#hesitating on whether i shouldve gone for the soft stare

[snailmilkbiscuit]

Redrew an old shane/farmer drawing <3 old version under the cut

I made them a little sassier in the newer version oop

[cynettic]

Red String of Fate

A/N - Not really genshin, its more of a quick vent drabble. Angsty and nsfw for triggering topics and gory stuff :’) I felt kinda proud of this one which is why I’m posting it, any constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated!!

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I’m a murderer.

Red string idly tied around my pinky, delicately swaying with every whisper from the wind. Caressed and woven into this world by fate. A gentle binding, thread spilling down to my foot and loosely littering the wooden panels of my floor with loops and twirls. Adorning the dust and encasing me whole in its meaning.

Its promise.

I’ve always hated being bound, held and grasped by an irrevocable hold. Ones I’ve put myself in, ones others have clutched me in. 

Pinching the red string that hung around my finger, I tugged at one of the loose ends of the knots. 

Ones that the red string of fate has tied me to. Several, tangling along the jagged ridges of my knuckles and slipping past the gaps between my fingers. A soft velvet against dry skin, the calloused pad of my thumb gentle when nimbly rolling it along the back of my palm. Silken texture brimming in abundance and pulsing in rhythm akin to one of heartbeat. Slow, steady, eternal.

Full of life.

The darkness in the cramped space of the apartment cages me in like an animal, body growing numb and sending a tingling sensation up my spine. Subduing aching muscles into a deep heavy sleep, complexion falling into well needed slumber. Till it was just the consistent thrum of the thread along my hand that held me awake, fate wrapping its hold on me once again.

Snip.

The motion is always slow, prolonged with the weight of the scissors in my hands. A spectator to the red thread as it slowly dissolves into ash, a ticking time bomb to the end of a life. Another. Seeping at their lifeline until the string finally dissolves at their fingertips, draining the last of their existence and sparing mine.

Greedy for comfort, I selfishly choose myself.

I can’t feel my elbows as I lean forward, ice prickling at my toes and cold slivers digging into my fingertips. Hazy, guilt eats me up like the snowstorm that enraptures my body in snow. Freezing me in place and biting at my mind, frosty reach clawing at my sanity.

But its my body thats numb, I wish my head was.

To be pliable with the nothingness that threatens to devour me, stained and greasy hands fervently scratching the fibers of my tunic. Dirty, I was oh so dirty. Contaminated with a bubbling hatred that quelled inside, pounding with deprecating fists that begged to get out. Pleading, because hands and knees dug for an eternity on the ground wouldnt be suffice to the lives I’d taken. But thread against skin arose an anxiety I could not thwart. Until I was no longer sure how long I’d spent sitting on this desk, staring into the pale grey walls of my apartment. Absent. Knives and scissors littering the corners of the wood, small chunks scraped with only the splinters in my nails to blame. Soiled hands incapable of holding life, a desperate cry to the heavens to spare me the responsibility, to let me go.

Because no matter how feather light the thread felt, the weight of a life pulled me under. Down into the depths of anxiety, because no matter how much I choked in the sea, I could not breathe. No matter how much my arms flailed, I could not rise. No matter how much I screamed, I couldn’t be heard. Not by others, not even myself.

String grows laden with water, a weight pulling me down to the bottom where I cannot rise.

I’m sinking.

The strand pulls me into a gentle hold of uncertainty, coaxing me into the decision to choose myself again and again. Until I’m hesitant to determine whether snipping the vibrant red cord is a punishment or a relief. To finally make it to the shore of the beach, form lifeless against grains of sand. Condemned in self pity, looking for the blood on my hands. 

My hands are clean.

I want to cry because they shouldnt be.

An endless cycle when the waves wash over my ragged form, snaking through my legs and under my arms. Sand letting the sea take me. The murky water is salty against my tongue, and I can only feel the dim sensation of something around my finger before I’m once again plummeting down.

But I always come back up.

