Work Text:
he does not remember much.
- no he does not.
he remembers some things; like the feeling of fear, cold and the warmth that the colour pink brought to his heart. he remembers pain and terror and a lot of horrible no good things, a lot of ugly things and that water burns. he remembers himself, with rosey cheeks, a smile and a blue cloak thrown over his shoulders. maybe some faint wisps of laughter and joy, but those are just small feelings.
what he remembers-- feels most is hatred. pure, unfiltered hatred and rage. burning him like a flame, eating up his insides, leaving nothing desirable in its path. he comes into this world with nothing but blood, organs spilling from his chest and an instinctual urge.
hate hate hate.
hate for a lot of things. hate for green, hate for water, hate for obsidian, hate for himself and hate for everyone around him. he looks at a glimpse of his ghostly face in the water he spawns by and it filled with hate. so he wanders and find a box and shoves it over his head.
hate hate hate.
all he wants to do is find something and plunge a knife into its heart. make it feel the horrible feelings he felt, to be frozen and helpless.
hate hate hate.
he floats around in ghostly wisps; he smiles and says he remembers everything, he does not. he is a liar, but they do not know that. he remembers few things, but he remembers how to be deceitful like how his past self was.
hate hate hate.
he hates himself, his past self at least. Its visceral and not fleeting, slow and killing much like venom.the resent will kill him eventually, make him fade away when the anger dies out and all he can think about it how horrible and everything bad he is.
hate hate hate.
the wedding dress sweeps at his feet. he grasps the sides so it doesn't drag in the dirt; its pretty and white, with puffy sleeves–the box sort of ruined the look, but if he took it off everyone could see his ugly and distorted self under the veil. you can see his ribs through his thin fame, grey and dead. the dress makes it show now that he wears it, but hes always been like that. frail and brittle, under that stuffy suit he felt like paper in the sense he could rip in two at any moment.
it doesn’t matter now that he’s dead.
hate hate hate.
his hands grips on a blade. Its decorative for the most part; the handle is made of dark spruce and laces with obsidian. its beautiful and silver, shining and dangerous. in the side its carved from mentor to mentee, which must have meant something.
he must have this for something. theres and urge, theres a want, a longing, compulsion and lust to use it. wrap his see through fingers on the hilt and plunge it into someone's chest. he traces his hands around the sharp edge and twists it, he throws it at a tree and imagine the tree is someone alive.
hate hate hate.
he thinks the only thing he doesn’t hate is the dress and the blade.
he doesn’t know why,