If I could begin to be half of what you think of me
They are, of course, Corus Wayne.
They are, of course, Calla Corvid.
They're not quite sure anymore.
But of course, that doesn't change the truth.
Corus Corvid Calla Wayne does not need to exist.
Of course, they aren't self-depreciating. They're aware that their powers have use, after all.
They're aware that for some absurd reason, there are people who care about them.
But they're not needed.
They haven't been needed in a very long time, they think.
It stings in their chest, something dull and dead. In their mind's eye, they can see regrets bashing weights upon the ground. Deep. Heavy. It grips their heart.
A step forward.
A hundred steps back.
You can't save anybody.
You were too late.
The anons' words should sting, really, and it does. Not in the sense of painful insults- but more of reminders of things around their neck.
Corvid isn't needed- and that much is clear.
(Corvid isn't wanted, either. It shouldn't sting as much as it does.)
( I want you gone. That's what I really want. )
No.
One person still wants- but they have disappointed that person before.
After all, they did forget their best friend.
They're a terribly selfish thing, even when they don't mean to be.
They didn't want to be.
And Ceph H. Larkkstarr is dancing across time, spinning away across space because Ceph H. Larkkstarr is important, and needed, and there are more things in the world to deal with than one miserable fool.
We are every star in the sky, they promise, and it is dull, dull, dead in their chest.
She doesn't need them.
She'll get someone better. A new best friend. Someone who won't her hurt like they have, like they will.
( I'm sorry. )
Corvid does not deserve to exist.
They've always been good at erasing mistakes.
Twist the wrist. Seal the vault. Burn away the pain until there's nothing left to see.
What if they are the mistake? What then?
Mistakes must be erased.
( This story, perhaps, was never quite about finding out the truth of memories lost. Why would it be? Corus Wayne is doomed to repetition. ) ( Doomed to their own self-hatred. ) ( They are Corus Wayne, perhaps. ) ( They are Calla Corvid, perhaps. ) ( Both. Neither. ) ( It doesn't matter, in the end. ) ( It doesn't deserve to exist. )
Atonement in progress. Loading...
Impurities must be removed. Everything you ever did-
was not worth it. Take upon their sins.
Yet there might still be hope left for you.
It's your funeral. You don't get to pick the music.
It is
searing pink bright technicolour hello, hello, focus on me!
It is
A message, intercepted. ( I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry I never meant to hurt you. )
It is
A promise wound in golden thread. ( I'll live, if it means you do too.)
Pale pink skin, impossibly smooth, plucks it out of the air.
It smiles with too many teeth in it's eyes, childish laughter discordant against the darkening sky.
Well? she chirps, not quite. It seems we're almost the same after all.
Forever shoved aside by those far too blue. We're gonna trail in their footsteps forever and ever and y'know the best part?
They think it's for the best.
They think they know what's best for you.
Swinging back and forth.
Birdsong and babies crying.
The moon above is a false idol, quivering in not quite delight.
I'm not gonna let you save them, y'know? That's boring. Go ahead. Try. You can't do anything about it until you win!
