you killed your father.

- No.

- You didn't.

- I know.

A lie which follows a wild truth

obscures itself entirely
and without effort.

I would've told her, but
there are some secrets

that do not let themselves be told.

Men die nightly in their beds,

ringing the hands of ghostly confessors

and looking them piteously in the eyes.

Die with despair of heart
and convulsion of throat

on account of the hideous mysteries,

which will not suffer
themselves to be revealed.

- William?

William, William, it's okay.

You're awake, it's okay.

It's okay.

It was only a dream.

- Only a dream.

And if not?

Ah, what world of mystery and meaning,

doubt and uncertainty is there involved

in those two letters?

That mono-syllable.

If.

- Mr. Usher.

- Successful surgery brought
a bare modicum of hope

immediately quashed by the
test results that followed.

No sooner had the old man
heard of his impending doom

than he adjusted his focus as always

solely toward the business at hand.

He immediately sold all earthly property

most notably the home of my
miserably-contented childhood,

and consolidated his
moderate wealth to a fund

whose singular purpose
became providing death

in the most socially-accepted fashion.

Modest furniture and all
manner of medical necessity

was delivered directly to a home

particularly suited to
the macabre occasion.

The old man resigned,
whether as repentance

or misanthropic protestation to die alon

He desired this, he assured me,

as his one and only dying wish.

No more than two brief
days after relocation,

he was taken ill,

and seeing him feeble and
frightened and pitying himself

in that absurd pauper's bed,

surrounded by nurses who
flattered and fawned about,

I determined to deny his request.

I'll stay.

- William!

- I'm, I'm sorry.

What were you saying?

- That I'm worried about you.

- I can't imagine why.

- What can I do?

- You're doing it.

- Good.

Because I have to use
the little girls' room,

and I can't hold it any longer.

William!

William, William, what's going on?

Hey.

Are you okay?

Yeah?

Okay.

- It was, I told her, a
momentary lapse of faculties.

The weight of that room,
the influence of wine,

the physical toll of my grief.

I would be fine.

I required sleep.

I needed, I told her, to
be alone with my thoughts.

Distraction and distraction alone can ke

at bay the senseless manifestations
of nerves and anxiety.

And so I threw myself fully
towards such distraction,

but my mind never strayed
far from that accursed room.

The desperate pounding.

His hideous breath.

The last waltz of fawn weather.

- How's my favorite fuck
up little brother today?

How's work, social life?

Met anyone special since we last talked?

- What do you want?

- Why are you always so hostile?

We're brothers.

Is it really so hard to believe that I

actually love and care about you?

Come on, sit down.

I think we should get
better at this, don't you?

So I've been thinking, we've
never really been close.

I feel like I come from a whole
other world than you really.

And to be honest,

it was never easy growing
up as Dad's favorite.

All the expectations and comparisons.

I could never be the
out there, fuck society,

punk rock rebel.

I had to do all of my
counter-cultural growing up in secret.

Honestly, I kinda hated you for it,

but I figure, let bygones be bygones.

Dad's six feet under, God rest him.

Probably not.

All we have left is each other, right?

So how about this?

Instead of going on some cheesy retreat

or talking about our feelings,

let's just fuck the same girl,

preferably at the same time,
and then compare notes.

- Look.
- Sit down!

Seriously, sit the fuck back down.

I don't know what the fuck
you think you're doing,

playing up this whole
grief-stricken little boy thing

to get some pussy, but it's fucking sick

You are fucking sick.

You don't even know who she is.

She has her own story.

She's not here to serve yours.

I understand you wanna be me so badly,

you can even fool yourself
into believing it's true,

but it's not.

This can't last.

And whatever is going on between you two

as some kind of fucked up
revenge thing, it'll pass.

And you'll end up alone,
holding your dick in your hands,

whining about how unlovable you are.

Sound about right?

So let's cut to the end.

I want her out of your life.

You end this now.

If you don't, I will.

It's your choice, brother.

- His plain words presented
without the frills

and misdeeds of the poet
unmasked a naked truth,

one which would disarm and drive me

perfectly and deeply into
the maelstrom of my own mind.

This can't last.

That an earnest, mutual
love burned within us,

I cannot deny.

How vainly had we flattered ourselves,

feeling happy in its first up-springing,

that our happiness would
strengthen with its strength.

As it grew, so grew in my heart
the dread of that evil hour,

which was hurrying I now
knew to separate us forever.

Every look, every gesture became an omen

of inescapable doom.

Thus in time it became painful to love.

Hate would've been a mercy then.

Each blissful moment we were together,

I longed for wretched solitude.

And so I gently curbed our association,

desperate to postpone with
absence the inevitable

and fatal estrangement.

It's here the threads of
the narrative tapestry

of my recollections
begin to fray and unwind.

Whether this can be blamed
on the self-inflating nature

of memory or the
reality-bending will of ego,

I cannot say,

but the systems by which
I lived my entire life

revealed themselves as farce.

