entrancelogs | you can call me a liar and that would be true [open]

Entry tags:

you can call me a liar and that would be true [open]

Who: Tim, and also you, if you so choose
Where: Around Wonderland
When: 6/19
Rating: PG-13 for suicide ideation, allusions self-harm, recollections of past trauma
Summary: It's June 19th - Tim's birthday. The day before he posted the final entry.
The Story:

gardens; does the blank stare scare you more than the frown?

He wakes with the muted realization as to the day. It's June 19th. He knows full well what the day is, even if the day following this one strikes him as subtly more important, unbeknownst to anyone else here. Jay would have no clue. None whatsoever. Tim's throat contracts in a hard swallow as his eyes drift across the contours of the room. Does Jay remember the significance of the day, back from those pilfered medical records?

He never mentioned the day. Never brought any undue attention to it. What reason would there be for it, and what cause for celebration would there be? It's hard to be grateful for the day of your birth when you've spent every other day bitterly wishing it simply never occurred.

The morning's routine plays out by tired rote. Coffee and a cigarette to rouse himself a little more completely, a weary surveying of the pieces of himself that have made it this far. Considering the merits of shaving before deciding that he doesn't very well trust himself with a razor today. The rough partial beard darkening the lines of his jaw will simply have to persist until he's feeling a little less likely to peel the skin from himself like an orange. Give way to the fleshy insides that were opened crossways, diagonally, a long, carving slash. He can move a little easier now, as the days have crawled by.

By noon, the clamor in his head has refused to cease, clanging sickeningly around his skull in a desperate plea he can no longer ignore. Again the urge bristles at his fingers, a frustrated inability of knowing what to do with his hands. He sinks to the only impulse he can think of to stay his own hand. Concentrating on his closet with a furrowed brow until finally he opens it, and his hand closes around the bridge of a ukulele.

With Tim attachment, drifts a half-remembered voice across the ridges of poorly suppressed memory. There's a scant handful of songs he can still recall, but muscle memory turns out to be far more adept than anything else.

The sun rises high as Tim folds himself onto a bench in the gardens. It's easier than the wooded areas surrounding. His fingers dance across the strings in aimless tones, noodling a tune out idly with as little direction as the man who plays.

It's not much at all. It doesn't count for a celebration. It's just music.

But it's been months, years even, since he's allowed to think about something as mundane as a song.

kitchen; watch my actions, or lack thereof, negate the person i said i was

[There's a candle stuck in a pint of vanilla ice cream. It's unlit, at the moment, largely because the man who put it there is finishing off a pack of cigarettes, hissing smoke out between his teeth, regardless of who might want or not want the smell of nicotine clouding the vicinity. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter much at all, the memory of a hospital in which a nurse would give him ice cream after the third week in a row that his mother said she would be visiting, she promised she would, and then had simply never showed. It was like a consolation present. As if that would make it better, or numb it entirely.

A fitting celebration, then, to acknowledge the turning of an invisible clock that doesn't hold any damn weight here. Can't you try a little harder, Timothy? Try for me, okay? You must not want to get better at all, if this is still weighing you down.

Tim snorts to himself. Watches the ice cream soften in its cheap cardboard cylinder, watching it sweat onto the table. Stares at the candle that perches at the top of that stupid mound of white, quietly mocking him.

His shoulders hunch. What a stupid idea.]

woods; you can call me a coward and you'd be correct

What a stupid idea.

It's late, now. The last of the sunset has died on the horizon, threads of milk-white fading with the last fingertips of sunlight, giving way to the purpling of dusk. The imprint of the trees is still stark and black against the fading blue, and through the woods he stumps, as if that will mean anything.

There's nowhere else for any of it to go, is the thing. It boils out in rising and falling pieces, in the ragged quality of his breath, in the tautness in his lungs. Prickling at his fingertips. Stiffening his shoulders. Clinging to the back of his throat, slick and hot as bile. He shouldn't be out here, particularly after the last conversation he and Jay had, but what, then, is the point? If It's here, then It's here, and It should damn well have Its way with him. Get rid of him for fucking good. Just fucking finish it. It should have been him. It should have been, and it was simply the cruelest fucking twist of fate possible that it wasn't.

His breath rasps out like a snarl as he halts in the middle of the tangle of black trunks, turning on the spot in a slow, continuous revolution. Sweeping frantically about for any sight of the thing, the blot of faceless white that will surely rise, leering at him. There's nothing shielding him now; no synthetic safety in his pocket, no lens of a camera in his hand or strapped to his chest.

Tim's head jerks back as he glowers into the uniform dark.

"Come on!" he bellows. Waits for an answering stab of pain to his temples, but none comes. "What are you waiting for?"

