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She hadn’t glanced at a singular instance of a storm as formidable as the one raging outside their house. Trapped within the recesses of her memories, survived a fragmented cacophony of emotions that could’ve rivaled it.
When everything finally settled, back when Darcy transformed and tentatively shifted back into something familiar, more capable- Marcy- for her. She could barely feel the disruption, where the environment was dense with hubbubs of commotion and life, but here the thunder crashed against the house like bullets hitting a target. It’s a violent dance sequence, one that rattled her eardrums.
A singular, echoing bang strikes across the sky, illuminating the darkened house, splashing shapes of light across her features. The rumble of incoming thunder plagued her senses and drowned her. Her fingers twisted around a paintbrush, the faint sound of stiff bristles against flexible canvas audible between blasts of thunder. The paintbrush. It was such a frivolous item, however, so sacred- it held so many possibilities.
Marcy— fifteen, hair cascading down her shoulders, body all lean— eyes owlish and focused, tinted with fragmented speckles of green that glimmered whenever lightning struck— had her eyes trained to the canvas before her. Yellow tea, freshly brewed, swooshed inside its ceramic cup with each strike of thunder.
Meticulous hands add a singular flower to the stem trailing along the borders of the canvas, using delicate strokes to create petals resembling that of a yellow chrysanthemum, intrinsically tangled around a bush of bristling orange daisies.
Her living situation was unprecedented but not unwelcome. After returning to Earth after finally defeating the Core, she discovered that her father accepted the job offer and he and her mother relocated to Oregon. They’d promised they would come for her at the next available opportunity, but since the invasion happened, all air travel to and from California had been temporarily forbidden. Days stretched into weeks, weeks into months, and months into years. It seems as if they’d hadn’t given up on coming, but it’s unknown when they’ll actually get the opportunity.
Her temporary home at the Boonchuy residence quickly became permanent.
Truthfully, she hadn’t been herself since she moved in. Well, that isn’t the full truth— she hadn’t been herself in a long time. It became apparent after it was defeated. They’d seen the monster she’d become, and yet still choose to tiptoe around the truth with meaningless well-wishes and embarrassing servitude, awaiting her beckoning hand. It’s humiliating, being treated like glass— but it isn’t far off from what she consistently feels like. It’s her deepest vulnerabilities being put on display without the knowing of everyone surrounding her, and that sends her back into a downward spiral of self-loathing and insecurity.
Relapse. It’s a common experience for those working to revisulatize themselves. An undetermined interment of time of recovery followed by a drastic plunge back into mental unwellness. It’s a dangerous thing, and it could be perceived as weakness; “It’s not weakness, it’s a part of the recovery process. Don’t allow it to break you down.” It is what her therapist says, but is unable to fully understand the tangible manner in which her relapses occur, seemingly brought on by mere illusion.
Five times. It has happened five times throughout the past twelve months.
There’s a multitude of things that could’ve possibly triggered the downward spiral of destruction and loathing, but it most commonly begins with a simple voice. A brash, accented voice echoing through the clouded foam of consciousness, as it inevitably shifts its focus on breaking down its host in any way imaginable. Rampant paranoia, simmering anger, twisted views of others’ intentions, the fear of finally being proven as the manipulative, selfish liar that deserves no forgiveness even from the most righteous— and when it calmed down, she resigned to her believed fate. It’s what she deserves. Intrusive thoughts of horror beyond comprehension, ideas she wouldn’t dare dwell on, lest they control her. These thoughts transform into a dangerous storm that darkens her mind and forms a singular thought:
You’re an awful influence that deserves nothing short of suffering, and everyone immediate to you would be better if you’re permanently gone.
It plagued her throughout her life, and now it’s coming back for vengeance during the recovery process.
So to unleash these dangerous thoughts, she paints.
Paints portraits. Paints landscapes. Paints nonexistent people. Paints her feelings and beliefs. Paints her nightmarish thoughts on linen canvas with bold splatters and nonsensical patterns, distorted figures and stark contrasts in colors. Eyes are a common theme. These paintings are extremely personal and kept reserved for herself and herself only, locked away in an artistry bag and kept hidden in the depths of her bedroom closet.
She feels the traumatic progression build beneath her skin, gnawing at her stomach, and it’s hauntingly familiar— it feels like electricity thrumming through her bones, burning her nerves. It always responds slowly, simmering before exploding out of her like a pressure cooker. It boils over and presents itself in the worst fashion.
Shaky strokes of orange are added upon the blackened background of the painting, a stark contrast to the yellow chrysanthemum in the foreground. She strokes until the orange resembles flickering flames licking against the flower, scorching its delicate petals.
