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You canceled another show today.
You just...couldn't handle it. Not today.
Your body - your beautiful, amazing new body - just feels like heavy metal today. Your limbs don't want to move, your legs are too tired to carry you.
You’re so tired.
You heard “fake it until you make it” quite a bit, but…you’re not sure if those people understood how hard it is to fake it. To go out on a stage in front of all those adoring fans, and have to just...fake it. Fake everything.
That's all you are, isn't it? Fake. A fake boy in a fake body with a fake smile and a whole load of fake confidence. Fake, fake, fake, fake, fake…
The only real thing about you is your acting ability being good. You doubt that, too, sometimes - but it has to be, for so many people to believe you. They believe your fake smile, your fake confidence, and talk about how much you love yourself and how sure you are in everything you do. You hate and love it in equal extremities.
You just want someone to find out, to realize how horrible you feel all the time and how much you hate yourself - you want help, you really do, but...you can't tell anyone. You want them to keep thinking you’re great, to keep loving you.
You don't think you could keep on living if no one loved you.
And they wouldn't, not if they saw the real you - the fakey fake faker you, the trashy horrible no-good ghost with no hope of ever being happy you.
You just...You NEED the attention, live off it, thrive on it - when you're on the stage no one can touch you. You can finally be happy for a little while, hearing people cheer your name. But as soon as you’re alone again the high wears off, and you’re left to wonder why any of them like you. Why do they watch your shows? They must do it to laugh at you. They /hate/ you. You deserve to be hated.
No, no, you know it's wrong - they genuinely like you but it...it all just feels fake. You can't stop thinking about how much they must hate you, so when you remind yourself that they probably don't it just feels - fake.
Fake like the confidence you show everyone.
“I'm beautiful, darling!”
“I know I'm the best, but you do come in close second~”
“The underground needs me!”
...fake.
Fake, fake fake fake FAKE!!!
Why can't you just be genuinely happy for once? Why can't you just have one day where you don't feel like you’d be better off dead?
No one else is like this. Sure, Napstablook may be sad and anxious, but...they aren't pathetic and horrible like you. They’re great and amazing and they just need to SEE it. You wish you could show them.
You, on the other hand…
You’re a disgrace.
Worthless.
Broken.
Unlovable.
...fake.
You feel sick. You don't even have a stomach but you feel like, if you did, it would spill all over you.
Why are you like this? This sad, broken ghost with a fake body and fake dreams? You’re fake. So fucking fake. Fake and broken and disgusting and FAKE.
...laying here on this fainting couch, arm thrown over your face in a dramatic pose, you suddenly realize the fact that you genuinely despise yourself. You’re complete and utter garbage.
You say this out loud, as you roll onto the floor. Your body hits the ground with a heavy noise, your (fake) pain receptors sending shocks of (fake) pain throughout your (fake) body.
The pain always feels somehow realer, to you. It makes you feel more alive. It's been a long time since you’ve truly felt alive.
You pick your (fake) arm up and slam it as hard as you can into the ground. The pain is there, sharp and sudden - you let out a low groan of relief. You do it again, and again, and again, till...
With a loud crack something within your arm breaks. It is loud as it startles you into sitting up, worrying you for just a moment as you find that you can no longer move your fingers. You let out a sigh. Looks like I fell over again, Alphys, you murmur under your breath. You act clumsy around her so she’ll always believe the excuse.
You let out a disgusted groan. If she’ll even fix you again. You've asked her so many times - you’re not sure if she will, anymore.
You almost hope that she doesn't.
You almost, almost hope that she makes you walk around like this - broken, managed, finally real only in the way that your body is as fucked up as your mind.
You muse over the idea for a moment. You would get more and more broken the longer you dragged your mangled body around, leaving pieces of metal in your wake, getting more and more broke until you finally died, alone and empty, a heap of metal and latex and shattered glass ad shattered dreams.
It would a be a fitting end, you decide.
But, no - Alphys is far too kind for that. She’ll berate you, call you clumsy, and fix you up. Just like she always does. Undyne might be there, watching in disgust as you use her girlfriend for your own selfish needs. She thinks of you as the stupidest, trashiest thing on the planet, your only saving grace being that Alphys made you. She’s right, of course.
You’re disgusting.
You're filthy and nasty and you treat everyone like shit because - because…
Well, you're not really sure why. You've always had these self-destructive urges, doing things solely because you know they're wrong. The need to act out and do bad things picks at you, sticks in the back of your mind and comes forward whenever given the chance.
It's usually you saying things you regret. You insult people, berate them, diminish them - not because you want to but because your mind says that you have to. You’ve got to.
You groan and slap your face with one hand - the not-broken arm’s hand - and turn your head to look under the couch you’d fallen off of. There’s some stray pieces of mail underneath, a few makeup brushes, and some screws. You ponder stabbing the screws into your eyes, breaking your optical screens so that you don't have to see your stupid, beautiful face anymore. You love it and hate it with equal measure.
You ponder getting up and doing something rash. Something dangerous, something that could really break your chit and free your soul. You think about it, all the while smelling electricity and feeling shocks of pain as you attempt to move your damaged fingers. You see sparks out of the corner of your eye, but pay them no mind. If your room burns then so be it.
You almost get up to go throw yourself off the roof - it's a tall building, it may be just tall enough to break your storm glass stomach - but decide against it, no really feeling up to standing right now.
You scoff. You don't even have the motivation to get up and hurt yourself.
Pathetic.
You really are worthless, aren't you? Worthless, disgusting Mettaton - broken, sad, lonely Mettaton…
You turn off the lights in your eyes and prepare to go into rest mode. Someone will find you tomorrow, you’re sure. Then you’ll start acting again, pretty on to be perfect, flawless you. You'll get Alphys to fix you, and be on your way. Just like always.
One of these days, you’ll break the mold. One of these days, it’ll happen differently.
You have a date with death, and you’d hate to be late. That just isn't classy.
You chuckle, your voice quiet as your vocal speaker loses power for the night.
You wonder of people will care, when you’re gone. You have lots of adoring fans. Will they hate you, for taking something they love from them, for exposing the filthy faker you really are to they naive eyes?
Or, just maybe, will they love you more for it? Will they bring roses to the scrapyard where your body will lie, telling stories of how you helped their lives to your corpse? Will they still love you, knowing how fake you really were, because your wrongs have all been righted in death?
And you let that one, surprisingly comforting thought, carry you with a smile Into your dreamless rest.