It was odd, looking at Jodiah. He looked so familiar. More than you expected. You had only ever seen him once before. You only remembered the incident because your kismesis was furious with you, for reasons you would never find out. He kicked you out of his hive for making Jodiah…freak out? Cry? You weren’t too sure, actually. You remembered the absolute anguish and horror in his eyes as they locked with yours. Hard to forget such stunning eyes. He said your name, then ran.
That was a far cry from what was happening now. He sat beside you at your kismesis’ table. He was on his palmhusk, barely paying you any attention, simply reading off instructions for Toresce. If you were the one reading off instructions for a recipe like that, well Tori would throw a pan at your head. Must have something to do with Dia being…small? Cute? Lime? You were none of those things.
“Hey Bub, can you pass Tori the pepper? On your right.” Dia’s mask was shut off to let his normal voice fill the void. You instinctively did as you were told, only realizing a few seconds after that he didn’t say your name. Who was Bub? Why were you Bub?
You didn’t get to ponder the question long. You must’ve froze after Toresce snatched the pepper from your hand…leaving your hand out in the open. Jodiah grabbed your robotic hand with such intense concern. A level of gentleness you hadn’t felt in quite some time. You blink, and any concerns about being called Bub were gone.
“What happened to your hand?” Dia pulled your hand towards himself, setting his palmhusk down. You shift to face him with a small smile.
“It’s, uh, a long story?” You offer with a sheepish shrug. Why were you nervous? You held up your other hand, waving the matching prosthetic.
“Both of them?!” Dia frantically snatched your other hand, bringing both to his level. You thought it was sweet at first. Then you noticed your kismesis, his moirail, Toresce, shooting daggers in your direction. Your face flushes a nervous blue. You meet his gaze and try to shrug to say you had no idea what was happening. You so rarely did. His flared fins don’t settle, but he does turn back to the pan.
“Wow…I bet that made playing bass a lot easier.”
[play this audio]
His words rush over you like ice water. He sat there so relaxed, just gently investigating the way your finger joints moved, as if his nonchalant words didn’t chill you to the bone.
“…what?” Are you feeling defensive? Shocked? Hurt? You glance towards your kismesis. For protection? Encouragement? Toresce didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he didn’t care. “No, I-“
Jodiah doesn’t let you finish, “Your hand? Your fingers were crooked after your hand got broken.” He finally looked at you again, brows furrowed in concern, “You don’t remember? I had to make the splint. You didn’t wanna go to the hospital so I did the best I could.”
Toresce finally turned away from the sizzling pan, only to ask a question you didn’t hear.
Your eyes trailed down from Jodiah’s bright eyes to your hand. The fog that constantly clouded your brain, that suffocated your every thought, that tormented you endlessly, it….moved. You stare at your hand with a slowly growing smile. You could see it. The fog lifted, and you could fucking see it.
You had broken your hand, and had crooked fingers. Oh, by the Messiahs did that feel so good. You could remember! Jodiah’s words blew away the segment of fog covering that specific memory up. You could picture it clearly. Jodiah lets your other hand free as he carries the conversation with his moirail. You turn your back to them both.
You cautiously pick up an imaginary bass guitar. You’d call it muscle memory if you still had those. Your right hand fell just at waist level, pinching an imaginary pick. Your left hand gripped the neck. Your pinky was straight, folded over your ring finger in a modified grip. The memories flooded your senses. The concerts in smoke-filled venues with speakers so loud you couldn’t even hear your own thoughts. You used two fingers to play, sometimes three when needed. It wasn’t ideal, but your hand was crooked. You remembered when you met Bruuno, how he helped you develop your own modified grip. He showed you musicians from sweeps ago who played with only two fingers. Fuck, it felt so good.
The fog had cleared just enough. What an amazing feeling. It was addicting, thrilling, hair-raising. You wanted to remember more. Remember everything. There was so much fog, so much under that shrouded surface. What else were you missing? What else did he know?
You turned back to Jodiah in a rush. Fuck their conversation. Fuck Toresce. This was more important.
“I remember now!” You exclaim, delighted. Jodiah cocks a brow as you continue, “I- I forgot- but I remember! My hand was crooked! I-..I lost my right hand first…but I stopped- I stopped playing when I lost my left…because I couldn’t get the grip right…with all four fingers.”
