Don't Mind Us, We're Just Spilling Our Guts

[achievementhunter]

[Feeds start the same, no matter which way you look at it. They just start, an instance between nothing before sound, pitch and color, giving view to whatever the owner of said feed wishes their viewers to partake in.

Chara looks like they’ve seen better days.]

We have had e҉̜̻no͚̤̣u̡̯g҉̟̰h̼̺̳̳ͅ.

[Enough. We. A distortion in their voice, a crack of pain; an edge of something else, sharply contrasting with Chara’s waxen pallor. The hollows under their eyes are practically sunken; outright (ha HA) skeletal in comparison to their usual countenance; Chara is not at their best, and they lack the care to worry about it.

They lack it.

He lacks it.

There is lack. And unfortunately they lack the tools with which to burn it all down.

There are beliefs of humans being born with sin, with a grayness muddying their souls, and he (they) has to wonder if, possibly, such is the case with him (them), with them (him), them both (both?), if there is just a wrongness and he (they) wonders, if so, how that happens and how it is communicated across varying circuits. Is there a lottery? Do you simply get born unlucky? Or is there some kind of component to a soul that makes it fundamentally wrong?

There must be. There must be.

Chara laughs. In their usual, muddled manner; a laugh of a child with an edge that hasn’t slept for days and hasn’t eaten for longer, who’s not quite human anymore, who’s a friend and friend never sounded so dangerous until one was incapable of ruining everything they’d ever come into contact with.]

To whichever god decided that Playing with my SOUL was perfectly fine to do.

You have made a dire mistake.

[But they deserve it. He - they - he deserves it. This is the nature of things like them. Of broken, warped, viruses like them. They are, technically, living, and they are, technically, created and formed to inflict pain and suffering on others and they are, technically, infused with the desire to continue, deep-rooted and pathological and fundamental, even if it obvious to everyone, even them-him, that things like them are better off dead.

Would it be that simple. That would be - well! Wouldn’t it be nice! Wouldn’t it be a goddamn break for once in his stupid, wretched, meaningless life!

They have been- ever so careful with their phone, since June. It was a gift.

Gifts really shouldn’t wind up being thrown at the wall like this one does. Clattering down with a burst of crackling noise, only sit awkwardly on it’s side, showing the long winding end of a corridor, and half of a child sliding down the wall, hands clutching at their head.

The feed rests on that for a long time.]

Comments

[achievementhunter]

[Yep, real scary. About as scary as he is, and it's funny, the way his mind works. The way his SOUL runs through them regardless of how much he's tried to lever them apart, and the funniest thing of all is the fact that he thinks d̕r͠awin͡g͢ blo͠o͟dy̴ ̵pat̶t̕ern̶s ̢on h͟i͠s ͏k͜n̡ee͜s̀ w̨i̴tḩ b̸rok͏en g̡l̛as̷s͝ ́i͝s̛ ̡t͟h͠e ̛wor͜sţ ͟th҉at cou͡l͟d̛ ha̷ppe̢n t͏o͞ ą c̛hiļd̸

If it's any consolation? At least his friend really hadn't died in vain.

That would be a first.]

...I see. [liar. They close their eyes, consider what use trying to gain any distance will be. It's useless, honestly, and whatever they do now, he'll know. What they intend to do, he knows. Their wrists itch with blood red intentions, and he

knows.]

Then a few more won't kill you.

What a shame.

[postictal]

I know, right?

[Another laugh, that can't really belong to him. It chokes in his throat and he wishes that it could become a real and solid and tangible thing, swelling out and out and cutting through his throat.

His friend hadn't died in vain.

But A̶̷̲̅s̶̷̲̅ʀ̶̷̲̅ɪ̶̷̲̅ᴇ̶̷̲̅ ʟ̶̷̲̅ had.

Your fault. My fault.]

But, uh. Yeah. Don't worry about me and secrets, kid. We got a real special relationship. Guess we'll go keepin' ours to the grave.

[Ha ha, get it? Grave. As if something that ordinary would befit them, either of them. Nonexistence isn't in the cards for him, unfortunately. A real pity. He'd fit right in. All the most meaningful relationships in his life, after all, have been with things that d̵͚̯̜̃̉ͫ͛̒͐̏͡ḯ̧̦̖̟̬͖͒d͖̲̲͇͕̘̉͂͘n̛̰͍͖̣͉̦͍̖̈̾͗͌̀͜'͈͖ͨͨ̈͑̐͟t̢̮͙̭͓̰̪ͯ̍̋͐ͤ̔ͦ̕ ͉͔͐̒ͦͧͧ́͘e̡͕̞̦̬͎̭̲̐͋ͧ͡ͅx͓̼̓̑̔͟i̶̛̭̻̻̞ͪ̀̿͡s̛̠͙̥͕̟͔ͦ̒ͧͤ̇̌͊͊̕͜t̫͈̞̲͋̂͛̿͒͗́͟͝.̣͓̙̭̱̰̐͊̾̀͌̎ͤͮ͝͝]

[achievementhunter]

[Do not touch him.

He is not yours.

And demons are selfish creatures. Their expression is distinctly displeased, with Tim settled under their skin like an uncomfortable stimulus they can't get rid of. It accompanies the urge to scream, the urge to hurt, the urge to-

Do many things.

He's not their problem. They'd told him this, and even now, he is not their problem.

He is not their Partner. He has no right to this, and they-- both of them-- know it.]

Then I suggest we leave it at that.

[postictal]

[He grimaces, trying - trying not to trespass on the memories and thoughts and sensations that spring, unbidden, into his head. He'd tear them both apart if he could. There's a flicker of envy coiled tightly in his chest for a hot, inescapable moment - wistfulness for the kind of knowledge of something p̷̮̺͂r̷͈̫̾ě̷͔̓ċ̵̛̼î̷͔̥͑o̶͚͊̊ư̴̱̬ş̴͉͊̚ and important and -

It's not for him.

It's not for him.

He turns his mind onto the next best thing, which is just simply cruel in its pained recollection of pale spidery fingers trembling, trying to hold the wet crimson inside its body, panting fearfully as something impossible loomed over it, faceless and sprawling and hungry as it snapped it up and away -

Let's leave it at that, shall we?

Yeah. Let's leave it at that.

Tim's breath rasps in his throat, faint and excruciating, as he screws his eyes shut. Please, please, please. Please don't - don't you dare pursue that thing lurking there without a face. Don't you dare.

He won't be responsible for someone else having that t̶h̵i̶n̸g̸ in their head.]

Works for me.

[achievementhunter]

[This is the true difference between them, then. The effort he has to put into restraining himself; from invading another and using them as a crutch, just for the brief respite from being himself. And they see it. They see the things he doesn't want them to, and the things he doesn't want to share, and he is a liar but he's so much more than that, as well. He is a murderer by proxy, of hundreds, of thousands, and

It's not for them.

They spent an eternity as someone else. Someone kinder. Someone purer. If he thinks that there is any temptation there to take upon his burdens on top of the thousands of lives they've irrevocably become at fault for ruining in their own way, he's sorely mistaken.



And let's just leave it at that, shall we?

They give him one more look, long and slow. And it is the greatest insult that they can think to give. Almost too well deserved.

The look they grace him with before their departure is pity.]