Unable to rectify my crimes, I keep adding onto the list, nails slowly biting into the wood of my desk as I mark another one. Another death.

Snip.

I’m so cold.

But regret is like a spider, a horrid looking thing that scales up my leg, embedding sharp legs into the icy numbness of my shins. It leaves me petrified, the idea of swatting away leaving me with immense disgust. So does leaving it there. I don’t want to touch it, not when its on my thigh, on my stomach, up my shoulder blades. Not when it slowly makes its way across my arm, flexing its angular legs until it reaches my hand. Spiders terrify, they make people do things they dont mean to do. So does regret, reaching my frostbitten hands and sending a rush of warm blood. It's a spiking pain that hits, biting the soft skin of my palm and leaving ugly red flush in its wake.

Regret was my drive. My push when I decided to sever the digits that let fate take control.

It was easier to grasp the knife on the side when I was running on raw hatred and self loathing. When my hands were throbbing and I could picture the red string that held me captive, feel the thread palpitate against my finger.  Knowing with certainty that someone was on the other end of that string.

Bound to them.

The first few fingers were easy, blade sharp against unnourished and neglected skin. Soft ligaments and weakened bones posed no threat to my determination, body willing to my wishes. One by one, until the hilt was in my mouth and I was shaking my head back and forth with a strength I hadnt had for days. Wooden splinters buried themselves in the cracks of my teeth, gagging when the tail of the handle caught on the inside of my cheek and dug further into my mouth. I didnt stop, not until I was cutting the wood of the desk.

Until all ties to this wretched fate were cleaved.

 Hands all but circular blobs of discolouration, blue and purple tinting the tips of bumpy flesh and splintered bones. Blood coated pads that soaked into the rotten planks of wood, spilling over the desk and onto the floor. 

Finally. Finally my hands were stained in blood.

Not nearly as much as their ought, but it served its reminder perfectly. A pang of relief slipping through my body just like the crimson liquid that oozed down to the floor. Matting the hollow lines between floor panels with trickles of blood and soaking into my socks.

I was free.

Eyes fluttering closed, the sharp icy pain was gone, shock taking over my body and leaving me motionless. Solace was an odd little thing, consolation after actions of regret. But it was warm, and I could dimly register the ease that spread through my body like a drug. Bitter tasting but leaving me weightless, mind overdosing on the dopamine that pumped through my veins. Vasoconstriction quickening my pulse and leaving me breathless in the best way.

I was free.

Delusional satisfaction left my head buzzing and I didnt know if I was smiling or my face seemed to rise. Eyes rolling to the back of my head before returning to my sockets, head tilting forwards and nearly touching the puddle of blood on the desk. But I was happy, I was free.

Until I wasnt.

Till a bright red string settled once again, blurred vision transfixed on the way it slackened right above my collarbone, below my chin. 

Around my neck.

It was soft, warm as I struggled to realize it was someone elses heartbeat pressing against my jugular. Throbbing at an inconsistent pace and sending my thoughts into a whirlwind of activity. Till all I could think about was taking the scissors in my hand, grip firm and unrelenting to the viscous game destiny played.

Snip.

The realization came too late, palm on the base of the tool when it occurred to me I couldnt grab it. Simply watch as blood slipped through the gaps where my fingers shouldve been, pain seizing my wrist and presenting itself to me for the first time. It was electric, jolts of torment taking me by surprise and leaving me stunned. Shocked, but not enough to tip me off my high. Wretched grin widening across my face when I stared down at the red string, parched lips letting out a measly croak as I spoke. “You outplayed me.” Because at that moment it all felt strangely hilarious, pain building up in the nonexistent slim skin of my fingers. It was as if I could still feel them, and a feverish laugh spilled from the bosom of my throat as I sagged, shoulders shaking. 

The realization was bittersweet and brief before I leaned my forehead on the puddle of blood, baring with the pain of my actions. The consequences to my regrets. 

I cannot escape fate.