Jodiah’s eyes wrinkle around the edges in a way that suggested he was smiling. There was something in those eyes. Mischief? Delight? He took hold of your hand, your right hand, and pushed your sleeve back up to your elbow. A cautious finger traced an invisible line on your prosthetic.
“Do you remember the scars?” He continued to trace invisible lines on your arm. Detailing a map only he could see.
“Scars?” You were almost breathless in anticipation.
“You punched a mirror when you were four. It was bad, you bled everywhere. I wasn’t in med school then…but that was one event that made me want to be. I wrapped your arm up in my shirt.”
You were both silent for what felt like a long time. You desperately searched the fog, staring off into a space only you could see. Finally, it cleared, smearing like smog. The memory was fuzzy and dull but it was there. “….it was pink. A pink shirt.” You finally broke the silence. You could see the scars as he outlined them now, nodding. You had so many scars on that arm. You would rub them when you were nervous, or scared, or upset. You would start getting tattoos later in life to cover them.
“Mhm, that’s right.”
“Why?….why did I break the mirror?” You finally peel your eyes off your arm to meet his knowing gaze. He sighed, eyes softening with a thought you couldn’t yet see.
“His anger always rubbed off on you…it rubbed off on all of us.” Jodiah wasn’t looking at you anymore. He looked through you. At someone he must’ve cared about, with how gentle his rough features turned.
“…whose?”
Just like that, Jodiah snapped back. He blinked once, twice. The soft caring gleam in his eyes steeled up once more. He let go of your arm. You found yourself missing the nostalgia of his touch.
Like some kind of sick irony, his palmhusk went off. He turned away from you to read a message you weren’t meant to see.
“I have to go.” Before you could argue, he was gone. Your kismesis saw him out. He told you to watch the stove but you were lost in thought. Lost in the adrenaline of the fog clearing. Your eyes went back to your arm, back to the map of scars you could almost see in the metal. Your left hand brushes over your right arm. You thought you could feel them. You had so many questions, too many.
How did you break your hand? How did Jodiah know you?
Why did the fog clear; what more does he know?
What else have you forgotten? What is under all that fog?
Who was Marsie? And why is that not the person Dia was talking about?
It feels so uncomfortable, uneasy. You are yourself, but younger. You have all your limbs. That adds to the strange feeling overall- it's awkward suddenly having all your limbs again, isn’t it? Everything in the dream just feels…off kilter.
You are standing in the woods. It carries a strange deja vu. You’ve been in these woods before, haven’t you? You aren’t sure, honestly. You think you recognize the trees in the same way you think you recognize the barista you might’ve seen last week. It makes your brain itch. Everything smells so strongly. Like pine, like dirt, like blood and sweat. It makes your head hurt. No light, just overwhelming smells, and an alarming lack of sound. The world is so still. As if moving would be a crime.
You’re standing by the edge of a cliff. There are large rocks around the edge, with one spot that looks…freshly barren. As if a rock just fell off recently. Strangely, you think you may have caused it, but you aren’t positive. The only thing you’re sure of is that you need to look over the edge of the cliff. There’s something down there for you. You can feel it. A pull, deep inside your chest. Something is down there, you need to look.
You can’t move your feet. Fear overwhelms you, filling your lungs like water and suffocating any hint of courage. You need to look down there. Your body refuses to move.
You hear a sound. It sounds vaguely like your name. Your blood runs cold with dread. You turn and run in the opposite direction. Trees whip around you, blurring together into a black haze until finally, you wake in a cold sweat. Every time, you run away, until you wake up.
Once, you managed to take a few steps closer. You couldn’t force yourself to look down over the edge. You thought you heard your name again, and ran away.
It doesn’t come every night, but it’s been occurring more often. You wake in a cold sweat, feeling disoriented and unsettled. Supposedly, you’ve been spacing out more too. You had been doing so good for a while. Life no longer felt so dull…but now you’re back to that square. Each time the dream occurs, you no longer feel like a troll. You’re simply a shell, floating through the empty space around you, waiting for someone to pull you along.
