Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I remain silent because you’d prefer to think of past events rather than discuss my current life. Perhaps this is another way of convincing yourself that you haven’t lost track of who I have become. Scared of the opinions and thoughts I might voice, the longer the conversation gets, scared of getting to know this matured version of me.

I apologize for I have been vulnerable, and I have been a child, but perhaps, had you been a parent, this wouldn’t have been such a big issue. Now I have grown, far away from you, just next door, and we spend our hours separated from each other. Just like that plant you constantly forgot to water, but willfully seemed to come back taller every time you passed it in the hallway, apparently fueled by nothing more than the bare moonlight shining through the hallway window, separated from its roots tying it down, regardless of how that may affect its growth. For you were the ground that nurtured me, and I am the harvest of your labor, in a way, only ripened in the depths within.

Sour and bitter,
Unripe, malnourished.

That thought might terrify you, or perhaps your missing attention has made it hard for you to grasp what time has done to me. Time continued, even while you looked away, as you covered me in a big white cloth, your face of shame the last thing I see before I get stored away for years of no use to come, until one day I may experience feeling useful, being dusted and given a purpose. It may have become a new form of love to me. But who am I, stored away under a white cloth, forgotten about, to say precisely anything about love?

Again, I believe it's best to stay silent, for if I were to talk, I may fool people into believing I am a ghost. Once so human, yet not anymore. Now all these human characteristics are stripped off by the loss of place in society. Living under the cloth had made it so that I lost the human in me. I should stay quiet; I seem to haunt this house enough already, slamming doors and cold shivers my presence seems to bring upon. And even though I make my presence well known, that cloth still ought to lay upon my body, pesking me through every step, trying my best not to trip over my own feet and words.

I minimize my existence to live within their shadows. Now, my favorite color is the one of the floor, my favorite pastime activity is yearning, and my favorite dish is whatever is for leftovers, preferably cold. As much as I try to be quiet, I cannot find myself not bothering the ones left to surround me.

I am always too loud.

I sit by the dinner table to eat as my knife screeches over the plate, too loud. I whisper to myself, too loud; I breathe, too loud.

I believe my sole unwanted existence bore a sound loud enough to wake the whole neighborhood.

Perhaps if I started floating through these doors, it would not be so hard to endure me here. Perhaps if I wasn't that obviously existent, they were glad. In silence, I wonder, would they rather have my room be unlived in? Everything tucked away and unused. When I'm gone, I'm sure Mother will learn what it means to cherish the signs of my life: the wrinkles in the sheets I last slept in and the clothes I wore placed on the chair by the door.

Could I, by any chance, find her glance over my room softly? Go through the things that meant most to me and hold them to her heart as she grieves me? I would stay quiet, so quiet no one would know I was there, the way I practiced it for years. But still, I believe, it's best to leave it unseen when Mother throws out my things, not keeping even one of my belongings because they hold no meaning to her. Had she known me better, it would have been harder to separate herself from them, I dare to think.

Things I held very dear to my heart: in her eyes, these hold no importance, but I genuinely wish she had gotten to know me well enough to grasp how much meaning they have had for me. I care about them, even after my death.

Common humane behavior.

Almost as if we try to make sure parts of us will remain on earth for a while longer, simply because we can't, the futile attempt to stay alive. So desperate that we are not even ashamed of trying. But if not taken care of properly, our belongings may decay as fast as our bodies.

For I have not found the light yet; I may forever be stuck on here. The way I am now, soul decayed, and humanity long decomposed, it has become incredibly hard to be part of anything.

Actions noticeable, even missed if not carried out but soul and the body in its entirety dismissed.

Word heard, yet not acknowledged.

For however much I complained about the cloth, I am glad to have it be part of me. When I walk the streets, no one recognizes me. When I attend, just thoughts and opinions and no physical being. Yet, I fear, without the physical aspect, I may lack communication skills. If physicality was unnecessary, why ought it to be a thing? The complex feeling of love, which I do not dare to explain with words, showcased with a simple kiss.

I find myself at a loss of actions.

Now, more than ever, I crave to not just be heard but understood. To understand one's intentions is to understand one entirely. Had Mother known mine, I am sure she would have truly been kinder. For had they, Mother and father, I mean, gotten to know me better when I once still knew myself, they were to be as confused as I was at all these baseless accusations I faced throughout my time here. I fear due to all the missed time and opportunities that truly never were missed, they have failed to raise, but more importantly, get to know me. Had they even looked at me once, they had learned I am anything else but the blood-sucking monster they had made me out to be.

Perhaps their fear was as unnecessary, but how could I, the monster, ever have brought it up to them, explained even. For solely my presence sent a chill down their spine.

What I really was hungry for was a conversation, a simple form of communication. Night after night and day for day, craving for an act of humanity. Longing to feel apart. As I roam the earth, I yearn to be more than a forgotten entity.

However much I wish for the resurrection of the human in me, I must acknowledge the inevitable truth: after advanced decay, all that is left is dry remains.

