entrancelogs | It may very well be the worst thing that's ever happened to you!

Entry tags:

It may very well be the worst thing that's ever happened to you! | OPEN MINGLE

Who: EVERYONE!
Where: EVERYWHERE!
When: Friday October 27th - Tuesday October 31st
Rating: PG-13, warn if you're gonna go higher!
Summary: A catch all for the Horrible Memory Truth Event!
The Story:

For the duration of this event, everyone's entire room will be replaced with a memory playing on loop. They will likely recognize the moment as soon as they see it – it is a moment they remember as the worst moment of their entire lives. It could be a memory from home or something that happened in Wonderland. Lengths of the memories will vary, but they will find that these are not memories they can merely watch – they can step into these memories and attempt to make changes to them, and the memories will be long enough that they have time to make changes (though no more than 24 hours). However, anyone who tries will find that it is futile. No matter what you do or how hard you try, the outcome is always exactly the same somehow. No changes you make will prevent that horrible outcome. It just happens over and over and over again no matter what you do.

On top of that, perhaps complicating any attempts to make changes, everyone will be forced to be honest for the duration of the event. No lies or half-truths are allowed, and filters will be gone for the entire five days. If something bothers someone then they will blurt it out, regardless of whether or not it hurts someone's feelings, and no one will be able to simply keep quiet when they have something to say. They must be truthful and honest with every word they say.

This is a catch-all log for all of your Worst Memory needs! Please mark your threads clearly in the subject line with your character's name and Room Number + Floor for character rooms, or just location if you're making a top level for a public place in the mansion (like the tea rooms or the kitchen) so people can see if there's already a thread available. And here's the plot post if you need it!

Have fun!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He has no idea what to do.

He never knows what to do. Every time he's managed this before he's had to...cheat. Teleported Frisk and Chara back to their room before it could get worse. Put himself between the two. Didn't even try hard enough with Napstablook, because they went and tried anyway. Held onto Mettaton so he wouldn't keep going, knowing Mettaton wouldn't risk Sans.

Dumb fucking luck, that's all it is. Being rational doesn't work. Being manipulative doesn't work, plus it's unbelievably fucked up. He could just tell Tim that if he goes, Sans will just follow him, but that's such a fucked up thing to say and do. He could just grab Tim and teleport him and risk some kind of breakdown, and Tim would hate him, and then he might just try again.

It almost sounds like him and Frisk. Complicated. Something you can't easily name. How he never knows what to do with them, how when he tries, he gets everything, every little thing, completely wrong. Couldn't save them in Quor'toth. Couldn't save Chara. Couldn't just...be a good enough person that Frisk wouldn't need to cut him out of their life like a tumor.

"i get it."

Should have been me.

"i don't...know what to say that'll...keep you here."

He has to try, though, god, he has to keep trying. He can't do this again. And isn't that hilarious? Didn't he just say that of course he can? He can, and he will, keep losing people, and he'll keep on living and surviving and trying to deal with it, because the world, one way or another, never lets him be the first one to go. The one time it did was one of the worst things he has ever, ever done.

"it's not."

It's not so terrible. That's the problem.

"dying is easy. being dead is easy. but then--you wake up."

You wake up in Snowdin, wondering why your chest aches so much, wondering why it feels like your ribs were cracked open and fused back together all wrong. And you think about how there's only really one reason why it would feel that way.

You wake up in your room and your brother stares at you with a look you have never seen before. You check the network and you see your brother using that word, vacation, and he got that from you, didn't he, because you lied to him, you created a code word that only you really knew, but he picked up on it somehow, because he always does. He's always so much more clever and observant that anyone expects.

"you wake up. and then you have to live with it. you have to be alive again. everything aches. your skull--your head is pounding. you breathe and it hurts. you're whole and intact, but something--you can feel something missing. and you have to just keep living. you keep living, and you have to remember what it was like. you have to see the looks on people's faces. you have to live with the fact that i'll know what you've done. and i'm sorry. i'm sorry i did that to you. you'll have to live with the fact that jay will probably find out, because he's...well, he's nosy. they either find out way later, months later, and they look at you like...i mean, death is so commonplace around here, you'd think no one would be freaked out about it anymore. but they are, and that's probably a good thing. that death still has meaning to people."

