if you're lucky too
Nov. 8th, 2017 06:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dustless posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
castle_perraultlocked to voidster / lyseandpurge / antitemporal & sansational
//warning for general feeling bad and a bit of disordered eating mention.
Looking at it, their room is nice enough. A good size. Good bed. A pile of strange clothes and objects in the corner, like ballerina shoes that can't fit their feet. A strange pile of branches stripped of bark by a fireplace and forks with bent tines.
Stone walls are papered with nice drawings--mostly of a Chara, Frisk...another Frisk, how strange. There's a kite carefully mounted on the wall, adorned with a white kitty face. A desk covered in crayons and paper, though both seem barely used. The bed has a book on the pillow with musical notes on the cover.
Frisk's not looking at any of it. They've been in here since they could stand once they woke up. Nobody can find it easy, it's hidden behind a tapestry in a hall that's lined with the things, and they've never appreciated the fact more than they do now. They don't want to be near anybody, they don't want anybody near them. They don't want anything. There's food under the bed, lots of it all wrapped up in crappy paper and well-sealed boxes, they had a hoard 'cause they felt they needed it just in case, just in case, but now they can't eat most of the time even when their stomach's growling. Least water's a few rooms down. Least there's rain and the windowsill gathers it well when they don't wanna risk that.
They hate the castle, that's not gone away at all. They hate the sensation of bones and blood and ash down their throat every time they get three bites into a meal. Their skin feels stretched out every time they move, some of that's burns (maybe they hate other-Frisk too, sometimes, just a little, just a bit, just just just), some of that's just memory, every single time they think they're going to change again. All their muscles ache from being tense, their head too, tongue littered with bites when they clench their jaw and mess up where it is, and the blood-taste makes stuff worse worse worse.
Frisk doesn't hate themselves, not really. Still. They should've been stronger. Shoulda been more careful. Shoulda done something, shoulda thought of something, shoulda stayed away from everybody before when it really mattered.
They're in that big bed, all of then buried under the blankets. They've thrown up barriers in their head, telling her to STAY AWAY. They're alone now, they want to be, they need to be. Just. Leave them alone. Leave them alone. Leave me alone.
voidster / lyseandpurge / antitemporal & sansational //warning for general feeling bad and a bit of disordered eating mention.
Looking at it, their room is nice enough. A good size. Good bed. A pile of strange clothes and objects in the corner, like ballerina shoes that can't fit their feet. A strange pile of branches stripped of bark by a fireplace and forks with bent tines.
Stone walls are papered with nice drawings--mostly of a Chara, Frisk...another Frisk, how strange. There's a kite carefully mounted on the wall, adorned with a white kitty face. A desk covered in crayons and paper, though both seem barely used. The bed has a book on the pillow with musical notes on the cover.
Frisk's not looking at any of it. They've been in here since they could stand once they woke up. Nobody can find it easy, it's hidden behind a tapestry in a hall that's lined with the things, and they've never appreciated the fact more than they do now. They don't want to be near anybody, they don't want anybody near them. They don't want anything. There's food under the bed, lots of it all wrapped up in crappy paper and well-sealed boxes, they had a hoard 'cause they felt they needed it just in case, just in case, but now they can't eat most of the time even when their stomach's growling. Least water's a few rooms down. Least there's rain and the windowsill gathers it well when they don't wanna risk that.
They hate the castle, that's not gone away at all. They hate the sensation of bones and blood and ash down their throat every time they get three bites into a meal. Their skin feels stretched out every time they move, some of that's burns (maybe they hate other-Frisk too, sometimes, just a little, just a bit, just just just), some of that's just memory, every single time they think they're going to change again. All their muscles ache from being tense, their head too, tongue littered with bites when they clench their jaw and mess up where it is, and the blood-taste makes stuff worse worse worse.
Frisk doesn't hate themselves, not really. Still. They should've been stronger. Shoulda been more careful. Shoulda done something, shoulda thought of something, shoulda stayed away from everybody before when it really mattered.
They're in that big bed, all of then buried under the blankets. They've thrown up barriers in their head, telling her to STAY AWAY. They're alone now, they want to be, they need to be. Just. Leave them alone. Leave them alone. Leave me alone.
i would love to
Date: 2018-03-21 10:49 am (UTC)Frisk barks "There's nothing to help!"