It seemed now that motive followed actio

just as cause precedes effect.

In the weeks following,
I endured three separate

but equally recurring
visions, often in tandem

and always at the edge of waking thought

They deprived all rest
and withered my mind.

I hold them without doubt
directly responsible

for the depraved events which followed.

And I present them undefiled, thus.

- Don't kill her again.

Hello?

- Hi, William.

Can I see you?

- Alas, we have fallen on
our most evil of evil days.

- How are you?

- I'm fine.

- William, what's going on?

You're really not gonna talk to me?

William, we have to talk.

I've seen you, what?

Once in the past three weeks?

I know you're going through some stuff,

but it's time to move on.

I'm sorry.

I just can't be with you.

Do you hear what I'm saying?

I can't live like this.

I just don't know what else to do.

I think it's best for both of
us if I never see you again.

William, it's time to let go.

- I did not want her dead.

That in the end is why she died.

I reached out and touched her warm cheek

her bloodied hair.

And I pressed down her pallid eyelids

with passionate fingers of love.

What knowledge I found in that moment.

What accurate regret and longing.

What truth, beautiful and
saccharine and fleeting.

I knew then that I'd
never really loved her.

In the strange anomaly of my existence,

feelings with me had
never been of the heart.

And my passions always were of the mind.

A mind whose ringing
obsession grew amplified

by the harsh daylight of waking hours,

which illuminates with
indifference the severity of deeds

and the inescapable conclusion

that must invariably be drawn.

All is madness.

But day must submit to the
cool irrationality of night.

As my tumultuous mind must
submit to the softness of earth.

And the embrace of my Anna.

Then by daylight return
of the blinding pall

of self-examination, self-pity,
and the sickness of regret.

And of the desire to simply not be.

It was macabre routine.

A pestilential cycle
of doubt and assurance,

hatred and love, perdition and paradise.

I became insane.

With long intervals of horrible sanity.

The specters that had elicited
in me feelings more intense

than terror for which there
is no name upon the earth

became a constant, and I,
in shroud of false apathy,

became the haunting force
of endless empty rooms.

They belonged now only to the dead.

All around were horror and thick gloom,

and a black sweltering desert of ebony.

Her sepulcher, our tomb,

became a place to set off the mind

and liberate it from the
weight of the waking world.

It is happiness to wonder.

It is happiness to dream.

Such a dream became the
business of my life.

I existed solely to wade
into placid memories

of our unending partnership
full and complete,

and without the hindrances
of social expectation,

impending loss or reality.

Anna and I loved with a love
that was more than love.

A love of which my waking self
was most assuredly incapable.

We shared the life that should have been

Until the sun in the East
and the doubt in my mind

rose up and whispered in a cruel wrath,

"All you love, you love alone."

- Where is she?

- I don't understand.

- Don't fucking play games with me.

Where the hell is Anna?

I know you know, you little shit,

so tell me where she is.

- She doesn't wanna see you.

- She's here?

Anna?

Anna, are you in here?

- She hasn't been acting
like herself, okay?

- How do you mean?

- She's been hearing
things, seeing things.

Paranoia, I just...

Just wondered if you wanted
to help her, you know?

- So where is she?

- She really doesn't wanna talk to you.

Let me talk with her, alone.

Look, I'm in over my head.

I know that I'm in over my head,

but just let me talk to her.

Let me convince her.

Come back tonight at 10.

I'll make sure she's here.

Let me do this, okay?

I would not let him have her.

The usefulness of indignation
is a curious thing.

A single dismissive act can
turn the most self-loathing

towards righteousness, and
replace the most fervent malaise

with absolute motivation.

I despised and pitied myself, true,

but he too despised and pitied me.

And for that, I would be avenged.

I turned once again to those tenets

that had driven me to this madness.

System, logic, method.

Yes, method is the thing.

There is a brilliance in method,

in routine and reliability,
that borders on genius.

And yet, it is not.

Genius is always going off at some tange

of ridiculous speculation,
but I found it necessary

to keep my eyes downcast and
focus on the business at hand.

It was my intention now to
put my scheme into operation.

And I resolved to make
him feel the whole extent

of the malice with which I was imbued.

I knew then that I was
not long for this world,

but also that the modicum
of time left to me

would be overflowing with that panacea,

which invigorates even the
most wretched of souls.

Purpose.

Come in, dear brother.

Can I get your drink?

I have a very fine bottle
of dry sherry open.

- Where is she?

- All in due time.

Sit, relax.

- Are you drunk?

- Absolutely not.

Why, I'm barely this side of tipsy.

Here we are.

Let's have a toast.

- I'm not in the mood.

- Oh, but you will be, dear brother.

I swear it.

Come on, have a drink with me.

Just one.

Whiskey, then?

- Stop fucking around.

- You knock a 22-year-old
glass of Amontillado

out of my hands in a fit of jealous rage

and ask me to stop
fucking around?

Now, I'm going to fetch you another glas

and you are going to summon
the courage to apologize.

