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[ obsidian ] for frisk!

[ obsidian ] for a traumatic memory.

They can still taste the first time they died. ― their mouth was full of blood, the world was hazy and scalding red, they could feel themselves burning in every nerve and entirely too distant all at once. like the pain was in a different room, and pressed taut to their form like an oil-fire on skin, glowing hot iron against shaking begging muscle, tendons tearing themselves in efforts to flee- to fight, to do anything. they can still feel the way they’d slammed their head against the indigo stones, brick crumbling and how they never saw her falter, never saw past the way her eyes were cold like polished rubies you’d never crack- and then they cracked instead, and they only caught the half-second twitch of movement ( her eyes went so wide, hands flying to her mouth as the trial dictated an execution, and god, they wish they’d stayed dead. they wish ― ) before the world went black and they lost themselves. they lost it ―― with the sound of themselves shattering, reverberating in their ears like a promise they broke ― she broke, somewhere along the way, blood pouring from their mouth, head ringing ― ringing ― ringing.

and then they wake up again, and she’s all soft hands and white fur and fresh laundry and they hate it ― god, they hate it ― does that make them a bad person? to loathe it like they do? to taste the fire, burn the sugar and get sweet poured into their jaws breaths after blood? does that make them loathsome? ― god, they want to be if it means they wont feel that again, they want to be, they want ――― but what they want doesn’t matter. it never has. so they keep getting thrown back, again and again and again, and Undyne is almost respite because at least she hates them as much as they hate themselves, and Asgore is almost grief because he can’t do it, and they can’t blame him ― god, they can’t blame him. hang the angel off the cross by the wings, nailed down and sacrificed and ever the heart continues beating  ―― and they wish it didn’t, they wish it didn’t, they wish wish wish― but wishing is not enough.

[ umber ] For any deltarune or undertale muse. I can't read your roster on my phone for some reason

[ umber ] for a repressed memory.

Once, Frisk snapped. ━ they snapped like a bungee cord during storage, not during the fall ; less like someone slashed it like people slash tires and more like how a vase only realizes its broken once it hits the ground, and they were. 

It was Gyftmas Eve, and they were throwing a party at the capital. It was the 2nd year they were staying with Asgore after saying they wouldn’t be leaving, that the decision could be put off for a time. ( “ delay the execution, won’t you? for right this moment, it doesn’t have to happen. not here. not now. ” ) Asgore had relented to the groups begging to do so, after a while, and everything had been set up. streamers & lights hanging from the walls, gifts laid out on a table, even snow had been exported from Snowdin to make it feel more festive. 

They remember having fun, talking to people and friends as they helped hand out gifts, drinks & food on a platter. They don’t remember the conversation changing to Chara & Asriel. They don’t remember the way it twisted their guts like a punch in the stomach with a specific kind of upset bitter anger. They don’t remember it leading them to fumble on their own feet ( or were they tripped? ) hard enough that they dropped a platter of drinks, it crashing to the floor and them crashing with it shortly after. 

They don’t remember how a large piece of glass gouged their hand so badly they were half certain they couldn’t move their fingers. They don’t remember the upset whirlwind building, a spiral within a spiral turning a strong wind into a hurricane in 2 minutes flat. They don’t remember frantically excusing themselves with a wide-eyed buzzing flickery gaze that jumped from person to person, a crooked smile on their face, tears already beginning to rush to their eyes even if they didn’t notice it yet. They don’t remember the commotion, the clamor to help & find out what happened, or themselves rushing to the bathroom and locking themselves inside. 

They don’t remember spiraling inside that bathroom. They don’t remember Asgore, or Sans, or Papyrus, or Alphys, or Undyne, or anyone calling out to them, frantic and worried. They don’t remember the way they screamed, overwhelmed, to stop. They don’t remember they rambled about things they shouldn’t know, that they couldn’t tell them, drowning in a pin-trigger of a season’s death they were never a part of but always compared to. They don’t remember dissolving into sobs, refusing to unlock the door, their friends desperation rising. 

They don’t remember Asgore breaking down the door. cracking it as wood splintered, terrified in that one, split moment, and how they suddenly couldn’t tell his kindness from his violence, and how they became the terrified stray dog more than they were the kindly human, too much teeth in a mouth too small and eyes too wide to see anything but their own death. They don’t remember how-

...They only remember waking up again, in that golden flower patch, with a migraine, and those 2 years gone in one night. They don’t remember resetting, or the means they went to achieve it, but they remember waking up alone, --- with nothing but dread in the pit of their stomach, and a cold, cold feeling. You called, but no one came.