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Toriel — Mom — is quiet. You don’t understand why, but you get the feeling that you shouldn’t ask. School today was long and uneventful. It’s April first, the first day back from spring break. You’re doing well in your first year of middle school, much to everyone’s relief. After all, they’ve all heard it’s a very difficult time in human development. It’s been two years since ██████ broke the ba— huh?
██████?
The name turns to static in your head. You know it, but something is rendering you unable to even think it. The letters pry apart under the weight of your own confusion, unraveling like twine. You try to collect them from the edges of your mind, but your fingers won’t work. It unsettles you and a strange wave of nausea rolls through you, but you decide that you shouldn’t ask. Anyways, it’s been two years since the underground went empty. You’re twelve now, the same age as—
Dinner is great. Sans and Papyrus come over, and the small, cozy house feels even smaller and cozier with them around. It’s not all bad, you think. Even if Papyrus’ voice is so loud in the tiny dining room that it makes something inside you squirm. Toriel makes pasta and he couldn’t be more overjoyed. Things are going so well that he even lets it go when Sans squirts ketchup all over his marinara. Something starts to twist your own face into a sour expression, but you smooth it out before they can see it.
The skeletons ask about your favorite classes, your new friends, and about how the monster students are integrating with the humans. There’s some uneasiness around that last question, and you understand it. But there are so few monster children anyways that they all fit neatly in one school program and the slow introduction to human students is going about as well as it possibly could. It helps that Toriel works there, too. And even the adult humans sense that she isn’t to be trifled with.
Toriel doesn’t add much to the conversation herself, and you see that her plate has hardly been touched when she starts clearing the table. Your eyes fall on the plate with worry. But before you can ask, Sans is asking you something and steering your attention away. What is he asking?
It’s not really important. It’s just words. Noise.
But you’re laughing along with him when he dishes out a particularly juicy pun. There’s a faraway look on Toriel’s face when she brings the pie to the table for dessert. Butterscotch and cinnamon, your favorite.
What?
It’s not your favorite?
Yes, it is.
Her hands wobble strangely as she plunges a knife into the soft filling and cuts a wedge for you. It’s a little bigger than she usually allows you to eat in one sitting, but she doesn’t say anything about it or try to make it smaller. She just slides it onto a small plate with a watery smile and hands it to you. Sans and Papyrus each gratefully accept a too-big slice. Papyrus smiles genuinely, but Sans’ looks stuck on his face. It’s not quite that expression that twists your gut and bathes it in ice, though. You don’t know what that’s about, but again you think maybe you shouldn’t ask right now. It goes quiet. Toriel doesn’t cut a slice for herself, she just stares down at the gutted pie with the knife in her hand like— like she’s looking at a body.
You want to enjoy a bite, but the buttery crust turns to sand in your mouth. The sweet custard filling feels thick like glue and it’s suddenly hard to swallow. It tastes like it always does, there’s nothing wrong with it. So w h y t h e n ? Your stomach turns violently and you almost gag as the memory of something acrid rises in your mouth. It crawls up the back of your throat and creeps along your soft palate as an uninvited guest. It’s more bitter than anything you’ve ever experienced and it burns the sensitive pink tissues in your mouth like acid. You don’t know what that taste is. You swear you don’t. But something about it startles you and sends your fork falling from your hand. The sound of metal clattering against porcelain makes you jump.
Toriel’s eyes widen. “Is there something the matter, my child?”
You shake your head no, but she sets the knife down and comes to your side anyway. Before you can say anything, she’s kneeling before you and placing one giant warm hand on your shoulder.
“Are you sure?” Something fearful swims in her eyes. They’re wet around the edges. She’s overreacting, you’re sure. But you’re not sure why.
“I’m sure.” You nod and give a small smile. “Just full.”
“Well, alright then.” She allows, brushing your hair from your eyes with gentle paws. She’s filed down her claws to pleasant little nubs, just like always. “But please do let me know if you’re feeling ill.”
It feels like the air has been sucked from the room. Mom stands and says she’ll cover your plate and put it in the fridge for later.
“let’s take this to the living room, yeah?” Sans says, standing with his plate of pie in his skeletal hands. “it’s movie night, isn’t it? why don’t you pick something out, bud?”
