#( marsha im sorry thats a lot to deal with :(

[crowncursed]

mirrormask

You wake up tired. That tiredness never really goes away as the world moves around you. Lords, you don't want to be here. But you get up because you've got shit to do. No one want someone worthless. You need to provide a service.

It has been a thousand years, but you still remember everything. Every bad thing. And you're reminded of the bad stuff whereever you go. It haunts you. People tell you to move on but for whatever reason, you just can't. And sometimes when it gets too much, you just can't seem to breathe. It's suffocationg.

Your skin is uncomfortable. It's too loud. But you're always so quiet. Because that's what you always needed to be. Be quiet. You're annoying when you talk. Be a dear and run along.

You talk to someone, it emotionally draining. How you yearn to be somewhere else. But you're stuck. And the only place you can find a little bit of peace is when you're alone. You don't like it but it's what's you're used to.

But not too alone. Because the voices can creep in. They tell you how worthless you are. How pathetic you are. How no one loves you. How no one really want you. They only keep you around because you're useful to them. You're just a tool. You don't deserve love. You don't deserve happiness. You don't deserve good things. You are expendable. Replaceable.

Experience the world through Marsha's eyes // tentatively accepting

Exhaustion is not new to him, but this is different, somehow. This permeates his being, as he goes through the motions of sitting up in bed and getting ready for the day. Seemingly arbitrary things bring back memories he's tried to bury, and the people around him are quick to tell him to simply stop thinking about it and stop making a scene. But he can't. They're vivid and inescapable, and despite the fact they aren't his, they feel so real that they might as well be. Eventually it's too much; they take his breath away and he's in his room, back up against the door, trying to breathe without making a sound.

And then, he's standing there, closed off. Someone is talking, but they aren't listening. He doesn't bother opening his mouth, and they don't ask him to. He's quiet. It feels wrong.

Somebody else is talking to him now, and this time they do listen, but he's becoming increasingly aware of the fact he doesn't want to be there. He doesn't have the energy to respond when they ask him questions, which in turn gets irritates them, and they call him rude. Annoying. Why did they even bother? It hurts, but they're gone before he can say it out loud.

The solace of his bedroom doesn't help the way he thought it would. He wanted to be alone, to collect his thoughts, but the thoughts become too loud. He's stuck there, sitting at his desk. Writing could help, but his pen sits on an empty page. What's the point? They'd only miss him tomorrow because he isn't there to provide for them. Every day is the same.

He wakes up with a gasp, sitting upright in bed. His bed. It takes a few seconds to register that it had been a dream. The heavy feelings have carried over and it's difficult to breathe.

Hopelessness turns to sadness and to sympathy. The faces he'd barely recognized in his dream, but the location felt very familiar. Through unknown means, they must have been connected for that night alone, to walk in her shoes. He needs to see Marsha, and urgently. There are things that he needs to say.