Chara (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fulllifeconsequences) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
entrancelogs2016-06-16 02:14 pm
fulllifeconsequences) wrote in entrancelogs2016-06-16 02:14 pm
Perhaps I lacked some foresight, but brother you were so right
Who: Chara, anyone who wants to hang out with An Actual Literal Disaster
Where: Around the mansion and gardens
When: June 13th onward to the rest of the month, maybe, depending how much of a Perpetual Calamity Chara is
Summary: I'm just gonna put up a catch-all for their Crashing And Burning lmao
Warnings: Tentatively putting content warnings for suicide, self-harm, will edit as necessary.
The story:
[They aren't okay. They're never really all that okay, honestly. It's a joke to call a kid that poisoned themselves "okay." So they're... worse than not okay. Worse and worse and worse. They tried to run away. Didn't work. Almost convinced Frisk to join them in doing something... cowardly. Didn't help. Toriel caught them, pulled them back from the brink of A Big Mistake.
It didn't feel fixed, didn't feel all better, but... it was a decision to continue, rather than stop. Supposed to be an anchoring point. Supposed to be where they start climbing their way back up.
They fell, instead.
They haven't gotten out of bed since. They don't even know how long it's been. Don't know what they've been doing. Time just... stopped existing. Fizzled out into a strange haze. Have they eaten? Have they slept? Don't think they need to. Don't feel like it. Don't... feel anything. Don't even feel real.
They pull themselves back to functional, or a vague facsimile thereof, after a while. Maybe five minutes. Maybe three days. Not functional enough to... to process it. To swallow it. To swallow what they've done - are going to do. To swallow the reality of the kind of person they are, and always will be. To grasp the full, crushing reality of why he wanted them to let go, why he replaced them with a better friend. They can't... they can't process it. They can't wrap themselves around it. It's too huge. Too painful.
But they can... they should do something. Somebody has to take care of Frisk. Pull themselves together enough to send a few texts. Enough to get another bike lock from the closets, then string it through the closet door handles. Tape up a note in their stupid cutesy flower stationery explaining that they'll take it off when Frisk is feeling a little better, and they can just ask their friends if they need something.
They got rid of Frisk's scissors. They think they're supposed to hide the knives, blunt the fire tools.
Eventually, they leave their room.
Kind of have to, they think. They've cleaned themselves up, at least, but they're so hungry and sleepless and utterly crushed that they look a little bit like a ghost when they stagger out into the hall. Sort of dizzy. Haven't refuelled, ha ha.
Don't know where they're going. Don't know how they can possibly punish themselves enough for this.
You might catch them in the kitchen, just... staring at the fridge. Knowing they should eat, knowing they've been surviving off chocolate bars and pie and you can't do that forever, but not being able to muster up the appetite or the focus to commit to it.
You might catch them outside. Laying in the flowers. Same place they killed Alex all those months ago. Gazing up at nothing, still and silent as the corpse they're actually supposed to be.
They end up back at the diner at some point. Don't really know how they got there, or when. But it's on the eighth floor, and they can't bear to retreat to the comfort of the kitchen, but they can bear to look out the window.
Or maybe they just end up back in Room 12 again. Curl up in a bed so comfortable that if you laid down in it, you might never get up again. Be still and quiet and so tightly coiled into themselves that nobody will ever see if their eyes are even redder and they're sort of failing at being a big kid, because big kids don't cry, because Chara never cries, because Chara doesn't even have any right to cry.]
Where: Around the mansion and gardens
When: June 13th onward to the rest of the month, maybe, depending how much of a Perpetual Calamity Chara is
Summary: I'm just gonna put up a catch-all for their Crashing And Burning lmao
Warnings: Tentatively putting content warnings for suicide, self-harm, will edit as necessary.
The story:
[They aren't okay. They're never really all that okay, honestly. It's a joke to call a kid that poisoned themselves "okay." So they're... worse than not okay. Worse and worse and worse. They tried to run away. Didn't work. Almost convinced Frisk to join them in doing something... cowardly. Didn't help. Toriel caught them, pulled them back from the brink of A Big Mistake.
It didn't feel fixed, didn't feel all better, but... it was a decision to continue, rather than stop. Supposed to be an anchoring point. Supposed to be where they start climbing their way back up.
They fell, instead.
They haven't gotten out of bed since. They don't even know how long it's been. Don't know what they've been doing. Time just... stopped existing. Fizzled out into a strange haze. Have they eaten? Have they slept? Don't think they need to. Don't feel like it. Don't... feel anything. Don't even feel real.
They pull themselves back to functional, or a vague facsimile thereof, after a while. Maybe five minutes. Maybe three days. Not functional enough to... to process it. To swallow it. To swallow what they've done - are going to do. To swallow the reality of the kind of person they are, and always will be. To grasp the full, crushing reality of why he wanted them to let go, why he replaced them with a better friend. They can't... they can't process it. They can't wrap themselves around it. It's too huge. Too painful.
But they can... they should do something. Somebody has to take care of Frisk. Pull themselves together enough to send a few texts. Enough to get another bike lock from the closets, then string it through the closet door handles. Tape up a note in their stupid cutesy flower stationery explaining that they'll take it off when Frisk is feeling a little better, and they can just ask their friends if they need something.
They got rid of Frisk's scissors. They think they're supposed to hide the knives, blunt the fire tools.
Eventually, they leave their room.
Kind of have to, they think. They've cleaned themselves up, at least, but they're so hungry and sleepless and utterly crushed that they look a little bit like a ghost when they stagger out into the hall. Sort of dizzy. Haven't refuelled, ha ha.
Don't know where they're going. Don't know how they can possibly punish themselves enough for this.
You might catch them in the kitchen, just... staring at the fridge. Knowing they should eat, knowing they've been surviving off chocolate bars and pie and you can't do that forever, but not being able to muster up the appetite or the focus to commit to it.
You might catch them outside. Laying in the flowers. Same place they killed Alex all those months ago. Gazing up at nothing, still and silent as the corpse they're actually supposed to be.
They end up back at the diner at some point. Don't really know how they got there, or when. But it's on the eighth floor, and they can't bear to retreat to the comfort of the kitchen, but they can bear to look out the window.
Or maybe they just end up back in Room 12 again. Curl up in a bed so comfortable that if you laid down in it, you might never get up again. Be still and quiet and so tightly coiled into themselves that nobody will ever see if their eyes are even redder and they're sort of failing at being a big kid, because big kids don't cry, because Chara never cries, because Chara doesn't even have any right to cry.]