Flames. Fire. A flaming sword plunging through her chest cleanly and without hassle. Red droplets of blood splattered the marble flooring like a disturbed portrait, the magnificent glow of the flaming sword displayed upon the drops. The blade easily pierced through bone and organ, lungs collapsing and sternum shattering within an instant, roughly swallowing down the blood violently retching itself from her chest. The last image she saw was Anne wearing a bleached rictus of horror as darkness consumed her vision.
The echoing sound of a violent crunch bounced through her mind. It convulsed her body and sent electricity soaring up her spine, tingling the nerves and tying them into an agonized bunch. She’d awoken in agony later, pitifully reaching for those no longer there before her body was violated in horrific extremity, taken hostage by an amalgamation baring dozens of eyes, glowing hauntingly orange and awaiting their next victim—
Behind her, light illuminated the room into a charcoal sketch, blinding white. It covered the room with shadows. In the threshold, dividing the kitchen. A shadowy figure with ten glowing eyes—-
Marcy startled, blinked with bated breath. Beads of sweat developed across her forehead, owlish eyes staring at the unknowing as nothing remained present, an illusion of her mental decomposition, so gnarly and prominent. A figment of her mistakes coming to haunt her in the most unimaginably horrific ways—
It’s as if she’s back there, trapped with an amalgamation so outworldly it defies rationality, beyond human comprehension. Something so disgusting contorted and inhumanly. It’s suddenly hot, the temperature increasing within her as her own internal compass goes haywire, channeling flight or fight or freeze, the floor itself being replaced with being replaced with vibrant crimson, burrowing her, drowning her with the waves of her own guilt and frustration, paranoia and fright.
Her old nightmares resurfaced, of being caught in a sea of rushing red, unable to escape, being drowned and forced to forever witness the consequences of everything she’s done. It’s a ocean of phantom pains torturing her, and limbs of those she betrayed and the lives she’s taken as Darcy attempting to hold for safety the only thing they could— Marcy. The visions never dared ceased, lest they allow her to have peace— something that isn’t a possibility, not now, and not ever. The river of blood only seeped into her clothes and stained her skin, reaching a new level and awaiting its next victim.
If there exists a hell, is this what it is?
Then came powerful thunder, deafening, shaking the furniture. Her heart rattled. The canvas and easel tipped and fell, knocking into the table beside it. The cup shattered. The tea spilled.
Marcy’s air fell to shroud her eyes, through which she stared widely, were bleached of all dwelling vibrancy along with the rest of her face remaining in passivity, a stark contrast against the white blending into the room from outside. She’d sunken from the coach, falling heavily onto her knees, observing the canvas now splattered with tea. The paint was stained and melting, creating a dirty liquid that absorbed into the hardwood floor beneath her. Her ears rang. Lighting strikes overhead.
She whizzed in a stammered breath, expression unchanging. Her ears thundered with the same intensity as the storm outside. Tentatively, breathlessly, she reached forward with trembling hands and brushed her fingertips against the linen canvas. Dirty paint stained her hands.
The tea was cold.
The touch reunited an electrified feeling within her spine, flowing throughout her body, tingling with pain so unimaginable, so indescribable that crawls and gnaws inside her cranium like a thousand ants trying to escape a collapsing anthill.
The tea was cold.
A swift growl through gnashing teeth, shredding gums, and clenched fist breaks through the thin layer of canvas and hands twisted around the portrait, twisting the linen canvas between her fingers and shredding the paper. Paint spills and covers her hand in a cacophony of colors. Nails scrap against the wooden leg of the easel, strips canvas from support beams as she completely snapped it into two with a violent wrench.
The tea seeped onto her hands. It was cold.
She bowed, bringing her fists to pound at the broken easel and canvas. The cup had shattered, the ceramic remains ripping into the delicate skin of her palms and drawing blood, staining her hands. Velvet fingers twisted around a chunk of wood and snapped it into two. Her teeth gnashed as her jaw trembled with pressure, biting her tongue so hard it drew blood.
Droplets of blood on the floor.
The remaining pieces of crumpled canvas and wood are gathered pathetically in her arms and thrown towards the threshold dividing the kitchen and living room, simultaneously connecting with the doorframe alongside a crackle of thunder— hoping it connects with it . Marcy could only imagine how pathetic she looked, fists curled and chest heaving, shoulders trembling as did the windows, eyes boring holes into the scattered remains of painting equipment and a figure unknowing to everyone else.
Lightning flashes. There's nothing there.
Marcy stares soundlessly at the empty spot, eyes shrunken to pinpoints. There’s a flurry of footsteps traveling downstairs, nearly in sync from just how quick and panicked they were.
