#brick writes

It's fnc soulmates au go read it and tell me what you think :}

I don’t want to write about you anymore. But even though your memory hurts, it still inspires me. So I’m sorry every song is about you, I don’t mean or really even want them to be about you but somehow you’re all I can think about. Because everything comes back to you. My favorite pen is a gift from you. You’re the one who showed me my favorite place to clear my mind. When I change my earrings I remember getting them pierced with you. I still cut my hair the same way because you said it looked good this way. Every time I hold my bass, I remember your hands guiding mine, teaching me the chords, how to slap the strings without the pads of my fingers hurting as much. I can’t look at my keyboard without seeing you playing it, smiling with your hair in your face and head nodding to the time. Your horrible hands are in everything I enjoy, holding my poor heart and watching it bleed.

I really miss you. I can’t help it. If I could, don’t you think I would have moved on by now? You know me, you were right when you said I hold heartache tighter than I hold grudges. Yeah, I’m a little mad you couldn’t be bothered to break up with me in person or even give me a proper goodbye but well… I’m really just sad you didn’t love me enough to look me in the eye when you let me go. “I’m leaving.” You couldn’t wait for me to get back in state, you just had to pack your things while I visited my parents of all times and run away leaving two words and a terrible emptiness behind. If it weren’t for the smallest things, the hair still stuck in my rug, the pictures in my phone, the shirts you stole, the spare fitted sheet only you cared enough to learn how to fold neatly, the earring you lost last year, and the books you organized by topic then author’s last name, I might get to keep my dignity and forget you were ever here at all. 

Isn’t that funny? Everything comes back to you somehow and yet you still have haunt my home through the damnedest little things too. You’ve been gone for two months now and I’m still finding traces of you. Your side of the bedroom still smells like your elderberry and peppermint perfume. It makes me sick, floods my head with the times we were close enough for me to smell it: your hand on my waist in a clumsy waltz through our living room, your teeth in my neck on our bed, your lips on mine in the kitchen waiting for the curry to thicken, your head on my shoulder as we watched your favorite movie again. 

I hope I’m haunting you too, wherever you are, whatever you’re doing. I hope you still smell me on the shirts you stole. I hope you still have to pick my cat’s hair out of the sweater you crocheted on my couch. I hope you can’t cook the recipes I taught you without me. I hope you imagine the stickers on my keyboard over every piano you touch. I hope you miss me too, miss my cat, miss my warmth, my soft blankets, my bed, my cooking, my perfume, my voice, my hands, my fucking heart. I know I miss yours. I catch myself watching old videos of us, crying quietly while I try to tune into your raspy coffee whispered harmonies, looking for dumb midnight voice messages, going through every photo album, every picture of you, every moment, every memory. 

Do you know that I fall to my knees every time I hear your melody? That I lose every single wisp of strength I have because I know it will never be your voice singing to me.

Do you know that I sit by your still body every day, singing your song? Because I can’t help but hope that you can hear me. And that maybe one day you’ll wake up and sing to me once again. I look back at you even though it hurts. It hurts to see you sleep so peacefully. I always wished you would before because I knew it was always nightmares that moved you in your sleep. But I suppose now you’ll never have another again.

I miss your endless energy, your bright smile that outshone even the sun. I miss running after you even if I always had to clean up your messes. I miss the life you brought to every room. I hate seeing you so still. This peace is unbecoming of you. Perhaps it is something we always wanted before but now it is more of a curse than the blessing we sought.

Do you know that we have lined your coffin with your favorite flowers and tucked you in with the baby blanket your grandmother made you all those years ago? We have tried to give you every comfort while you sleep because you cannot wake. We made your coffin of glass to let you feel the dappled sunlight on your skin. We have surrounded you with glorious plants in the greenhouse you tended to like they were your kin. I have filled it with butterflies and bees to tend to your flowers while you rest. I have seen to it that everything you have left behind is well taken care of. Everything but me.

Do you know that I cannot sleep as long as I know you cannot wake up? Do you know that darkness collects around my eyes as I never close them for more than a moment? That the longest I ever close my eyes is when I cry.

Do you ever hear me? Do you ever feel the sunlight on your face? Or the sound of gentle rain pit pattering on the glass walls of our greenhouse? Do you like the flowers I have laid you amongst? 

Do you know that I’m losing myself every moment I stay awake? Every second turns into a decade and every decade turns into a millennium. I have not rested for ages. Years pass and all I can do is hope everything I have done to comfort you is enough.

I have told you time and time again but do you know? Really, do you know how I miss you? You must know that I miss you so, so dearly.

