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Kris was painfully aware of the fact that they could never be free, not in this lifetime. They weren't really sure if they could be free in any lifetime, really.
That is, if they continued to live.
After all, in a way, is death not freedom?
To Kris, this felt contradictory. On one hand, death is the end of life's cycle—making it a reminder that they were still outwardly presenting as a human. On the other, they would no longer be chained by their soul, would no longer be trapped in their own body, would no longer be restricted.
And honestly? The reminder that they could never be a real human, a person of their own, is what stung more. What made them reconsider time and time again. Though their mother also made them reconsider, sometimes the feeling was too much to bear. Being called a human, being doted on, having their soul praised or questioned or hearing: 'Woah, is that your soul?', and all they could think was; 'Do I deserve to be called human?', 'Is this soul mine? Truly mine. Could anything truly be mine? Is it foolish to wish to have something of my own?'
Every question they asked would always recieve an answer.
God's favorite creation, favorite vessel, but they were still a failure. Weren't as loyal as God intended. Was too free, before the soul.
At first the answers would be simple.
Kris stopped going to church? Asriel would start choir. Toriel would drag them with her.
Kris showed disrespect towards God by damaging the body they were so lovingly given? They were gifted a soul.
Kris ripped out the soul? They couldn't move much, couldn't breathe much, couldn't feel anything but pain. Couldn't feel their senses aside from the stench and taste of iron, even if they didn't bleed from their mouth. They still worked, functioned like any doll would. They just didn't have much freedom, ensuring their dependance on their soul. Ensuring their dependance on God. And a failsafe? Kris would almost certainly die if they were apart from their soul for too long.
As of late, however, Kris realized how much the pain had become normal to them. Their soul was uncomfortable, unbearable, unstable. They hated it. Yet despite the way it felt in their chest, the truth of the soul felt mocking. Their soul was akin to a bird in a birdcage, yet it was still able to flutter about freely. Kris? If Kris had less freedom than a trapped bird of all things, what did that make them?
Why would living matter in that case?
As much as Toriel was worth living for at the start, that feeling had long since slumbered. The way they wished to. They were just tired, some days they'd talk to themselves—asking if they were being laughed at. If mocking them was fun. If they could be free.
God never liked the last one.
Was also the only one God ever replied to.
Kris didn't need to ask again. Knew the answer was yes, yes, no.
Kris tried sleeping more, but they got bored. Tragic. Sleeping less, but the lack of sleep would make them more paranoid than usual. Would make them tremble, make them feel like eyes were watching, like God was present, here to mock, here to laugh, here to remind them of their sins.
The only respite they got from their fate was still sleep. Kris didn't dream. If they dreamt? It was a nightmare, or some symbolic bullshit they'd never bothered to look into. Why was their brain even making their dreams symbolic? Annoyed them. The idea that even their dreams weren't their own. Whatever, really.
Not long ago, they had self-harmed, church books be damned. Didn't end well. God was not pleased. But they felt as though it was valid. They hated lashing out on others, hated how their insensitivity caused them to lose friends or make people avoid them, so they lashed out on themselves. Not with cliché bullshit, but something so standard it felt like it shouldn't even be considered. Started small. Skin picking, hair-pulling, eyelash-pulling, nail ripping so far down it bled—gradually shifting to the 'cliché'. To the stuff they swore was embarrassing. And it was. Their burn scars? Cutting scars? Cigarette scars? Made hanging out awkward, made it harder to dress, made it harder to act normal around others. Didn't escape Toriel, though. Her sense of smell was uncannily good, and she'd always patch them up. She asked, they deflected, she understood. She didn't accept it, but she assumed it had to do with missing Asriel. It didn't. Almost wished it was, felt less selfish. Though this isn't to say she never took them to the hospital, she did. She begged, pleaded, cried for them to at least tell the doctors what was going on.
Their chest ached, but they didn't feel bad.
That hurt more.
'Human', but if most people considered being human as being able to feel, then what were they?
They had emotions, they assumed. They still reacted, their body still felt, but they didn't feel it in the way people described it. It wasn't really intense, didn't really feel good, it just was. Being sad? Felt dull, nothing new. Being happy? A smile would tug at their lips, maybe they'd feel weird. Butterflies or something. But that was it, just a smile, just a weird sensation. Anger? Felt like their chest was tightening, not in a guilty or sad way, but in a crushing way. Like the world was crashing in on them and they had to fight against it. Anger was overwhelming, didn't like it. Guilt? They'd never felt that before. Or at least that was what they assumed. Up until this moment.
They felt guilty watching their mother plead with them, bargain with them, sounding desperate and concerned for them. But they didn't feel bad. Despite feeling the guilt, feeling their cheek muscles shift, feeling the way their brows furrowed—they felt nothing at all at the same time. They felt hollow, they swallowed awkwardly, and they felt uncomfortable. They felt guilty that their mother was going through this because of them, but they didn't really feel bad about the bigger picture. It was embarrassing if anything. They felt like an asshole for that, though.
The more that time passed, the more the feeling of wanting to be free grew. They'd stopped feeling guilty after a while, especially because at this point their mother was talking to their soul. Not to Kris, not pleading to Kris, pleading to their soul. To whatever was left of her kid. To whatever had chosen to pluck at their strings and move them around to their will.
Their soul bothered them so much that they didn't want a funeral, either.
Didn't want to be remembered.
Kris wouldn't really be the remembered one anymore.
Just wanted to be cremated, have their ashes get strewn apart in some obscure place that took effort to get to.
They weren't worth the effort, though.
Weren't worth anything.
So they lived, but only because they weren't worth it. They didn't deserve to have Toriel cry over them, didn't deserve to have their friends mourn for them, didn't deserve to be free.