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This utter feeling of discontent is stupid.
Why must I feel things, at this point all I am is a performer, I am a performance.
Harlequin is just some weird title and role thrust upon me, not a name anymore.
IT WASN’T MY FAULT DAMMIT!
Why does he still blame me... not that I help myself. The way I treat him, I wouldn’t trust me much. I mean I don’t want him to trust me. That is never gonna happen. All futile useless attempts, why could none of them succeed. I don’t want to heal.
Fuck. Stop talking to yourself. It’s useless, like all your attempts.
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Harlequin finally steps away from the mirror finally, it is fractured anyway. Cracked from an earlier incident. In which the day before he had gotten so infuriated with himself after a whole ordeal. In which Pierrot got slapped by someone when handing out flyers. And Harlequin wanted to help, he truly did. But alas, he knew Pierrot would not accept any assistance from him. So he simply moved on. smiling wide and busying himself trying to advertise to passers-by while the biting feeling in his gut festered as it was ignored.
He was used to being ignored and ignoring others. It is simply just how you move by in life while accepting what you can’t change. About yourself and how others think of you. But that’s not really living is it? He didn’t mind, it was just his life.
You can hardly call belonging to that circus of freaks a “life” because it is simply not living. That green monster had not truly been alive among the world of the living for quite some time. This monster has not truly felt forever.
Forever fighting fierce scrutiny. Forever scornful looks from those fellow monsters he once loved and trusted like family.
They are still family. Less so. But somewhat.
Townsfolk gaze upon him with disgust, distaste spitting from their eyes. Ripping the flyers, trying to rip his coat.
Not that he really noticed, long used to the games of those that detest him digging into his shoulder like a dagger.
Such a familiar feeling. Walking around the town to hand out flyers like usual. Eternal monotony.
Grinning like a fool. Feeling like his soul is infested with mould. Moulding into others hands. Crammed into a corner under scrutiny for every mistake and wrongdoing that has been eternally boiling under everyone’s skin.
He was hungry. Starving, as he was starved for feeling.
Starved for love. A want for a now futile feeling.
Feeling? Monsters should not feel. A feeling of being.. appreciated for just being. Been lost forever.
Lost among the mess and tangle of distrust that had built from the members of the circus.
He had long since grown used to feeling lost within the winding maze of inner turmoil.
The beautiful mess, stunning in its strangulation of his soul.
A darned mess that won’t leave his consciousness. No matter how many Fools he tried to throw his feelings into.
Nobody ever chose him, nobody ever willingly wanted to hang around him.
It is all simply an obligation. All obligated to deal with him.Deal with his presence after all he has done.
All the pain because of some damned misunderstandings way back then when they were just trying to live.
Just some monsters trying to help each other live in those horrid conditions, being caged. Beaten down to nothing by humans.
Beaten, bruised, and accused.
All these accusatory gazes from people in the town only serve as reminders of how much everyone hates him.
Guts made to be hated. All because of what he tasted.
—__[Was that flesh good? “Thank you.. for saving me.”]__—
He just wanted to be loved, is it too much to just ache to be cherished by someone? Anyone? No one will listen. None would hold his gaze. None would care. Aching for peace. And something warm. Even it was his own blood.
He would tear out his own heart and present it to them while it stopped beating if only for a moment of warmth again.
If he could he would hold out his severed squirming tentacles, on his knees begging for forgiveness as he bled out.
Offering every part of himself in a futile attempt to try to appease those close and try mend relationships.
But those he had done wrong, oh so deeply wronged. Those voices, those choices and opinions were not going to change.
He believed so deeply it was so unlikely.
That the Harlequin himself would consider offering himself on a platter as the first step in forgiveness.
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All he could think about today was the feeling of his teeth sinking into her flesh.
It hurt him. It tore at the flesh of whatever his heart was made of. It made his bones and body squirm. Wriggling and wanting to get away from himself. Tearing and clawing at the mind. Not only his, but tearing apart everyone’s perception of him.
It has forever been tearing apart his soul. Tying his mind up, burning his hopes of any forgiveness and a proper “family” among them.
But we were so hungry… Was it worth it?
Of course it was. It meant living, living and moving past those metal bars. Breaking them down.
He could still remember cold seeping into his tentacles as he bared his fangs.
Bared his claws. Bared his teeth down upon her neck. Her oh so delectable skin, fear and forgiveness seeping out of her.
