i have so many thoughts about my tourist it isn't even funny. did you know that he's not human. he pulled the other two into his orbit like a rogue planet collecting asteroids and he loves them so much. they are like stray dogs that come to his hand despite their fear of touch. is this what it is like to be god
eternal torment trio lives in my head so now I'm spewing my slop onto the internet. sorry in advance that my interpretation of John was, in fact, a priest at one point. something something John thoughts
I think they all don't really know how to interact with people but in different ways
John *knows*, technically speaking, *how* to do it. Seminary school gave him the words and the platitudes and the proper way to put a hand on someone's shoulder without making them skittish, but he feels as disconnected from his fellow man as he feels abandoned by his god — thinks that there must be this massive divide between himself and the others, who are of course so much more than he is on account of not.. being him. He doesn't have a strong argument, but he is the only one making one at all, and so he is winning by default without true opposition that would challenge his beliefs. Perhaps he knows that they would, and that is why he keeps it so stubbornly to himself; to state his belief would be to insist upon himself, loudly demanding for either agreement or rebuttal, and because they are good people, they will be forced to fight against him, and they will only grow weary from their ineffectiveness against the truth.
"You were my final option," she confesses to it, one day.
FANDOM: Rain World
TYPE: Drabble
WORDS: 773
WARNINGS: None
Perhaps she should refrain from the dehumanizing pronoun, by this time, for she has long since given up on believing that she can distance herself from it emotionally, but she has no better word by which to call it. It is no he, nor she; perhaps a they, in that it is a collection of the waters that drowned her Creators' souls, but none of it seems to fit. It, she calls the little beast, but she tags the word in a language it is unaware of; gives the inhuman title a hundred meanings that only she will ever know. It, like the storm that was promised but did not break. It, like the promise of the returning tide given to the fish stranded on the shore. It, like the empty space between heartbeats. It cannot know, of course, the way that she weaves its existence into every word that she calls it.
It is only an animal, after all. Perhaps intelligent; certainly, it can learn, but still only an animal that eats from its paws and smears its face with the berries that it plucks from her underbelly. An animal that is not frightened by the shifting groans of her old, old body as it shifts on its supports with the changing winds. It curls in the space between her arms and her chest. It chooses to stay, despite the open world beyond her walls that it has never been denied.
Her last idea, indeed. She has had none to follow it; it had been her magnum opus, her final cry into the uncertain forever-dark of the crumbling ruin that her Creators had left for them all to salvage. Long ago, sometime between iteration one and the beast that curls now on her chamber's floor, she had decided that she would not try again, were this to fail. It has failed. She has reached the end of her hypothetical, and she had not accounted for the truthfulness of her own statement. Again and over, the question comes to her; she cannot forget her own purpose any more than an animal can forget to breathe, but she has forsaken it, and there is nothing left to do.
What now?
She watches the lizards that crawl across her body. They fight amongst themselves as all beasts of tooth and claw do, their mouths gaping and bloody and full of each other. She is reminded of eternity; of reclamation, of unbecoming and rebirth. The question returns. The lizards dig their claws into her struts and she imagines that she can feel it.
What does it feel like?, she asks herself, if only for something to do. She is sliced open in microscopic lines too shallow to acknowledge. Does the wound still exist if it cannot be felt? She attempts to categorize the damage, but she has no metric for something so small. Her overseer's eye slips from the scratch, and she cannot find it again. Certainly, there are many others like it; perhaps she is more scratches than her original sheen, now, but they have built upon each other and themselves so much that her entire exterior has been irrecoverably changed. If this is true, then she had not even had the decency to acknowledge it.
She looks away from the lizards, and even further from the scratches.
What now?
She watches the little beast on her chamber's floor. It has curled into itself, presumably asleep, and it is unlikely that it had even heard her earlier words, though it is equally as fruitful to speak to it whenever it is asleep as it would be to do so whenever it is actively watching her. It cannot speak. She does not know how much it even comprehends. Likely nothing. Likely, it watches her, and hears her, but its animal brain knows only the timbre of her voice, and that is what it reacts to.
... Still. She has grown fond of it. She does not recall ever having been fond of anything before. It has stayed with her, despite every ability that it has to leave. That is more than even her Creators could have claimed. Does she owe it, for that? Can she owe it anything? It had, unequivocally, been a failure of the highest possible caliber; does it not owe her, for that? Can it owe her anything?
The question, again, in all of its parts; the snake latching to its own tail in a desperate attempt to stave off its own starvation. She looks away.
"What now?" she asks herself, and there is no reply.