"they find out a few months from now, and it's this secret you were keeping from them. and every time someone finds out, they look at you the way clem looked at me at movie night. or--they know it while you're gone. and they sit there. they count hours. seconds. they hold a jar of your dust. and then you wake up, and they were waiting for you. you can see it on their face right away. they burst into your room begging you to do something inane and silly so that neither of you have to think about it for a minute. they say how sorry they are, that that happened to you. and if they know, then there's that extra layer. they know you were willing to do that to yourself. they wonder if you'll do it again. they watch you. it's in the back of their heads from then on. they're constantly waiting, constantly on guard, and they tell themselves they won't let you do that to yourself again. they'll take all the sharp objects out of the room and put plastic covers on all the sharp corners, like that'll really dissuade someone with so much determination. they treat you like a bomb that could go off at any time. like you're fragile."

He slumps against the tree. Talking too much. Speechifying. Doesn't he always? This isn't going to change anything. Like he said--you can't really stop someone with that much Determination.

"you wake up, and it's so, so much worse."

He says it like he's been there.

But there's a flaw in that explanation. There's a flaw in that diatribe about how it'll be even worse, if he goes. There's a flaw in how he goes on and acts like Tim hasn't thought this through, like this will be some new and terrifying experience for him. He huffs softly, once, a wry rush of sound exhaled sharply through his nose.

"I know."

Maybe it means something.

Maybe it means something that, of everyone who he could have spilled this shit to, Sans is maybe the one person he knows might mind the least.

He lifts his left arm. It's dark, but he can still see them. The faint and faded white marks across the underside of both arms. He draws one long, slow path down from wrist to elbow with the tip of one finger. The skin beneath trembles and pocks with reflexive gooseflesh.

"Ten years old. Sedated, put on watch for seventy-two hours. They stopped giving me mattresses with bedsprings after that."

Another finger, drawn along the lip of his clavicle. Just underneath the throat. Beneath his shirt, there's another white line that runs and runs and runs like a crack in cement.

"Thirteen years old. Sedated, put on watch for seventy-two hours. They took away my window for that, after the fourth time I ran away."

Right arm now. The same place as the first.

"They stopped letting me use pencils after that one. Pencil sharpeners too. And, hey," he says, bitterly, sweeping one hand in a sharp jerk of motion, "those are just the ones you can see."

His arms fall to his sides.

"You know Jay had a copy of my medical files?" He can't even sound angry about that one anymore. There are worse things, right? "He posted them online for everyone to take a look at, just - whenever they felt like it. I scored a fourteen on my risk assessment tool, and he knew it. Caught me overdosing on film, once. That should've been the end for me. It should have."

But it wasn't.

"But I woke up after. Couldn't remember how. Couldn't remember why."

Because - that thing.

It won't let him go.

"So trust me, okay?" His tone cracks slightly, a faint rasp of something pleading and desperate. He's weighed the costs. He knows the costs. He knows the benefits. He knows that this is stupid, and it'll fuck him up in the long term, but right now? Right now he just - he just wants out. Whatever the damn cost. "Trust me when I say - I know."

He knows.

Tim already knows. And he explains.

Some part of Sans expected it. He'd never thought to look for scars. Never thought too much about the ones he's seen on Frisk, on Chara. But some part of him still expected it.

Passive, and active. Taking the initiative, and...thinking how, well, if it happens, that wouldn't be so bad. That'd be fine.

He always had to stay alive, though, because his brother would be sad without him. But sometimes, Papyrus isn't there. The thoughts get worse then. They keep getting worse the more people die. And then it goes in reverse, almost. Suddenly no one's left, and Sans has to stay alive because he's the only one with any sort of chance of stopping the inevitable.

Even though he knows it's inevitable.

You get to a point you stop thinking about the long term. You stop thinking about the future. You think about now. A few minutes from now. It has nothing to do with Resets. Resets just makes that worse, too.

