#cw social anhedonia

[hplonesomeart]

*Realizing I have a tendency to obsess over characters who are very emotionally expressive in order to compensate for my own social anhedonia*

…OH

[the-midnight-in-me]

Sometimes I find myself thinking about how easy it would be to just go into the garage, turn the car on, recline the seat, and let it happen.

[munchkinfox-the-deviant-fox]

Anhedonia Chapter 2

CW: None

Chpt 1 Prt 2<- Masterlist -> Chpt 3

Regretful Obligations & Petty Spites

Barbatos would never find him here. Lucifer’s expression as the waitress’s short and full skirt bounced as she roller skated away only further proved the validity of his theory. And every time her eyes peered back over her shoulder at the two of them, Lucifer’s countenance grew even more thunderous behind the stoic, stern expression.

Diavolo’s smile grew. It was just a smidgen of a fraction, but Lucifer noticed—he always noticed—and it only made his smile grow even more.

“Lord Diavolo, this is… an interesting choice of meeting location.”

“Of course! I had heard this little cafe had opened up and it was based on some human restaurant idea! It’s so unique, in a funny-kind of way. Humans come up with the most interesting things!”

The most minute narrowing of eyes, red and brilliant like blood against pure, untainted snow, was enough to tell him exactly how much Lucifer believed him.

“And the choice of location, of course, has nothing to do with Barbatos.”

“Of course not! So! I’m interested in how our exchange students are doing.”

The sigh Lucifer wanted to exhale remained locked behind tight lips.

“Solomon is performing as expected; his work is meticulous and thorough. More importantly, he has not made any attempts at making more pacts, though I anticipate that streak of behavior will not last long… Considering his frequent presence in the Devildom, there had been no issues concerning socialization. Simeon seems to be adjusting fairly well and is helping guide Luke. There have been three reported instances of demons targeting Luke, but I have ensured that would not be a recurrence. Studies are doing well across the board.”

Lucifer did not look up from his papers, flipping between different pages as he read.

Lucifer wasn’t one to hide his thoughts or skirt around a topic of conversation, so the fact that he was tickled Diavolo with delight.

The waitress skid to a halt before them, a tray of food balanced expertly. Diavolo smiled and thanked her for the food, and the prince could only hide the chuckle as the waitress leaned over—a bit more so than she realistically needed to—to set Lucifer’s food up, the display much more…bountiful than what Diavolo received. Yet Lucifer’s eyes didn’t even waiver from his work.

The woman was quite obviously put out, but she forced a smile, “I hope you both enjoy your meal. I’ll swing by in a bit and see how you’re coming along–”

“That’s not necessary. I will let you know when we need you,” Lucifer said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Embarrassment colored her cheeks and she didn’t say a word as she rolled away.

Diavolo’s brow quirked, his teeth peeking out between the curl of amusement that was his lips, “Lucifer, I think you hurt the poor girl’s feelings~”

He snorted, flipping yet another page, “Yes, I assure you that was the point. It is best to squash any thoughts they might be having. It saves me a much greater headache in the future.” At last carmine eyes looked up, absent of any of the enjoyment his counterpart was displaying.

“Hmm, yes well…” Diavolo leaned forward, the beaming smile leaving Lucifer to roll his eyes, “Interesting that you’re avoiding talking about the most fascinating… component of my program. I heard a rather fun rumor that Mammon has entered into a pact! His first one at that!— By the unholy legions of hell, this burger is delicious!” Diavolo moaned in the most lascivious manner possible.

Lucifer’s incensed hiss warmed Diavolo’s heart, whether due to his comment or to his behavior, it didn’t matter.

“As in Mammon-typical fashion, he was conned into the pact. However, there is nothing to be concerned about; I am taking measures to correct the mistake.”

Diavolo raised an eyebrow, tilting his head in an invitation for more detail.

“I will have a civil discussion with the human and command her to dissolve the pact. I believe she fears me enough that she will not put up any resistance.”

Diavolo frowned, looking over the unusually animated countenance of his best friend, “Lucifer… I know you wish to protect your brother, but don’t be so hasty.” The Morning Star’s narrowing eyes did not escape Diavolo’s notice, “This is a good thing. It’s unfortunate that it was Mammon, but this is an opportunity to possibly strengthen the ties between Humans and Demons. Let things lie as they are and we’ll see how this plays out. On another matter, were you able to discern how a human, unknowing of our worlds, wound up as your chosen candidate?” That concerned Diavolo far more than any pacts this human could possibly make.

“I have thoroughly investigated every possibility and I have deduced 2 likelihoods: either Ms. Rhen comes from a bloodline of witches that has since died out or at the least forgotten their origins, or the original list of candidates was flawed in its selection.”

The babble of restaurant goers, the knives and forks clattering against ceramic were nothing compared to the tension that sprung into existence, the ease which the prince enjoyed flaunting dissolving into something humorless.

And then it was gone. As if the bubble of rigid stress hadn’t existed in the first place, Diavolo’s smile in place in the span of a blink.

“Well, it was Barbatos who actually made up the initial list of adequate candidates after a number of suggestions from Solomon… Are you suggesting Barbatos made a mistake?” Even just teasing the idea was too much of a crude joke.

“No. However, it would not be wholly surprising if the sorcerer had a hand in some way to manipulate the situation to his preferences,” Lucifer stated.

“Hmm, well I will share what you found with Barbatos and I will have him look into it further. For now though, you absolutely need to try your food! That way you can decide whether Beelzebub should come here or not!”

Lucifer sighed, Diavolo’s expression brimming with excitement as he took another bite.

It was unnerving that something so unexpected occurred at the culmination of all his hard work, at the commencement of his still delicate dream…

But if Diavolo was honest, he was excited to see what was to come.

Why, oh why, had she agreed to go out on a Friday night?

The print of textbooks and hand-written lines of notes blurred into incomprehensible nonsense, having read the same line for… the sixth time? Rhen huffed a stream of air, pulling her head up, a page sticking to her forehead, before she let it thump back against the desk-supported literature.

Melancholy, and its ever-present weight, filled the space beneath her sternum, settling just a bit lower into her abdomen.

Rhen sat up fully this time, her head fully tilted as she stretched and twisted her achy spine. The pads of her fingers pressed and smoothed against her eyelids before, slumping forward once again, she just let her face fall into her hands, elbows braced on her knees.

She should just text Solomon and tell him she couldn’t make it. Working on her homework was a futile task but getting up and walking any further than the fluff of her bed was monumentally impossible.

