Chapter Text
She remembers how it feels. She remembers too well. She’s got a brain like a steel trap when it comes to things like this.
The blackness. That’s what she remembers the best. The overwhelming, unnatural, pressurized blackness, as if she had been sucked into a black hole. As if no light existed. As if it could have never existed.
She remembers the green. The goo, the ooze, dripping from the skull, from the grey, desiccated flesh that held those teeth in place. The pinpricks in the blackness. The instinctual fear.
It hadn’t hurt to fall in. Eve taking a bite of the apple, unaware— unaware of the ways she could have hurt her people , her everything— all because she hadn’t been prepared. Because she wasn't good enough.
She let herself get too close.
It was the only answer.
Giving Finn the sweater was a ridiculous thought. A way to explain to him how she felt— like her little brother, or her cousin. Didn’t she know what family did? Hadn’t she learned her lesson? Family set her up for betrayal, for weaknesses, for hurt .
Uncle Gumbald, Aunt Lolly, Cousin Chicle, Shoko, and now Finn— (’ and Marceline,’ her treacherous brain supplied. ‘and Marceline.’)
She couldn’t sleep. She’d never had issues with sleeping— she could do it anywhere, as long as she was tired. A benefit of being gum, probably— she always molded herself to the surface. But she remembered the blackness, the way her consciousness was ripped away, replaced with who she was when she was thirteen— when she was a baby , when she couldn’t understand, when all she craved— all she needed was affection. From anything. From anyone.
She missed Marceline.
This is why she didn’t stay up— her mind wouldn’t control itself, wouldn’t keep it its box. She didn’t miss Marceline. She just missed— she missed the way Marceline’s arms fit around her. She missed the way she always looked at her. She missed what Marceline would undoubtedly be doing now— wrapping herself around her, bat wings out until she could breathe again, until her body wasn’t trying to float out of her.
She missed the smell of salty water and stone ( from the oceanside cave), of smoke, and strawberries and the sweet marshmallow she’d picked up around her.
She knew where it was. Under her bed, in the safe. Even in the new room ( she can still smell the death, the fire, the toxic air choking her, even after she washed the sheets— no. Not this. Not now.) Bonnie fished around. Click.
She pulled it out.
The damn shirt.
She hated it. Hated how she could smell it, and her eyes grew tired, because she was always safe around Marceline. ( Until now.)
Hated how she slipped it on and the worn cotton brushed over her shoulders in the most comforting way. Hated that she’d worn it enough for that.
She hated that she was falling asleep.
That this was the only way.
That she had to give in to her weakness again.