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“Siffrin’s hat is all lopsided, now!” Mirabelle giggles.
Bonnie grins. “You look funny like this, Frin!”
As always, you readjust your hat, and as always, you hide your face as your family smiles as you. The novelty of being seen like this has worn off, if you’re being entirely honest with yourself. The first time was nice. The handful after that, too.
But how many times have you been in this exact spot? Not just the safe room before the King, but the safe room before the King after having helped all of your family the day prior? How many times has Isabeau called your group a family for the first time—at least, the first to his perception.
How many times has Odile ruffled your hair like a parent? How many times has Bonnie said—
“I’m bored. SNACK TIME!”
You zone out instinctively as they present their snack options, and only tune back in when they seem to be expecting an answer.
You suddenly kind of want to tear your own hair out. You’d been going through the motions so hard that you somehow managed to forget about the stupid malanga fritters.
The first time, it was the greatest possible surprise they could have given you. Stars, the first five times, even, although it was no longer a surprise by that point.
You briefly consider asking for something else, but you remember the first and only time you have asked for something else, in order to discover their favorite foods. You remember the look on their face when you had chosen the samosas, the disappointment when they thought that you didn’t actually like the thing that they had clearly put a great amount of effort into making specifically for you, and you….
It doesn’t matter. You know it doesn’t matter, because Bonnie will have forgotten all of this during the next loop, like they’ve forgotten every other time.
Even so, it’s Bonnie. The kid you thought hated you before you became trapped in these cycles. The kid you gladly gave up your eye for, before that. The kid who… who….
The sound of crunching bones and a scream cut short fills your senses.
…They made them just for you. It’s the least you can do, after everything you’ve put them through.
“I’ll take the malanga fritters,” you say, managing a smile despite the way nausea churns in your stomach.
Bonnie grins, passing them your way. “There you go!”
Everyone else makes their choices, and the room descends into silence as everyone busies themselves with eating.
You take a bite of your favorite food, the food that Bonnie had never heard of but still put in the effort of finding not only the ingredients, but also the recipe, all while claiming to hate you. The food that Bonnie made specifically to bring you joy.
…It tastes like ash. No, not ash—that’s not quite right. It tastes like… like….
…Like burnt sugar.
“Sif?!” Isabeau suddenly calls your name. You look up at him, and he seems… horrified. Stars, what did you do wrong this time to make him look at you like that?
Mirabelle gasps, and Bonnie gets this sad, confused look on their face. You look between them, but find your vision strangely blurry. Why…?
“Siffrin,” Odile says, and you turn towards her now, “You’re crying.”
You blink, and you feel the tears stream down your cheeks. Oh.
You swallow your food around the lump that’s formed in your throat. You open your mouth to make a bad joke, or to wave off their concerns, or do something that will make them all stop looking at you like that, but to your horror, all that comes out is a choked sob.
You try to reign it in before it gets out of control, but find that now that you’ve started, you can’t seem to stop. You bury your head in your hands, taking gasping breaths in a botched attempt at your usual breathing techniques.
You’re tired. You’re so blindingly tired. Death would be better than this—you know, because you’ve died an uncountable amount of times throughout the course of this terrible purgatory you’ve found yourself in.
This time loop has taken everything from you. Your autonomy, your sense of reality, your sanity; and now, even your favorite food.
Stars, you think you would give anything to just. Stay. Dead.
You’re vaguely aware of frantic voices talking around you, but it’s like they're coming from underwater, muffled and indistinct as they are. With some effort, you manage to calm yourself enough to understand their words.
“Sif, talk to us!” Isabeau pleads, “What’s wrong?”
A hysterical laugh bubbles up from your chest, and you can’t stop the sound from escaping. What’s wrong? What isn’t wrong?!
“Are you worried about fighting the King??” Mirabelle asks.
“No,” you say, still attempting to stuff down the laughter.
“Did…” Bonnie starts, “Did I… mess up the fritters? I—I followed the recipe as best I could, but I guess I didn’t think that they might not taste like the ones you’re used to….”
Now look at what you’ve done. In your attempt at making Bonnie happy, you went and upset them anyways. What’s wrong with you? You couldn’t even put on a brave face in front of a child? In front of….
You stop yourself. Bonnie isn’t your child. They’re… they have a real family. Their sister, back in Bambouche, and the rest of the group. You don’t deserve to call Bonnie your family after everything you’ve put them through.
You take a deep, shaky breath in before you finally raise your head to look at them. “It’s not your fault, Bonbon,” you say, mustering up the most sincere smile you can in the moment. It seems to fall a little flat, given the tears and snot all over your face.
“Siffrin,” Odile says, “where is this coming from?”
For a brief moment, you consider being honest. This weight on your chest has become heavy enough that you struggle to breathe under it. Maybe… maybe your family can provide insight where you’ve failed. Maybe they could help.
The delusion doesn’t last long. You can’t tell them. You couldn’t bear to lay all your cards out on the table, only for them to forget again next loop. You think it would break you, snap something inside beyond fixing.
This loop is botched, anyways. You’ve gone too far off-script; you’ll have to reset the timeline again, or things could get weird. And so close to the King, too.
Oh well. Not like you won’t get this far again tomorrow.
“It’s nothing,” you reply, your tears finally drying up as you draw your dagger. Everyone seems rather disturbed as you do so, likely thinking you intend to hurt them.
All except for Isabeau, whose eyes widen as he leaps to his feet. “Sif, no!”
He dives towards you in an attempt to stop what comes next… but you have always been the fastest.
You draw the knife across your throat before Isabeau even touches you. You wish the touch was under better circumstances.
You made sure to slice through your carotid artery, so even though Isabeau catches you as you tip over, it won’t matter. Even Mirabelle’s healing couldn’t save you now.
Not that she doesn’t try, of course. As soon as the shock wears off, the other three rush to your side, Mirabelle’s healing already at the tips of her fingers. Their shouting becomes indistinct again, but seeing them fret over you like this is… nice, in a way. At least you know they want you around.
You give them all a serene smile, and then….
You feel a tug on your stomach…