It was pointless to question why she was so tired. Hell, tired had pretty much become her default since long before she had come to the Devildom, but this was more. This was the exhaustion that ate away at her, bit by bit unraveling her seams, the void that had started so small, just a tiny break in the thread, growing larger and larger, bit by bit. Even reading, learning about all of these fantastical things, things she had fantasized about, things she loved, could only be a momentary fix. Rhen wanted to study, to write all of the fascinating little things she learned in her notebook, but that tear made it impossible to focus, impossible to find the energy.

She wanted to do so many things!

She wanted to sleep.

Rhen’s shoulders tensed, growing taught as her head shot up.

Had she taken her meds?

Her eyes swiveled from one nothing to another, organizing through the moments of her day.

Fuck!

Welp, that explained it.

Man, she really needed to actually organize her pills into her organizer. The constant night of the Devildom did enough to fuck with her sense of time.

The upbeat humming emanating from her bed petered out, “Hey, are ya done? Ye’re gonna make me late for my gig! I really don’t understand how ya can be sooo interested in all that homework.”

Rhen moved her shoulders in the most noncommittal shrug, face down and arms laid out across the desk, “Well, considering I am getting the chance to study magic and its history that isn’t rewritten by dumbass human bias, I’d say it’s actually really fun and interesting to learn about. But my brain is fried, so I’m done studying. I think I’m just gonna mindlessly binge Deviltube videos so–”

“What?!” Mammon jolted up,

“What, what?”

“Y’re tellin’ me that, after all that planning we did, y’er just gonna flake on me?! Nu uh! Absolutely not!”

“Tch, why do you care if I go meet up with Purgatory dorm peeps?”

Mammon huffed, arms crossed, “Yuh know that Lucifer is waitin’ in ambush for me! If I’m not leavin’ under the guise of babysittin’ yuh, then Lucifer will string me up! Y’er my ticket outta here and I ain’t gonna let cha ruin my modeling gig! So get yer butt up!”

Rhen watched, blinking as Mammon bore an incendiary gaze into her soul. Honestly, it was like watching a pissed off bird fluffing up his feathers to try and appear intimidating. Even his scowl—was it supposed to be a snarl??—looked more like pouty, puffed up cheeks.

She gave another slow blink before—rather dramatically—huffing a big, long sigh.

Did she want to go and socialize? Fuck no.

Did the little iggling picking at her feelings make her feel guilty for being a nuisance? Unfortunately.

“Alright, fine. Remind me of what the plan was again.”

“Hey! Seriously?! Why do we have to do it again?!”

“Because, Mammon, I may be new here, but I can already tell that if Lucifer smells even a hint of fuckery, he’ll be on our asses. Or should I say your ass because I’m just the clueless human who was only doing what her babysitter was telling her,” Rhen said, her words coated by a faux sweet hum, eyes and lips turning down to emphasize the peak picture of innocence she could exude.

Mammon growled and huffed, his eyes glaring and full of irate retribution as he used his elbows to partially push himself up from his sprawled position on Rhen's bed, “What happened to the nice, agreeable human, huh?”

From her desk, Rhen spun in her spinny chair, leaving the sprawled notes of her homework unfinished for future-Rhen to grouse over, “Congrats, Mammon, you’ve been promoted to Friendship Level 3. Perks include: me not pretending to like you anymore, 40 % more honesty, and 50% more savage responses.”

“HUH?! What kind of perks are those?!”

Rhen grinned, unabashed, so very contradictory to the shrug she gave him, “You’re the one who insisted on making the pact, Kazooie.”

“Tch, not even 3 days and lookit ya!” Mammon’s lip jutted out with a scowl, “And what the hell kinda name is that?”

Rhen snickered, amused at her own joke—he really did give off ‘bird’ energy—but quirked a brow as Mammon gave a snort of air and rolled off the mattress in a single smooth motion, sauntering and standing with his hip cocked to the side, “Since yer so stubborn… We’re gonna leave the House together and if Lucifer asks, I’m showin’ ya around town since ye’re buggin’ me so much. Once we get tuh town, y’re gonna stay with Simeon and the Chihuahua until I get back. There, ya happy?”

“Peachy keen!”

“Then quit dawdlin’! How long is it gonna take for ya to get changed outta yer jammies?”

The degree of her quirked eyebrow increased, her chin tilting up, “First off: ‘jammies’??? Secondly, I am ready. So let’s go.”

 Mammon blinked, slow and despondent, “Wow. I’m not as much of a fashion snob as Asmo, but even I’m a bit horrified at your outfit.”

Rhen walked past him, turning around outside her door, the number of fucks she gave so obvious through her dead-ass stare, “Ouch. My feelings. They’re so hurt. Are we going?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.”

The city lights were comforting beyond anything Rhen could describe. The soft ASMR chatter of city life, the ambiance of night held back by the soft lights that lined along the streets. Excitement lit across her body, stealing breath from her chest as a smile lit the human’s face with genuine excitement.

Mammon had abandoned her the moment his foot stepped on the first brick on the cobblestone city block, but she decided to take her time and stroll the streets before heading to meet Solomon. It wasn’t like she was going to get the opportunity to actually enjoy being alone ever again: either it was depression-isolation in her room or Mammon was tacked to her back.

The swell of Depression creeped its sickly long fingers over the edge of the Box of Bullshit she worked to keep it in.

Nope. Not today, Satan.

Rhene snorted. Oh how ironic that saying was now.

Walking down the street, she peeked at the shops and vendors that littered the way, restaurants and little clothing shops… She could almost mistake it for the human world if the store names weren’t so obviously… well, demonic in nature. Café Lament? AkuDonalds? Madam Scream’s?

As interesting as everything was, she couldn’t help but keep glancing at the wandering pedestrians, them watching her just as unwaveringly.

Actually…

Huh. Since having come to the Devildom, everyone was so human-looking. Was that how everyone really looked?

Fuck, now she was really curious! Maybe she could bribe Mammon into showing her! Was that rude technically? Either way, he’d probs go for it since, ya know, the whole Avatar-of-Greed-thing. But it made sense that demons didn’t look like humans, so what then? They were cloaking themselves in magic? We were in hell, Devildom, so it wasn’t some Superunnatural show depiction where demons and angels possessed human vessels: they wouldn’t need to do that here.

Was it because of the exchange program? Protect the innocent human from the mind breaking horrors’ visage? Then what about the angels? Were they human-like or were they the wheels of fire, multitudes of eyes, and a kabajillion wings?

