castle_perrault | [mingle] what's the dream and what's the reality?

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@mingle,
mother 3

[mingle] what's the dream and what's the reality?

Lately the castle's nights have been very clear and almost warm, even up so high among the clouds as they are. But regardless of the weather, they are generally peaceful nights, and few things seem to stir during them...apart from the castle's inhabitants, be it with late-night roving or with sleep. The dreams, by extension, are at least undisturbed...if maybe not always pleasant. That sort of thing tends to vary by the person, of course.

But now--and for several nights, consecutively--the castle residents may find their dreams starting to take on stranger shapes: memories they've never had, friends that don't usually arrive, strangers they've never seen. These odd impressions might cling and continue to confuse even upon waking, vivid as they were; was it really just a dream, or maybe something more...? Does that newcomer in your dream remember you there too, in the daytime?

Either way, there seems to be an strange energy in the air during these nights. And it's bringing dreams together.

((ooc: And here's the catch-all post for the dream-sharing event! Feel free to top-level with your character's dreams here, or thread around in others! The event should only last about a week, but backtagging is eternal c: The ooc planning post can be found here!))

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There's stitches around their throat. There's stitches around their wrists. There's stitches around their elbows, around their knees, around their ankles. They itch. Frisk picks at them.

* I've got better to do.

This is...definitely true, but there's nowhere to go right now. They drum their feet on the floor as well as they can.

"Yes," they tell the voice through the door. "I'm F҉r҉i҉s҉k҉█҉█҉█҉█҉█҉."

* Be quiet. Chara thinks to themselves, somewhat desperately. * We can't move our body.

Frisk's voice sounds wrong, they notice. They don't know why, and they can't ask before the voice on the other side of the door airily responds: "Oh, what a unique name." And something about the honeyed emphasis on unique makes it feel as though something slimy is crawling down Chara's neck and spine.

And then- one moment, nothing's there, and then the next, Chara's mother has clipped through the door like a video game glitch, no opening or closing necessary, and she's standing at the head of the table.

She's impossibly tall and smooth looking, with the tidiest hair and clothes, and she has a pair of luminous brown eyes that are big and round like an owl's, too big for her face. In her hands, she carries an empty wooden bowl. Frisk might notice the way that Chara shrinks back in their chair when they see it.

Chara's mother doesn't look at Chara, however. The first thing looks at Frisk, and specifically, Frisk's hands.

"Take that off," she says. "Chara, what have I told you about gloves at the table? It's not that hard to remember."

Frisk and their Chara don't hear, it seems, but they're quiet anyway, staring at the woman. The outside-Chara's reaction is noted, but they're a little more focused on those eyes. They look...fake.

They ignore her tone, focus on the words, and give her a polite--if strained--smile. "Yeah. It is. I m͜͠a̧̡͠d̸̡̨̧́ę̀͜ it." Spelled it, shaped it, wrote over the kid that Frisk used to be. They'd met more than one kid with the name their mom and dad gave them, but they'd never met another Frisk.

Everything about this woman looks fake. Maybe she's made of plastic--maybe that's why Chara wants them to act like a doll, so this doll thinks they're the same. Like a lot of monsters mistook them for a monster too.

They tear their eyes from the fake woman's and glance around, deciding this entire house is a doll's house--no, a puppet theater.

And it sounds like they've been given a role to play. So they're Chara now, huh. Okay.

* Smells like dead flowers.

Frisk-and-Chara look down, smile twitching into something a little more genuine. "Can't. It's important to the orange one," they tell her matter-of-factly. Plus it's been sewn into their skin, too, so they couldn't even if it wasn't important.

The eyes of Chara's mother roll up so hard the pupils are almost hidden, accompanied by a long-suffering sigh.

"Don't be difficult. It's just a glove."

She reaches across the table and sets the wooden bowl in front of the real Chara, ignoring the way the real Chara presses back in their seat, then reaches over to snatch up Frisk's wrist. Her nails are long and sharp and with an impatient noise Chara's mother sets to prying and clawing at the stitches.