He just also can't...he can't imagine it. He can't imagine the active side of things. Maybe because of how he is. But the idea of just...of doing it instead of just letting it happen, accepting that it's going to happen anyway, it feels so...and hell, even just letting go. He's held so goddamn tight to that 1 HP for so long, and the one time he did just let go...

He hated it.

There's a difference between wanting to kill yourself and wanting to just be dead.

"i'm sorry."

And it's exactly like he said. The way people look at you. All those I'm sorry's. Fucking useless.

He stands upright, pushing back from the tree.

"back home i...made it my job to stand in the way of people who were...too determined to destroy something."

He looks up at Tim with eyelights so dim they might as well not be there.

"so...i'll...do it again, i guess."

He teleports, and reappears between Tim and the edge of Wonderland, still in the distance.

"i'm sorry, tim. i have to at least try."

That's his answer. That's his answer?

It's the same answer that he knows he must have expected. That, on some level, he must have anticipated. The kind of muted horror of someone catching him in the act, or the businesslike swiftness with which gloved hands subdued him and cleaned out the blood and lectured him for being very lucky they caught him before he went in too deep and caused permanent nerve damage.

Because he doesn't want Tim to go. Because he can't let him slide out from under the radar for just...twenty-four goddamn hours?

"It's twenty-four hours," he says, desperately. "You can't tell me this is worth it."

You can't tell him that he's worth it.

He looks Tim in the eye, stuffing his hands in his pockets and planting his feet.

"you are."

Selfish. Selfish like always. Making it all about him. The parasite can't let his hosts just go off and die, after all.

"i'm just...tired of losing people."

That's the worst part of it. He knows that he believes it. He wouldn't be saying it if he didn't. He believes that somehow, incredibly, Tim is worth this effort. That twenty-four hours of him being down for the count, of him getting what is likely to be the only good rest in his entirely lifetime, if it even counts, is just too steep a price for him to pay.

"You said that you can." He can. Doesn't want to, but can. "Just let one more slide. I - I can't go back there. I'm not going back there."

He's always been poised on this edge. It's only now that he's met this kind of immediate resistance, in the actual act itself, that he realizes -

He has no idea what he's supposed to do.

"of course i can."

The words come out in a ragged exhale. Of course he can. Of course he will. He'll keep losing and losing and losing.

"but i won't. not this time."

For once, the human won't get past him.

"you don't have to. i'll stay with you. we can go somewhere else."

"I know I don't have to. But I don't - don't - "

It was easy to pull a knife on a kid he didn't know. The kid took one look at it and bolted, and Tim didn't have to do anything beyond posture. And a good thing he didn't stay, either, or Tim doubtless would've let that slip one way or another. But - this? Someone standing here, planting himself between Tim and twenty-four hours of absolute peace?

Somehow he doubts he's going to spook him with a knife and nothing else.

"The longer you, or anyone sticks around me, the more danger you're in. There's stuff you can't know. That no one should know!"

It's the one thing he's ever consistently good at--being an obstacle. Being an annoyance. A thorn in a human's side.

It's never been enough before. But it has to be enough.

"i told you already. i've been in danger my entire life. this, whatever it is...whatever that tall thing means...it's just another thing on the pile. it...doesn't make things any worse. it just makes it--more."

He gives a vague, half-hearted shrug.

"so that stuff i can't know...i just won't know it. that's fine by me."

"You have no idea! It isn't worth it, you just - you have to trust me!"

His voice tears at that. He has no idea. He has no idea at all and no matter how well Sans supposedly takes it, he isn't the garbage disposal for all the fucked up shit the universe has to offer and he never should be. No matter how much he says it's fine, that he can take it, that it's just business as usual, it isn't fair.

"You don't have to drag yourself through the fucking dirt for everyone else's sake, and I'm telling you not to!"

"i do trust you. i don't...know everything. for all i know, whatever ends up happening could be worse than anything i could imagine."