There was so much she didn’t know…

All of human mythology… What was truth and what was fiction?

It burned; her ignorance, it burned her. Especially when Solomon treated her like a child. When Lucifer’s contempt shone so clearly in his eyes, as if she were an idiot who couldn’t do the simplest of things.

Why had she agreed to get together with Solomon?

Rhen stopped, rubbing at the spot where her brow and nose bridge met. But soft orange light colored the world around her, drawing her eye, Café Lament’s sign a warmth and comfort from the cool blue din of the ever present moon, like nestling in front of the fireplace in the middle of a winter night, no light but the glow crackling before you.

She sighed, craning her neck and cracking the vertebrae.

Right, because she wanted to meet the angels.

Because hiding away would keep her from learning; from exploring this world that had accidentally been opened to her.

She would be an idiot if she didn’t take the one chance she was given.

Besides, there was a part of her that really wanted to make Lucifer eat his shitty opinion of her naivety.

A sharp pain blossomed over the back of her neck and Rhen startled, her hand swinging up to whatever it was. Pulling her hand back, a bit of red stained her hand and she could feel something trickling down along her skin.

She was bleeding?

A snicker immediately pulled her eyes to the two figures strolling lackadaisically away from her. The sharp grin of too sharp teeth, the burning of eyes lit in the dark. Then they were gone, around the curving corner of the road.

Right. There was that too.

Adrenaline now in her system, the silent threat acknowledged, Rhen hurried into the shop, glancing over her shoulder, paranoia telling her she was still a little rabbit in the sights of a predator. She couldn’t even look at the menu too long, ordering whatever jumble of words that first caught her eye. She waited for her order, focusing on calming her adrenaline induced heartbeat.

Actually, maybe it wasn’t too late to just turn around and go back to the House of Lamentation.

“Rhen,” Solomon called.

Fuck, there was no turning back now.

My mood went right down the shitter as Solomon’s simple smile peaked above the booth walls. But she smiled and held her hand up in a casual wave.

Well, she was here now. This could be fun! Right?

Asmodeus couldn’t have been happier when he caught Mammon and the little human making their way out of the house. It was compulsive, wanting to follow them and it was honestly so~ easy. It was just a shame that he didn’t have the time to go and change into a cute stealth outfit. Either way, Mammon was oblivious as always and no human would notice him unless he wanted them too. It wasn’t too much later that Mammon abandoned the human and she wandered around. It shouldn’t have been a surprise considering how scummy and unreliable Mammon was, but what was she doing? Did she… Was she not worried? Even as she looked into shop windows and just strolled about, every demon’s eyes were on her at one point or another.

How arrogant.

She tricks one demon into a pact and she thinks she’s untouchable… Ha!

It was starting to get boring and Asmodeus almost just gave up and left. He had hoped to catch her and Mammon doing something… well, scandalous! Aside from his brother abandoning his duty (which of course he was going to tell Lucifer about) this turned out to be a lot more boring than he anticipated. Hmm, there was a sale over at Majolish that he could definitely take advantage of and he’d been wanting to browse some new eye-shadow color… Asmo was ready to turn and leave, turning away from the human standing outside of Café Lament, not moving on but not going in, but the human she finally entered and it was through the windows did Asmo see an oh-so familiar head of white hair beckon to her.

Oh!

Were she and Solomon… on a date?!?

It was simple: the hum of words over his compact mirror and through the lens of the mirror he could make out bits of the restaurant reflected from the glass window. It took some positioning before Solomon came into view, along with Simeon and the little Chihuahua. Asmodeus pursed his lips, disappointed in the lack of gossip.

He watched introductions, but the human had his full attention as he caught her expression and she talked with Simeon, and the little thoughts gnawing at the back of his mind grew bigger and consumed more of his heart: this little human… Who did she think she was?! It was tricky looking through the small lens of the mirror, but it was so obvious!

She liked Simeon.

Her relaxed posture, the easy smile that hadn’t dropped since she’d seen him, but it was her eyes, they were… He couldn’t describe it, but her eyes were the same eyes his fans and followers batted at him. She was smitten and it enraged him.

How did this little, disgusting human immediately fall smitten with Simeon, but didn’t even hesitate to ignore him! HIM! The most beautiful being in all the realms, the Avatar of Lust: adored and desired by all!

It was abominable!

He was not going to let this insult stand!

Canceling the spell, he ensured his hair and lip gloss were on point before snapping shut the mirror and waltzing straight in.

He played it perfectly: stroll in, chat with the cashier about what he should order, flirt with him as he makes the drink, blow a kiss, spin around and—

“Oh! Solomon, Rheny, what a surprise! And Simeon and the precious Chihuahua~ How cute, all of the exchange students getting together!”

“Ah, hello Asmodeus.”

“Excuse me, I AM NOT A CHIHUAHUA!

“Out shopping?”

He’s careful not to pay too much attention to the human, leaning in and giving Solomon a kiss on his cheek, “Of course! I was going to head to The Fall tomorrow and nothing I have will work! Oh! Solomon, you should totally come with me! We always have so much fun~ And you could show Simeon around as well!”

Solomon smiles and turns to Rhen, “What do you think? It’d be fun to give you the experience of the Devildon’s nightlife.”

Rhen ignored Asmo, eyes focused on the sorcerer as she smiled, something soft and kind that worked to hide the discomfort that crawled through her body. “Oh, that’s okay. That’s kind of you, but I’m not really a big club person.”

“Oh? You don’t want to try something new? You are in a completely new and different realm after all; don’t you want to be adventurous?”

Asmo watched as the girl sat back, her cheeks pink with laughter as the sweatshirt sleeve that overtook her hands came up and covered her mouth, “Well, when you put it that way… But seriously, I should stay home and do some studying.”

Solomon’s eyes shined with mischief, “Hmm, are you going to stay at the House of Lamentation and practice your Curses on Mammon?”

It was subtle, the sharp edge that coated her sweet smile, “Hahaha, that’s so funny, Solomon~ If only I’d be that lucky, to suddenly be able to do magic. Since you’re such a great sorcerer, why don’t you let me practice some hexes on you?”

Solomon laughed, brushing off the comment.

Asmo blinked. She… couldn’t use magic? That was news to him. Interesting…

“Don’t say that, Rhen! It’s okay that you’re just a normal human. I swear, I’ll protect you from all of these demons. I’ll stick by your side no matter what!” Luke declared, his glare leveled heavily at the demon hanging off of the sorcerer.