Toriel glances at him gratefully, as though he’s managed to break some kind of spell or lifted a weight from her shoulders. You move obediently to the living room, unsure of what else to do.
Sans hid a whoopie cushion under the couch cushion and you unwittingly plop right on it. It’s awful! You love it. The sound goes on for way too long, like a balloon deflating in E minor. (You don’t know what that sounds like, but it’s fine.) It goes on for long enough that Sans’ smile touches his eyes and your stomach pain is now strictly from laughter. Papyrus decries this nonsense, but that only makes you laugh more when the noise is renewed as he sits in his usual spot on the far end of the couch. You and Sans high five, even though you had nothing to do with it. It’s, admittedly, pretty funny.
“SANS, WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?” Papyrus asks, fishing the whoopie cushion from the upholstery.
“just a little april fools’ fun.” He shrugs, grinning that rictus grin.
“Oh!” You tilt your head and your smile grows. You hadn’t even noticed! You’d been too busy worrying about today’s math test to—
The world suddenly goes strange, like getting the number of stairs wrong and driving your foot right through air. You frown. April first? Something shakes loose inside you, but you can’t see what it is. There’s something there. Something you’d like to know. You can’t grasp at—
What?
No, it’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important. It’s not important.
You want to cover your ears for some reason.
Toriel joins and you scoot over so she can sit by the armrest, the cushion safely de-whoopied. She looks at you fondly. Like, really looks at you. Like she’s taking you in completely. Like it’s the last time she can. Which is ridiculous. You’re not going anywhere. You think other kids might find her smothering, but you understand why she’s like that.
She’s scared.
She loves you.
Finally, Sans hands you the remote and you scroll through a streaming service until you find an animated movie that you and Papyrus both like. Toriel works quietly on a knitting project beside you while Papyrus and Sans finish off their pie. You enjoy the movie, something about a wizard with a moving fortress, until you feel your head begin to droop. You’re in the final stretch of the movie, but then you blink and suddenly the end credits are scrolling. You must’ve nodded off. Toriel’s side is soft and warm, and you don’t want to move. But you do once she insists it’s time to get ready for bed. It’s a school night, after all.
You bid Sans and Papyrus goodnight, and Sans gets you with a small hand buzzer at the door. It makes you giggle and that seems to satisfy him. Even Toriel pops a small smile. By the time you’re washed and brushed and crawling into bed, your eyelids are too heavy to hold open for much longer. Toriel comes to the door to say goodnight like she always does, hovering for just a moment longer than expected before softly shutting the door. But your eyes are already closed.
//
The pain is so loud that it creates silence. Everything hurts so much that it feels like nothing. Your nerve endings weren’t made to understand this, your synapses just can’t fire enough. It’s going to consume you and leave nothing behind. This is your reality now. This is what you have done. It crosses your mind to ask: Why am I doing this? What am I doing? Is it worth it? You so desperately need a reminder. Every stifled sob from your mother, every tear your brother spills on your sheets, every time you realize it’s getting harder to feel your father’s rough paw pads, your determination falters. You want to cry. You want to confess and be saved. You want to be rocked to sleep and to wake from it as if it were all a bad dream.
Is it worth it?
Ranunculus. A plant family with a sizable genus of 600. Known for petals with a rich and lustrous color. They often flower in the spring, but can be found through summer. Sometimes regarded as weeds. Invasive. Opportunistic. Ranunculus, otherwise known as the buttercup.
Is it worth it?
You can’t hear your brother’s laugh anymore. Has he ever laughed at all in your time together? Was it only your imagination? Can you remember its bubbling sound? Can you remember anything past five minutes ago? The fog is so thick and it won’t let up. Your mother’s voice wades to you through the fray, but you can’t make out the words. Someone is petting your clammy forehead, smoothing your sweat-soaked hair, gently wiping the vomit and blood from your blistered mouth with a warm cloth. All you can do to thank them is whine quietly, pathetically. You’ve been so reduced.
Is it worth it?
It was your birthday only the day before, you think. It’s hard to say exactly, time slides past you like rain and pools, unwanted, on the floor. You realize now that you never did get to open your gifts. Your mother made your favorite butterscotch-cinnamon pie. She even gave you a bigger slice than usual. Your brother had squeezed your hand so tightly as you blew out your candles and then coyly refused to share what you wished for. He should’ve been able to guess, anyway. You ate your pie more slowly than usual, you savored it. The perfect buttery crust danced across your tongue. You’d wanted one last good afternoon, if not for your sake then for theirs. But you couldn’t let it linger for too long or you feared your brother would lose his nerve.
