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The walls press in around them, everything that they did seemed too loud, were they being judged? 1x curled into themself, limbs pulled into uncomfortable positions, though above the crashing noise of their thoughts it was a dull ache.
What had they done to deserve this? Why now? These feelings… They follow me into the ground.
Above the moon will shine, reflecting the light cast from the sun and stars, despite its efforts the night remains dark, cold.
Will anyone notice if the stars burn out? If the moon refuses to cast its light onto them all? Some perhaps, yet not enough to change their mind.
What was stopping 1x from falling back into the dimension they came from? ITS hold on them wouldn’t keep them from desiring themself, not completely. IT would find another to fill their place, yet could they drag another into their position? Were they that bad of a person? Could they be called a person?
They relaxed their form, body melting into the terrain of which they were surrounded, never to leave. Their wings were bound to this world, despite their attempts of flight.
Panic rose in their chest, a feeling of tightness closing their throat and making it burn, tears pricked the edges of their eyes. Wave after wave of despair seemed to never end, they were alone, forever, even when they were with others, they would never truly know their exact feelings.
What was their purpose? Would they truly just die as nothing more than Shedletsky’s creation?
The air pressed around them, feeling far too heavy, it weighed them down, adding to their discomfort, with it they felt whispers without words, too quiet to be heard, yet loud enough to hurt their ears.
Their hands raised to cut their ears, everything was so loud, what the hell are they taking about? A ghost in their own conversation, would they be seen? Heard? Or forgotten, again.
They would never change, they were was they were, and that’s all anyone saw them as. Nothing truly changed in their life, were they ever off autopilot unless they were going through something similar to this? The rounds never changed, if they did it was noticeable.
Kill, respawn, kill, again and again.
The only change they ever had was if someone did something stupid, a futile attempt to destroy this self made cycle.
They would never leave, could they? Maybe, yet they weren’t sure if— given the chance— they would.