Riptid woke with a stretch, reaching behind him for his kismesis. The absence of a body left him bewildered enough to knock the remaining sleepiness out of his system. He froze, listening to the eerie silence of the hive. It was never this quiet. There was always a commotion. The espresso machine, chatter of trolls outside, the sounds of dogs roughhousing, it was never silent like this. He wasted little time getting up and throwing a shirt on, no matter how badly his joints complained today. His pajama pants were just fine for now, he didn’t trust that he could balance on one leg without falling.
Exiting the bedroom left him more questions than answers. The puppies were crated, napping peacefully, with their owner nowhere to be found. Chowow didn’t usually put the pups in their crates. DogDad was curled up on the couch. Rip’s movement was slow and stiff, his prosthetics still waking up from their own disjointed slumber. He made his way into the kitchen with the intention of waking up the coffee machine. His arm creaked as he reached for a mug. Something over his shoulder caught his eye. A flash of red.
He froze, hand mere inches from the mug. To the side lay his bandana. Or, what remained of his bandana, settled on top of a note.
The coffee was quickly abandoned. Riptid gathered what remained of the red bandana in his hands, exhaling a deep sigh. Torn to shreds and slightly damp, clearly the victim of some playful puppies. It was unusable now. Nothing more than scrap fabric. Still, the sinking feeling in his stomach grew deeper. He knew it wasn’t the pups’ fault, nor was it Chow’s. He should’ve put it up somewhere safe. He shouldn’t have let the pups sleep with him and Chow. He should’ve put it in a drawer. He should’ve thrown it out.
The very thought of throwing it out caused his breath to hitch. Even now, looking down at the mauled remains, considering such a thing felt wrong. With cautious, gentle hands, Riptid brought the bandana to his face. It reeked of cigarettes, regrets, alcohol, weed, dog spit, and roses. There was some sick relief that caused his stomach to twist in knots. It smelled like roses. Like the troll who gave it to him. He remembered her smile, dangerous and sly. She took the bandana out of her own hair, holding it out to him after one of the first Whysteria concerts.
“We should be pitch.” A voice like milk and honey was hard to refuse.
“Okay.” Riptid Canuis was never good at saying no.
Had he even felt pitch for her? He remembered her face, her smile, the way she smelled, the way her tee shirt dress hung off her shoulders, but he couldn’t remember how he really felt, if he felt anything at all. He couldn’t remember when she lost her cool, when her anger consumed her and tore off his leg. When she got bored, and poisoned the other. Why was it so hard to throw it away? Why was there a piece of him that missed her?
The same questions could be asked about Chow. After all, it took a special kind of man to stay with the person who knowingly ruined his life. Rip lowered his hands, cringing at the thought. Maybe there was something wrong with him. On a deep, psychological level, perhaps. A knife twisted in his stomach, and a sigh of acceptance escaped his chest.
With a heavy heart, Riptid simply set the bandana back on top of the letter. It hurt to think about. He returned to the coffee machine to continue his late awakening. Still, there was a voice in the back of his head. It was angry, a growl, hardly his own voice. As if some omniscient observer was commentating on his feelings.
He should be angry, it said. The coffee machine whirred to life. He should be pissed, about his legs, his arms, his bandana. The steam was hot as it brewed. He glanced back at the bandana, feeling the knife twist once more. It was more than just a gift from Bubble, wasn’t it? He had tied the red cloth under the strings of his bass. Like a true rockstar, like a grunge musician from the olden days, using a makeshift mute for a smoother tone. It made him feel like a real musician. He hated that the voice was right.
That bandana was the last shred of his youth he allowed himself to have. He should be angry it was ruined, like he should be angry about his arms, about his bass, about the frustration his friends felt towards him. Riptid’s lip curled in an unwitting snarl. He hated being angry, but in the moment, he hated everything else so much more. His sorrowful gaze melted into a glare, shooting daggers towards the remains of his bandana. This hatred was a festering wound, opened again and again. A boiling point was met.
Riptid brought the freshly brewed coffee to his lips. Prosthetics can’t feel, you see, but maybe his prosthetic arm had his best interest in mind. The coffee burnt his tongue, and out of his panic, Rip dropped the mug. His train of thought shattered with it. Rip stared at the mess for a few moments before he got to work cleaning it up. Why was he so shaken?
Picking up shards, he felt…empty. He was just thinking about something, what was it? Whatever it was left a hole in his stomach. It was something important. Something big. He tried to will it back as he swept up the mess, but it eluded him. As Riptid stood in the kitchen once more, the emptiness only grew.