Then you’d gone to the garden to play. And not long after that, you were seeing that slice of pie again, splattered across the kitchen tiles. Your brother hadn’t gotten the bowl from the cupboard in time and it came over you so much more swiftly than you’d imagined. You could drink all the water in the world and the taste would never go away. Thinking about it now, your stomach turns dangerously. Saliva wells in your mouth and you try to swallow it all before it can dribble down your pillow. The blisters in your cheeks have all popped. Slowly, you’re losing control of your body. And you’d be more humiliated by that if you had the capacity to think much beyond the unutterable misery of it all.
Is it worth it?
Determination can waver. You need to remember what it means. You need to remember for what you are dying. What is dear to you? Dear enough to swallow the sallow yellow petals of a fistful of death? There is still a small drop of strength inside of you. It isn’t much, but it’s enough. Enough to lift your head. Enough to reach upward. Enough to turn the picture frame so that you can see it from your pillow. Enough, enough, enough. It is all that you have left. It is a family photo. Everyone is smiling.
It’s worth it.
What? That wasn’t you?
Then, who—
“█ █ █ █ █.”
//
You almost don’t make it to the toilet. Stumbling blearily over your own feet, your knees slam painfully into the tile floor. Your hands shake as everything evacuates your gut. It tastes awful, bile stinging the back of your throat like butterc— like acid. You can’t bear to look into the bowl and instead close the lid as quietly as you can before flushing. It takes a moment to gather your strength, stomach feeling delicate and constricted around itself. You breathe in slowly through your nose and count to six. There’s something sour growing in your gut and you hope it’s not a second wave of puking. It’s a chilly evening, so you’d worn your long sleeved pajamas, but now you’re clammy and damp with sweat. You tug at the fabric around your throat and grimace. It’s been a while since you were plagued by a nightmare like that. The dream clings to your—
“It wasn’t a dream.”
What?
Yes it was.
Anyways, the dream clings to your skin and—
“It wasn’t just a dream. You know that it wasn’t.”
You stand slowly, planting your palms against the cold sink. You turn on the tap and rinse out your mouth before staring into the mirror. The nightlight Mo— Toriel’s set up casts your reflection in a sleepy gray pallor, your skin’s warmth dimmed to a quiet glow. Your hair’s a mess, sweat-stuck to your forehead and grown out a bit more than you usually like. But despite everything, it’s still you.
“And you.”
What?
“█ █ █ █ █.”
See, that isn’t anything. There’s nobody else here. It’s you!
You’re unsatisfied. You frown for a moment, unsure of what to do. Finally, you wrap your wobbly arms around your own torso and squeeze your eyes shut, heart hammering. You think of something warm. Morning sunshine over dewy grass, a fresh mug of cocoa between cool palms, Dad’s gigantic hugs. You’re— oh, you’re hugging yourself. You’re so tired, but you know that you won’t be able to go back to sleep unless you—
“I’m hugging you,” you insist, determined. Determined to do what? “█ h █ r █.”
The letters make noise, but the sounds don’t come together right. They don’t make sense in—
“They do,” you insist again. “Ch █ r █.”
What? No. Stop that. Stop doing that. Stop talking.
“Ch █ ra.”
Stop that— Just shut up. SHUT UP!
“Chara.”
STOP IT!
“Chara, you’re still here.” Your voice is quiet, spun thin like glass and threatening to burst into shards.
“NO!” I— I shout. Me.
The word slices from between your teeth like a knife driven through your incisors. It shatters the quiet you’ve tried so hard to maintain and your blood chills in your veins. You startle, just for a moment, but you don’t unwind your arms. The shout echoes in your brain. It ricochets like a bullet and your temples pound. There is stillness for a long moment and you hold your breath, but nothing happens. There are no footsteps down the hall, no inquisitive knocks on the bathroom door. Your heartbeats skitter wildly in your throat and your fingernails dig into your skin. But you try to gently coax them to relax, the claws to retract. It’s not quite working, but I— you— we—
Something snaps and you can feel it in your brain, electric bright. A barrier falls and it doesn't even take resurrecting a dead prince to do it. Wait, a dead— ?