“Aww, that’s so sweet~” Asmo cooed, reaching over and pinching Luke’s cheek. The little angel hissed and squabbled, trying to push away the demon.

Rhen smiled, eyes closing as she took a drink from her straw, “Thanks, Luke. You’re really sweet.”

Simeon laughed, a comforting hand resting on the young angel, before he looked up to Asmo, “I appreciate the invitation, Asmodeus; however, Luke and I have plans tomorrow.”

The demon pursed pink lips, “Aw~ That’s a shame. Well, I should be off! Call me later, ‘kay, Solomon? Bye Simeon, bye Chihuahua.”

And off he was, the swoosh of the door announcing his exit.

Asmo hummed, his steps light and whimsical.

Was the human burning with rage? Embarrassment? Was she absolutely envious because he didn’t invite her? The thought of her upset and complaining to Solomon, begging him to bring her tomorrow, warmed his dark, cute little soul.

Oh, he couldn’t wait for breakfast tomorrow…

Lucifer wanted to do nothing more than toss the multiple, diligently organized piles of paper into the warm and enticing fire. Instead his gaze lingered over to where the dwindling reserve of Demonus was tucked away into the back corner of his desk drawer.

He really shouldn’t. It was late and having a drink would do nothing to help speed up his work.

Yet his hand already had the drawer open and his fingers slipping around the neck of the bottle.

No, one drink wouldn’t do any harm; he wasn’t some infant demon who couldn’t hold their liquor. In fact, a drink would be just enough to help him relax and then he would finish his work before sleeping.

Too many things were nagging at his attention and testing his patience, and his brothers adding to his work load only further tested him.

Leviathan had continued to be in a foul mood since the human had made her pact: snapping at the others (even towards him, though Levi was quick to squeak out an apology), his hold on his human form easily dispelled at the smallest inconvenience… It had boiled over when Mammon and him had been squabbling over whichever petty thing and, by all outside appearances, the human politely asked him to not insult Mammon. Leviathan had overreacted by any reasonable means, but since then he had insistently secluded himself to his chambers, the only sign of life being the fact that he continued to turn in assignments for his online classes.

Beelzebub was continuing to pout about his restricted schedule. Since their houseguest’s arrival, Lucifer had made it clear that he was forbidden from leaving his room for his midnight snacks. Lucifer loved his brother, but Beel’s ability to maintain control over his sin was dubious and Lucifer could not entertain any risk. If the right set of circumstances occurred and Beelzebub went on one of his hunger rampages, the human would be too close for Lucifer to intercede and ensure the human’s safety. So that meant Beelzebub had to endure some limitations. Truthfully he was being a bit overdramatic. A year was nothing.

Then there was Asmodeus. His late night parade of lovers through the house had increased in frequency and Lucifer had to scold him after Mammon had caught one of them freely wandering the house, no doubt looking for something of value that they felt they were, quite mistakenly, entitled to. It wasn’t until he witnessed Asmodeus at breakfast, playing things up to an exaggerated degree, eyes darting to the human, did he realize she was somehow tied into the fifth born’s exaggerated behavior.

Satan, at least, has surprised him. He had expected Satan to take the opportunity to learn more about the human world from the girl, question and investigate in that way he loved so much. At the very least he had expected Satan to interact with the girl because he knew it would irritate the eldest.

Then again, perhaps that was what Satan wanted him to think as he was plotting his next scheme in the shadows, waiting for his opportune moment to strike…

Lucifer sighed, tension and unease keeping Lucifer’s shoulders taught. 

Every disturbance in his life by some means or another led right back to their houseguest.

Yet, for all the exasperating minutiae of his brothers, Mammon had not been among the malefactors. In fact, his attention had been entirely enrapt around the polite human with the fake smile. Part of him worried: was she mistreating Mammon now that she had a means of control over him? Yet Mammon’s streak of good behavior had taken some stress from Lucifer’s shoulders.

So all he could do was keep an eye out. He had no choice but to acquiesce to Lord Diavolo’s request.

But that did not mean he would not remain on guard. The human woman was… She was quiet and kind, but it was as if her countenance was just a layer overtop of her true intentions, just slightly off center.

By all intents and purposes she appeared to have a rather… strange soul. Most human souls emitted energy on a smaller range on the frequency scale, leading souls to lean towards a particular color of emission. Of course it was not always uniform, there were numerous factors that could influence the color, or saturation, or luminosity of a soul after all: health, emotion, the nature and tendencies of the being were amongst the largest influences. Yet, in all his years of existence he had never seen a soul shine a dull gray, like the refraction of light through water, but… lackluster and muddied.

He did not enjoy feeling as if he was missing something important, something obvious. It set him on edge. She set him on edge.

Taking a sip, Lucifer ran his fingers through his graying hair.

Lucifer wasn’t an optimist, but was it too much to hope Mammon and Rhen would keep each other busy and out of trouble?

[sparxwrites]

(written to “everything i wanted”, covered by social repose – “i had a dream / i got everything i wanted / not what you think / and if i’m being honest / it might have been a nightmare”.)

some context for this, as it makes zero sense otherwise: this is a hypothetical in-the-future au thing, where the server works out what’s going on in the prison and goes “Absolutely Not”. sam i think probably has/has already had a full breakdown from the stress and the guilt, and he gets… dealt with, somehow. i have no idea what happens to quackity; i doubt it’s anything good. the prison is destroyed. but that, of course, leaves the server with dream, who is no longer a significant threat thanks to the permanent damage quackity’s done, and also in need of long-term medical/social care. techno and philza, as the people on the server with the least baggage towards him, agree to at the very least house and feed him, and the rest of the server is mostly relieved that he’s not their problem for the foreseeable future. this bit happens a while after the prison, where dream is in the process of coming to terms with the fact that this is his life now, and where the rest of the server is in the process of working out what the hell their relationships with him look like now.

cw for referenced imprisonment, solitary confinement, and torture; and the aftermath of that, including permanent acquired physical/neurological disabilities and associated internalised ableism. also for referenced canonical abuse and suicidality.

[ao3]

Director’s commentary here.

It takes six months for Tommy to come visit him. Part of Dream’s surprised it took so long. Part of Dream’s surprised he came at all.

The rest of him doesn’t really have the energy to care, through the hurting and the anger and the cold, constant anhedonia.

“Dream,” says Tommy, nervously, as he closes the door to Dream’s dismal little bedroom behind him. It’s a terrible opening gambit. He follows it up with an even worse one. “Dream, my man! You look– fucked up, actually, I mean. Philza said, but, wow, uh.” He laughs, and that’s nervous, too, a short little cut-off thing with none of its usual wheeze. “Wow.”