Brown curls obscured her vision. “Marcy? What happened?” Anne squeaked, hands coming to grasp her shoulders, chocolate eyes shining with barely concealed concern and minor confusion.
Marcy blinked. The fog dissipated from her eyes. She took a shuddering breath and whimpered in shame, hands going to grasp as the hemming of her patterned sweater, blotches of paint and blood staining the fabric.
“I’m sorry,” Marcy breathed, sniffling, wiping her nose. “I shouldn’t have—“
“Don’t. It’s okay.” Marcy turns her head and finds Sasha standing besides her, leaning against the couch, running a hand through her blonde fringe. She looks troubled. “It ain’t your fault.”
Marcy gazed at the shards littered across the ground and immediately reached towards them, intent on cleaning up her mess. Sasha immediately stopped her, roughly squeezing her shoulder and gently pushing her away from the shards. With a single glance, Sasha communicated the shared plan with Anne.
“Let’s get your hands cleaned up, alright?” Anne convinced, carefully, as if one wrong word could send her running. It’s probably for the better.
Marcy’s throat bobbed roughly, itching to satisfy her overwhelming grief. Her jaws ached with tension, preventing them from letting out nothing short of a wail, something so horrified and fear-stricken begging to escape from her throat but refusing to do so. She licked her dry lips, swallowing deeply and wearily nodding towards the pile of shattered glass.
“W-What about the—“
“I’ll clean it up, don’t worry,” Sasha said, voice traveling from past the threshold where he retrieved a broom and dustpan. She waves a hand dismissively; she isn’t upset, just expectant. “You go and bandage that up.”
Marcy gave a small nod and momentarily leaned forward, resting her swollen hands atop her knees— shit, that’s what she felt like, a combination of a burning stinging sensation infiltrating her palms and migraine developing inside her temples— but she absolutely refused to dispose of her remaining dignity by complaining like a coward, not in front of them, she won’t.
Marcy gathered herself so that her cottened ears could unclog themselves, trudging up the stairs with heavy, muted footsteps. Anne gently guided her towards the bathroom, flicking on the light. The bathroom glowed to life, overhead lights buzzing faintly as Anne turned the faucet on, retrieving a first aid kit from underneath the sink.
Carefully, she squeezed the skin surrounding the shards before picking them out, blood forming in the epicenter. Velveted fingers were forced underneath running water, the resulting stream of blood washed the basin vibrant crimson tinted with mismatched colors, and with it, pink, discolored water flowed down the drain. Her hands were tender and raw, scrubbed clean of glass and debris. Her hands remained in water until her fingertips shriveled and pruned.
She holds onto her own set of principles, as if the trials and tribulations she’s facing every day onward leads to a greater purpose other than proving her tormentors wrong. As if there’s something to look forward to besides her inevitable destruction.
Marcy was reluctant to escape the life the universe forged for her personally. Some belligerent deity shamelessly forces its way into this specific person’s life and screws around in its core foundation, deciding which circumstances she’ll be brought next— her own set of consequences she’ll endure until she initially learns to live besides them. She wanted to taste it; the freedom of living despite the hindering problems, but it seemed nigh impossible nowadays.
She really wants to believe there’s something beyond the maddening mundanity and simultaneous chaotic lifestyle she indulges in. Something she could unyieldingly, determinedly reach for and call her motivation. There is nothing.
Marcy squeaked, her hands screaming as the disinfectant dribbled across the wounds. Anne apologized hurriedly. Marcy merely grumbled, watching intently as Anne dabbed away at the remaining disinfectant with a clean washcloth, reaching for a roll of bandages on the white countertop.
Anne takes the moment to truly look at Marcy- hair a length unseen for her, messy. Her eyes, once vibrant and lively, were bleached with the lifelessness of the greying corpse, stark contrast between the dark locks shrouding her face and her tan skin. Glassy, as if awaiting tears constantly, tired with the knowledge of a million lifetimes. They’re unseeing yet watching. A single glance tells someone that the weight of the world is physically wearing her down.
Marcy’s possession scarred her in a manner that transcends her physical attributes.
Anne neglects to mention the violent outburst Marcy just endured; as it was too outworldly for her to comprehend. Marcy mentioned that it rears its ugly head whenever stressed or particularly depressed, serving as a repressive reminder of her misdeeds— Marcy had addressed it with scorn, but referred to it so off-handly that it barely changed the pacing of their conversation. Whenever her or Sasha tried to bring it up, it was met with silence and discomfort, which simply meant, “Drop it. I’m not talking about it.”
And they never did talk about Darcy, did they?
“Tell us what you need,” She carefully wrapped adhesive bandage around her hand, twisting around the thumb and tucking the remaining bandage underneath it, “we’ll figure it out, we’ll help you.”
