Impostor doesn't understand why his birthday affects him so much. Emission can't help, he isn't a therapist or a therapy friend… but he tries to be there. It's the least he can do, y'know?
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Organization for Transformative Works
So, remember the poll I did ages ago about me writing Impostor birthday stuff? Well, I did it!
You guys asked for fluff but I found myself bored so uh... slight hurt/comfort, anyone?
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Tool ask: Dude, calm down. Just count to ten, think about relaxing place, do a long breathe and lay on the snow. Your brain needs freedom from problems, these psychopatic halucinations will kill you, but... We are with you, so, lrets play a "words" game? Just liie "apple" - "elephant" - "town". I start: "Death, blood, kill..."Okay, stop, dont cry, thats just a joke you know? Normally, uhm... "Snowman" - and you?
Warnings:
Description of 'dying'/'bleeding'
Basically angst
Bad?? writing?? idk
There was very little strength left in his bones at this point. Energy poured out of his throat, trickling down and seeping into his clothes. It'd soon fizzle out, dissolving into the air.
He could still see messages appearing in his vision, but the words blurred and flickered, mixing into one another. His head spun trying to decipher the words growing stranger and stranger, the meanings of each fading with each flicker of darkness blocking his sight.
Though he managed to read one in its entirety.
"...I'm calm."
For the first time in so long, he was at peace. He knew the heaviness in his limbs were a cause for worry. He knew that he should be scared of the haze slowly eating away at his consciousness. He knew that the voices of the masks aren't supposed to fade— they screamed and cried, not wanting to disappear. But strangely enough, he felt... free.
"I won't die, technically..." His voice was soft, unlike moments before when he was screaming his throat raw. "Don't worry... I'm... only resting." He hoped it would be permanent, despite the small scared voice begging him to keep them alive. “You guys don’t have to stay with me for this, you know?”
He deserves worse. He deserves to suffer for all eternity for what he's done. But he can't do this anymore. Being alive will eventually lead to more problems, right? Tool was a burden on all who loved him.
The mention of a relaxing place brought up memories of a garden. A familiar set of mismatched eyes blinking at him. Arms pulling him close, pressed against the soft fabric of a pink sweater. He could imagine the warmth blanketing over him.
Maybe he was loved. Alas, the people that would've taken in him regardless of his flaws are dead by his own hands. Maybe Ceru would still let him into his room at his house but... that's only because he's too nice to say no.
A part of him blamed Ceru. He never wanted this. He didn't ask for this. He was happy alone. But it's happened again and again and—
When the observant joked, Tool only faintly smiled. He didn't have any energy left to spare for tears. Crying was impossible, even if he were to try his best.
He felt his eyes droop, tired. His time will soon end, the promise of rest like a cold embrace. "Observant... if you insist... I will play the game, then."
Humor the observants one last time, why not? He won't be getting anything out of this, but that's okay. He was grateful enough for the company. Being alone was... suffocating.
A snowman... so his word will start with N. What starts with N?