If anyone could truly see me, it would have to be extremely entertaining watching me go from devastated to glad to not be alike humans. Yet, I crave knowledge. I crave to understand that “species” of “mine”. Still, I find it incredibly hard to relate. I doubt one was able to understand things they didn’t experience.

Humans are an interesting species indeed. Although I have gotten the chance to make the human experience on earth, I find myself in awe watching them. Humans are all the same, yet completely different, what makes them human seems unclear to me, after all, I didn’t seem to have possessed it.

At times humans are indescribably complex, and at others confusingly simple.

For all I know humans, despise humanity with all they have got. In fact, humans stray for inhumanity, whether that may be through appearance or behavior, perhaps in an attempt to, futilely, define themselves.

Gifted a life, humans waste it away inventing things that will shorten it, the gift, seemingly more of a penalty to many.

Cigarettes, alcohol, cars, airplanes.

Furthermore, humanity suffers from a condition called cruelty. They grow cruelty in their core.

Cruel mind, weak soul.

Then they follow a man-made religion in an attempt to damn themselves as good or bad, anticipating their final judgment, blaming demons and gods for their actions.

Cruelty is something most people don't notice growing within them at first, that once so foreign element embedding into the system so effortlessly, becoming human nature.

I am sure they aren’t aware of it, the undeniable acts of pure cruelty and insensibility. If they were, would they act this way? If they knew the outcome of their actions, I'm sure they would not.

Perhaps to be aware wasn’t the right way to put it, for humans have created languages that no one can understand, let's start again. Humans know what they are doing, know what will happen, are aware of the consequences of certain actions, but to know is not to understand, just as to hear is not to acknowledge. It has never been and will never be, how could it? How could anyone possibly grasp, to its full extent, the action, outcome thereof, and still go through with it?

I understand not understanding. Confusion speaks to me, it seems. There must be something I’m missing. Some rule I had not been taught. By chance, being left to make sense of the world by myself had left more scars and dents within me than I liked to admit so far. Part of the mind, heart, and soul seemingly surgically removed, invisible to the human eye.

Humans are something I dare not explain with words, know that I cannot, perhaps. Could not, even when I once still was one myself.

Eram quod es, eris quod sum

I believe the Gods truly have only created humans for their entertainment, I think as I watch humans, the way the immortal ought to do. I know I may never truly understand humans, yet I believe that to be the biggest compliment of my time.

For an observer like me has never been observed back.

For my existence is a bother.

I ought to keep my inner turmoil hidden, lest I’d shame the family name, if I let the wrath descend.

The fragility of family names being undeniable. They are easy to bring shame and disgrace upon, but oh so hard to bring pride and honor to. Humans are so focused on creating, rather than appreciating their creations. They are unable to see the true beauty of life once again. Failing to see Life as the gift that it is, in all its glory, magnificence. The ability within them to bless their creation with life seems mundane to them. Humans are unable to see that all that connects a parent and child is genetics. After all, what they refer to as their child is really just another human, completely estranged, having escaped from the uterus of a woman one may come to dislike. A human, though stemming from another, creates its own character, opinions, and thoughts, just to, perhaps, grow into something one's own mother despises. In a way the only lesson to ever be taught to her by her child being to hate a part of herself.

Boys ought to wash their names clean, and girls must not bring unwanted attention, good or bad, to their father's name. That might be due to the fact that it simply isn't theirs. It wasn't ever and will never be. No name ever will. First, it's their father's, and then it's their husband's.

After all, one might question the motivation behind investing time and energy into one’s creation that seems insignificant in the face of all of humanity. Why engage in a battle in which one is clearly outmatched, like a pawn challenging a queen? While it is true that the pawn has not yet been defeated the moment it encounters the queen on the chessboard, the chances of winning are slim. What is truly required for victory is for the queen to lower her defenses, rather than immediately launching an aggressive counterattack to swiftly dismantle any feeble and poorly executed attempt by the pawn to secure a chance of moving freely.

But I am my family’s lamb. The youngest one with a Halo laid upon my head. The one ready for slaughter, for sacrifice.

In absentia lucis, tenebrae vincunt.

Within me, something happening, only flies seem to spy- I rot from the inside.
Beelzebub sitting by my deathbed, looking in admiration. For I have fallen, inevitably, to kneel by the feet of the morning star, repenting. For I have dared to question my family, and I have failed and fallen just like him.

Mors ultima linea rerum est

Chapter Text

My baby teeth, stored in a pink container, are gone. Perhaps in the hands of an entity my family meant to soothe, offered one by one in an attempt to pay off their lifelong debts until all that was left was, eventually, my soul. I watch in despair as I dissolve into nothing more than a reflection of theirs

For my teeth were theirs, as I am theirs entirely.

In a way, their Joker, the card they will play to get out of this dilemma.

Whether it was financial or emotional never mattered.

Unknowingly, they will lose me to their own actions, as I run into the blade that will be the death of me, turning, twisting, caressing the wounds it has left within me.

