Work Text:
It's been 123 days since the last time I saw her. I've counted the rise and fall of every sun since, awaiting... anything. A sign, a clue to where she could be; but alas, the void of night, bereft of its pearlescent moon, only bears an empty notice. My heart, too, is deprived, but of the lingering memory of her voice instead. It burns.
January 1st 2025. Release of TPOT 15. I couldn't for the life of me get off the floor, glaring at the fallen stool where I last saw her. Consequently I found myself choking on every last anguished sob and wail gagged from my throat. Betwixt each cry a plead would run through, a harrowed, bitter plead; whatever God had forsaken me that day was nothing short of wretched and sadistic, and I would let it be known to all that would listen. After what seemed like hours, Four and X were the ones that finally dragged me all the way back here, onto my bed.
And I haven't moved since.
I can feel the hunger gnawing at my insides, splitting my stomach open with a ravenous desire, but I really cannot bother to eat anymore. Not like I ever needed to. My legs and my arms, weak to the touch and tremulous to no end, only make it more difficult anyway. Hell, every time I cry it looks like an earthquake directly on my bed... Haha. Agh, Four and X must be happy now that their orders aren't overloaded by my stupid cravings. During TPOT 16 all I could do was eat and eat and eat! I stuffed my face to drown out the tears, and it almost worked!
Almost. But it didn't last for too long. Funny. Things just don't last around me, do they? Foury's show, his contestants' loyalty, the friendships I have torn and gutted across the years... Maybe this was God's way of paying my karma overdue.
Oh. My quivering lips cry to the thought of her again, don't they? To have a mouth when all it does is whine about someone that doesn't exist is exhausting. But it's not in vain. I can still remember her, the way her smile lit up the room, the way her eyelashes fluttered in the gentle autumn breeze, the way she'd talk for hours about object life... I was a child without a jacket during the turmoil of a storm. She offered me shelter when nobody would even hand me an umbrella. But just as the storm finally subsided, just as I'd finally composed myself into this new life, she too was dragged along with it.
And so may Math pay this debt due, for I fear I've committed the greatest sin a number could do: love another as life itself. What a grave mistake it must've been to be as careless as to fall for an object like her, for a being capable of emotion and empathy towards anyone who'd care to listen. Fuck, it was my mistake. My mistake to have made, my mistake to pay for. But I can't help but feel my penitence unjust. Every hour is exponentially cruel, and my aching head wonders: Is this good enough for you? Is the turning and tossing in my bed every night simply insufficient? Are the tears that leave me dry both outside and within not enough to satiate this wretched thirst for my agony?
Answer me, One. I know you can hear me. You revolting, sadistic scumbag. Take my power, take it all if you so desire! Use my lethargic body for your own degeneracy, I don't even care anymore. Apathy has fully engulfed me in its sedative grasp, even as tears fall down my cheeks, I truly feel nothing and nothing at all. So come on, do with me what you will. Become God and just end my life over and over again. I won't stop you.
Amidst my anger though, I lay here still. A being once so powerful and promising, bedridden, wilting away not unlike the flowers on its bedside, compiled by its contestants. It has been 124 days since the last time I saw her. The days pass me by so fast I can barely keep track anymore, awaiting... anything. A sign, a clue to where she could be:
But alas, the void of night, bereft of its pearlescent moon, only bears an empty notice.