He looked to the side, staring at his retired bandana. Something about the bandana was missing. There was something more than just being ripped to shreds. Something…important. Something…about Bubble? No, that can’t be it. Or was it? He shook his scattered thoughts away for good. Whatever it was, it was gone. Trying to follow the derailed train just made him feel sick. Maybe memory loss wasn’t such a bad thing. After all, wasn’t it easier to just stay all the way dumb?
You have no idea why you went out there. That old rotting barn had been left to decay for sweeps, you’d barely even given it the time of day. It had faded into the background. Just another aspect of life out in isolation. Something called you to it, an itch in the back of your brain that you needed to scratch. It had been a bad day, but most days lately were bad.
Funny, isn’t it? You almost give a bitter laugh as you trudge through the long grass, making a beeline for that old, rotted barn. You barely remember being in the hospital when you lost your arms, but you remembered the doctor’s smile, his laugh, so bright, so painfully shrill. He assured you that the best option was amputation. It was painless, he swore. There was nothing but pain. It had been nothing but agony since you woke up from surgery. Even on the days the pain was minimal, you were left with a clouded mind and a lost dream. Everything fucking hurt. It was so bitterly difficult to be the happy-go-lucky, carefree, nonchalant person that everyone expected you to be, when it felt like your skin was on fire, the nerves in limbs that no longer existed screaming under skin that wasn’t there. Phantom pain was supposed to go away after the first few weeks, the doctor promised.
Well, it’d been sweeps now. Lucky you, huh?
The worst part was the consistent brain fog. You floated through life in a persistent haze. You stand in the wide open barn, confused how you got there. You glance over your shoulder- how did you open the barn door? Wasn’t it locked? These questions weren’t an uncommon occurrence. Did you eat? Did you take your meds? Did you lock the door? How did you get here? Where are your shoes? It felt like you lived in the moment but moments were far and few between. You knew it was wrong. You were cognizant enough to notice. You knew it hadn’t always been that way, but were you so certain? It frustrated you. It just gets worse, and worse, and worse, with each passing day. You blink. You shake your head. It clears enough for you to look at the space in front of you. You forget the questions, forget the frustration, and are back in the moment. In the stuffy decaying barn, wondering why the place felt so familiar.
Moonlight flitted in from holes in the wood. Dust danced in the serene air, the only movement the sorry place had seen in sweeps. You step forward cautiously. The space was wide and open, save for a tool bench and some sort of vehicle under a car cover. To the side, a wooden ladder leading up to the second floor, where the railing was damaged. You look around cautiously, feeling something start to spark from the edge of your mind.
I always thought the trope of people getting headaches when repressed memories surfaced to be a little too dramatic. That wasn’t reality. Maybe to some, sure, but not to you. You could feel the memories prick at the edges of your mind, dancing along the haze, wanting so desperately to be freed. If anything they made the fog thicken. Things became harder to find but the itch was growing ever more unbearable. You stagger towards the tool bench, just for something to lean against. There were yellowed photographs haphazardly taped onto the backsplash. Faces you recognized, that you’ve never seen a day in your life. They increase the mental static to an unbearable level. You’ve seen that limeblood before, you know it. You have no idea who that is. He was smiling at you, holding your younger self in a big hug. How could you not remember someone you so very clearly loved at one point?
Your body felt heavy. Too heavy to be your own. A significant amount of it wasn’t anymore, arms and legs replaced with bulky awkward metal. Your shoulders ache with the deep-rooted exhaustion of carrying the weight. Your eyes drift to your arms. In that moment you were convinced the doctor who took your arms, with his pristine smile, did so not because of the damage but the scars that lined your skin. He took the only coping methods worth a damn, the only things that cleared the clouds: making music, and making more scars. The clouds in your brain turn red with momentary fury. You’ve never hated anyone more, how he made the haze so thick and took away the one thing that ever got rid of it. You could barely remember to eat most days, but you’d never forget how much you hated that man.
Footsteps above you makes the anger dissipate in an instant. You blink away enough haze to turn your gaze upwards. Even squinting, you struggle to see them. The moonlight behind their thin frame makes the stranger appear like an ethereal being.
