Work Text:
how d yu wish to die ozo?
The screen pulled his eyes closer, a digital haven bursting with light rivaling the Goods—greens, blues, and all the embers erupted from the back of Brandon's eyeballs—ticking through the blanket of night. Amidst the darkness, up too late, he tried to rebel once more. Hunched up on the family computer. Fingers spread against the keyboard instead of his prayer beads. And with it, oddly came peace.
Ozo's avatar, however, ran around in circles. He stopped for a moment—maybe to comprehend such a message—before jumping once, twice, matching the chat bubbles above his hat.
Under the christmas tree, I hope
Christmas. Brandon hadn't given it much thought. If, for warmth's sake, ornaments would brighten up the living room and his family could gather in laughs and presents instead of a sermon, would the room feel lighter? Would the pixels hurt his eyes less? Could Brandon count the sins of each ball of light, the misdoings of each poke of pine, and find all of them equated to zero?
Merry christmas brandon!
Im soo slepey
Merry Christmas to you too, the words sprawled through his mind, flashed through the screen, yet Brandon could never go against the Goods' teachings. What was their tradition should be theirs, and what was Brandon's was Brandon's.
happy holidasy
Brandon thought.
go to sleep
And thought.
ill die like cattle
And found that thinking was a fool's way. Immediately, Ozo's avatar went stiff. The text bubble dispersed to nothing before another ramble could override it, off to only a speck of colour in Brandon's vision—the pixels turned to glitter, and each block turned a spiraling purple, it was then where he recognized this as dissociation, and found comfort in it long as Ozo hadn't responded.
There were many ways the farm animals Brandon cared for died. Some of them disappeared on his father's leash, some slaughtered from their necks. The only thing in common was that all of them saw their afterlives with a reflecting steel. A piece of metal sharp or dull, accessory and weapon, built to guide idiocracy to righteousness—into the light.
Why?
Finding the night so torn and old, Brandon figured he couldn't answer that himself. He orchestrated a plan to ask his father that question himself later as dawn breaks.
For now, it was just him, Ozo, and the ache within his neck.