And with his luck, it probably will be. Tim is screaming at him, his voice breaking, and Sans doesn't know what else to do. He knows he's doing this wrong, that Tim might end up hating him for this, but he just--doesn't know what else to do.

"it's not some kind of martyrdom, tim. i'm not gonna just stand in the path of an oncoming train because i--think i deserve it. i'm--i'm too selfish for that. i'm just gonna stand here instead. because i don't want you to go."

"It won't even be for that long."

He could tell people anything. Tell them that he tried. Tell them that there was no hope. Tell them, tell three or four of the people who still give a damn about him, for reasons unknown to him, that there was just no point, it was hopeless and a doomed fucking endeavor.

Only he can't, can he? That'd be a lie.

The same reason Tim is rooted here, frozen to the spot, screaming as he tries to convince Sans otherwise instead of trying to take the physical action he wishes he could.

But doesn't.

"My best friend died. Because of me." And that's the danger in it. That's what worms out from behind his teeth, gritty and resistant to his every effort to gnaw it back. "Please. I can't - I never want to lose someone else. Not because of me."

"yeah. but time is funny. to me more than most, i think. i can't even really...describe it. time just doesn't even--feel real anymore."

Twenty-four hours is the same as a few minutes, or a year, or an entire timeline. Time is meaningless. The only thing that matters is that Tim will be gone.

Tim's voice quiets, goes raw and halting, the way it does when people try not to say something and can't help it.

His best friend. Because of him.

Yet another thing that Sans understands too well.

God, he wishes he could just lie. Just tell Tim that he won't lose Jay or Sans or anyone. But he can't. It's a lie. Sans doesn't know the future. And neither does Tim.

"how is dying now going to keep you from losing someone later? how is that protecting us? just--take it from me. giving up doesn't...save anyone."

“It lessens the risk. The chance that someone will ask and I’ll have to answer. It means Jay won’t find me. No matter what. It keeps everyone - safe.”
Just for a little while. But a little while is worth it. It’s spread too far already. Too fast. To everyone he failed to protect, because that’s what he does. He fails.

Just like he failed Alex. Just like he failed Brian. Just like he failed Jay.

Like he won’t ever, ever fail Jessica.

He’s sacrificed too much for her sake.

"why don't i just stick with you and keep anyone from asking? i can keep you and jay separate. it wouldn't even be that hard."

He can teleport. So long as he warns Tim beforehand and has his okay, it'd be downright simple. Barely any real effort.

Not that effort matters right now. Not even to Sans.

"you're not going to talk me into letting you go, tim."

"Because it just comes out. Because someone will say something and I'll say something and you know it's impossible to shut this stuff up!" Why is he even giving a damn? Is it hard to not be a murderer? Apparently, because Tim doesn't even know how much blood is on his hands at this point. Certainly Alex. Certainly Brian. Jay, and the nameless man in that tunnel, and Seth, and Sarah, and Amy, and everyone Alex hurt - those are on him too.

He trembles on the spot; wanting to lurch forward, and failing to. Trying to bluff his way past this, and knowing he can't.

"I don't want to hurt you. I never wanted to hurt anybody."

"if i'm not compelled to say anything, then i can get you out of there in time."

He's trying to be calm, reasonable. He certainly sounds that way. The truth is he's too exhausted to feel anything else. Hollow blankness is settling over him and there's no point in fighting it. He knows how it goes.

"if you do, then it's on me. it's on me for not listening to your warnings. and i can accept that. i'm not moving."

"Get out of my way."

He won't attack. He knows he won't, and now Sans knows he won't either. He can't bring himself to, not even to save his own skin. That's never really enough. It's only ever someone else on the line, someone else's life at stake. Or someone else's death on his hands.

He steps back, hands fisting into his own hair -

And bolts the other way.

If he can't do it here, he'll do it some other way.

"no."

It's easier, somehow. It's easier to face someone who screams and yells and gets angry. Not like facing someone who doesn't say a word, whose thoughts and intentions you can only make educated guesses at. Who simply no longer cares. Who sees you as nothing but an obstacle.

Tim turns and runs.