If It wants him so bad, maybe now, at long last, It can fucking well take him.

wildcard; distant but rational, bringer of rage to get to a level where i will engage

[Want a specific starter? PM me or hit me over at arrpee! It's going to be a Day for old Timothy here. I will match prose or brackets!]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[He looks up and gives Tim a mildly curious look. Right...he'd know something about how souls are in the Underground, wouldn't he? Sans never found out the particulars, but he remembers Tim and Zacharie had a sort of--encounter with the DTE, back in the lab.]

well, monster souls are white. pretty uniformly so. guess there might be souls that lean more toward sorta off-white, but that's about as much range as we get.

[Sans's soul is unique enough that he's not sure that even bore mentioning. But oh well.]

human souls come in all kindsa colors. each color represents a trait that dominates that soul. things like patience, perseverance, kindness. determination. but a human's not usually gonna see their soul, unless they're in a fight with a monster.

[Right. Yeah. Tim glances down at his chest, the swell of his gut beneath, and folds his arms. As if that'll be enough to hide it.]

I mean, I...I met your...your king? [Christ, it sounds weird to even say it like that.] Asgore? He, uh...he kinda saved my life, but it was when the mansion was all flooded and stuff. And we were kinda caught in this loop, and...

[He's. Doing a really shit job of explaining this. Take a breath, Tim, and just say it.]

So I - I hit him. He told me to break the loop and I hit him, and I think he might've - he did something. There was this heart shape, just for a second, and then it...went back to normal.

He said it was...

[His throat constricts as he grimaces. It feels goofy to say. Like he's spitting on the idea of what a soul is. The thought that he even has one at all is fucking laughable, is the thing.]

He said it was my soul. I guess.

yeah. that event was, uh. something. glad he was there to help, though. asgore's a good guy.

[Aside from the child manner, but let's face it, they've all done a bit of child manner in one timeline or another.]

[He resists the urge to apologize for that event again. Stupid to say. No one can control the events; everyone knows that. Even if it was his hazy memory that got a lot of people hurt or killed.]

couldn't really have been anything but your soul.

[He's quiet for a moment, staring into the middle distance with a somewhat thoughtful expression.]

i know, uh...other worlds have kinda...different ideas about souls. i've heard people in wonderland talk about 'em like they're...just a sorta philosophical concept. not somethin' tangible. guess people must find the idea of it being present and tangible to be kinda strange. like how i can't really get my skull around the idea that it couldn't be.

[It's weird to think that the existence of a soul is subject for debate. Harder still to imagine going through life without being able to feel it or see it.]

everyone in my world's got a soul. it's just how things are.

[He's not going to mention the flower. It's irrelevant, and a supremely unique situation, and also not his secret to share.]

[So it just infects everyone else by contact? Running into a monster automatically yields a soul? Having a soul implies that someone was created by something willingly, right? Like...fucking God, or something. Which is in and of itself laughable, because what god would bother making a thing like him? If he's the product of anything, he's the product of the thing that's loomed like a splintered shadow over him for his entire life.]

So...did I not have one before I ran into him, or...?

[Why's he bothering with this? Does asking this kind of thing - this is what Jay would do, and everyone knows how that turned out.]

[This is some metaphysical shit he never really thought he'd have to consider. His brow ridge knits together in the closets approximation of a frown he can manage.]

i...hell, i really don't know. dunno how your world works where souls are concerned. monsters can't really just...spontaneously manifest souls in other people. gotta admit, subjectively, i wanna believe that just about everyone in the multiverse has got a soul in one way or another. but objectively?

[He shrugs.]

rules are just too different from world to world. could be worlds out there where souls just...don't exist. could be worlds where they don't exist till someone comes here. could just be the interaction of two different sets of rules.

[He meets Tim's gaze for just a moment.]

so...can't know for sure. but if you want my opinion...well, i'm pretty sure you've always had a soul. can remember talking to you long before that event, and you never acted like someone who didn't have one.

[Not that that counts for much. Flowey must have been a damn good actor in certain timelines, pretending to care about anyone, pretending to be helpful. Sans isn't psychic. He knows he didn't just meet a random talking flower and automatically think it must be out to kill everyone. The suspicion must have built up over time, and timelines.]

[You never acted like someone who didn't have one.

He talks like he's got some kind of experience regarding people who are...soulless, or whatever he wants to call it. Isn't he...but he's always been something of an abomination, hasn't he, some kind of fundamental crime against god. A little blasphemy. A little monster.

Only he's met monsters now, and they're not really that bad at all, are they? What's that make him? Something worse?

He's just some atrocity to god. Isn't he? He's fucking crazy. He's been off his goddamn meds and lost his mind and ruined everything. He's got a shadow longer than anything, that stretches forever and onward. What kind of thing or entity looks at him and decides he's worth imparting a soul upon?

And yet - there's physical proof of that, isn't there? He saw it, suspended and crimson.

