Work Text:
Your name is Karkat Vantas, and your, for lack of a better word, friends, are always bothering you. Well, they were. They haven't said anything recently (how long has it been?) but you're still waiting anxiously on the next tedious drama or inconsequential problem to drift your way. The first hour of that anxiety was probably even genuine. But now, its the growing dread of the realization that they won't. No one will.
Your name is Karkat Vantas, and this is, for lack of a better word, your statement.
You still remember the last problem you were called on to help with, as ineffective as your help appears to have been. Terezi was asking you questions about that fellow who writes in all white text. I believe she said that he was afraid, but didn't tell you why. You were in the middle of a truly verbose rant outlining the many reasons why she should not care that Doc Scratch is scared, when a new message arrived. If anything it was harder to read than white text would have been. The edges of the letters hurt your eyes, and you could see your desktop background behind the window. If you had simply taken a closer look you would have seen the wall behind that, and the everything beyond that, and the nothing beyond that. And then you'd have some idea of where you are now. This one, brief connection to the words arriving for you, is, I'm afraid (ha) the last you'll have. To be honest, this is technically quite the dreadful breach of etiquette but I was just so curious as to exactly who Peter was so excited about. And, I do suppose that now, I am impressed. You had so many connections, so many people you were always helping, but I suppose that all the preventative measures in the world aren't always enough. That's a very important lesson to learn.
I am aware that you would like more explanation.
I find it more interesting however to go more into exactly what state you are currently in. He let you bring your... communications device with you. It makes you more afraid to know that even with everything you could try you can't be reached, I suppose. You even have a signal, connecting to nothing. How artistic. But that is it. That and a formerly blank message window, which, prior to and after my meddling, read and will read "No one is talking to you" which is honestly rather cliche, but I think the fault with that falls on you. Your conceptions of how communication works are so static.
Running won't get you anywhere.
No one can hear you screaming.
You're not hungry or tired yet, but not only is there no one else here, you can't even conceive of another mind. You're probably only processing this as background narration, but I like to think that it is effective in exacerbating your terror.
The snow eats the sound of your footsteps, and you leave a clear, crisp trail. Anyone walking on this would. That's just one more way you know that there is no one else. The air is clear, and you can see far into the empty distance. Well, not quite empty, anymore, but, if anything, more empty than before. The fog is coming closer, and thicker snow is falling. The air is cold in your lungs, sharp and stark and making it impossible to pretend you're dreaming no matter how nightmarish the scene becomes. Beneath the snow is ice, and beneath the ice is water, and beneath the water is fog. The fog is what is feeding on you, passing through you as your hopelessness and despair crescendos. And in all this time, you haven't felt guilty once.
All those other people you were helping might miss you, but you didn't consider that. If that were a problem, they would have said something about it, after all. They tell you about all their problems and never once have you heard them say they missed you. You want, so badly, to be missed, and you're so sure that you aren't.
And that's why you've been forsaken.
Anyway, my time is up. This was illuminating.