cw; talks about body dysmorphia, proceed carefully!
Identity was a finicky subject for Sunday. It's kindling for a fire he doesn't wish to burn further, as he'd much rather it die out slowly. Even the warmth left him with an indescribable feeling, a deep feeling that bites and tears at his heart like a hungry dog.
he had accepted the idea of remaining as what he'd been given, to accept and cherish the body he had; it isn't replaceable, it's one of a kind just like everyone else. yet, what is the point of cherishing a corpse, where is the joy of loving that part of him that doesn't align with his heart?
Gopher's words installed rules he abided by. Even if the cage was small and cold, he remained still as he sang his song to the unknown. It's all Sunday has known. It was like an unfulfilled routine. There's always something missing from the routine, a puzzle piece that keeps changing and changing, refusing to let itself fit in with the others. clip his wings, call him docile, he'll remain the puppet who assumed he's the puppeteer behind the show, a show of his own life that he couldn't even control.
but once Sunday was given the chance to spread his wings, to be accepted for who he is, to be in control of himself, why did everything feel so wrong yet right?
has he finally found the answer to his question or has he written himself more questions than answers he needed?
there he stood, hugging himself in front of the mirror as he stared bewilderedly at the reflection. the Astral Express remained quiet as everyone was engulfed in a deep sleep yet here he was, wide awake in a nightmare.
why is he questioning his own reflection, why isn't it him? Is he still him?
tears were so heavy as he painted his cheeks, barely making out the blurry reflection that was supposed to be him as he stood there, his fingers sinking into his flesh while his sobbing accompanied him. nothing feels right, nothing is his.
why do I not know what I wanted, is it selfish to ask what I wanted, to receive it? Sunday couldn't help but ponder to himself.
what does he need to become something, to be born something once more, to feel like him, to be them?
Sunday couldn't comprehend the feelings that scratched the lonely spot in his heart, the lost puzzle piece he didn't dare to put in. it's not that he's afraid of being himself, he's afraid of the freedom that comes along with it or the fact, would he regret it?
sometimes Sunday wondered how different he would become if he embraced that part of it early on in his childhood, would things been happier if he had, would he have been happy with the decisions he made, would anyone remained by his side despite the selfish decision he made for himself?
His knees gave out as he slumped to the bathroom tile, how he was glad no one was able to see this horrific display of emotions he was playing, a show with no audience.
nothing is comfortable, this body he wore, it isn't comfortable, it'll never be. As exhaustion crept in, reeling in like a predator eyeing up its prey, his breath hitched whilst the tears he shed remained still, none to spare. His grip around himself loosened as he rested up against the sink, gazing blankly at the bathroom tile, his breathing softened; becoming a victim of sleep, gently embraced by it, perhaps this new life would grant him the freedom he desired, to finally be himself is a dream that he wants to be a reality.
