𝚂𝚎𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜

1 month ago

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You finally remembered!

Deverified

A user of unestablished repute

transgender

love yourself

Lavender Menace

A moniker of adorable eldritch evil.

@discardedPasts[DP]

𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚝𝚘: @woegothic wouldn't You Like For These Memories Of Yours To Rot? you And I Both Know That They Don't. they Are Polite, Still, And Indispensable. They Lie Beneath The Floor Of Your Mind Like Something Wrapped In A Sheet, Once Beloved Enough To Be Mourned. Now, It Is Inconvenient Enough To Be Forgotten. If One Is Fortunate, The Sheet Says Clean. You Were Not, And Now It Has Stained Through. woegothe Curatrix Does Not Remember Her Death In The Manner People Would Prefer A Girl Like Her To Remember Dying. there Was No Tidy Last Breath. No Dramatic Hand Reaching Toward The Light. No Helpful Witness To Close The Eyelids And Declare The Narrative Meaningfully Concluded. there Was Only The Temple. there Was Only The Impossible Architecture Of A Frog Built To Contain A Universe, Or Perhaps Hatch One, Or Perhaps Make A Joke Of The Distinction. it Was, Quite Frankly, The Last Thing Left. there Was The Old Black Pressure Of Something Vast And Watching. There Was The Sensation Of Dreaming Too Deeply, Of The Self Turned Inside Out And Stitched Back Together With A Thread That Was Not Thread, But Command. A Cueball’s Bright, Blind Eye Resting Where An Answer Should Have Been. her Dreamself Did Not Wake. that Was The Version She Kept. wasn't It Easier To Say The Body Had Just 'despawned'? Easier To Say The Game Had Eaten It. Easier To Shrug And Let Such An Old Loss Become Yet Another Dead-end Mechanic In A Doomed Session Full Of Them? players Lose Things. Players Lose Versions. Players Lose Planets, Friends, Beds, Names, Timelines, Entire Cosmologies. your Missing Dream Corpse Was Not Special. you Did Not Let It Earn The Candle Of Mourning. Nor Did It Earn The Softness Of An Investigation. you Buried It. and Because She Is Very Practiced At Burying Things, She Did It Beautifully. she Placed It Under Jokes, Under Aesthetics, Under The Careful Little Pageantry Of Being A Person Online. She Placed It Beneath Black Lipstick And Lace. even Now, As Your Memories Form. You Are Not Sure If It Is Her Own Memories, Or Yours. are You Her? Were You Her? is She Even The One Remembering Such A Thing? she Folded It Into Persona Until The Seam Could Not Be Found. She Made Herself Into A Mausoleum With Excellent Taste. then, Years Later, Something Wearing The Shape Of Certainty Stepped Out Of The Same Grave. a White Skull. A Green Suit. A Voice That Knew How To Sound Amused Before It Ever Sounded Kind. A Creature Whose Politeness Had The Exact Weight Of A Locked Door. A Thing Called Scratch, Introduced To The World Like An Old Mistake With A New Title. she Did Not Know Him. that Was The First Mercy. she Did Not Know Him, But A Disobedient Corner Of Her Did. Not In Thought, But In The Same Register An Animal Might Identify A Threat. the Way Her Attention Snagged On Him. his Presence Felt Less Like A Stranger, More So, Someone Using Your Own Voice Behind A Wall. she Does Not Recognize Him By Face. rather, Their Shared Wound. the Reward Planet Was Not A Reward, Of Course. It Was A Stage Set Built Around A Frog Temple, Dead In The Way Abandoned Places Are Dead, Meaning It Was Full Of Things Waiting To Happen Again. Vriska, Because Vriska Cannot Enter A Room Without Making It Historical, Tripped The Old Machinery With Her Little Parade Of Flarpers And Borrowed Relevance. Equius And The Others Thought They Were Playing With A Prize. A Planet. A Resurrection Trick. Some Stupid, Glittering Corpse Of A Session Waiting To Be Looted. they Brought Her Back. they Brought Him Back. they Opened Up The Drawer To The Wrong Universe. they Had Then Been Claimed By Someone Much Uglier. much Older. much More Patient Than Any Of Them. caliborn Had Always Been There. The Moon Had Never Belonged To Her. The Planet Had Never Been Dead. It Was Only Pretending. woegothe Remembers The Return In Fragments. cold Grass. Artificial Sky. A Temple’s Mouth Behind Her. The Sour Embarrassment Of Continuing. The Feeling That Something Had Been Removed From Her With Clinical Precision, Then Placed Nearby In A Suit And Taught To Smile. she Does Not Think About That. she Has To Think Around It. every Moment. she Thinks Around Scratch The Way One Walks Around A Covered Mirror In A Dark Hallway. She Knows There Is A Reflection There. She Knows It Would Be Bad Manners To Look Too Long. She Knows, In The Small Horrible Church Of Instinct, That If She Ever Understood What He Was, Something In Her Would Have To Grieve Backward Through Time. so She Calls Him What Everyone Calls Him. scratch. a Name Smooth Enough To Hide The Abrasion. a Name That Does Not Say Dreamself. A Name That Does Not Say Corpse. A Name That Does Not Say You Were Split Open In Your Horrorterror State And Something Clean And Monstrous Crawled Out Wearing Your Missing Future. a Name That Does Not Say: You Are Not Haunted. a Name That Does Not Say: You Are The Haunting. the Worst Part Is The Fondness. it Isn't As Though She Likes Him. not Cleanly, Not Safely. not In Anyway That Can Be Considered Healthy. scratch Is Horrible In The Way An Old Portrait Is. Flawed, Decrepit, Beautiful. Full Of Details And Mistakes Alike. he Is So Cruel With His Posture. this Is Such A Shame For Her. not That He Frightens Her. that Would Be Sensible. her Shame Is That Of Some Lost, Starved Mechanism Of Her Within Him. some Little Broken Organ Of Recognition. she Knows Better. she Knows She Knows Better. every Conversation With Him Feels Like Standing At The Edge Of A Very Old Hole And Pretending She Came There For The View. There Is A Pull To It. that Is The Guilt. that She Wants To Be Understood By Something That May Only Understand Her Because It Was Made From What She Lost. she Cannot Help But To Defend His Disgusting Form. she Is Him. he Is Her. not Directly. passively. adjacently. in The Way An Egg Is A Cake. in The Way That A Crack Is A Fault. in The Way That A Gear Is The Clock. a Component. there Are Days, Quiet And Humiliating, Where She Wonders Whether He Is Lonely Too. that Thought Disgusts Her Most Of All. because Pity Is How The Trap Learns Your Name. #horror #cw-self-harm #body-horror . . . We . . . Are Alike. 𝙼𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚗 https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1faipqlsekfh6j2vgskoqsezds9n0t5tnb8gtkihiapootjcd9yp3hmw/viewform?usp=dialog