* You should do something. Chara thinks. * Need to move... need to...

"It's important," they repeat, sounding just a little strained.

The stitches are tight, but her nails are up to the task. Frisk's lips pull back, teeth glittering in a grimace. The glove starts to loosen around the wrists, exposing something red.

Do something? "Like what," Frisk asks the air.

They rip their hand back. Literally. There's a tearing noise, and a bit more of the glove comes off, and that weird red is poking out like a flap of loose skin.

"You're just being ridiculous!" Chara's mother scolds them. "They're long gone, there's no reason to care!" Still digging, still clawing.

Chara grips onto the edge of the table. * You don't know! they think, * But you've got to! Or else-

They let out a yelp as Frisk's wrist rips open, and hasten to cover their mouth with their hand. Chara's mother twists towards them and frowns, her fingers still flexing. "Now look what you've done!" she says, "Why do you a͔̟̦͍ͅl͈͕̣̱̮̯w̹̗a̘y̪͓̬̟͉̝͚s̲̖͖ ̖̠͇̦̗̣͚h̲̖a͉̬͉͙̰̣v͓͇̞̥̳e̠ ̘̺t̹̪̭̻͎͍o ̯̩͓̣̞͖̖m̫̙͇a̞̖͔͍̹̤̫k̯͓̤e̱ ̬̘̮͚͖̣ͅs͓̠̱̳̹͈̳uc̻̦̦͚̯h̘̬ ̪̥̤̰͕̹a͈̹̪̝̱̓ͧ̆͛͊͗ ̮ͭ̿ͩͭb͈i̲͊̓̊ͬͬ̃g͇̺̥̺̱̪̈ͫ͌ͨ̂̚̚ ̒̊f̰͈̯̞̰u̹͚̣̮ͅs̼͎͓̃͐̇̃̃s̜̐́͋ ͕̬̜̭ͦͨ̌ͨ̏͑̓o̮̦̜͍̺̪ͅv͕ͤe͔̙̜̞̙ͅr͕̯͇̥͌ͭ̓ ̞̝ͣ͂͛͛̓E̝ͣ̐̓ͪ̓V̺̱̼͕̿̓ͦE̝͉̠͙ͦR̺̔ͭͩ̋̆͌͗Y͉͈̩̠̳͗T͕̮̟͔̼͇̪ͥ̚H̠͋͆ͧͬI̺̬̞͊̅ͯ͌ͯ͗N̗̙̜̩̺̔̓ͤĞ̳?͍̥̱͕͋͐͌͂ͪ͌ͅ"͇̗͚̟͈̰͋̓̍̄ͯͫ

With a sigh, Chara's mother gracefully drops into a chair at the head of the table. "Just be quiet and eat your dinner," she says.

The real Chara stares at their bowl. Small green plants are starting to sprout through it.

"Yes it is. It always is."

It occurs to them that they can struggle too late, glove and hand tearing and flaking, badly-sewn cloth and old peeling paint together at once.

What a nasty woman.

"I'm not hungry," Frisk says flatly, shaking what's left of their hand over the table until it finally drops off with the sound of torn tissue paper, and red spills out.

Not blood. Leaves. Everywhere. And they're left flexing the needles that made up the bones of it. Rude, making it all exposed like that.

Chara flinches at the sound, but manages to catch one of the leaves drifting past them before it falls onto the floor. They slip it into their pocket for safekeeping, and shoot a wary glance at the needles that are all that remains of Frisk's hand.

(Rude, perhaps. But it's only natural; your leaves always fall out eventually.)

Their mother, in the mean time, looks stern. "You can't leave until you finish your plate," she says, then suddenly looks at Chara- the real Chara. "Both of you."

Chara manages not to jump in their seat, and gives her a jerky nod. When they look back at their dish, the small green plants are starting to bloom with yellow blossoms.

* Not this again...

They risk a peek at Frisk; what did they get?

* You leave with the plate.

Frisk leaves with the plate.

