[What's any of that meant to mean, exactly? There's someone laid down here now, but they're not -
That's not Frisk.
Skin paler, their demeanor false, hair alit with invisible fingers of some sort of holy backlight. A front, a mere mimicry of Frisk's desperate mumbling, their reaching fingers, their fumbling hands, their tripping over themself to be heard and registered and acknowledged.
It's not Frisk. It's not Frisk. It's not Frisk.
They receive nothing in turn. Nothing but a strangled huff of sound, and Chara buries their face in the crook of their elbow with a shrill giggle.]
[They blink, slowly, red eyes to mirror Chara's own watching in silence for too long, waiting for a visible sign of acknowledgement or rejection. They more expect the latter, but they need to know.]
...did you hear me?
[Maybe they need to approach to provoke anything. Frisk rolls onto their belly and crawls under the bed, and reaches out to touch one of Chara's hands. Not to grab, only lightly, an indication of their presence.]
[A ragged bark of a laugh, and they jerk back, away. Curling up where they are like the horrid little thing they are.]
Don't touch me.
[The words emerge a low hiss. A threat. A warning.
Don't touch me. Not like this. Not now. Not without warning, not as though they're entitled, because we love you, Chara, we want to make sure you don't go running off again, and we want you to stay right where you are, so don't you move, don't you leave Mommy's sight, don't you try to wriggle out of your consequences.]
[Frisk blinks in surprise, pulling their hand away. They stare at Chara in confusion for a moment before folding both arms in front of them and resting their chin atop.]
Okay.
[A simple enough request. A memory drifts to the fore of their mind and they frown, looking down for a moment. A time when Frisk had been new to one of the houses, and scared. Some of the older kids were looking for them, and Frisk had been hiding under the bed until one thought to look...]
[They should stop laughing. Stop - doing what they're doing, hands roving up and down their arms. And then the scratch, the dig of nails into skin. Dry, graying motes of dead skin the outer carapace, ha ha, before they get to the juicy center. The burn, the widening streaks of red.
Deeper, deeper. Maybe if they keep going, they'll carve everything apart and fall to ribbons. Wouldn't that be nice, for everyone?
The words are rough, hoarse with the lump swollen in the bit of their throat, jarring everything, blocking everyone.]
[The blooming red catches Frisk's eye and they stiffen slightly, eyes fixed upon it. They promised not to touch, but they can't let Chara just...do that!]
Stop that. You're hurting yourself!
[Their control isn't fine enough to slip their AT field in under Chara's hand, but Chara's told them not to touch them. They have to obey that. But they have to stop this as well, it's...important?]
I'm still me, Chara. I'm just...I'm not Lilim.
[It's not an explanation. They know it's not an explanation, but there's not enough time to figure one out. They don't have that kind of mind anymore, that can take an idea and mold it with such speed and precision, to take something and turn it to an entirely new purpose. They remember what it was like, but searching through those moments to find the right clues is...it's hard. They don't even know what they should be looking for.]
Please, tell me what I should do. I still want to hep you.
[They've got no clue what the heck a "Lilim" is or why they should care, but their only response is to snort, dismissive, like a horse shooing away flies. What does it matter, what they do? It's their stupid borrowed meat-sack, is it not? Can't they do what they like with the body the Ingress thoughtfully supplied them with? It's better than being stuck as a ghost in someone else's head for life, right?
It's supposed to be you, always you. It's always to be still just you. And yet - whoever they're looking at now, whoever they're talking to now, what part of that is Frisk? What part of that is they of the fumbled speech, of the uncertainty in encroaching upon anyone's space, the steely determination underlying, the fear of the same callous, dismissive words they've launched at them now? Where are they? Where are they now?
Layered beneath? Gone? Gone?
...gone?
A soft thrill of something in their stomach and a noise akin to a moan, desperate and pained. Like the weight of something that can never be removed.]
[They crawl back out, and pause for a moment to watch Chara before they stand again, brushing off their clothes and turning to walk out without another word. They're probably going to regret this later, but it's simply too frustrating, too difficult to maneuver their way through these social quandries, all the emotions and complexities. Easier to let things be, distance themself so Chara might not be so distressed.]
[They do leave the first aid kit by Chara's bedroom before they leave however.]