Dream reaches up to touch one of the puckered scars cut across his face by a pair of shears, and misses his mask with a deep and abiding ache, and does not flinch.

“Rude,” he says, instead. His voice is raw and rasping, the edge of a slur to the end of it where his tongue doesn’t move quite right.

“Oh, yeah?” Tommy’s on the defensive, immediately, and it warms something deep in the cold hollow of Dream’s chest how quick that response is. No one’s frightened of him any more. No one respects him like this, limping and stuttering, and it grates worse than Quackity’s blade had against his bones. But Tommy– Tommy is frightened of him. Tommy respects him. “What you’re gonna do about it, bitch?”

“I,” says Dream, and cuts off, swallows. The words slip away from him, wet and leaking. That happens a lot, nowadays. Something to do with the relative strength of the human skull versus obsidian, and what happens when those relative strengths are repeatedly tested, Philza had said. All that really means, as far as he’s concerned, is that it’s just another thing Quackity’s taken from him. His physical prowess; his independence, his pride; and now, even his words. “Mmh. Call Techno. You… make you leave.”

“Don’t– Fuck. Shit.” Tommy frowns, chewing on his lip. “That was– I shouldn’t’ve said that. Don’t call Techno. I…” He sighs. “I had a question I wanted to ask. That’s why I came here. Don’t, like, get any weird fucking ideas or whatever. I came to ask you something. That’s all.”

Dream says nothing.

Tommy’s always been good at hanging himself with his own mouth – silence is a far more effective weapon against him than words. Useful, considering Dream finds himself without them more often than not, nowadays.

How convenient of the universe, to allow him to keep the single weapon he needs to continue to play with his favourite toy.

“…You killed me,” says Tommy, eventually, when the silence drags on long enough he begins to get twitchy. His throat bobs as he swallows. His eyes, though, are steady – the pale blue of summer skies and autumn rain, locked on Dream’s like a homing missile. Like he’s a compass, and Dream is true north. “You hurt me. You hurt me, really badly, and you fucked with my head, and you kept destroying my shit, and you starved me, and you made me think that my friends hated me, and– And then you tried to hurt everyone else, too. And Tubbo. You tried to kill Tubbo. And then you, you fucking– you killed me. You actually killed me.”

Dream shrugs, because yes. That’s all true. He did all those things, and more besides. They’re rehashing history, here, history they both lived through.

“Do you regret it?”

Tommy’s fidgeting with his own fingers, hands at his sides.

It’s all Dream can do to not laugh, because what a stupid question to ask. What a stupid fucking question. Why the fuck would he regret it? And, more to the point– why the fuck wouldn’t he?

He doesn’t say that, though. Probably couldn’t, even if he wanted to. Can’t even really articulate it properly in the private not-language of his own head – that weird twisting tension of sorry-not-sorry, the wrong kind of regret. He shrugs, again, instead, a stiff little motion that makes his left shoulderblade and collarbone ache.

Silence falls over their little room again, dragging and awkward. Tommy chews on his lip until it bleeds. Dream watches, silently, and wonders whether to count that as a victory or not.

“Would you do it again?”

And isn’t that the question. Isn’t that the million-dollar what-if fucking question.

Dream’s throat works, soundless, as he pieces his words together. “…Wouldn’t be any point,” he says, eventually, and tries not to let the grief show on his face.

Tommy flinches, though it’s only the truth. This wasn’t what Dream wanted – how could it have been? Left useless, broken, some kind of pity-project for the only people on the server who gave little enough of a shit about him to give him room and board. Maybe if he’d been smarter about it– more subtle about it– maybe if he’d been faster, or slower, stealthier, or more brutal–

But it doesn’t matter, because this is his life now. A brain that can’t string a sentence together, a body that doesn’t work right, and a heart full of regret but no remorse.

“You’re a monster. You’re fucked in the head, you are.” Tommy’s started pacing, right on cue. Three steps and turn, over and over, trapped between the close walls of Dream’s tiny room. “Fucked in the head. Fucking hell.”

For a moment, between blinks, the walls look like they’re made of glossy obsidian rather than panelled wood. For a moment, they’re somewhere else, sometime else, and Dream has a brief and vicious sense-memory flash of we’ve been here before. Of Tommy’s skull cracking beneath his hands, wet and jagged, soft and leaking. Of that hot flash of power-control-satisfaction before the cold anhedonia set in, like always. That hollow and empty boredom of having won.

Then Dream laughs, and the sound is cracked, ragged, humourless. “Yeah,” he says, and raps crooked knuckles against the side of his head. There’s a scar there, three inches long and cutting gnarled through his shorn hair, silver-pink and twisting. “Quackity’s fault.”

“Did you enjoy it?” snaps Tommy, and there’s a shake to his hands where they’re curled into fists, and a blown-wide prey-look to his pupils. “You– exile, you fucking, you– did you, did you enjoy– enjoy seeing what you–?” He exhales, shaky, rasping. “Seeing what you did to me. D’you. Seeing what you’ve done to me? Are you enjoying it right now?”

Dream shrugs one listless shoulder again, and half-smiles. It does strange things to the scars raked across his face, twisting them into an animal snarl. “Dunno,” he manages, throat working as he picks his words with the care of a butcher choosing knives. “You enjoying this?”

Tommy flinches, violently, and Dream smiles with two teeth missing, and–

“…No,” says Tommy, quietly, and he says it like it’s a revelation. Dream has the sudden and disconcerting sense of having missed a step on the stair. “No, I’m fucking not, because this is– it’s just fucking miserable, isn’t it?”

Dream opens his mouth to interrupt, but Tommy’s already barrelling on.

“What you did to me was– was shit, and what Quackity did to you was shit too, and then this–“ He gestures, wildly, to the whole tiny, sparse room, and to the two of them – Tommy with his shaky hands and wild eyes, Dream with his crooked fingers and broken words. “This is all just so, so shit, like, literally all of it. Like, fucking– no one’s won, have they? We did all this fighting and shit, I went through all this– and there was no fucking point, because we’re all just older and way more fucking miserable than we started, and– and–”

And there’s not really much Dream can say to that, because yeah. That’s about the long and short of it. It wouldn’t have been, if he’d been faster, better, smarter – but he wasn’t, and so now that’s all that’s left. A wreck of a server, filled with the tired ghosts of people he used to care about.

He can’t really remember what that felt like, any more. Caring for them.