Asriel.
Your eyes snap open, confronted by your own reflection.
“Our reflection.” You correct.
“No, that’s weird.”
“So you’ll talk?” You quirk an eyebrow.
“Asriel…” I bury your hands in your hair, curling fists around chunks of it and yanking. I don’t let go. You grimace, but you don’t stop me. The name tastes like long afternoons. It tastes like eating pie with my bare hands. It tastes like playing in a muddy flower garden. Your vision distorts, reflection blurring. Something wet touches your cheek. “Asriel.” Your knees buckle, but you catch yourself with the heels of your palms against the floor. The fuzzy bath mat deadens the fall.
“You’re still here.” You repeat through a thick throat, gently extracting your hands from the mat to mop at your eyes. “Chara, you’re still with me.”
…
Why?
W h y ?
There’s no reason to be. A long stretch of nothing unfolds before me and gazing upon it is too miserable to bear. I should’ve stayed sleeping in the soil and you know it. This is nothing but a punishment, a purgatory for us both that may be worse than hell. Not that we don’t deserve it after—
“Stop.” Now you’re the one squirming in discomfort. It is almost enough to send a mean-spirited smile to my lips, but I don’t have any. You take a deep breath. “Chara, what were you doing? Where did you go?”
“You said it yourself. I’m still here.” My words slip from your lips, stilted. Begrudging. Your teeth bare themselves around them like fangs.
“Yes, but no.” You pause. “You refused to talk to me. Or acknowledge that you were there. You were slipping away, even though you were right here. ”
“You should’ve let me. It’s not like I want to be here.”
“You don’t mean that.”
But I do. The boundaries between us were dissolving. There were no such things as secrets, as hidden feelings or memories. It was painful, the complete and utter exposure. Every ugly thing was laid bare before each other like one big horrifying banquet of terrible thoughts. Nothing felt real, and yet everything was intense. The smallest sounds and sensations bore out into something painful for me beneath your skin. But then— I could just slip into the noise of it all. Decide not to be me anymore. Fading into the background was easy, really. I blinked, and suddenly I was gone. It was like taking a long nap. There was only Frisk. I’d lost control a long time ago anyways, after handing my soul to the wrong—
The thought ends abruptly, painfully, like a blade to the temple.
My choices don’t matter. I tried fighting for control to force them to, but— well, that’s never worked out. We both know how it all ended. How it all ends. Just about every possible variation of it. I’m obsolete. A vestigial limb that no longer serves any purpose. I had my chance, and I wasted it. A swell of anger chokes your throat. My anger. But you swallow it. Because of course you do. You’ll swallow just about anything these days to make up for—
“Stop,” you repeat.
And I almost apologize, but I don’t. Not right now. I was melting away, melding into someone else entirely and forgetting things had ever been any different. And you should have let me. I seize your facial muscles and puppet your mouth into a ghoulish little grin. Your eyes burn, but at least the tears are gone. You hesitate, uncertain.
“What?” I force the word from your throat. “Is there something you don’t want to talk about?” You’re laughing. It burns on the way up. Fresh tears veil your eyes and you just can’t blink them away. “I wonder if they’d still love you? Do you think Mom would still smile at you like that if she knew? I can still remember what her dust felt like between your fingers. It was so fine, softer than sand at the bea—”
A hand claps roughly over your mouth. You’re laughing still and your palm tightens against your lips. You laugh, and keep laughing. It's SO funny, you can't stop. Tears run down your face. What, that’s not you?
It’s not actually funny, anyways.
A couple of minutes pass, crumpled on the bath mat like a broken doll. Finally you drop your hand from your mouth and use your sleeves to dry your face again. The skin is hot and puffy and you know your eyes will be dark and swollen in the morning. You sniffle loudly. You try to stand and your knees protest stiffly after being in that uncomfortable position for so long. Still, you proceed to splash your face with cool water and take a long gulp from your cupped hands. The bath towel you used before bed is fluffy against your face as you pat it dry, the familiar scent of lavender fabric softener grounding you in the moment. Your heart feels like it’s wobbling in your chest, but you simply go back to staring at yourself in the mirror. It’s kind of creepy, honestly.
“Hey.”