She had thanked her hasn’t she? She too had wanted to be saved. In a different way.
He hoped she could forgive him for what happened.
Everything happening at once, his tounge and teeth tearing in.
Tasting that sweet relief. Of an empty shrivelled belly filled with a sacrifice.
As mental pain and anguish at the act choked him like a rope.
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Clutching at the tie of his cloak, tightening it then tearing it off.
Digging his claws into edges of the fabric, grabbing at it like he wished he could do to his own skin.
I want to have the will for it. To do something, feel anything again.
Except constant gnawing remorse, not quite regret. Not quite no?
That “decision” to feast that day was a necessity for the lives of what Harlequin thought to be family.
Harlequin didn't want to be here anymore, in this world. In the body of a monster.
Having to look at Pierrot near everyday and remember everything. It's all replaying over and over again.
Getting worse recently, the ache is setting deep into his mind.
Seeping into his claws and making them itch with a cold remembrance. Of what they tore into and tore apart.
He had to get out, get away from it. From having to look at Pierrot, look him in the eyes and remember what he tore apart.
He had loved her too. So dearly and deeply, but of course he let him have her. They belonged. He did not.
He didn’t fit into her equation in that way. Not the monster to match.
Perhaps in some ways, somehow they worked together in such sweet moments.
Sometimes they contradicted, yet it worked. Yet he still let him have her.
For he didn’t deserve such a sweet touch upon his skin. Did not deserve the warmth of her attention.
He could not bear to take that away from Pierrot when he so obviously cared so very much.
So infatuated in something he had never experienced.
Harlequin slipped away, down the street and back into the circus grounds, avoiding the gazes of any guests and visitors.
Pierrot hardly noticed as he left his duty of handing out fliers far too early.
—__[Do you remember the taste? Do you long for it?]__—
The only thing he longed for was acceptance again, that feeling of normalcy.
Which he knew would never be felt again, comfort for him would never come.
All he wanted to do know was drown himself in the shadows of his tent. He could not even do that, stupid eyes.
They should be gouged out. But how would he see his mistakes?
Eventually after being very careful not to be seen by other members of the main circus he was in his tent.
After sneaking around the backs of some, hiding and waiting. An automatic sort of sense in him.
Tearing off his hat. Stupid fabric. It was too heavy upon his horns. Far too heavy on his soul.
He could not take the suffocating feeling any longer. Could not bear the weight of a burden so terribly huge any more.
Stripping off the circus attire that hid who he was, hid who they all were. That which covered what caused them to be hunted.
The tainted skin of monsters. Taunting reminders. Teasing of what it had ultimately caused him to do in the past.
He pressed his claws into those memories. Stabbing at the pieces of past he wanted to forget.
Digging his own claws into his shoulders, tearing into himself, breaking skin so forcefully. He so desperately wanted to cry out.
Mouth gritted in utter agony, he was still smiling that signature smile.
But not a scream came out. Of course there was a sound. An agonised groan of defeat and relief.
Eyes closed, he truly wanted to just see darkness. Not see in the dark.
Ears ringing out, sensing and feeling the sounds of his suffering. Hearing the world move on outside.
For but a moment Harlequin wanted to be heard, seen and discovered. That is a stupid idea, it would not happen.
He didn’t want to be heard did he? That is undetermined.
This was nothing like when Pierrot stabbed him with his daggers. But that was the point.
Harlequin felt he deserved more pain for what he had done.
Felt he couldn’t possibly deserve anything less than constant agony.
Constant agony that was already felt with every thought.
Of course he would heal. He always did, infuriatingly so the tentacles of his could not “bleed out” per se.
One day he would find out how. I think he truly does know how. But that is not the issue.
He is the problem in the matter of conviction.
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Harlequin could not look at himself. Teeth were not showing anymore, fangs were no longer glinting in that usual wide grin.
No more. His “face” was void of anything. Void of any feeling. Devoid of any remembrance.
Of course this was only a temporary distraction. An illusion of forgiveness as he forgot.
Finally forgot what he had done. Would others remember? Of course they would.
But at least he could pretend he was forgiven for a short while.
Put on an act that he did not regret a thing. Nor feel a thing.
One day perhaps he would. Feel and be forgives. But that is not anytime soon.
Forgiveness would not come for Harlequin.
And the others would certainly not forget.
All would only be filled with regret and detest.