#ghs self insert

To the average eye, nothing in this godforsaken hotel seemed enjoyable. The architecture itself was deteriorating and even rotting in some places that stuck out like a sore thumb. The floorboards were always creaky and easily crumbled into splinters, ready to sink their way into an unsuspecting victim. Every sheet of wallpaper crinkled and peeled back to reveal cracked walls that constantly threatened to fall apart. The food served always managed to cause outlandish side effects to at least one of the guests ingesting the cuisine. Though they always seemed good as new the second the dawn came… or, whenever everyone went back to their rooms and returned. The rickety clocks of the hotel could never accurately portray the hour, and the sun never showed in the dense forest that engulfed the hotel seemingly to no end. It left all of the souls wandering in this purgatory, trapped in an endless night engulfed by shadows.

Yet Chamomile couldn’t even muster a vague thought of anywhere else she might possibly want to be. Perhaps that was the fault of the real world for being so uncouth to the young woman the very moment she reached the ripe age of thirteen. It wasn’t her fault the brain she had been cursed with became wired to set off at every small thing, to attach onto any source of comfort possible. Sure when a young child cries and clings to their mother when an errand is needed it’s seen as cute; the frontal quartex of the brain couldn’t comprehend object permanence. It was that childhood naivety that all adults seemed to find both adorable and infinitely irritating. Though of course, once that child develops into a young adult and their conscious can comprehend the difference between danger and a minor inconvenience, they all grew out of such behavior. But Chamomile never did.

She would scold herself on a constant basis for she knew very well the logical outcome of any situation that caused her such distress. She behaved irrationally, even whilst her conscious mind understood why that fear was unrealistic, childish. Unfortunately, no matter how many mantras the young woman gave herself, or how many pills she took, they always ended right back at square one. Nothing could ease the disarray in her subconscious mind constantly shouting at her and sending signals throughout her brain that she was in terrible danger. Curse a sensitive body and a sensitive brain — for how was one meant to thrive when the mere task of eating or drinking could send the brain into overdrive? The day wouldn’t even have begun and she would already be completely worn out from the turmoil of her mind.

Those awful episodes she faced when separated from her loved ones became much less bearable the older she became… attendance issues in schools and colleges had gotten her kicked out more times than she’d be comfortable admitting, and she wasn’t able to hold down a job. It was no wonder that eventually, on one dreary night, her soul wandered too far from the confines of reality. Her stay at the hotel lasted only a week before officially making the shift into a new resident of the awful purgatory she had attached herself to like a leech. She should consider herself lucky that a fair young woman such as herself didn’t have her soul eaten by the owner of this hotel… or perhaps becoming stuck here led to a far more unfortunate fate than any death could have offered her, but that cursed brain of hers always got in the way. Her soul was shaken and cold, and no matter how much life force it could offer the old witch she refused to eat something so distasteful. Who would want a soul like that?

Chamomile stirred mindlessly under the thin sheets she layered over herself, having discovered just the way to make sure she felt comfortable and at home. It had taken what felt like months to finally cleanse the extra bedding of old dust and cobwebs but in the end a few extra comforting items was worth it. Chamomile slept easier with some sort of weight atop or beside her.. she had long since forgotten why exactly she needed that, but she continued following the urge ritualistically. Her lashes fluttered open and brushed against the smooth fur of her face , body somehow able to tell when the ‘next day’ crept upon the microcosm. At least she had assumed it was the next day considering that was the most common time for her to wake, though the hotel remained completely silent. Chamomile was able to grasp onto a few fleeting moments of tranquility under the blankets before she was ruthlessly catapulted into another whirlwind of distress. There was no logical reasoning behind the way her brain would twist and turn into panic the very second her eyes opened to a new day — it had simply become routine for her.

Perhaps the mundane task of taking a walk around the hotel or greeting the dining hall would help snap her back into her current reality — to pull her out of her own head. Alas the discomfort was palpable and all she could do was remain frozen in place in a desperate attempt to prevent herself from becoming any more jittery. The adrenaline rush easily pulled her from her slumber, leaving her hyper aware of every sensation pulsing throughout her body. The whispers of the creaking hotel walls suddenly became unpleasantly noticeable, every minuscule creak of wood and howl of the wind from outside flew right through her large ears. Chamomile would blame her sensitivity to faint echos on the large ears her physical form had taken on, though the reality of the situation went far deeper than the woman could recall. She had always been like this.

