Never Ever Land - JULY 19, ARCHIVE
I don't want this.
It's really the last thing I want.
But there is always a line you shouldn't cross, things you shouldn't do-
Responsibilities.
I owe people so much.
At the very least, a slither of patience. I can be patient. To a point.
But then I close my eyes and I'm terrified when I think that this could be exactly what she wants.
Run, running-
Scare her?
What if that is exactly what she wants?
I don't know what I want anymore.
I just-
NO.
Time is pulling at my tendons and veins like rusty hooks and fishlines. I struggle and froth, but it only lunges on, deeper. It's always there, too, mocking me. It will be around well more than I ever will.
Even if I vowed not to die
I just want h-
NO.
She comes to me almost every night. I no longer sleep as well, but I do not feel tired, my hands do not shake, and my eyes see more than they are really supposed to. The ascendant helps me build dreams that are more believable than anything I've constructed before. The transitions, the tastes, the wisps of wind - they are flawless. Sometimes they are even better than reality.
Not like I need it anyway, sometimes, the reality,
I just need to find what I actually w-
I just want her to-
NO.
I should have killed that gnome. At the very least, I'd have a release instead of constructing a new doll in my head. At the very least, the killing is still a bit less real in there - the screams aren't as honest. They will be. With time.
I just want her to love me.
NO.
I can't allow this.
***
The pen breaks again and half of the page is stained with pitch-black ink. Droplets of the ink spray cover his mangled face like drops of fresh blood. They feel like it, at least. For some reason, the ink is warm - and his hand is bleeding. There is a cough behind him, and a chuckle as a long-fingered hand made of pure shadow rests on his forehead and flicks the drops away. She smiles.
"You didn't have to do this."
"But you believed me! It was good. Try again."
"Yes," His jaw tightens until he can feel the bone tear at muscle, and he pushes - another command. The walls flicker and break, the table descends into darkness, and the broken pen in his hand grows and shifts to become a crudely curved blade.
"Yes. Mother."
It's really the last thing I want.
But there is always a line you shouldn't cross, things you shouldn't do-
Responsibilities.
I owe people so much.
At the very least, a slither of patience. I can be patient. To a point.
But then I close my eyes and I'm terrified when I think that this could be exactly what she wants.
Run, running-
Scare her?
What if that is exactly what she wants?
I don't know what I want anymore.
I just-
NO.
Time is pulling at my tendons and veins like rusty hooks and fishlines. I struggle and froth, but it only lunges on, deeper. It's always there, too, mocking me. It will be around well more than I ever will.
Even if I vowed not to die
I just want h-
NO.
She comes to me almost every night. I no longer sleep as well, but I do not feel tired, my hands do not shake, and my eyes see more than they are really supposed to. The ascendant helps me build dreams that are more believable than anything I've constructed before. The transitions, the tastes, the wisps of wind - they are flawless. Sometimes they are even better than reality.
Not like I need it anyway, sometimes, the reality,
I just need to find what I actually w-
I just want her to-
NO.
I should have killed that gnome. At the very least, I'd have a release instead of constructing a new doll in my head. At the very least, the killing is still a bit less real in there - the screams aren't as honest. They will be. With time.
I just want her to love me.
NO.
I can't allow this.
***
The pen breaks again and half of the page is stained with pitch-black ink. Droplets of the ink spray cover his mangled face like drops of fresh blood. They feel like it, at least. For some reason, the ink is warm - and his hand is bleeding. There is a cough behind him, and a chuckle as a long-fingered hand made of pure shadow rests on his forehead and flicks the drops away. She smiles.
"You didn't have to do this."
"But you believed me! It was good. Try again."
"Yes," His jaw tightens until he can feel the bone tear at muscle, and he pushes - another command. The walls flicker and break, the table descends into darkness, and the broken pen in his hand grows and shifts to become a crudely curved blade.
"Yes. Mother."