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She’s been forgetting things more, lately. Or maybe she’s just finally started noticing it. It doesn’t really make a difference, either way.
There’s the big things, of course. The massive burn spot in her head and on her hand and around her neck, the vague nausea and headache that come whenever she thinks about it too hard. The corpse of a house that stands empty like the knowledge that she’s missing something, without knowing what that “something” actually is. The glaring, empty voids in her memory that she knows are important but can’t remember without splitting her head apart.
But it’s little things too. Friends will mention conversations that they’d had, things they’d mentioned to her, plans they’d made, and sure, it’s normal to be forgetful sometimes, but even when reminded she finds herself having zero recollection. Usually when you forget something, you realize it, once someone reminds you, right? There’s that “oh” moment, because it hadn’t left your head, you’d just misplaced the thought, and now you’ve found it again. But she doesn’t find it, and she’s not entirely convinced that it’s still there at all. She finds other things, though, items of hers in places that she didn’t leave them, notes in a handwriting that’s not quite hers but not quite not-hers, food in her fridge and water on her nightstand and it’s not anything bad, yeah, but she’d rather at least be aware of the things happening in her own home. It might’ve made her paranoid, if not for the fact that this isn’t really… new, per say. More severe than it had been before, but she’s… kind of used to blacking out every so often, or losing track of time, or feeling like she’s not really herself. It’s just that, for the longest time, she didn’t fully realize that it wasn’t… normal.
Elixer is the first person to bring it up, with that tone of voice she uses whenever she stops being just a friendly, cheerful potion-vender and starts to become more of a warrior, a protector. It’s confidence meant to mask fear- or maybe those two feelings aren’t so different.
“Deytra, I’m worried about you.”
“Um, okay…?” she responds, because she’s not entirely sure what she’s supposed to say to that, more inviting Elixer to continue than actually saying anything herself.
“You’ve been acting weird,” she begins pacing as she speaks, boots clack-clacking on the wooden floor, noise echoing through the large room, “Maybe not weird, actually. You’ve been…spacey? Unfocused? There’s been multiple times when you’ve done something or talked to me, and then later on, you don’t remember any of it. Not to mention the fact that you- you know. Don’t remember sustaining major injuries.”
Elixer turns to face her, eyes serious, determined, and she can’t say she’s not a little bit scared. Not of Elixer, of course, never! Just… generally. She feels small, under such a scrutinizing gaze, even if it’s not meant to be hostile.
“Deytra, I think something is messing with your head.”
She pauses, processing for a moment, before asking, quietly (because she still can’t help feeling small) “Like, an entity?”
She snaps, “exactly!” and starts pacing again, and Deytra relaxes her shoulders, though she hadn’t realized that she’d tensed them in the first place. “This wouldn’t be the first time an entity affected someone in this way. I talked to Trouble recently- they found a new entity, some sort of supercomputer, it got into their mind and messed with their head. Made them forget some things, so that it could lie and make them trust it more. They said that they killed it, but- well, even if it’s not the same entity, which it probably isn’t, we know this is something that’s definitely possible. And I mean, you’ve already gotten really hurt and don’t have any way of knowing who or what did it!”
And that makes sense, to an extent, except for the fact that this isn’t something new. Unless an entity had been following her for a long time, or maybe exacerbated an existing problem…? Either way she should probably say something, shouldn’t she? “I… listen, I really appreciate that you- that you’re looking out for me?” which makes Elixer stop and look at her again, makes her shrink into herself again, “it’s really sweet and you might be right! You’re probably right, you know a lot about this and you’re really smart I promise but um- I just- I don’t think that’s the case?” God, she wants to curl up into a ball and hide away forever even though Elixer is her friend and would never hurt her never never no she doesn’t think that, she just- “Sorry, I just- no, you’re probably right, I-”
“Deytra,” she says, (mostly) snapping her out of whatever spiral she’d previously been going down, “It’s okay. I’m not gonna be offended. What is it?”
Deep breath. In for four, out for four. “It’s just that…” or was it in for six, hold for four, out for seven…? “This kind of thing isn’t really new for me, I don’t think.”
A tilt of the head. “What do you mean?”
“I just,” or maybe in for five, out for four? “for most of my life I’ve just sort of… been like this? It’s been, worse, recently, happening more often, with bigger things, but I, um, I’ve always been…really forgetful.” How can she manage to be bad at breathing?
“This isn’t just forgetfulness, though. You’ve completely forgotten entire conversations! Multiple times!”