The fur coating her body stood on end and a chill crawled up her spine, expanding hurriedly across to her whole body leaving her feeling cold. Once the swift sensation passed her thin limbs were left trembling uncontrollably with no signs of halting any time soon. This exact apprehension replicated itself every time she woke from her slumber without fail, so Chamomile should have adapted to the assault on her psyche. Her heart shouldn’t race at speeds rivaling that of a rabbit being hunted down by a rabid predator, body shouldn’t tremble like a leaf in the wind. Her stomach that had only previously felt numb twisted into tight knots that resulted in a butterfly effect of her chest tightening, throat closing up in a manner that forced her breath to shorten. Her heartbeat rapidly pounded against her ears, bouncing off of the ambiance that blared far too harshly to be normal. Every single sense throughout her body was heightened to its zenith in a manner that left her placed in an uncomfortable standstill.

She should be focusing on steadying the pace of her breath or possibly shifting her focus to ground herself back into this warped reality. Except Chamomile's brain did not logically process her burdensome torment , rather spinning through mental loops that all ended her right back up at square one. The words ringing inside of her skull were not insightful methods to mellow her sorrow but rather a repetitive question nagging at her mind, shouting over all other thoughts.

‘ Where is Judgment boy ? ‘

Nobody had discovered why Chamomile's mind had pinned itself against Judgment boy, his noisy habits and uptight self righteousness regarding truth should have turned her away from the odd man in a similar fashion as the rest of the residents. Hell, Chamomile's stress impaired her so harshly anyone would assume on a whim she would cower at the scales of truth. Mayhaps it was the hard set passion he held in regards to morality only visible if one pushed past his eccentric demeanor... Or could it be the fact he would ramble onto her for hours on end about anything swirling around in his impressively overactive mind? Maybe on the most basic level the unornamented explanation lied within the stark contrast he had to the other guests, being one of very few residents who did not hold intentions to harm another. Those speculations behind her infatuation were obsolete at the end of the day, for all she needed to be cognizant of were her current emotions.

Chamomile shifted her form upwards in a jerky motion that left her palms trembling against the mattress once finally sat up straight. The sheets below her slipped off her shoulders, easily leaving goosebumps in its wake. The sensation served as a harsh reminder to how sensitive her feeble form had forever been. Abruptly tugging herself upright caused an obnoxious pang to shoot through her skull, body scolding her for moving while still re-adjusting to consciousness. Even while ensnared in purgatory her mind slaved away tediously to continue sending her regular sensations one would experience in reality. She was dead, her stomach no longer required constant nutrition, nor did the physical form she dawned here need rest. Nevertheless her soul and consciousness remained painfully human, ergo by virtue of those factors her mind still sent out those unwanted, and quite frankly debilitating effects. Fortunately that dizziness faded as quickly as it came, leaving her to simmer with those awful anxieties. Her current objective now was to wander the labyrinth of the hotel until she eventually stumbled upon Judgment boy.

Her feet hit against the cold wooden flooring of her room, stumbling over to a worn bedside desk where the clothing she usually adorned herself with sat. Her nimble hands clumsily grasped onto the items, haphazardly throwing the soft fabric over herself. Her clothes were always easy to slip into due to how loose they were draped over her thin body. They worked as a fuzzy shield to hide her pitiful form that she’d much rather push to the back of her mind. Chamomile's hand instantly darted down to her hip once she wriggled into her long skirt, repeatedly checking the hem of her clothing to confirm her keychain was still there. Her fingers flicked across her waistline until the familiar chill of metal brushed against her fingers. A thin metal chain with two small charms attached. a little heart, and a golden nugget were strewn through the metal and hung off the cold chains. A wave of relief instantly washed over the young woman and a long sigh now easily slipped past her lips. That small trinket held far more weight than anyone would enjoy thinking of, and not for any reason a small item may hold weight for in reality.

Those cursed to live as permanent residents in this purgatory did not choose their physical forms, nor the clothing they owned. Their bodies simply just shifted into what displayed their deepest insecurities and traumas properly. Most guests were easier to pick apart due to how direct their appearances had become. Mummy dog strolled along the hotel with an axe lodged in his head that he was unable to notice, a representation of his refusal to accept obvious issues. Haniwa salary man was forever warped into a Haniwa doll in a corporate uniform, displaying how he had become nothing more than his own work — a hollow husk of what he once was. Chamomile however, was a bit more difficult to unravel with a quick glance and some critical thought. Sure she had developed a more animalistic appearance but that could translate into several things. After all, multiple guests here had some sort of feral features even if it had nothing to do with their struggles. Nothing about the young woman was intimating, in fact her appearance derived more pity than it did respect. This would always create an illusion to new guests that made them assume Chamomile was some benevolent force, an angel amongst demons — clean of any sin. Obviously in the end when her true struggles were revealed every party involved became disappointed. For she was not a level headed ally, but rather someone so burdened by stress that she treaded a path of giving up reality and drifting into delirium. She behaved so casually about being chained down to this hellish place between heaven and earth, on occasion she would even declare that this was better than even attempting to fight anymore.