[Immediately, the irrational urge to call them back wells in their throat like a weeping wound. Why can't they make up their mind? Why do this, subject everyone to this, this pushing around and being unable to decide? How are you supposed to communicate what it is you want, Chara, if you can't even decide what it is you want for yourself?
The scratch of fingernails across skin doesn't dwindle into silence. It intensifies, faster, sharper, until their forearms are raw. But the sores cover up evidence of the scars, ha. Can always call it a Tanglesnake attack, or any number of things.
Doesn't matter. Doesn't matter.
They're alone now, like what they wanted in the first place, right?
What does it matter, what happens to Frisk? They're not supposed to care at all. And Frisk will come back, anyway, because they always do, and when that happens -
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
That's not Frisk.
Skin paler, their demeanor false, hair alit with invisible fingers of some sort of holy backlight. A front, a mere mimicry of Frisk's desperate mumbling, their reaching fingers, their fumbling hands, their tripping over themself to be heard and registered and acknowledged.
It's not Frisk. It's not Frisk. It's not Frisk.
They receive nothing in turn. Nothing but a strangled huff of sound, and Chara buries their face in the crook of their elbow with a shrill giggle.]
no subject
...did you hear me?
[Maybe they need to approach to provoke anything. Frisk rolls onto their belly and crawls under the bed, and reaches out to touch one of Chara's hands. Not to grab, only lightly, an indication of their presence.]
no subject
Don't touch me.
[The words emerge a low hiss. A threat. A warning.
Don't touch me. Not like this. Not now. Not without warning, not as though they're entitled, because we love you, Chara, we want to make sure you don't go running off again, and we want you to stay right where you are, so don't you move, don't you leave Mommy's sight, don't you try to wriggle out of your consequences.]
no subject
Okay.
[A simple enough request. A memory drifts to the fore of their mind and they frown, looking down for a moment. A time when Frisk had been new to one of the houses, and scared. Some of the older kids were looking for them, and Frisk had been hiding under the bed until one thought to look...]
[...is that...?]
...are you afraid of me?
cw self harm
Deeper, deeper. Maybe if they keep going, they'll carve everything apart and fall to ribbons. Wouldn't that be nice, for everyone?
The words are rough, hoarse with the lump swollen in the bit of their throat, jarring everything, blocking everyone.]
You're not Frisk.
no subject
Stop that. You're hurting yourself!
[Their control isn't fine enough to slip their AT field in under Chara's hand, but Chara's told them not to touch them. They have to obey that. But they have to stop this as well, it's...important?]
I'm still me, Chara. I'm just...I'm not Lilim.
[It's not an explanation. They know it's not an explanation, but there's not enough time to figure one out. They don't have that kind of mind anymore, that can take an idea and mold it with such speed and precision, to take something and turn it to an entirely new purpose. They remember what it was like, but searching through those moments to find the right clues is...it's hard. They don't even know what they should be looking for.]
Please, tell me what I should do. I still want to hep you.
no subject
It's supposed to be you, always you. It's always to be still just you. And yet - whoever they're looking at now, whoever they're talking to now, what part of that is Frisk? What part of that is they of the fumbled speech, of the uncertainty in encroaching upon anyone's space, the steely determination underlying, the fear of the same callous, dismissive words they've launched at them now? Where are they? Where are they now?
Layered beneath? Gone? Gone?
...gone?
A soft thrill of something in their stomach and a noise akin to a moan, desperate and pained. Like the weight of something that can never be removed.]
Just - get out. Go.
no subject
[They probably should have expected this.]
Okay.
[They crawl back out, and pause for a moment to watch Chara before they stand again, brushing off their clothes and turning to walk out without another word. They're probably going to regret this later, but it's simply too frustrating, too difficult to maneuver their way through these social quandries, all the emotions and complexities. Easier to let things be, distance themself so Chara might not be so distressed.]
[They do leave the first aid kit by Chara's bedroom before they leave however.]
no subject
The scratch of fingernails across skin doesn't dwindle into silence. It intensifies, faster, sharper, until their forearms are raw. But the sores cover up evidence of the scars, ha. Can always call it a Tanglesnake attack, or any number of things.
Doesn't matter. Doesn't matter.
They're alone now, like what they wanted in the first place, right?
What does it matter, what happens to Frisk? They're not supposed to care at all. And Frisk will come back, anyway, because they always do, and when that happens -
When that happens, there will be nothing to say.]