Well. That wasn't entirely what Sans was expecting.

"wait--"

Tim knows full well that Sans can teleport. Does he think Sans won't follow?

Sans lets him get about twenty yards away before he teleports to catch up. It's gotta be unsettling, he knows--something following you without moving. Something that's just there every time you glance back.

He wonders if Tim is going to ever forgive him for this. And he keeps following.

No. No. This - he knows this. He knows what this is. It's something blurry and white flaring up in the corners of his vision and chasing him, moving between blinks. It's the thing that backs him into a wall until its unseen tendrils creep into his skull and he screams, really screams.

It's being trapped. No choice. No choice. Not ever. And it's always for his own benefit, isn't it, it's doctors saying they know exactly what you need and that you shouldn't argue, Timothy, just trust us, Timothy, we know what's best for you, Timothy.

His tone is high and desperate, laced with unadorned panic.

"Get away from me!"

There's outright panic in his voice when Tim yells again.

God, is he just making this worse?

"tim, just stop."

They never do just stop.

He teleports one last time and then tries to just follow on foot. Tim is moving way too fast, though, and Sans is too tired to do anything more than sort of trot after him. Even that makes his chest start to ache within seconds.

"tim, please."

"S-stop!" He jerks back as though struck, flinching so powerfully his foot hooks over something - a root or a rock - and sends him sprawling. He scrambles through the leaves and mulch underfoot, damp from the chill of the night, choking back the swollen bubble of a sob in his throat.

The white dome of something looming overhead, glistening in the filtered moonlight.

He snaps his hands over his head and squeezes his eyes shut.

It found him.

He always knew It would.

It found him, because It always does when the trees get to be like this, when he runs away, and It's like It lives in Rosswood and telling it to go away will never save anything, will never relinquish anything, but he still has to try, the words breaking.

"Please, I didn't - I didn't do anything wrong! I promise! Don't take me back! Don't take me back!"

He fucked up.

He fucked up, he fucked up.

Tim trips and goes down and cowers, covering his head like he thinks Sans is going to attack him, or worse. Or much, much worse. Sans remembers the tower, remembers the way Alex reacted the times he managed to startle him.

He's...

So fucking bad at this.

He stops several feet away and takes a step back, hands up.

"tim, it's me. i'm sorry. i didn't--it's just me. it's sans. i'm not going to hurt you. i'm not gonna take you anywhere. i..."

He crouches, because that thing is tall--it's very tall--and maybe if he makes himself even smaller, Tim will believe him and come out of this. He makes sure his eyelights are glowing bright, even though it gives him a headache--it doesn't have eyes, doesn't have a face at all, he remembers that. Just blank white.

He's too tired, though, especially from moving fast, so his legs sort of give out. He ends up just sitting in the fallen leaves.

"it's just me."

His breathing is ragged, but he doesn't care. He's probably going to fall asleep soon, but if he can just...time it right, try and make sure Tim is safe before then...should he go get help? Not Jay. Clem? No, she's just a kid. Papyrus? He'd make things worse with how tall he is, and he doesn't know Tim.

Max? He has no idea where she is, but she was friends with Alex, and she must understand some of this stuff, right?

Someone has to fix this, because Sans obviously can't.

"P-please, please just - just stop, stop stop stop stop stop stop stop - "

The words turn into a breathless litany. He can't hear anything but for the roar of the blood in his ears, the frantic stutter of a heart like a revving motor that can't jump into ignition. There's voices again, words humming in the icy-static air, but he can't hear them. He presses his face into his hands and shrinks into the leaves and tries to ride it out, like it's - like it's just another episode, another problem to diagnose.

His head hasn't begun to ache, but he keeps waiting. If he waits, he'll start coughing and shivering and it'll set into his bones and it'll happen and he knows it will. If he braces himself for it, it'll all be over soon.

Maybe, if he's lucky, It won't be angry.

Please, please let It not be angry.

"Don't be mad don't be mad don't be mad don't be mad..."

goddd

cw more in-depth discussion of suicide

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cw flashbacking

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