“We?” Marcy’s voice was heart-wrenchingly soft, hesitant, so uncharacteristic of the enthusiastic sweetness they’ve known for the majority of their lives. That enthusiasm has been gone for a long time.
There was a faint loneliness seeping into her voice, as if the request was blasphemous. A desire so unforgivable; the desire to rid oneself of lonesomeness.
Anne exhaled lightly. “Yes, “we”. You should already know you’re never getting rid of us this easily. Like we’d ever leave you,” she scoffed, humor just barely lining the edges of her voice. After everything they’ve been through, they had no intention of abandoning Marcy. Never have and never would. “We’ll figure something out.”
“It’s nothing to figure out. The obvious answer is that I’m broken.”
“No you’re not, you just need someone with patience, with understanding,” She reached underneath the cabinet and retrieved a clean washcloth, dampening it and gently wiping Marcy’s clammy face. “you’ve never gotten much of it, after all.”
Marcy huffed, unconsciously picking against the carefully wrapped bandages on her hands, lifting the ends upwards until they snapped back into place, firm. “It’s rotten work with no reward.”
“Not to me. Not if it’s you.” Anne said softly, treating it as if it were common knowledge. Her eyebrows furrowed in unyielding determination, a flame of passion ignited.
Something gleamed within Marcy’s eyes, a vulnerable and tender thing that could’ve been mistaken for carelessness.
“… Fine. Just don’t be surprised when it turns out more of a hassle than anticipated.” Anne was aware of her plan, unintentionally or deliberate. It was the fine art of self sabotaging, and Marcy was seemingly a master. Even with the sincerity of her expression, Marcy did whatever possible to drive them away after longing for them to be together. It’s a useless facade.
“What're we have to do?”
Marcy blinked, slowly, unimpressed. “… What?”
“What do we have to do for you to see how much we care about you? What lengths do we have to go for you to understand?”
Marcy barely flinched, staring underneath her eyelids, lips twitching in anticipation, “why would you care about—“
“ Stop. No, we’re not doing this again,” Anne said, exasperated, finally at her wits end. “You’re doing it again, you’re self sabotaging. Marcy, you have to believe us, you have to believe in yourself. You have to believe you’re worthy of love without conditions. I know it haunts you- I can see it in your eyes- but please, please don’t push us away. We can only help so much.”
“I don’t want this for you,” Marcy snapped, thoroughly suffocated by her own self-deprecation. “It isn’t worth sacrificing your own well-being.”
“Frog…” Anne exhaled sharply, edging frustration. “You’re always talking about us, talking about me— Marcy, what do you want?”
Oh.
The question draped the room in contemplative silence, awaiting an answer. Marcy viewed the companionable silence as contentment, and the implications of the question delved its hands into her mind.
Marcy is pretty unsure of herself nowadays, because of her deranged hallucinations involving an entity that had been destroyed and forgotten years ago, alongside the vivid nightmares depicting her suffering in a grotesque fashion. The only thing she’d ever wanted in her life was acceptance. Attention and companionship to be shared together. Anne and Sasha provided it in spades. She just wanted enough. Just enough.
Marcy understood the question, indulged it, and responded, hesitant, “What if… What if I don’t know what I want?”
After an elongated moment of quietness, Anne spoke up, hands gently grasping her bandaged ones. The giant frustration previous on her face is replaced with conviction, as if her truths will come to life with whatever determination she holds. “That’s okay, we’ll figure it out. Together.”
It feels like a thousand eternity’s passed before she internalized those soft spoken words, recontextualizing them, savoring them. The shame fades, and a gasping, sputtering breath escapes her lips. Tears spill from her eyes, face flushing deep red as a disbelieving sob bursts forth from the bowels of her throat, dripping onto Anne’s folded hands. It’s quiet, whimpering cries that causes the incessant fog clouding her mind to finally dissipate, to finally understand her circumstances; she’s loved. She’s been given an undying love and understanding for her condition, for her disposition, for her— and it’s so sweet.
Marcy is left in silence, allowing Anne to gently wipe away her tears— despite knowing they won’t stop for some time— and gingerly push her sweat-soaked hair away from her puffy face, pressing an achingly soft kiss against her forehead. In time, the realization will set in— that there’s a future beyond the perpetual gloom she’s currently conditioned in, there’s a future beyond the relapses and the depressive episodes. There’s a future who’s embers of life are faintly experienced, an ember which will bellow into a flickering flame and soon after, a roaring fire.
It’s nice to experience the undisturbed, peaceful ambience that’s brought out by love without the interruption of a pesky, diminutive ten eyed monstrosity.