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I just finished up with my exam. I probably bombed it, but what's done is done, and I shall now leave it in the past for good!
Thinking of the past, though—which I've been doing a lot, lately... that reminds me. The Grand Festival I missed out on. School and work has me super busy, and I've returned to my home, far away from the bustling towers of Splatsville, or the super-duper fast bullet trains in Inkopolis. It was around two years ago now, where the biggest, illustrious, glorious idols all banded together for an unforgettable event. There was the new and wonderful fresh plaza, a buncha' exclusive and never seen before merchandise, as well as the multiple day long concerts that were going on! I specifically reminisce about the surprise release of Blushing Tide. I won't ever forget where I was when it dropped. It was awesome, being there in my room wasting the day away on my phone mindlessly scrolling, until the notification comes up—out of absolutely nowhere! I lit up and banged my head from the bottom of the bunk-bed...
Team Past won the whole thing, which, I honestly hadn't been expecting one bit!
But, like I mentioned, I wasn't around.
I was busy, out-and-about, if you will.
Exactly like I've been doing so for the past few years.
Sometime after the Splatocalypse, you know, when the much-better-super-cool-awesome-fresh team of Chaos won, with yours truly on the winning side—I had to return to reality. For a moment, during the days with the whole gang... I kinda just forgot about the rest. My head, on its own, threw out the responsibilities I had to tend to, and made quick work of the many remnants of my old life, all in order to make space for my marvellous Three and Eight—to make space for the idols who sought out after me. For my mentor. For my inspirations, my friends.
I mean the Squid Sisters. They were, in a sense so bizarre that I'm unable to really describe it—the only ones there for me back then. Nowadays, I can't say the same.
School. It's the classes and tests and projects and essays and endless, dizzying and overwhelming papers to finish, that got me to come back. After our long game of prey and predator, it's come to an end—and, lo and behold, I have, for once, not be the one coming out victorious—but rather, I've been taken, eaten alive, bound by school's jaws of steel!
Okay, that's an exaggeration...
Anyway, it's easy—inkredibly, stupidly effortless of me to say, but I really miss everyone. No matter how many times I tell myself that though, that I persuade my own mind, or convince those eyes of mine in the mirror that always conveniently has the sun shining and blistering down, making it way too bright to look at properly, squinting—I can't find any proof.
Proof that they share the sentiment.
After all, they haven't called. They haven't cared. I always message or hit 'em up first, but the opposite's rarely been a thing in my book. I know—I hope they mean good, that they really believe that I'm hard at work. These days, though, I can't really focus.
It's gotten kinda of bad.
Eight posts frequently on her social media. She's usually how I get updates from Splatsville or Inkopolis. Only 'problem' is that I find out the same time as everyone else she knows online. I bet I sound spoiled—rotten, almost cowardly even—seeing the horrid reflection of mine on the dim darkness of the glass screen of my phone proves so, but I wish I were to be picked first, after everything. We lived in the same apartment for a while. I stayed over for holidays. I'm not crazy—Three was there, too. She can vouch for me...
But, I don't know. Part of it feels inkredibly shellfish. Perhaps it's rude of me to think that way.
I like her stuff, I message her about it, but that's that. We used to be so much better, didn't we? I passed on to her my sayings she's repeating to my bleak, washed out face, but I'm not sure what I am supposed to do afterwards. Beg? Interrogate? Give up?
Unfortunately, the latter—it's kinda just what I gravitated to. What I had to gravitate to, after a certain time.
Sink yourself deep into water, until you make it to nighttime. You'll have successfully escaped the sun-rays of the past once you surface back up, being hidden away by the moonlight. It's something along those lines that I keep telling myself throughout my months to cope with. Unfortunately, again, it works wonders.
Three's the captain now, too. I thought she could use an extra hand with the work she gets, but, I already know how that's going. There's a new coworker. They seem nice.
I'm like... a substitute—even at school, unlike my club-days. It's different. I don't really know how to talk about it. I don't want 'em to question me, either. Question why I look so sick on some days, or what's with the repeating—vile and fresh-cut marks on my pale skin.
There's only been a few times where I've been pressured to say it as it is.
Each one of the marks is for possibly thinking I could be so brave, for thinking I couldn't be hurt. Maybe it's the box-cutter or a small kitchen knife, but I don't really feel like I get to choose. It's out of my control, and so does feels everything else.
And each of those times, where I've gotten pressured—I have to run. I have to lose myself, to find the water I've grown so used to.
During the nighttime—after having risen back up, and when the star doesn't engulf my window, I always end up retching, hurling bad for seeing the freak on the other side, when she manages to stand still, witnessing her believe that she's standing strong, instead. It makes me tumble and slip—slip back down to the water, if it hasn't already been contaminated it with my own ink anyway.
And—they're doing better without me, right? Callie & Marie hit it even bigger than before, with 'Wave Goodbye'. Eight—no, Marina, actually, she messaged me to see if I can be some sorta' guard thing. I was happy to volunteer and help out, but it kinda went nowhere, and Marina hasn't updated me with the details much. I think she was on a world tour or something like that, but, oh well. Back on topic, Eight's with Off The Hook a lot, too. She's happy. I think.
Three got a promotion, like I said... Cuttlefish retired, I'm guessing, and that should be everything.
And for me, I haven't done much. Instead, all I've done is run and dance around like the maniac I am. I should know now that they don't miss me. That I was a substitute to them, getting in the way of real bonds—of the real meaning they gave away like letters to one-another.
Four always meant death, anyway. I should've figured this would have happened. I should've known what was coming for me, what it was that made it so it never worked out the instant I got away from the people who I love, despite everything.
Every time I have to do it, to shed the parts of myself that I despise, I force myself to look into the darker part of the mirror. To look at the iris in its entirety, falling victim to the virus I bear. Someone asked if I could afford the attention from a profreshional, but I already get enough from my 'mates. All for free, all without even trying.
And now I sit here limp, my craving finally ceasing an end. I look into the darkness of the mirror once more, the figure on the other side betrays me.
I don't know who that is. I don't know why she looks so hurt—and why it really gets to me, making me tear up on the stained carpet of my room, aching, reaching for the glass, asking through sobs,
"What happened to you?"