Work Text:
All they want is the news from me. What the fuck am I supposed to do without it? Motherfucker, I am the news! I can't even think straight any more. Everywhere I go it's press, press, press, all pestering me. All asking for "the scoop." "The hullabaloo." "The tea." They want tabloids. They don't want me. I just want to be left alone. I need to triple-lock my penthouse because people keep wandering in. I'll shoo them and they insist they don't know how they got here. I don't throw lavish parties any more because it's a hassle for everyone to clean after. Also, I doubt people would actually come any more. They're all here to know what happened with the Niji 6, they don't care about me any more. I frankly miss the attention. I'm such a narcissist, I know, but fame inflates your ego to the extreme. It's glorious. I love it.
I can't help but drink. I can't sit through bathing myself without a glass of wine. I can't look down at the people who once loved me without whisky in hand. I keep on trying to drink it away, but why does it come back? I remember a mandatory class in college. I don't remember what it was, but I found out alcohol was a nervous system depressant. I don't feel any more numb, though. It sucks, because usually you get drunk to get turnt up, or for that characteristic buzz, but I just can't any more. I wish I were dead. Sometimes I'll sleep until noon because I've just gotten so sleepy and uncaring. What do I have to do? Nothing. I can't work; I'm blacklisted from everything. Not that I'd want to work outside of television anyway, which I too am blacklisted from. I can't party, I can't walk around and have people fawn over me, hell, I can barely step outside without being mobbed by haters and journalists and people who once loved me. If I weren't "alien scum," see, people wouldn't care. Scandal is smoothed over all the time, but since I'm different, I'm singled out. Or maybe I just have a victim complex and I'm a bastard asshole; You tell me.
Often times I wish I could go back and be with Globox and Murfy. They're gone now. Globox died imprisoned, and I was spared Murfy's death, but I constantly imagine it. All their necks were slit. The metallic floor was coated in their pearly red blood that glistened in the white light. I still can't stand to look at that exact shade of red. It makes me nauseous. I remember their kicking, their screaming and pleas to be released. Murfy would have done the same. I'm glad I didn't see it, and I feel extremely guilty for feeling that way. I wanna say I feel bad for thinking that, but sparing myself the horror was worth it. I can't handle it any more. I want to go home. Some moments I'll shuffle around the house in grey velvet slippers and remember how different it was there. It was dense, and lush, and beautiful. I barely remember anything, but I remember it being far more pleasant.
I can't shake the feeling they'd hate me for leaving if they survived. "You crawled off and left us," I remember them saying to me in a dream. It was a strange, echoey, androgynous voice, but I knew in my soul it was the Glade talking to me. "Topsy-turvy town," They mumbled. They spoke in meaningless fragments. "Need to get out... Tiny thing... Trapped in the world... Down is the new up... Hahahahaha..." That dream makes me shudder. It's not necessarily a bad shiver, but it's a confused, afraid one. The words were ominous. "Your future's bleak... Get up and show us your hands... You're so last week..." It spat them at me like a machine, and I didn't know how to react. Not that I could, since I was dreaming, but I still don't know what to make of it. I know what some of it means, but what's my mind saying? And how does it help? What's "Down is the new up" supposed to mean? And "you crawled off and left us... You crawled off and left us," they would periodically sing. They hold vitriol for me in heaven, and I don't expect I'll ever be seeing them again.