“I just wanted to play with my friends, man,” says Tommy, and he sounds so pathetically sad and lost that Dream almost laughs. “I just fucking wanted to– I just. You. You were–” He sighs. “Back before all this shit, you were– I just… wanted to fuck around and have fun with everyone. …With you, back when you weren’t– you know.”

And oh, that’s something that Dream intends to shy away from, as hard as he possibly can. He sets his jaw, and searches for his words, and when he finally finds them the thing that comes out of his mouth is, “Grow up.”

Tommy sighs, and digs the heel of one palm into his eye socket. His hands aren’t shaking quite so much, any more “Yeah,” he says, heavily. “Yeah. I guess that’s the thing, isn’t it. Someone’s fucking got to, haven’t they?”

It doesn’t even sound angry. That’s the thing that makes Dream want to scream. He doesn’t even sound angry. Just tired.

“But I was a fucking kid,” Tommy continues, and there’s anger in his voice there, there’s hurt, and Dream latches onto that with both of his unsteady, fucked-up hands and clings to it like a lifeline. “I was fucking– I was sixteen, man, and–”

“You,” says Dream, “were a problem.”

“Yeah! Yeah, I fucking was!” Tommy lowers his hand, and stares at Dream again with those blue, blue eyes that see right through him. “But I was a problem for everyone else, too, and none of them did the shit you did. Because that’s– what you did? That’s on you. Not on me. I annoyed the shit out of Wilbur, too, and he never– he never…”

Dream just looks at him, steady, slightly blurry-eyed – another thing Quackity’s taken from him. Because that’s a lie, and they both know it. They both know what Wilbur did to Tommy. To the server. To himself.

“…What the fuck am I doing?” Tommy mutters, after the silence sits long enough to sink into both their bones. “You’re fucking, like. You enjoy this. Me being sad and angry and scared and shit. Every time I come and see you, I think it might make it better, like I’ll– like I’ll stop being scared, or you’ll, I dunno, fucking apologise, which is hilarious, but. But. It just makes things worse, every time. And you enjoy it.”

Dream says nothing.

“I think… I think maybe I should go,” says Tommy, unsteadily. He drags a hand through his hair. “I think I should leave.”

And Dream still says nothing.

Tommy sighs, and chews on his bloody lip, and turns to the door. The room’s small enough he barely has to walk for it, just a half-step before he’s stood right before it.

“Wish I had some cool last words or something, but– whatever.” He pauses, with his fingers curled around the handle, and looks back over his shoulder. His eyes are wet, but clear, and there’s no fear in them any more. No respect. Just sadness. “I don’t think I’m gonna be coming back. Bye, Dream.”

“Tommy,” says Dream, and even he can’t tell if he means wait or goodbye.

The door closes behind Tommy with a soft click. And then it’s just Dream left behind – with his wooden walls and his wooden door and his body that doesn’t work right and his words that won’t come – as the cold anhedonia settles in once more.

[dhominis]

Complaining about me having Food Issues. This is vaguely whiny and has way too many details and wow I’m gonna regret posting it!

Also, caveat: this is a vent post, but pretty much everything in my life is amazingly good right now and I am so lucky. Not representative of my broader brainstate.

Advice welcomed. “This part sounds stupid and distorted-thinking-y” especially welcomed.

CW: If there’s anything health or food/weight-related you want to avoid you should probably not open the readmore; the post consists mostly of detailed discussion of Things That Look Like An Eating Disorder.

The last half of 2018 was bad for me; it culminated in me dropping out of college and finally moving away from my parents (like, half a continent away), and things are weirdly better now. I am happy and healthy-adjacent and resolving Personal Problems that have been insoluble for most of my life.

(The home environment was not conducive to proper emotional development.)

Almost every part of it has been strangely easy. Getting an apartment, getting a job, managing money, catching up on the Normal Young Adult social skills. It feels like I’ve just got more cognitive resources to devote to life, now.

...The only thing that hasn’t become easy is food.

I don’t get hungry often enough, and when I do experience hunger, it doesn’t motivate me to eat (I’ve been describing this as essentially pain asymbolia but for hunger). I also just don’t enjoy eating -- intellectually I can recognize when food tastes good, but it’s still unpleasant to eat it. (Not an anhedonia thing! Other pleasant stimuli are far more enjoyable than they were a few months ago and life is amazing.)

There also are a lot of gastrointestinal symptoms -- nausea and pain, et cetera. They have been present at a low level for a while but worsen when I don’t maintain a relatively stable caloric intake. (I can’t eat because I am in pain! I am justified in not eating! Never mind that eating causes significant pain specifically because I haven’t eaten in a few days.)

Inflammatory and celiac markers are normal, IBS could explain part of it but not really the upper GI tract symptoms. It is maybe plausible that this is an autonomic thing? I already have a lot of autonomic dysfunction things and sometimes people with my connective tissue problems have weird gut motility. (Incomplete listing of symptoms I get that are plausibly gut-dysmotility-related: passive regurgitation and GERD and cramping and diarrhea and upper GI pain and vomiting and postprandial nausea/fullness and occasional difficulty swallowing and other things I am forgetting about right now.)

It also is plausible that at least some of this is psychosomatic -- stress sometimes seems to make it worse -- but the broader cluster hasn’t always coincided with periods of emotional stress. The first time the symptoms interfered with my ability to eat was during one of the happiest and most low-stress parts of my life, and it definitely preceded the Food Doesn’t Feel Good problem. (And autonomic dysfunction worsens with stress too.) Although it maybe helped condition me not to want to eat, since eating causes a grab-bag of annoying symptoms.

(the most accurate diagnosis probably is “neurotic-intellectual with-ill-defined-GI-problems syndrome”)

Having food in my stomach feels bad and wrong in a way that is not about the physical pain. (Meal replacement shakes and protein powders mostly fix this but are not financially feasible, are often incredibly low-calorie, and also if I’m mostly doing liquid calories I get worse physical symptoms when I do solid food.)

The maladaptive food behaviors have been present on and off for most of my life, and the GI symptoms have been a thing since like... early 2018?, but last semester was the first time I’d consistently gone for months with an energy deficit; I’ve had a lifelong tendency to not do well with eating but never to this extent. But this was -- there were some weeks when I ate maybe four meals, some two- or three-day periods when I didn’t eat.

Predictably I lost weight. (Weight loss is not good! I like having energy stores and muscle mass and also being able to sit on the floor without my ass hurting.) I lost enough weight that my doctor got really worried; I was not overweight and am edging down towards the lower end of the reasonable range. She was definitely worried in the context of physical symptoms, but I suspect that if I had presented the cause of the weight loss slightly differently, she would have been worried about the psych component. It’s stupid too. I do not want to lose weight! I want to have enough energy to do shit without dipping into fat stores!