I bite my tongue as I kneel, and I grow to accept it, like calluses grow on the hands of those who work hard labor.

It doesn’t pain me anymore.

I taste blood as I swallow it.

I leap at my own wounds like a hound, in an attempt to mend broken skin, and as I notice the hand that reaches to pet me,

I bite.

I crave love.

I twist and turn,

I yearn,

Yet I taste blood.

In a way, the first time I tasted blood was innocent, even if, to some arguable degree, caused through external influence, as I bit my tongue in an attempt not to anger those who could still hear my words.

Accipere quam facere iniūriam praestat.

Unavoidably, I am—

A cannibalistic angel,

A man-made horror,

My mother’s child.

My mother’s rage and my father’s disdain have shaped me.
My soul, woven by this journey, is coming undone before my eyes.
Piece by piece, stitch by stitch, I am losing myself in my creations.

In a way, sacrificing myself once more, but this time like Prometheus, hanging off of a cliff, awaiting the hungry eagle that had come to gnaw on his liver many times before—all for the sake of mankind.

I will choose humanity over and over again and suffer the consequences, for that is the damnation mankind has come with.

Yet Brother had once uttered that he felt some form of envy towards the people who were able to bring their visions past the mere thought of them. In a way, harboring resentment for those who could create art of any form.

Perhaps his inability thereof had derived of his apathy.
Because how ought one make another feel what one cannot?

Never did, and never will.

For he had never needed to communicate with anything but spoken words.

If only Mother and Father had paid a little more attention to my futile attempts at communicating, I wouldn’t have had to, o so desperately, try to find a way to express myself.

The retired trees, pressed into paper, deserved a better purpose in life than to soak up the ink I used to describe my agony and sorrow. Something I spent many hours on, only for it to become a collection of words and phrases I’ve read and heard before—nothing about it being special, for I am just another man’s child and I am, myself, simply a gallery of everything surrounding me.

Of the people I watched walk this earth from the living room window, who taught me how to cross the street, and of the sun I watched rise and set, teaching me when to rest and wake.

Brother was, like Athena, born from Father’s head.

Therefore, Brother did not cause the immense pain, stress, or inconvenience I did when I escaped from Mother’s uterus. Yet Brother had, unlike me, been quite logical from the start —logical enough to understand what emotions were and how they work, but unable to truly experience them.

Lūmen nātūrāle.

Such a tall man with big words leaving his mouth, but a dictionary in his hands in case he forgets the meaning of them. In a way, the opposite of me—and, therefore, the missing piece of mine.

Malum in se.

Brother could understand so many things, but emotions required more than understanding.

They required empathy.

The ability to feel them, and to make others feel them too.

Yes, I fled Mother’s uterus—her body torn and ruined by my kicks, her hopes and dreams chewed up and disregarded.

Her sacrifice to me.

A rent that cost my soul and limbs.

Mother, please take it all, for I owe you.

body for body.

I housed in yours, so house in mine.

I let you.

This role of a daughter, hers, had always seemed a little too big—somewhat like the sweaters she would buy me for Christmas. The ones I was meant to grow into but never managed to before the next Christmas came around, and I was handed the next baggy piece of clothing.

An unattainable goal.

Malnourished and weak.

Hopeless.

Before you lies the inevitable truth, my legs are now too weak to run from. This "valuable” body proving to be nothing more than a burden to me once again.

I believe this role was never for me to play, and had she known, she could have cut more than just the umbilical cord. Yes, if she could have cut me out of her life, I’m sure she would have.

Scissors bending and breaking in the attempt, my screams of joyous vitality met with anguish.

The concept of me once having been a part of my mother, connected through that umbilical cord, seems to grow more odd with each passing day, but once you know I am hers, know that she was my home for months, then you’ll believe I could feel her wrath more strongly than anyone else on this earth.

Wrath, of which the mere thought forces me into fetal position.

All limbs seeking body contact, my head drawn in, eyes closed to the misery of life, as I dream of crawling back into the womb I had come from.

Homesick for arms that never served their purpose of holding me.

Running towards the danger, like deer that run to the headlights of the car that, inevitably, will end their lives.

I think of it as rebirth.

Once again I am born hungry, but Mother cannot feed me.

She had not been born with the love or ability to do so.

So then, just for one day, like a dove, release me into the sky and let me experience this life of illusion before you shoot me down. Let me feel this so-called freedom even just once and let me feel as though humans are anything more than a pest to this world.

I beg of you, Mother.
Play the part of David the shepherd, as I, the lamb, rest in your arms, safe from the lion that has come to get me.

It seems I have been plagued with wisdom beyond my years, so now, let me be the fool who looks away, face buried in the nook of your neck, as we multiply like germs pestering poor Mother Earth,

Terra,

Gaia.

And as she is tortured, I can’t help but think: what are mothers, if not angry?

But I have been a daughter, I have been a sister, and I, too, will be a mother.
So then I, too, will carry the wrath of my ancestors.

O rage within me, why do you persist?

When I am gone, you are not what will be missed.

So tell me, why do you insist?