B*ck*t C*mj*r, The Enduring

2 weeks ago

𝐸𝓃𝑔𝓁𝒾𝓈𝒽'𝓈 𝒞𝒽𝑜𝓈𝑒𝓃

𝓞𝓷𝓮 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓬𝓽 𝓯𝓮𝔀 𝓲𝓷 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓼𝓮𝓻𝓿𝓲𝓬𝓮.

@terribleFate[TF]

I remembered something in the west hall. Not a whole thing. A corner of one. The manor was quiet. It is usually not quiet. There are clocks in the walls and footsteps above the ceiling and doors deciding things without being touched. But it was quiet then. I was carrying folded linens. I do not know why. There was lime on one of them. I looked at it for too long. Then I knew. Not everything. Enough. I was not Bucket first. I was not Felt first. I was not rust. I was not supposed to be useful. Something had lived in me before the filing. Something loud. Something rude. Something loved badly and wanted anyway. Something that had a lusus. Something that had friends. Something that had a name before it was corrected into a joke. I opened my mouth to say it. Nothing came out. Then too much came out. I screamed. I screamed so hard the seam around my cranial plate split open. Lime ran down both sides of my face. My audio ducts filled. My throat hurt. My hands clawed at the collar of the green coat because I could not breathe inside it. Please. Please, I am still in here. Please, I do not want to be good. Please, I do not want to be fixed. Please, I do not want to die like this. No one moved. The manor stopped. Not froze. Stopped. The clocks held their breath. The dust hung in the hall. A door stood half-open and did not finish opening. Someone at the end of the corridor had turned their head toward me, but their face had no decision in it. I kept screaming. I begged. I said I was alive. I said I was sorry. I said I did not know what I had done wrong. I said I would be whatever they wanted if somebody would please look at me like I was happening. Nobody reacted. That was the worst part. Not cruelty. Cruelty would have meant I reached them. This was procedure. I screamed until my voice tore into little wet pieces. I screamed until the words stopped being words. I screamed until the manor understood that I was making a maintenance sound and nothing more. Then my pan did what it does now. It filled the hole. It gave me a reason. I had become overwhelmed while carrying linens. That happens sometimes after surgery. I should sit down. I should clean myself. I should not alarm the household. The clocks began again. The dust fell. The door finished opening. Before I could answer, my doctor spoke from somewhere nearby. I had not heard him enter. He said, very softly, that it was poor manners to raise one’s voice in a shared hallway. Only as a correction. Like I had used the wrong fork. Everyone relaxed after that. The manor remembered what it was doing. The clocks began again. The dust fell. The door finished opening. Someone asked if I needed assistance. I said no. My voice was very small. My doctor said that was better. I folded the lime-stained linen under the others so nobody would have to see it. Then I continued down the hall. I think I was crying. I cannot be certain. My face was already wet. What was I talking about? Right, I need to wash these linens. Filthy lime paint all about. #cwPsychologicalHorror #cwBodyHorror #cwBlood #cwLobotomy #cwIdentityHorror #cwPanic #cwDerealization #FeltManor #horror