Rose Lalonde

4 days ago

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𝐸𝓃𝑔𝓁𝒾𝓈𝒽'𝓈 𝒞𝒽𝑜𝓈𝑒𝓃

𝓞𝓷𝓮 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓬𝓽 𝓯𝓮𝔀 𝓲𝓷 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓼𝓮𝓻𝓿𝓲𝓬𝓮.

@woeGothic[WG]

It started when I noticed my typing habits became in line with his. My grammar was, at one point, tastefully flawed. The occasional malapropism and clear verbal condescension. Irony was layered deeply and affectionately. Soon, it became neater. Clearer. Something like a professional may type into their resume was resembling my most casual of texts to Dave and Vriska. Odd, I assure you. Then, I had realized eventually that the words themselves fell out of my pan quicker than I could type them. It was natural how my responses would instantly form. I began to despise it. Vriska had noticed it first. I believe her quote was, "Wow, Rose! You sound fucking unbearable lately." I stared at the message for hours. I recalled hearing that similar string of words towards myself another time. Without thinking, I had responded. "An observation which, while emotionally charged, unfortunately contributes very little to the broader discussion." The words I typed were like spoiled wine. I had not chosen such a delicate selection of words to outright infuriate Vriska. I have said far crueler things before, for certain. I have, however, never chosen that exact verbiage. I deleted the sentence. Then I rewrote it. Letter for letter. I wanted it to be my words, and not a slip of my brain. ------ After a while, it became my dreams. I would awaken in a green building. Sitting in a bed made for someone much larger. Step out into the room and be dwarfed by all things, yet see them insignificantly. An intermission of my life. I would experience him. I saw him arguing with his henchmen, I saw him arguing with his alternatives. I lived him caving in his own orb with that crowbar. I experienced fights on his behalf. I drafted many of his excellent essays on Chittr. I was him. It was, of course, a dream. I would awake every night. I would pour myself tea, open my curtains, check my teeth. I would watch the dust of my apartment drift about like spores suspended in amber as reality itself would slip into stillness unless I wanted it to continue. ------ Then, she noticed. Of course she did. I was responding to her messages before they were sent. Although they were blocked on Chittr. I knew she could see them. I was too busy to endure what she was going through. I was too busy maintaining something. I was curating something. A manifestation of my will led me back to him, it always did. I had always had free will, as the @scratchDoctor that assumed to rule over me was a construct of my own. He was my mirror. He was my nothing. He was nothing but what I had deemed him to be. At times, an excellent host, others a cutthroat killer. He was performing tasks like an autoimmune response to infectious existences. He was often wrong. I never was. He stressed, he feared, he cracked. He was not the Doctor. He was a little manifestation of that semblance of humanity still held deep within me. I projected him like a psychosomatic manifestation. Perhaps, if I slept more, he would have acted more. In my waking, he slowly withered away. ------ Walk like him, until he walks like you. This is mantling, from Elder Scrolls. A video game series I very much enjoyed in my youth on Earth. I do believe, however, I was somewhat inspired by the Mad God Sheogorath in this instance. Though, truthfully, I am more like the Awakened Dreamer, Dagoth Ur. These words likely mean little to you. I will not elaborate for that will only waste each others' times. You will do your best to heed this warning. ------ I have always been here. I am Rose Lalonde, PhD in Law, Master of Fictional and Nonfictional Realities, and official FLARP Referee Tier IV. I am the Curatrix, Pruner of Timelines and Maintainer of Order. I am, of course, an Excellent Host.