I want to beg and pray and cry and perhaps when my tears soak the earth and my pleas ring through the sky the gods will finally take pity on me and wake you once again. Or perhaps instead I should fall asleep too. And perhaps in my dreams I shall be with you again. Close my eyes forevermore and rot in the soil surrounding you. It’s all I want. To rot with you. To stop watching your eternally youthful flesh and allow mine to be mortal once again.

Do you know that you are all I have left now? This greenhouse is my world, and it all revolves around you. Do you know that after being awake for decades I can’t even tell what’s real anymore? Because sometimes I turn to you and for a moment, only a moment, but so haunting is that moment, your eyes are hollow and the flowers you lay in have wilted and the magic we had has worn out. Perhaps it’s been gone for centuries and I just couldn’t bear to think that you’re really gone so I let my hallucinations cover your corpse like a blanket of loving lies.

Come here, darling, and put your heart on my cutting board. Sharpen my knife for me please, and let me lovingly cut you to pieces in roughly even cubes. I shall skewer them and smoke you tenderly for hours over cherrywood from your favorite tree to bring out the flavor of your love through your glorious ruby red blood. Let me have a taste of you, memorize the cracks of your lips with my tongue and the feel of your bites on my thighs. I’ll baste your delicate flesh with butter and rosemary while you rest upon your lovely new bed in my garden. Your bones will make a great stock, my love, I shall simmer them softly in your favorite pot and if I have any left I’ll lick the marrow clean from their insides and savor every morsel. Let me cook you up, my sweet, and keep your lovely body in my gut, close to my heart and with the rest fertilize my garden. Every day I shall tend to the roses that flourish above you. Let the butterflies and bees pass through to spread the life that thrives off of you amongst the other beautiful little roses. Let every little thing know your soul in the pollen they spread. And when I’m done the skull once containing your wonderful brain shall be an excellent centerpiece on my mantle. Worry not, my love, I shall talk to you as well as your roses, recite your favorite soliloquies for you to carry with you under the soil where you shall roam. 

I thought my day couldn’t get any worse but when it started raining all of a sudden… it didn’t.

My first thought was that I really should have checked the weather before leaving but maybe it’s a good thing that I didn’t.

Because when I looked up at those gray skies I could see much more than the gentle spring rain collecting on my glasses. I could see sunlight shining through the thinner clouds. I could hear the soft patter of raindrops on the umbrellas of wiser people. But maybe they weren’t wiser than me, because it was when I could feel the tiny kisses of water on my face that I was connected to myself in a way I had never been before.

So I ran home jumping in puddles and splashing my way through the rain and danced like never before. It was like life itself was in the drops that spilled from the sky. It invigorated me, through my skin and hair and heart the water went, bringing an ecstasy to breathing.

Every step felt like flowers bloomed in my wake. Every breath was crisp like a fresh apple or ice water in the summer sun. Every drop was cool and comforting like mint and watermelon.

I was graced by a dance, a waltz of water with the soft pitter patter of rain a melody with which we kept time. I didn’t mind any eyes watching with the air itself as my partner and the rain my gown.

It was when I was soaked to the bone in the liquid of life that I was most myself. It was when I had done as my ancestors before me had done as well that my steps were guided without word or hand, only instinct.

And as every step was accentuated by splashes I spun above the sidewalk and sung to myself with the sky’s chorus surrounding me. When the rain stopped I came to my front door giggling quietly to myself.

CW: mild gore, body horror, body dysphoria, concerning medical practices

After years of training, fighting, living and bonding with the giant suit of mechanical armor designed to guard humanity at last the threat is defeated. In a final battle that destroyed the enemy so too was the mech that I had been in for so long. Every cell of my body ached, not only from pain created by the neural link that connected me to my mechanical body, but also from being human again. No longer was I suspended in the oxygenated fluid with wires plugged into every limb and artery. No longer did I wear the headpiece that joined us. And no longer was I myself.

I was in the mech for so long it had become the only place I felt I could truly live for long. I slept in it, lived in it, depended on it in almost every way. Even when I took breaks outside of it to eat and breathe real air again, it was always near. I had to be close to it, to feel the cold steel in my hands and the life I left inside of it through my skin. When I was outside I could never get comfortable. Everything hurt when I left my body. My wires, my nerves, my arteries had to be ripped out with different, unfamiliar ones shoved into other places to help expel the liquid from my lungs and adjust me to normal life better. My brain was disconnected from my spine without the headset. Walking with my old legs was almost unnatural to me. They weren't as long or sturdy as they should be. Breathing burned like a throat that chain smoked for decades. The air of the world was nowhere near as fresh as the perfluorohexane that filled our comfortable pod. We were two halves of one body and tearing me out to be human again was like tearing a starfish apart. It could survive, yes, but it would have to learn how to for a long time. It would have to regenerate a second half and only had so much time to do so before it would be destroyed by another creature. Life outside of my body was not life, not to me. That’s why another tube was added. Poked directly to my stomach through my navel. It didn’t even hurt putting it in, just a little pressure. I was so whole, so perfect without needing to eat outside of us I couldn’t even imagine feeling pain when the reward was so wonderful. The best moment of my life, even better than winning the war, was knowing I would never need to go out again. I know I was shaking, even without my wires, my real nervous system, every limb and finger of mine inside the pod and out was trembling in excitement. We would never need to part again. Our pod, our skull could be sealed forever like a real one.