All of those unhealthy thought patterns had roots born by the very disorder she happened to come into the world with, something she could never rid herself of. Those thorn covered vines wormed across her whole brain until regular processing of reality became too much. Her only hope of fleeing such a wretched life was sacrificing reality and picking up a new life inside of these haunted walls. Much to Chanomiles distaste, blocking out any and all memories of her reality did little to nothing in nullifying those issues. Her life could be forgotten on a whim but the disorder ingrained into her very conscious shall never cease to exist. It just needed a new obsession, an object of infatuation.

So when she gradually became used to the chaos and ended up forming a strong connection with Judgment boy, that was where everything looped right back to square one.

Judgment boy had several physical factors that made him stand out from any other resident here, one of them being chains hanging from his arms. They were utilized during his judgments of new and old guests alike , the scales of truth stopped for nobody. There were always two outcomes that narrowed themselves down to simple representations. Selflessness, or selfishness.

The way those two factors were represented were two little glass items hung up in cages attached to judgment boys chains — a little heart, and a gold nugget. The exact origin of Chamomiles keychain.

Was it unhealthy for Chamomile to depend upon this keychain for a sliver of stability when separated from her lover? The answer would be absolutely without a doubt, Chamomile was fully conscious of how poisonous that habit was. Though no amount of knowledge could prevent the bright woman from shamefully stepping in line, meekly obeying her fears. All of these jumbled thoughts were nonsense anyways, afterall the only thing she truly needed was to find her partner. Then all of this suffering would cease to exist, until the next time they separated of course.

Hurried footsteps echoed throughout the halls while Chamomile rushed herself through the hotel's corridor, body already having memorized the directions to Judgment boys room. She just internally prayed her vision would not blur out in the middle of her journey. She was deathly tired and awfully stressed, so her world blacking out wouldn’t be an unusual occurrence. The poor woman rarely got over a few hours of sleep each night if any at all. Even when beside Judgment boy subconscious worries kept her awake, not to mention because of the physical form Judgment boy took, his room had no place to rest. He simply just remained stationary on his rails at night with unblinking eyes. It was just another harsh reminder that any soul here was far from human by now. Unsettling to see at first for sure, though she had gotten used to her odd partner the same way he has grown accustomed to her quirks. When staying in his space she usually just curled up on the cold wooden floor, occasionally taking a spare pillow or blanket when able. Tonight was not one of those nights.

Between her erratic movements and panicked thoughts she finally made her way to Judgment boys room. Her trembling hand reached out to wrap around a cold door knob, twisting it carefully. The door opened with an uncomfortably long creak that somehow did not snap Judgment Boy from his deep sleep. Chamomile would hate to be a bother to her lover at this hour, though seeing him hung in front of her washed away the majority of her ailments. Her heart gradually relaxed into a slower pace, intrusive thoughts began to settle, breathing becoming far less labored. She simply stood there in the doorway for a moment in order to take in all of these comforting sensations, body still as a log. She was so focused on his mere presence that she was oblivious to tears running down her face until one dripped to her palm. Glancing down at the wetted fur on her hand her eyes narrowed, shoulders falling slack in defeat after once again coming to the realization she allowed her disorder to win, again. What was briefly a comforting feeling warped into a nauseating guilt, self hatred bubbling up inside of her gut. She no longer fought against those impulses but gave into them the same way a dog would sit when told, completely helpless to her instinct. She really was just as pathetic as that old rat said she was, wasn’t she?

The door creaked a second time while she lazily closed it behind her, sauntering over to a wall where she leaned her body against. Her frail figure sunk down to the floor, splintering wood scratching against her back, something she paid no mind too anymore. Afterall how could she notice after doing this for decades on end? Chamomile pulled her legs to her chest momentarily before burying her face in her palms, quiet hiccups filling the room. It was cold, damp, and silent aside from her pained cries she struggled to muffle.

She lost track of time while she was curled into herself letting tears fall freely. All she knew was that her meltdown felt longer than it truly was, perceptions warped by her racing mind. Eventually after what felt like hours her eyelids began to droop again. Fatigue wrapped itself around her mind as it had hours before and finally lulled her back into sleep. Her curled up body uncomfortably slumped against the damp, splintering floor. Goodnight, Chamomile.

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