“Sorry.” Er— I wonder for a moment if that’s honest or just reflexive. The fact that an apology could be reflexive at all is a wonder in itself. I’ve been spending too much time in your head. Not that I have anywhere else to be. You look exhausted, deep dusty purple crescents beneath your eyes fade into a sallowness settling in your face. “Sorry, I guess.” I try again, quietly. Like I can pretend I didn’t say anything at all if you didn’t hear. But of course you hear.
“For which thing?”
“I don’t know.” If I had eyes, I’d roll them. And my thinking that almost makes you smile. Almost. It strikes me that you were…lonely. “Take your pick, I guess.”
We both go quiet, the sounds of crickets fading back into our awareness. The sky is beginning to brighten outside the bathroom window and I can feel you briefly contemplate returning to bed. Honestly, I want you to. But you’re holding out for something, and I don’t like where it’s g—
“What made you remember?” You ask, leaning against the sink.
“What?” I take your voice back, bewildered.
“It was like there was a wall up. Your memories were just...static. I couldn’t remember Asriel’s name, and whenever I tried to do anything to remind you that you were…” You consider your words carefully, though I’m not sure why since I can hear you thinking clearly enough. “...your own person, it was like you fought me. Or our mind broke for a second because you rejected it too hard. Or something.” You frown. “But you remembered. Something finally got to you.”
I hate this. I try not to answer, to smoke you out with my silence. But I can tell you’re prepared to hold us here until sunrise. I hate you.
Finally, I answer, “You should already know that, genius. No secrets and all.”
Your eyes widen after a brief moment of searching. “It was your birthday.”
“Ding, ding, ding.” I cross your arms. “And my death day. Or something. Maybe that’s tomorrow. Or today? What time is it?”
“You’re trying to distract me.”
“Is it working?”
You shake your head. “How old would you be?”
“Uh...I don’t know. I’m too tired for math, you giant dweeb. Besides, I don’t think those years count since I was asleep for like, all of them. It’s so stupid, anyways. April first. Might as well be since my whole life was a fucking joke.” You let me swear, too tired to say anything.
“I think I know some monsters who would disagree.”
“Look, you already know what I’m thinking of saying to that.”
You flinch, because you do.
“I don’t want to hear any empty platitudes from people who don’t know— the whole story. I just don’t.”
“That’s fair enough,” you reply, because I’m right. Ha. “You know you could always have another chance. To talk to them, I mean.”
No. No way. I can’t even puppet your vocal cords for that one, the surge of animal panic renders me useless and I hate it. They’d figure it out, you know. That all humans are wretched little creatures. That even their precious adopted child could make insidious plans and wish for seven deaths on their twelfth birthday. That they could drag their perfect baby boy down with them into the dirt and the ashes. Into the dust. I don’t know how to do anything but hurt people. There’s something intrinsically evil bubbling in my veins. I’d always been surprised I didn’t bleed something black and foul. But of course I don’t, because a human doesn’t need to be exceptional to be rotten to the core. Not when that’s the default state. And—
“Chara.” Your voice is gentle, and you pry your nails from the soft meat of your arms. They leave angry crescents in the skin, but you’ve felt worse. When did you— or I— ? You breathe in slowly and count to six. And then you exhale. I detest that it works. “You don’t have to talk to anyone if you don’t want to. It’s just something to think about, okay? I won’t force you.”
“Okay.” I muster the word like a tempestuous child, hating how it sounds.
“You are a tempestuous child.”
“What? No, I’m not!”
You snort. “Yeah, you totally are.” There’s a pause, and then: “I’m glad to have you back.”
“What the hell?” I can’t stop myself. But somehow my bewilderment only makes you laugh. Like, actually laugh. “Yeah, sure. You missed the undead entity embedded in your soul. That’s not normal, but why should we start now?”
“Should we go back to bed?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
The sheets are cold by the time you pull them back over your body. The sweat from your sick spell has dried sticky on your forehead and the back of your neck, but you are too tired to care. You flop onto your belly and burrow into the blankets with the side of your face pressed firmly to your pillow. You’ll be exhausted in the morning, but at least you didn’t wake Mom. Sorry, sorry— I can feel you glaring. At least we didn’t wake Mom. Happy?
“Good night, Chara.” There’s a smile in your voice. “And happy birthday.”
Alright, alright. Goodnight.