“...hey?” You call out cautiously.
==> Your name is now Festur Canuis, and you just wanted to grab some of your things.
You heard the barn door open. That alone was terrifying, nobody should be coming in this terrifying place! You really didn’t care if the wood under your feet caved in and you fell. You plummeted to your death once, what’s a second time, right? Naturally, you waited what felt like several moments to hope and pray that whoever entered would leave before you saw them. After nothing but silence, you finally step out of the room you had hidden in, and into the open of the balcony. You make your way to the damaged railing, looking down.
You lock eyes with the one and only Riptid Canuis.
Your blood runs cold. Or maybe it's just another chill. You’ve had some temperature regulation issues since being revived again. The last person you expected to see standing in your decrepit old barn was him. In an instant, you were seventeen again, leaning over the railing to see his small frame sheepishly peering in from the open barn door, afraid to come in. He was so small back then. In the moment, he dwarfed the room around him.
“What’re you doing here?” You ask, voice firm but soft. He blinks, tilting his head slightly to the side, as if contemplating what you said. The moonlight behind you flows down to highlight the features of his face. When did he get so old?
“I…I don’t…know.” Finally, Riptid breaks eye contact, looking back down at his hands. Smooth black metal hands resting on the rusted surface of the tool bench, bracing himself for something unbeknownst to you.
Concern fills your lungs, begging you to act. You watch him cautiously, hesitantly. You should be more careful, you shouldn’t engage more. You might trigger his memories to come back. He didn’t need that. He was distressed enough as is. Even with all these thoughts and more swimming around your brain, it’s nearly impossible to sit still. It finally registers with you that he’s…not all there. That’s even more concerning.
“You okay, Bubs?” The old nickname rolled off your tongue thick with worry. You couldn’t help it. It was Riptid, you couldn’t just let him suffer. He had the same sorrowful sad look he wore as a child. You watched him grow up as a ghost but never really got to see the full extent of it, the damage your powers had done.
He was silent for a long time. Thinking, maybe. Processing. You contemplated asking again, maybe he hadn’t heard you. Maybe the nickname confused him. You study him closely as he studies his hands. As the gears try and fail to turn.
“…I…” He finally starts, “..I don’t know…” His voice cracks. And with it, your heart. Any hesitation melted instantly. You move quickly, descending the wooden ladder with a little too much confidence. Riptid looks up with a jolt as you get closer. Startled, as if he had already forgotten you were there. You freeze.
You lock eyes again. His sad blue ones light up with recognition.
“…I know you!” Your heart breaks a second time with how confident, how relieved, how exhausted he sounded. You don’t respond, simply waiting. After a few beats, he deflates. “…I…I don’t know you.”
His eyes trail back down, glossing over. If only you knew. If only you could see inside his mind, see the smog that covered his thoughts. Thick and black and toxic, covering everything that tried so hard to rise up. His head felt heavy, full. Ready to explode. Like a stone sinking in a rushing river. His shoulders ached, his back ached, his hips ached worse of all. Was the pain making it worse? Or maybe it was the only thing keeping him grounded, he didn’t know. It wasn’t the pain he used to use. It didn’t ground him right. He shook his head again, as if trying to clear the haze.
“Bub..?” You’re almost hesitant to say his name, say anything more.
A hand moves up to hold his head. If you didn’t know better, you’d say the repressed memories fighting the mental fog was giving him a migraine. But that wasn’t how it worked. You knew this well. You were, after all, the expert in memories. In handling them, in dealing them out, in altering them, or better yet, deleting them. Your worry only grows as his face scrunches into something of agony. You start to reach out to him.
“...Make it stop.” His words are almost a growl, spit between gritted teeth and barred fangs. It wasn’t a demand. Riptid didn’t know who you were, why you were here, why you had the same horns, how you knew his name. He didn’t know you erased his memories, deleting yourself from the picture. But somehow, underneath it all, he knew he could seek comfort from you.
“Oh, buddy..” You sigh, finally resting a hand on his upper arm, “Let’s get you inside.”
He nods, but doesn’t open his eyes as he reaches his other hand out to you. You only hesitate for a second before grabbing his hand. This seems to relax him slightly. With a small sigh, you begin to lead him out of the barn, back through the tall grass, towards the place you once called hive.