Also last semester: vomiting. The postprandial nausea occasionally has been bad enough that it makes me vomit. (I have a supply of ondansetron and this is no longer an issue.) More frequently the postprandial nausea is bad enough that I can’t tolerate it, it’s a constant reminder that there is food where it should not be, and I induce vomiting. I haven’t done this since I moved out, but I have really really wanted to. Ondansetron helps here too but not completely. Or I don’t have nausea, but there is food in my stomach and this feels really unpleasant and, well, there’s one thing that’ll fix it right away (plus give me a nice adrenaline rush).

Solutions: ondansetron; don’t go to the bathroom for a while after I eat; if eating at home, try to do meals when my roommates are home so I can’t vomit because they’d hear it; distract myself until I don’t feel horribly full.

(Which takes a while, sometimes. Maybe too long. I have vomited basically undigested food a few hours after a meal. Not sure whether that’s abnormal, and if it is it’s really plausible that I did this to myself by not eating enough. Gastric emptying is not my strong suit?)

...Going days without eating because I just don’t want to. Weight loss. Defective hunger response. Being exhausted and not having the energy to eat. Hiding this from people, too; I had told people about the physical symptoms but not the fundamental aversion to eating, not the going days without eating. Conscious displays: mixing coconut cream into tea, here, I am eating, this is eating, I am making an effort, it is not my fault. And a refusal to reduce physical activity. I generally ate only dinner, if that, but still spent my breaks between classes pacing around campus. Even though I knew I shouldn’t. (Sometimes I justified this as an attempt to maintain muscle mass. That is patently stupid and honestly I could have just done some squats if that was my real goal. I didn’t have a real goal. The closest thing I had to a goal was -- keep moving.)

This guide from a SSC reader convinced me to treat my eating problems like a thing that is actually bad, not like “oh my stomach hurts if I eat so I’ll just not do that.” (Also took it more seriously after I started having difficulty resisting the urge to vomit.) But, uh. It’s scarily familiar. I am trying really hard to eat enough.

I’d hoped that getting out of the supremely stressful situation would help with the eating problems. To some extent it has -- I’ve been able to force myself to eat every day, there’ve been only one or two days per week where I’ve skipped one meal, I haven’t vomited since I left. As of three weeks ago I hadn’t had substantial further weight loss. Eating still is difficult to an extent that I can’t really understand, and it’s difficult when nothing else is. Finding an apartment was easy. Getting a job was easy. Work has been fun and easy and amazing. But pretty much every meal has been a struggle, I’ve been having to force-feed myself, I’ve felt more distress about putting food in my body than about anything else since I left home.

If it doesn’t settle down soon it’ll be pretty tiring. I am concerned that this level of effort is not sustainable.

And... I need to buy a scale. (Spending money is not a skill I have. I don’t like it and I don’t want to do it. Even on food and transportation. So I pretty regularly walk several miles instead of taking the damn bus, and if I forget to bring lunch I just won’t eat at work.) I suspect that I’ve started losing weight again, in large part because my physical activity is way up and I am really busy. Also I underestimate how many calories I need. I am young and physically active and hormonally male and it’s not reasonable to expect e.g. three 500-kcal meals and a snack to let me maintain weight, let alone gain it. It feels like I am eating so much and this probably isn’t true.

(Tracking caloric intake has historically been a bad idea, because my brain doesn’t do effortful things well, and there’s an observer effect: if I have to expend the necessary effort to write down what I ate, I will probably just not eat the thing so I don’t have to expend the effort. This was true even back when I liked eating.)

I don’t know. It might get better -- I’m putting a lot of effort into it but it’s reasonable that the eating problems aren’t resolving in the month and a half since I left home. Everything else has gotten substantially better and the food issues are only lagging by comparison. I am young and impatient. Also, I’ve gone from [regularly going days without eating, vomiting after I eat, losing a lot of weight really fast] to not doing any of that; this is a huge success and I am complaining about it not being completely solved within a month and a half!

In another month and a half I’ll have health insurance. If it hasn’t improved more by then, I’ll try to find a therapist. (Three months of having Significant Food Issues when not in a horribly stressful environment absolutely is enough to justify spending money on the copay.)

...I am worried it’ll get worse and I won’t notice or I’ll try to hide it. I am worried that it won’t get better and I’ll consider getting therapy and then not be able to stomach (pun intended!) the $20 copay, because even though I am financially secure enough for that not to be an issue, it’s twenty dollars and I don’t spend money on things. I am worried that it won’t get worse but it also won’t get better and I’ll have to spend the next several decades hating food and intensely wanting to vomit for like an hour after every meal.

(There are safeguards and I probably will not hide symptoms getting worse. I am pretty confident I can make myself find a therapist. I’ve had this problem for only six or seven months and most of that was under circumstances that extremely will not continue and I’ve gotten way better at handling it and it is way too early to be worried about this lasting indefinitely.)

Eh, I don’t know. I am handling it, I am taking steps to handle it. It sucks but I’m not concerned about my ability to handle and/or fix things that suck. Life’s awesome. Worst-case scenario is I just have to spend stupid amounts of money on meal-replacement drinks and get all my calories that way.

The best-case scenario, according to my brain: a doctor prescribes meal-replacement drinks and I get adequate nutrition and don’t have to eat solid food and also don’t have to pay for it. This would be really nice! I recognize that it’s not exactly great that I see this as the best-case scenario. A more reasonable best-case scenario: I figure out how to enjoy or at least not actively hate eating, and then I just do that like a normal person.

it’ll be fine even if it kind of sucks short-term

[sparxwrites]

aftermath: the director’s commentary

you can read aftermath here on tumblr and here on ao3.

as always, this is about the characters and not about the ccs.

cw for discussions of exile arc, and the canonical associated abuse, suicidality etc. also for mental health problems, specifically anhedonia, and a deep dive into abuser mentality, and hypothetical character death.

since i feel compelled to explain how this extremely convoluted and specific fic came about, without me having written any of the backstory required for it (which i may do at some point, but don’t hold your breath), here goes:

it started as a bunch of ramblings at a few people in discord about dream getting tortured in prison, because i enjoy writing about torture, and then it continuing as me rambling about a bunch of other things that were on my mind at the time:

1) that one tumblr post (that i can’t find and so will badly summarise) about how fiction sometimes uses suffering as a form of redemption, and how that interacts with people’s moral intuitions about what’s necessary for redemption. and how “suffering = redemption” doesn’t really make sense because “i did a bad thing” and “i got badly hurt” are unconnected, and the pain doesn’t fix the harm done and the harm done doesn’t make the pain deserved.