Or starts to, standing up. Their plate looks like chipped china, but it feels the same as the rest of the room, oozing. Their fingertips sink into one side, their needles puncture the other, adding the scent of burnt meat to the already-filthy odor of the room, and they drop it.

All the bits of twisted metal on it rattle and spill out onto the table, grey gleaming dully in the room's light over their leaves. Mostly. Some of the pieces seem to have a label stuck to them. Looks like a soup can shoved into a grinder.

"I said you're not leaving."

Chara's mother stands up at about the same time that Frisk does. Chara, on the other hand, still isn't getting up, but they watch the plate puncture and spill its contents with wide red eyes and a wrinkled nose. (* You can feel your heart pounding in your throat.) Just what does Frisk think they're doing?

Whatever it is, Frisk had best do it fast, as Chara's mother is reaching for them once again, this time to grab at their hair.

It's weird, how this lady thinks she can control them--

Ow, ow, ow her nails scrape against their scalp. It's not the worst pain they've endured, but it's still unpleasant, especially with the sound it makes. Like dragging scissors through sackcloth.

* You return the favor.

Frisk reaches up and grabs her wrist with both of their hands, normal one encircling it, needle fingers puncturing her skin as easily as the plate's.

"I said I'm not hungry."

Warm white foam spills out of the puncture wounds in Chara's mother's wrist, (* Smells like mothballs.) and she shrieks at Frisk:

"Stop it! You're hurting me!"

...But she doesn't let go of Frisk either, continuing to wrestle with them and trying to force their head closer to their plate. And at the other end of the table Chara raises their arms in front of them, though they keep staring at Frisk and their mother with a tense face. They'd bolt if they could, but...

(The buttercups, at least, are momentarily forgotten thanks to the fight unfolding in front of them.)

Their nose wrinkles. Gross.

You're hurting me, and stupid, stupid, that makes them falter, just for a second, fingers and needles slipping loose.

Their head slams into the table. The metal rips through half their face, each individual edge making prolonged blade-through-cloth noises as it pierces their cheek and tongue.

* Tastes like copper and dirt. Chara sounds unsettlingly calm, now.

Frisk shoves their hands towards the woman's oversized eyes.

The ripping noises cut through the air, making the real Chara flinch. The metal tastes disgusting ( * Copper and dirt. ) and it feels even worse, ripping up Frisk's face the way it does. Chara reaches up to touch their own cheek, and there's a jolt of surprise at the smooth texture.

It's not quite as big as the shock that hits them when Frisk's hands fly up towards their mother's face.

There's a split second where their mother's eyes widen and then- a horrible scraping sound, and deep white scratch marks are gouged into their mother's eyes that Chara gasps at the sight of.

Their mother rears back, clutching her face, shrieking all the while, "YOU- you FREAK! Demon! Bitch!"

Cut through the air. Ha. Ha. Haha.

They leap and twist further from her grip, reeling at the noise of her eyes, and they barely notice when most of the metal stays embedded in their sackcloth flesh.

* She's a fake. Less real than even you.

"Dummy--" Frisk counters "--dummy, DUMMY. You're gross, gross, GROSS! SHITTY, SHITTY, SHITTY! FAKE, FAKE, FAKE--FAKE FACE FAKE FACE FAKE FACE!"

They whirl and start running, even with the floor squishing beneath their shoes and their legs wobbling far more than they should. "Go!" they shriek to the Chara outside of their head.

Edited 2016-08-11 01:21 (UTC)

Chara's mother continues yelling, but starts to make sobbing noises as Well. Clutching at her face, she lurches back further and begins to unsteadily circle around the able.

From the moment Frisk started screaming Chara's had their head ducked head, hands pressed against their ears. It takes a moment before Frisk's word really registers, but then Chara's head jerks back up.

"I-" they try to speak, before a sob from their mother cuts them off. (* God damn it!) How do they make Frisk understand...?

"Frisk-" Chara swallows hard. "Frisk, I can't-!"