Maybe Sans just hasn't seen enough of him to make that sort of judgment.]

[And yet.

It might be the nicest thing anyone's said to him. I don't think you've ever acted like you're soulless ranks right up there with Jay's you're not entirely like Alex, I think. Not a ringing endorsement by any means.

He huffs a sound through his nostrils, short and maybe a little startled.]

That's something, I guess.

[It's an interesting response. Like Tim didn't expect him to say that, or expected something else. Condemnation and judgment, maybe, since that's what Sans is best at. Not that Tim would know, but maybe Sans just comes off as that kind of guy. Someone who will wait till this late in the conversation to pull the rug on someone. Another thing he's best at.]

[There's also the fact that Tim is acting like it's a revelation that he has a soul at all. And Sans could chalk all that up to the differences between worlds, the ambiguity of souls--but then there's all the stuff he and Tim have talked about. Maybe in a world where you can't just feel it humming away inside you, you can reach a point of self-loathing where you start to doubt you even have one.]

[And maybe that's a little similar to wondering why your soul looks so withered and horrible compared to your brother's soul, or your parents' souls. Part and parcel of coming out wrong.]

better, uh, better than nothin', yeah?

[He's curious about what color Tim's soul is, but that seems like a pretty personal question.]

[His grin widens suddenly.]

can't believe you punched the king of monsters.

[Oh my god.

Tim groans a little at that, one hand creeping up to cover his face. He did kind of admit to that just now, didn't he? Aside from the knee-jerk response he got, Asgore was remarkably kind about the whole mix-up. Which was nice.]

He said to do something unexpected to - I dunno, break the loop, okay?

[He chuckles. He can't help it.]

heh, don't worry, i'm just teasing. asgore's a good guy. makes sense, doing something different to force the loop to break.

[If only it were that easy underground.]

He seemed okay with it. I mean...he made me tea after, so...

[So it was probably fine. Apparently the king of all monsters can shrug off a right hook like it's nothing. Given the size and breadth of him, Tim can't say he's surprised, exactly.]

He keeps calling me "Tim the Human." Like, maybe there's a "Tim the Monster" out there he's trying not to mix me up with?

big tea fan, that guy.

[Sans is pretty sure Asgore is used to taking a hit or two. Not like he can't spare the HP.]

pfft. dunno a tim, but asgore's formal like that. toriel too.

Someone else from your world, I'm guessing?

[Monsters are kind of...singular, he's learning, not that he's opposed to that. He's probably seen this "Toriel," whoever they are, around, even if he's never encountered them personally. They kind of stand out.]

she's the same kinda monster as asgore. real formal, real sweet. stern, sometimes. basically the ultimate mom.

[He's a little surprised Tim hasn't met her yet. Toriel would probably like him.]

[Presumably that's what all moms are like. He wouldn't exactly know, but it's probably best not to bring that up. People never seem to know what to do with that information. Jay had been painfully fumbling around the subject, and Brian...

He doesn't think about Brian.]

I'll have to take your word for it, I guess.

[Frankly, Sans only knows what proper moms are like from TV and books.]

sure you'll meet her eventually. she gets around.

[Well, Tim doesn't. This right here is the most willingly social he's been in what feels like months.]

Well, if she's a giant goat monster I guess she'd be pretty hard to miss.

she's also in and outta the kitchen a lot, so. well, i dunno if you're in here more often than just today.

Not usually, actually.

[This is the most he's ventured out of his room willingly and without provocation in...a while. He doesn't generally if he can help it, just as a rule. It's safer like that. For everyone.]

Guess I felt like something different. I dunno.

yeah.

[He's pretty sure that ice cream is soup by now.

you might like cooking. it's...simple. it makes sense. just putting some stuff together in the right way and coming out with something decent. something nice about knowing you made somethin', even if it's not quite right.

[He wasn't eating it anyway.]

I guess. I mean, I might've gotten a job doing kitchen work at that new bar place. So.

[Which is weird enough to think, let alone say aloud.]

there's a new bar place?

[First he's hearing about it.]

Uh. Yeah. Damon set it up. Or...is in the process of setting it up.

[He scratches at his nose, shoulders lifting in an incremental shrug.]

I guess since everyone who ran the old place is gone, he wanted to start his own thing.

damon...ah, yeah. that guy.

[He's talked to him maybe once. Seemed like an interesting guy, though.]

good to hear the bar won't be closing, then. what'd we do without it?

[He's only being partially facetious.]

[He'd ask if skeletons can even drink, but he's pretty sure that'd be crossing a boundary or something.]

I think it's more of a memorial thing now. Like...to remember the people that used to work it.

you can call me a liar and that would be true [open]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

1/2 cw internalized ableism

no subject

tim is destroying my tiny heart

same :)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)