Open Your Heart, It's Gonna Be Alright -- A Gaster Gang Fanfic
Another day out here in the dark. Literally. I can't even see my own shadow. And don't get me started on the cold. Yeah I don't like it, but eh, that's what I deserve anyways. At least there's that abandoned building that can keep me shelter and stuff.
I just stare at the house from afar. I'm not going back there anytime soon. Or ever — which wouldn't be surprising, seeing as they all hate me now. I'm sure of it. What I did cannot be easily forgiven; I shouldn't be anyway.
I don't deserve mercy. I don't deserve help. I don't deserve anything.
Yet they've still tried… And I'll never know why because you know what I did, how I'd react, and that I'm too far gone. It's easier to chalk it up to stupidity than to think about it. Kinda gets on my nerves sometimes.
I can see Fell clearing up the anomalies in my area. He's good at it, I'll give him that. Though it's kind of inconvenient for me because I use them to do my chores, for a lack of better words.
Those anomalies, they're "Powerful, evil beings borne from the resets of timelines," according to Wingding. I'm surprised they didn't kill me when they got the chance — the anomalies, I mean. I'm not gonna jinx it; I doubt it'd be too pleasant to die that way.
So anyways, "Why is he writing down stuff if nobody's gonna read it?", one may ask. It's simple, really. I heard (and definitely not from Maestro) that writing things down in a diary or journal or something can help 'self-reflect' and stuff. So yeah, that's why.
But yet my hands feel like something is twitching and convulsing on it like the dark tendrils of my soul are seeping liquid control over my consciousness and my body. It is beginning to convince me that the only solution to this is to snap my palm into two. To just let my entire being cry out in agony, like it deserves to be. (I need to snap out of this I felt content for a while)
I grab my pen with pure, unadulterated panic, then I begin to draw the outcome, with hasty and messy scribbles being the star of this insanity-induced portrait. The nerves soon fade, and the writhing stops too, but now my hands are killing me.
I need to stop making this so dark before I go too far.
I take refuge in the warmth of my jacket. It's my favourite one, having gotten it many, many years prior to my fall into the void, somewhere I cannot remember. It's fluffy. It smells like me.
Fell has noticed me curled up in a ball, judging by how he is slowly walking up to me. His friendly walk keeps a hold of my attention until he is right next to me. I look up, not noticing that he has gotten down onto my level. There are words being said to me, but I do not listen. My haphazardly-drawn art gets picked up by him, and he looks at me, then back at the scribble.
Over and over and over until I finally react and make some nasty comment telling him to go away. The words he throws about become aggressive, and I just put on a nervous smile as he berates me for my rudeness when he is showing "genuine concern."
His tone instantly becomes much calmer and less aggressive. Who knew that owning up to your own actions actually helps?
His voice is always rough, like sand or it's paper form. Yet from sand creates glass — a transparent material that allows people to see through to what any other material, in it's place, would be blocking. Sand comes from rock — a hard substance that is largely unmoving, only becoming sand from it being whittled down by the environment around it. The void has turned him from a harsh and unmoving wall, into a gritty, yet open individual. I think.
I make another one of my 'classic' comments, though nothing nasty, and say that he can visit later if he wants. I'm gonna go to sleep right here and most likely not now.
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