Chara yanks their leg up, as far as it can go, banging their knee against the table in the process and shoving it back. The table slides across the floor with a wet noise, revealing what's keeping Chara in their chair: An iron shackle is wrapped around their ankle, and the chain attached is bolted to the floor beside their chair.

They should feel bad, they don't, they don't, they don't. * She's too gross.

"Fuck," Frisk snarls with feeling, skidding and falling--it doesn't make the right kind of noise, a weird hollow thud, and their arms're abruptly far too weak to push them and their metal skeleton back to their feet.

Frisk worms across the revolting floor instead, digging into the floor with their needles and dragging until they're by the bolted part, and they start to pull at it.

"Let them go!" they howl over the mother's wails.

"Frisk-" Chara winces when the other child falls, the soft floor slowly sinking beneath everyone. They stretch their arm out and shove the table further away, causing their mother, still blindly circling around it, to stumble.

"You selfish, rotten-!" Their mother bites off another furious sob, just as Frisk reaches Chara's chains.

Chara watches, eyes wide, as the chain rattles and rattles beneath Frisk's hands. They cast a quick glance towards their mother and back again. "Just leave Frisk, I'll only slow you down like this-"

"I only gave you what you deserved-"

Chara ignores their mother and leans down, grabbing onto Frisk's arm. "-I can deal with her, you can't," they say, trying to haul Frisk up.

"They're not yours, you can't have them!"

Frisk struggles to stay at the chain. It's hard to grab, they're so weak, and the floor is trying to swallow them.

"I'm not leaving someone behind again! Not you, and not with this!"

Their leaves on the table whirl in a wind that shouldn't exist, scattering at the mother's feet, and they wrench their arm from Chara's grip too to wrap the chain around their wrist instead. It's easier to use all their strength that way.

Frisk's mouth isn't moving, it's stitched itself closed, but they're still talking. "They are too, are too, are too! What do you know, you old ugly nasty fake face, you can't do anything right!"

(*Why not me?) Chara thinks, and they're not sure if it's a resentful thought or not. They make a huffing noise. Frisk smells like determination, and after a split-second of hesitation they wrap their arm's around Frisk's waist and yank at the chain.

Frisk is strong for a ragdoll, strong enough if they could throw off Chara's grip a moment ago, but there's no way they can break that chain. (*Even with a partner, breaking it seems impossible.) The wind whips Chara's hair around their face and the chain groans under the onslaught of tugging. Their hands feel red hot-

"You stupid child!"

-and there's their mother, her hands are right there and Chara screams. They drop the chain, squeeze Frisk's belly in their arms, and throw themselves out of the chair. The floor makes a soft fwump noise as they land and roll down the ground.

Their mother keeps screaming.

"Come back here come back here come back here-!"

Crushed in Chara's arms, Frisk feels like a teddy bear, even with their hard needle bones and leaves that crackle under their skin.

They hiss curses at the chain and jerk around, aiming a foot in the direction of their mother's voice. It's hard to see, some of the crushed metal in their face jolted through them at the rolling landing and is blocking the view from inside their own eyes.

"Shut up! Go away! Leave us alone!" Frisk howls, every stitch in their ragged body groaning--

--no, that's the floor. It's like a filthy squishy blanket now, bowing under their combined weight.

There's a lurching, sinking feeling in their stomach, and Chara's afraid they might be sick. They can still feel the manacle clasped around their ankle yet somehow they keep rolling further, deeper down the filthy, reeking floor. They cling to Frisk like the other child is life itself, needle bones and metal bits and all.

"You ca͘n'͠t l̸̝͔̙͕͚ȩ̗̻̻a̹̱v̩̗ͅe̵̺̞̮̲̻͍̬͕̭͈̱͞ͅ m̨̭̥͎͔͘ͅe̲̼!͏̱̗̮̕"͏̝͇̰͈̝͕

Their mother's anguished cries, Frisk's howling, the groans of the floor all echo in Chara's ears as they roll down and down and then there's an even louder ripping noise and they

just

d r o p . . .

The whole world is wailing, all together now.

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.

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[mingle] what's the dream and what's the reality?

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