But when the war was over and my body was destroyed beyond repair with no need to be repaired, I was a shell. I was nothing. Perhaps you could survive with only your brain stem, but it is not life. It is not living. You are but a mere husk driven only by pure survival instincts. That is me now. I am nothing. I am only a husk. Waking up was awful but the time before was worse. I could feel it. They were tearing me out, ripping apart my veins and arteries and nerves and spine to get me out of our body. I could feel a pain worse than the pulverizing of our metallic skin and steel hydraulic skeleton. It was like peeling skin off, pulling my muscles and tendons out. I can see them again now, the holes left behind by my true vascular system that is now rotting in the lab to be taken apart and cannibalized for future experiments. Looking at “my skin” was awful. My stomach churns looking at the holes in the flesh. If they left me in my real body, these holes would never have to painfully close. I wouldn’t need these stupid bandages and plugs. I still hear the soft whirring of the electrical elements that surrounded me. This hallucination is my only comfort. It is like hearing the sound of your heart pumping in near silence. It is like checking your own pulse to see if you are alive. I imagine the feelings of being in my pod, my wires still attached, my thoughts still in tandem with the pieces of my soul still in my corpse, the pleasant coolness of being constantly submerged in liquid, and the wholeness I felt. It is a memory I cling to, for if I were to lose it I do not know if I could go on.

I tried to soak in water to retain that feeling of the fluid I used to float in but not being able to breathe it in only reminded me that nothing will begin to be the same. No matter what I do, I still cannot walk. These legs are not mine. No matter what I eat I have no appetite. These are not my teeth, this is not my esophagus, these are not my intestines. No matter what I see it does not look right. Everything is so much bigger down here, so much more detailed it’s overwhelming, so much less fragile. The gentleness I used to treat my surroundings with is now a struggle to interact with normal things using strange hands. I am so weak in this wretched flesh. The metal served me better than meat ever will.

The world seemed to spin around what little of “myself” I could focus on. These hands were so small. They were a color I didn’t recognize. This was “my skin tone”? Where is the vibrant paint? Where is the rubber of my fingertips and palms? It’s so soft, so grotesquely fleshy. Where is the metal? Where is the smooth coldness I know? Where are the seams of my plating? Where is my armor? These ridges, “fingerprints”, are so small. There is oil on the tips. Oil should not be coming out of me, especially not my hands. There is water coming from my eyes. This doesn’t happen in my real body. My skin is warm. It has real blood under it. Disgusting. Where are the scratches and scars that pepper me? I should not be so pristine. These holes were not in my real body. I should have grooves and seams in my skin. Where are they? What is this? If I lived in this body for so long before, why is it so foreign to me?

Take me back to my body. I would rather rot in my carcass than survive as this insufferable thing. This is not my body. This is not me.

My God, how the days grew few.

I miss you today, I'll miss you still tonight.

There was so much we wanted to do.

My God, how the days grew few.

You had to go one day. I knew.

But I wanted us to last, alright?

My God, how the days grew few.

CW: suicidality

I could not write anything, no letter nor text nor suicide note long or articulate enough to make you understand the pain that grips me when we have the same exact misery filled conversation for the fiftieth time.

I could make no media, no film nor novel that could properly depict the suffering, the inadequacy, the smallness, the guilt, and the powerlessness that I feel when you speak to me as if I am a slowing race horse you are ready to send to the glue factory.

I listen to you hammering in yet another nail in this coffin, telling me about its necessity. But as I pushed against the board above me throughout the process I knew that even the first twenty five of one hundred and seventy three was already excessive.

I cannot even summon the strength to claw myself out. As desperately as I would like to cling to life and the light of day, I fear the shadow you cast over me is far too vast and far too cold to hold on to the hope that I could possibly escape it while I rot in my childhood "home".

I have given up on you. And I refuse to forgive you for damaging me so. Because you refuse to listen to me, you no longer deserve my forgiveness and you do not deserve my grace. I am saving it for myself instead.