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It is wrong. This is wrong. Everything is wrong.
She is wrong. She has been destroyed, and put back together, but some of her puzzle pieces are missing, and some of them she cannot even recognize.
She is wrong. Her heart does not beat, and she does not breathe, and her skin is clammy and cold. She wanted to get revenge, she had wanted nothing more than to feel his blade kiss his own skin--but this is not how she wanted this to be. Hatred sears through her mind, but it is choked out by a growing sense of eldritch dysphoria.
It. It is there. It is present, in front of her, in the void and blackness. It wants her to kill. It wants her to kill for it, and that is the way she will get revenge on her father, for her mother.
That doesn’t make sense to her. How is she to satisfy the searing rancor in her heart if she cannot even kill him firsthand? These are just other people, people she hasn’t even seen before, and it is saying that hanging them on hooks for it will make her heart all right again? That is wrong. It makes no sense.
It is lying.
She is wrong. She does not live, does not breathe, does not die in the space between dreaming and reality. An eternity passes between the space of her breaths--a nonexistent span of time, and, yet, it is the best way to describe this void of mist and embers she’s in.
She thinks she is dreaming--but in all her dreams, she is drowning. She is drowning in the weight of surreality and unlucidity, in them, and here, she is perfectly conscious.
She is conscious enough to feel it scream and rage and cry when she tells it “No. This is wrong. You are wrong. You are lying. This solves nothing.”
Conscious enough to feel spider limbs snap across her mind, tearing great gouges into it until she can barely remember her old life, and she is screaming from the pain.
Conscious enough to feel the phantom kiss of blade against skin, slicing through skin and muscle and bone and muscle and skin, in that order. Her back arches, her mouth widens in a horrible, screeching, roaring sound--not a scream, not anymore, because she is wrong--and the stump left behind does not bleed. It is a treelike ring of flesh and bone, cut perfectly and cauterized at the edges, throbbing with such a vicious, immeasurable pain that she falls to her knees, clutching at it--but it does not bleed like it should. It will never bleed like like it should, because it is wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
The pain makes her head feel blurred, mind feel wrong wrong wrong wrong--or perhaps that’s just what the spider legs are doing, dragging through her soul and turning it upside down, like a vase being thrown and shattered on the floor, but on repeat, until the pieces are so crumbled and broken that they can never be put back together correctly again.
She is reliving her death. The second arm is worse. She can feel it twitching, dragging itself through glass that isn’t there, that should not be there, was never (?) there? she can’t remember oh god
she is wrong. she is breaking. she is wrong. this is wrong. her mind is breaking into hundr- thous- millions of shards, bleeding where nothing else can. is this a dream? she’s drowning like she is in one. is this a dream? it is wrong enough to be one. is this a dream--
by the time her legs are chopped up, bleeding bleeding bleeding, meaty fleshy DRY stumps--why aren’t they bleeding?! she is wrong so wrong she can’t remember why is she here she can’t know anything besides rage rage rage this is all her father’s fault who is he she does not know but he is the reason why she is like this
by th e time her legs are chopped up, her mind is too fuzzy from the pain. she sees them, flesh, torn up, with loose flaps of skin hanging from them like they’ve been through a field of glass , ble- no blood no blood- wrong- she sees them, stumps, and doesn’t gag like she should, because she is wrong, although something in her past says that she shoul-d be gagging should be crying out in pain rather than vitriol and anger and rage and-
she is angry. she is anger, she does not know why but she is rage rage rage rage anger anger anger anger rancor
she needs revenge. she will kill for revenge. revenge.
revenge is the most important thing, to her. she is waking up from the dream, being pulled out of the water she is drowning in. she has been put back together after her death, with different puzzle pieces that somehow fit just right. she is cold and clammy, and she does not breathe, and her heart does not beat. she is put back together again, and she will have revenge. She will kill them all.
She will kill, for that is what she needs to do to avenge her dear mother. Her mother, who didn’t deserve this, killed by that wretch she once called a father. Her father, what a pathetic piece of garbage. He doesn’t deserve to have that title.
She has been taken apart, and put back together again, and she is wrong. She is cut up and floating, with limbs that move at wrong angles and float, suspended from the string of disreality. She is wrong, and it is perfect. She is wrong, and it is right. This is what she needs--exactly what she needs to take revenge on what she has lost.
It has gifted her with new life, and revival, and a weapon--his weapon, put to better use, even if it is sheathed in the meat of her palm--and it has told her to go out and kill. Killing the Survivors will mean that she is one step closer to vengeance.
It is there, and it will be her mentor--one last guide for eternity.
She feels the outline of the blade through her palm, and growls, hissing. She is in a rage, oh so angry, and she needs some way to take revenge on what has ruined her life.
It is more than happy to give that to her.