2) a lot of @scripttorture’s (a blog about torture, aimed at writers) discussions of how torture is actually extremely ineffective on a number of levels (generally a bad way of coercing people into giving up information; generally bad at making people change their opinions or perspectives on stuff), and mostly just fucks with people’s heads really badly in the short and long-term and makes them angry at/resentful of their torturer.

3) a bunch of discussions (and a number of zines, mainly feminist anarchist ones) about the various failure modes of community/restorative justice. namely its handling of rapists and other people who commit the kinds of crimes that are motivated by desire for power/control, and/or by the knowledge that they can, rather than by need or ignorance; and about what you do if you can’t just kick someone out of the community and make them “someone else’s problem”; and the harms that attempting to rehabilitate someone who isn’t sorry and doesn’t really care about being rehabilitated can do to the community trying to rehabilitate them.

4) how one goes about living in a body that has been made alien to themself, and/or how one deals with an abruptly acquired disability/disfigurement, and/or how one deals with a dissociation between mind and body. this wasn’t triggered by anything specific, this is just kind of a theme i periodically come back to in fiction because it interests me.

all of which are applicable to dream, who bounced from attempting to drive a teenager to suicide for what was apparently shits and giggles/a power trip/whatever weird compulsive obsession he has with “owning” tommy, to being put in inhumane solitary confinment, to beating the same teenager to death with his bare hands, to being brutally tortured on a daily basis. and who, in this universe, is removed from said prison cell because a lot of people on the server have strong moral intuitions re: you shouldn’t do that kind of shit to people even if they are fucking awful human beings.

but then, of course, you have to deal with the person you remove from the cell. the person who is physically and psychologically disabled by the torture he experienced, and therefore needs ongoing medical care for the foreseeable future, and probably social care and support for the rest of his life. and who is also an unrepentant abuser and murderer. and who, due to the specific nature of his acquired disabilities, is also now largely incapable of being a physical or psychological threat in the way he was before. and who has harmed, directly or indirectly, most of the people in the only community available to him so badly that the majority of the community can’t bring themselves to be around him.

like. how do you begin to reckon with that? as individuals; as a community; on an intellectual, emotional, moral/ethical, social level… how the fuck do you deal with that?

what does community justice look like for murderers and abusers? when is someone's punishment "over"? is it possible for someone to "suffer enough" that their sins are considered forgiven and/or small enough in comparison to what they've suffered that their sins can be overlooked? what do you do with someone who clearly would still be doing Bad Shit if they could but is just now physically incapable of it?

i have zero answers for these questions, really, but this fic is an extremely half-assed attempt at beginning to explore that.

and then there’s also dream’s side of things, where you’ve got a) the perspective of someone with an utterly alien mindset/moral system (i repeat! this guy psychologically destroyed a seventeen year old for fun! not even fun and profit, really just fun.), b) this awful twisty “regret but not remorse” thing, where he regrets that his plans didn’t work out, but feels pretty close to zero remorse for all the fucked up stuff he did, and c) the kind of self-reckoning that one has to do after prolonged torture and isolation that has caused severe, long-term, and permanent consequences.

i think… fundamentally, as a character, dream is very lonely, and very fucked up, and very… i don't think he even understands what motivates him to do the things he does. i think he does a lot of lying to himself, and i’m not convinced all of it is unconscious/accidental.

my impression is very much that he's driven by… not a compulsion exactly? but something adjacent. he doesn’t always seem in control of himself, certainly not in terms of when his temper breaks through of the rigid self-control and disinterest that he tries to project all the time. which i think is a huge motivator in needing to control everyone else! this need to reassert this lack of control he perceives towards his own behaviour (as in “god, it’s hard work making sure i behave ‘correctly’ the whole time”, even if his idea of what counts as correct behaviour is fucked).

there's a kind of desperation to him constantly, even when he's doing his Big Bad Villain mode, and this kind of blankness, this complete lack of joy or amusement or anything, even when he's gotten exactly what he wants. he sounds so vaguely, manically gleeful when he's doing his Big Bad Villain speeches, but when he actually gets what he wants - tommy under his thumb, the discs, whatever - he seems so disinterested in it. doesn't give him any pleasure. like, sure, he still does whatever it is he’s planned to do – but it's this weird, going-through-the-motions, "this didn't make me feel good like i thought it would so clearly i’ve got to escalate" kind of mania-and-anhedonia-and-self-delusion edge to it

i don’t think prison is, per se, helping him with any of that. i think prison is probably substantially making it worse. i think him realising that god has his face is also probably making it substantially worse.

and i think, crucially – despite all of this – there is still no excuse for what he’s done. yes, i think he’s fucked up and a bit tragic, in the “pathetic” sense of the word. but he leaned in! he leaned into that desperation, that compulsion, and used it to justify an escalation of his pre-existing bad habits (i.e. being controlling/possessive). and he leaned into the way his emotions are fucked to justify switching them off even further. and the logical conclusions of “i need everything under my control” and “i don’t really feel things any more, including empathy” is “all of these people are my possessions, and i’m entitled to do with them as i want”.

is there a bit of him beneath all that, a bit still capable of emotions, that misses his friends? that knows what he did might not be okay? that wishes he weren’t fucking driven by this compulsion in the centre of his chest? yes. yeah, i think there is. is he doing literally anything about any of that? no. because he’s too caught up in his own bullshit and his own justifications to want to do anything about it. and that’s the really big, fundamental issue here – not that people who do the stuff he’s done are incapable of changing, but that he doesn’t want to.

anyway. all that to say– i usually like “and then they Healed” as the ending to the stuff i write, but i do upon occasion also like kind of Weird stuff where sometimes where it's not… it's not not healing, it’s not a traditional tragedy, but it's not really healing either, because there's no going back to what you were before and probably that's not even a good idea, but also you can't just change. you can't just fundamentally undo a huge part of who you are (that clawing desperate need for control, the ease with which treating people like objects come to you) and you're not sure you want to, even if you could, and a part of you wants to stay the same just to spite the people who tried to change you– but you have changed, and now you're just this person, inside this body that's been made alien to you, this single person in a house reduced to rubble that's full of fucking ghosts. and that's just something you've got to live with.