And then we'll toast to your good fortun

- What good fortune?

- It seems, dear brother,

that you have won the
heart of our maiden fair.

I've talked with her
and she most definitely

and without hesitation, wants you back.

- She said that?

- I'd like to take credit
for this turn of events,

but I must admit I had
little to do with it.

Scarcely had I mentioned your visit,

and the poor girl fell to her
knees with tears in her eyes

and professed her undying love for you.

"I knew he loved me.

"I knew he cared," and so forth and so o

So congratulations is in
order, for you at least.

- William, I'm sorry.

- Yes, but not sorry enough,

I'm sure, to refuse the lady's advances.

A congratulations and a toast is in orde

Under the circumstances,

I'm sure you can understand my insistenc

I refuse to drink alone.

Bottoms up.

- Where is she?

- You haven't said
anything about the house.

- What?
- How it looks.

- It looks fine.

- Well, I couldn't have
you think badly of me.

I couldn't live with myself if you

thought badly of me, dear brother.

- William, where is she?

- She's in the cellar,
if you believe that.

I said she wanted you back.

I did not say that she
had all of her faculties.

She calls it her hideout,
says it makes her feel safe.

She sleeps down there.

Sometimes I sleep with her.

Just sleep, mind you, not
that I want much more.

Hygiene issues.

You really know how to
pick 'em, big brother.

- Let's go see her then.

- Finish your drink,
you'll be glad you did.

- What the hell is down here?

- The love of
our lives, dear brother.

Dear brother.

Whew.

- You all right, little brother?

- Oh, that you should be so lucky, sir,

to be rid of me in such
a neat and tidy fashion.

- Don't say things like that.

- Oh, I think I will.

I think I'll say exactly what I mean

to say to you, right now.

- So where is she?

- Oh, I'm sure she's
around here somewhere.

Anna?

My darling, Anna, dearest
friend and confidante.

- She's not down here?

- Oh, I'm sure she is.

Why don't you have a look?

Anna?

- Anna?

- Anna.

- What the fuck is that?

- Oh.

Good job, brother.

I think you found her.

- What?

- Say hello, dear brother.

Say hello to the love of your life.

I said say hello!

Tell her you love her, dear brother.

She's here for you.

She only wants you.

Doesn't that make you happy?

She's coming for you.

She's coming to make
you her groom.

There the traveler meets, aghast,

sheeted memories of the past.

Welcome back to the living.

Though I must admit, you find
yourself in a predicament.

I'll spare you the tedium of explanation

but I will say this.

Everything you see around you,

every inference your
sluggish mind will make,

is exactly as you perceive it.

I'll give you a moment.

You seem to take matters easily.

I really wonder at your patience
under the circumstances.

But in truth, I am in no degree to blame

Instead, I would hope,
though I know it seems an

unreasonable request, for your gratitude

Horror and fatality have been
stalking abroad in all ages.

And yet, for the next few moments,

should you choose to accept a noble end,

I have freed you from all manner of fear

Do you follow?

I hope you do.

I mean to say, how can you fear that

which is already upon you?

You need no longer be concerned

with the proprieties of
space or of time.

You're free, brother.

Free to contemplate, to
analyze, to understand,

to see with a fullness of
vision your own ending.

Now I dare not deign to
tell you your business

or your meaning, but I will leave you

with this one suggestion to ponder.

Nothing you have ever done,
nothing you've ever said

or thought or written means anything.

Have you gone mad so
quickly, dear brother?

Or do you just choose to die laughing?

Which must be the most glorious
of all glorious deaths.

Let me call myself for
the moment, William.

I'm a storyteller by nature.

I'm a liar in my freer times.

- I direct my executor
to distribute the residue

of my estate as follows.

All assets, possessions and property

to my only son, William Wilson Usher.

- William, we have to talk.

I love you and I'm here for you,

but this is too much for me.

It's time to get some help.

I'm sorry.

I just can't be the
support you need right now.

If you want me to be with you,
you have to talk to somebody.

William, you're seeing
things that aren't there,

talking to people who aren't real.

I can't live like this.

I want to help.

Can you hear me?

I just don't know what else to do.

I think it's best for both
of us if you get help now,

before you get worse and cut me off,

and I never see you again.

William, it's time to
let go of that guilt.

- No part of what I convey is true,

but every part is truthful.

I offer now this sad and amended history

It was not my hand that stayed her breat

That is what I would have
you believe, if you will,

the melancholy tale in which
I choose to reside my truth,

inasmuch as truth has any bearing

on the present circumstance.

Though it does make the tale
nice and neat and pretty,

as do most lies of narrative.

But for you, my lowly audience,

I fear a resolution will be abrupt.

And inconclusive.

For the value of a good tale
lies not in its denouement,

but in its serpentine unwieldy unfolding

More than that,

I've grown tired and feeble and cold.

There's a tickle in my throat,

and my breath has become my fear.

A short rasp of its former self.