She flinches, shoulders raised, ears pinned to her head, she shouldn’t have said anything Elixer was right of course she was right she was smart and right and putting her hands up, slowly, like Deytra was a scared animal, and “I’m so sorry, I, I didn’t mean to raise my voice. I’m sorry.” Oh, no. She looks like she might cry.
“It’s not your fault,” she assures, tripping over her words and her feet as she tries to step forward and untense her muscles and lower her shoulders, “it’s all me, I’m just- I guess I’ve just been stressed, y’know?”
“Right,” Elixer nods, slow, like she’s talking to a child. Part of Deytra hates it, feels shame bubble up in her gut, because she’s not a child, or made of porcelain, and she doesn’t need or want to be talked down to. Another part of her starts melting. Another just wants to do whatever they need to do to keep the peace.
“Right,” she replies, not wanting to say anything more because she’s not sure what to say, and her tongue feels heavy, and she doesn’t want to mess up again (even though she didn’t mess up, it was fine, Elixer isn’t mad or anything so what’s the problem?).
“It’s just that, you’ve gotten hurt, Deytra. Really hurt.” It’s been long enough that she probably doesn’t need to be wearing bandages anymore, but she does anyway, just to be safe, and not at all because looking at her reflection feels weird now (because it’s always felt weird to her). She looks down so she can’t see Elixer looking at them. “I don’t want something worse to happen to you.” Then, more confident, “I don’t want anyone else to get hurt anymore.”
“I understand,” she says, fiddling with her fingers (her nails are getting long; she should trim them soon), “but I think that maybe you’re mixing cause and effect? I’ve- I tend to forget things that are… difficult. Completely forget.” She still refuses to look at Elixer, like ignoring her will mean that she’s not there, that Deytra doesn’t need to worry because she’s just talking to herself again. “Like, when I was younger, once, my friend broke a toy of mine that I really liked? I think? That’s what my parents said. And said that I had cried a lot about it too. But I don’t, and didn’t, remember it. I just remember finding the toy broken and not knowing why or how. It’s not exclusively bad things, um, once in I think second grade, I made friends with someone without realizing! They just ran up to me on the second day of school and started talking like we’d met the day before, but I didn’t even remember their name!”
She pauses her rambling to finally look Elixer in the eyes again, the action dragging her back to the reality in which she’s having a conversation with another person. Elixer mostly just looks…confused. “That’s not normal. You know that, right?”
“I… guess?”
“...you guess?”
Her ears tilt down in embarrassment. “I just, never really thought about it, okay?”
“Right. Well, I guess it's good that it's not an entity, but that also does mean that I have no idea how to help you, now.”
“You don't have to!”
“But I want to. I'm your friend, and I'm here if you ever need anything, alright?” She nods in response. There's a few moments of stillness before Elixer lights up, and says “oh! I know! You should try keeping a journal so that you don't forget anything important! It won't fix the main issue, but it might at least help for the time being!”
Now that Elixer’s acting more positive, Deytra finds herself relaxing, agreeing easily. She's already got plenty of pretty blank notebooks that she'd never found a use for, and the prospect of having another excuse to fill one with fun colored pens and washi tape eases some of the anxiety that still sat hot on her shoulders.
Actually sitting down to write was a different story. Staring at an empty page always feels daunting. She should probably start off with why she’s writing this journal in the first place.
-Elixer talked to me about my gaps in memory. She thought it was an entity. I explained that I didn't think it was. She suggested that I start writing things down so I don't forget. I'm doing that now.
…Maybe she should get some basics down. She doesn't think she's forgotten her own name before, but it's not like she'd remember if she did, right?
-My name is Deytra. I own and run a cat cafe in spawn town. I live alone. I like to build.
She feels like she should write more, but whenever she tries to think of something, she winds up drawing a blank. This is making her feel weird. She thinks she's getting a headache. Maybe she should take a break from this- her burns were starting to hurt more, when was the last time she used ointment? She can't remember. Might as well apply more- not like she can overdose on moisturizer.
It's about an hour later when she sits back down to try and give it another go. Only there's- there's something else on the page, underneath what she'd put just an hour prior, and- she looks out the window and it's darker than it should've been, looks at the clock and nearly four hours had passed- she forces herself to take some deep breaths, it's fine, it's fine, she'd prepared for this, right? That’s the point of the journal. She steels her nerves, and reads.
-I think there's something stalking me.
The handwriting is definitely her own, but there's something slightly different about it, too. It's written in blue instead of pink, the pen she must have used laying innocently to her right. She reaches out hesitantly, picking up the pink pen before she can start thinking too hard about why.
-I don't remember writing that.
