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It used to be that the whispers only penetrated his mind while he was actively wearing the crown, but these days he found that even when it was pushed into the depths of his bag its voice would still somehow manage to reach him. It was awful, maddening, even, and with each passing day it only grew more intense, tempting him to try and put it on more and more with the only thing stopping him being Marceline’s frantic pleas for him to leave it alone, the child sometimes having to physically pry it from his hands on his less lucid days.
Afterwards, when the whispers would quiet down, he would apologize to his dear Marcy, his voice looping the words over and over until his voice would begin to crack, and the little girl would nod absently with each cycle, sniffing back tears as she curled against his chest and begged him not to put it on ever again. It made him feel awful, more awful than the crown’s whispers made him feel. He was supposed to be her protector, her guardian, and yet all he did was worry her little mind day in and day out, more so than the hordes of mutated monsters ever did.
He eventually decided that he was scum, especially when he wore that damned crown. That’s why Betty had left him without a word. He no longer deserved her, just like he didn’t deserve Marceline, but if he lost her too, he feared that his mind would finally give into the crown’s taunting nature and he’d snap.
He just wanted it to stop, just wanted it to end — sometimes so badly that he found himself staring up at the tall buildings surrounding him and imagining flinging himself off of them.
No. He couldn’t do that to his Marcy. While he didn’t deserve her, she most definitely deserved him. She deserved to be loved and cared for until he was no longer able to — until he could find her father, whoever he was, and so he continued to resist the urge to end himself or submit fully to the crown’s madness.
One day, he’d make it stop, but for now he’d just have to put up with it, for her sake.