Frisk buries their face against Chara's shirt, screaming, screaming, screaming the word NO NO NO without a mouth, blood and leaves and flower petals and metal shards tearing out of every stitch; they can't see anything, but maybe, just maybe, Chara will see all those assorted bits and bobs that them up, make up Frisk drifting above-behind-around them both like the trail of a meteor falling through the atmosphere.
(* This isn't the end.)
With a bone shattering thud, they hit the ground.
Outside.
Alone, head empty of anything but stars, 'cause they've slammed their face into the dirt beneath their hammock.
Which is where Frisk sleeps. In the castle. Which is weird, but real. Real. Yeah. And so are the scrapes on their face, they ascertain, pressing their fingers against their cheek. It's wet. Blood.
Frisk rolls onto their back, stares up at the night sky they can see through the foliage, and breathes in deep. Their hammock in the castle, in the gardens. It smells green here, and green's much better than the scent of that nightmare's nasty rot.
Yeah, that was a pretty bad dream. A horrible nightmare. New, too. "Weird," they murmur to the stars.
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Date: 2016-09-08 12:19 pm (UTC)Chara-in-their-head says:
* You've left better all on your own.
Frisk buries their face against Chara's shirt, screaming, screaming, screaming the word NO NO NO without a mouth, blood and leaves and flower petals and metal shards tearing out of every stitch; they can't see anything, but maybe, just maybe, Chara will see all those assorted bits and bobs that them up, make up Frisk drifting above-behind-around them both like the trail of a meteor falling through the atmosphere.
(* This isn't the end.)
With a bone shattering thud, they hit the ground.
Outside.
Alone, head empty of anything but stars, 'cause they've slammed their face into the dirt beneath their hammock.
Which is where Frisk sleeps. In the castle. Which is weird, but real. Real. Yeah. And so are the scrapes on their face, they ascertain, pressing their fingers against their cheek. It's wet. Blood.
Frisk rolls onto their back, stares up at the night sky they can see through the foliage, and breathes in deep. Their hammock in the castle, in the gardens. It smells green here, and green's much better than the scent of that nightmare's nasty rot.
Yeah, that was a pretty bad dream. A horrible nightmare. New, too. "Weird," they murmur to the stars.
Frisk wipes at the blood on their cheek again--
Oh. Not blood.
Tears.