-
For a few days, she tries to ignore the incident with the notebook. It’s probably nothing, she’d probably just written that in a moment of paranoia and then forgot about it- she tends to forget things that are stressful, so it makes sense that she doesn’t remember whatever panic attack (that feels overdramatic, she doesn’t get panic attacks, not really) intense emotions compelled her to write something like that.
She still doesn’t use the blue pen.
It gets easier to keep up with it, as she starts to incorporate journaling into her daily routine. It’s a mix of more typical diary-like entries and something more akin to a to-do list, notes like restock eggs! or return library book by Friday. Covering the pages in stickers and washi tape is predictably fun, and crossing off tasks and reminders is satisfying enough to act as motivation to stay on top of things.
She still keeps the blue pen. Even if she doesn’t use it.
Focusing on recent events is not only easier, but has also helped with the headaches and confusion she’d been experiencing when she first tried doing this. Sure, she doesn’t remember writing all the entries that appear in the journal, but none of them are as alarming as what was written in blue, and now she knows about (most of) the things that happen to her even if she doesn’t remember them, so all in all, she’d say it’s going pretty well!
She still keeps the blue pen right with all the other ones. Just in case. In case of what, she’s not sure.
In case I need it. In case I need you.
But thinking about it gives her a headache. So she tries not to.
-
For a few days, she tries to ignore the incident with the notebook. Until she can't.
Until one day, when the pain from her burns is worse than usual, and she tries to distract herself but nothing works. It feels like there's still something burning under her skin, an underlying nameless anxiety that crawls down her throat and sits heavy in her stomach.
Until she sits down and rests, but instead of just closing her eyes like she'd thought, her knees were pulled to her chest to block her head and she can't breathe, it's all too fast and she couldn't breathe, she couldn't breathe, she was burning and she remembers burning, she was dying and she was alive and she remembers being something else, something worse, she was a doll and she was made of glass and she remembers cracked fingertips and peeling skin with something crawling underneath it that can't get out get out GET OUT
…And it was all loud, and horrible, and it felt like it would last forever. Until it stops.
She's still sitting on her couch, staring at the wall. She thinks she's been staring at the wall for a while now. A few minutes, maybe? An hour? She thinks she's forgotten. She knows that she doesn't remember.
And the book is there. Sitting on the table in front of her. Like nothing ever happened. Did anything even happen? Was it all just some horrible dream that she made up? Can she go to her parents’ room now, cry to them, be told that it's all okay, that it was just a nightmare, that it wasn't real and neither was she?
She's not thinking straight. The book is in front of her. It wasn't before. Well, she doesn't remember it being there before, though she's not sure exactly when ‘before’ starts and ends.
There's a few blank pages after the last entry. For a moment she thinks there might not be anything. But there is.
…And she didn't even use the same blue pen.
Which is just about the stupidest thing that could've snapped her out of the distant state she's in, but here she is, laughing hysterically over the ballpoint she must have used instead of the lighter blue gel pen she's been avoiding this whole time, like it's the thing that's cursed instead of her. Like it makes a difference that the strange message in your own handwriting that you find is written in navy instead of bright blue. She starts to feel sick to her stomach.
But she reads anyway. Because ignoring it clearly didn't work.
-my name is Deytra, still. I think.
-I don't remember most of these entries and the ones I do don't feel very close to me
-I don't remember most things
-I think there's something stalking me you us me?
-it burns things. It burned me/you
-orange/red glowing eyes like lantern lights in a window
For a while, she just stares at the page, trying to process what it says and how she feels about it. Maybe it says something that she’s most hung up on the way that she’d talked about herself, the me you us that she had crossed out, than she is about the whole being stalked thing. Logically, she knows that’s more important, more dire, and that she should probably go tell Elixer about this right away, but it’s hard when she can’t stop thinking about me you us and how much she doesn’t want Elixer to see that. Not that she doesn’t trust Elixer! She does! It’s just- this is insane, right? This is- it’s not normal. She’s not normal. They both know that already, Elixer had said it herself, but this is really not normal. It’d be reasonable for Elixer to be- upset isn’t the right word, maybe worried? Concerned? Scared? To think that Deytra’s actually insane. Because she is, she absolutely is now, because she’s been considering writing something back, as if this is a- is some sort of two-way conversation, a letter sent back and forth to herself, and she needs to calm down because she’s freaking out and she doesn’t- she can’t-
She doesn’t want to lose herself again. She wants to be in control of herself. She is in control of herself. Whatever she had thought was happening when she wrote that clearly hadn’t been real.
She can’t quite bring herself to cross it out, or tear out the page, or anything like that. She tells herself that she doesn’t need to, because it doesn’t mean anything. She doesn’t know if she believes that.