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Everything is red.
You're choking. You're retching. You're screaming.
The world is ending and it's all your fault.
You wake up with a jolt. Your heart is beating wildly in your chest like it's trying to make up for all the time it kept still while your body was slowly rotting away under the last patch of sunlight in the Underground.
There is darkness again and for a moment you truly panic. Your head fills up with static and your ears start ringing before you notice a warm weight pressed up against you. There is Frisk curled up beside you like some huge cat. Their head is heavy on your chest, messy hair falling over their closed eyes, mouth half-open. They're breathing steadily and snoring a little.
They must have climbed into your bed and fallen asleep listening to your heartbeat again. You don't know why you bother with separate beds since you always end up together by the morning.
Your skin is clammy with sweat, and your pyjamas are soaked through and sticking to your body. Gross. You have no idea how it didn't wake Frisk up. Your whole body is tingling, and your skin crawls like a living thing — like it wants to slip off. You need out. Out, away, far from here.
You shake Frisk off of you roughly and they fall limply onto the mattress. You need to be alone. You need to... You slip your prickling hand beneath the wet pillow (disgusting) and retrieve your knife. It's wrapped in bandages — Frisk's courtesy — which you are quick to discard. You grab the handle like a lifeline, hand tightening in reflex, and you take a shaky breath. Alright. You've got this. You know what you need now.
Frisk stirs and curls further into themselves when you move down the bed to reach the ladder but they don't wake up. You leave them in the mess of sheets next to the rolled-up comforter. You must have kicked it up in your sleep.
You climb down, trying to mimic the way Frisk moves about but you slip. You struggle to keep your balance. There is an insistent buzzing in your head, your legs are unsteady and you stumble over nothing. The only thing that feels real is the weight of the knife in your grip.
You slip away from the dark room. There is only Frisk and you there anyway, so you're not too worried about waking anybody up. It turns out your "creepy face" works quite well on adults as well as on whiny monster children and you have the whole room to yourself. It's not like anyone wanted to stay with the two of you anyway. To them you're just some weird kids found on the streets like stray dogs.
You make your way to the bathroom and grip the door frame for support. The cold tiles feel soothing under your bare feet and the sensation almost grounds you.
But it's not enough.
You head straight for the sink. It's not just your skin itching anymore. It's like something’s clawing at your insides, trying to burst out . You need to set it free.
You don't bother with turning on the lights. Whatever genius decided that this bathroom needs a window accidentally provided just enough light for you to see what you need to. Your eyes are used to the darkness anyway.
They're red again. You can see despite the dim light, your reflection staring at you from the mirror. It was a novelty at first, seeing your face again instead of Frisk's. You didn't hate it, at first. It was useful. Sometimes you need something to make sure all of this hasn't been just some hazy buttercup-induced fever dream. It allows you to see that it's real, that you're real. You have a body again and you're not dead. But right now it only serves to remind you what you truly are.
A mess.
Your hair is matted, sticking to the wet forehead. Your face glistens with the drying sweat, the pale complexion broken by the flushed cheeks. Red eyes seem to almost glow in the darkness like some kind of a sleep paralysis demon.
A bloody fucking mess.
The pressure building beneath your skin becomes unbearable and you bring the knife down on your arm.
The cut is quick and sloppy. Thoughtless. You breathe out as the pain prickles unevenly. Only a little blood comes out, filling the edges. Not enough. You press the blade next to the cut until your skin breaks. Pain blossoms again, sharpening as you dig the knife deeper until the blood can flow freely.
Better.
You leave the cut alone for a moment. Blood trickles down your arm and onto the sink, bright red. Red like determination. Red like your eyes and your cheeks, and your dreams.
You make another cut, quicker, sharper.
The light flicks on suddenly, brightening the bathroom with warm yellows.
Chara.
You see Frisk in the mirror. They are standing in the doorway, sleepy and disheveled, one arm of the nightshirt slipping from their small frame. They're looking at you with no surprise but no comfort either. There is a pinch to their brows, not quite disappointment but tiredness like they haven't accepted what you're doing but can't muster the determination to do something about it either. It stings, more than the next cut you make even as they come closer. They reach out and you don't stop.
You never stop. It's just not something you do. You're not even sure you can . You never tried. Why would you, anyway?
You slice your forearm with a desperation that burns inside of you in an everlasting flame. It closes up your throat and blurs your vision, and you can never get rid of it. You can never cut deep enough to reach the roots and just rip it out, and...
Frisk clasps your hand and when it still doesn't stop you, the knife. It catches on their skin leaving an ugly red mark because they have no sense of self-preservation and just grab the blade like a moron. Only then do you let them take it away from you. The handle slips away from your fingers, leaving a sticky residue behind.
You're covered in blood. It drips from your arm, tainting the pristine white sink. The red seems darker in comparison.
You have so much of it. Way more than you could possibly need. It's just like your anger — no matter what you do, it never seems to run dry.
You stay still, waiting for Frisk to decide what to do with you. They put the knife away, out of your reach, and move to kneel on the floor next to you. They rummage in the vanity cabinet for a moment and take out some bandages in silence. You swear they have stashed them everywhere. It's like they never run out of the stuff. They hide bandages and food like they're preparing for an apocalypse. Like their life depends on the steady supply of these two at all times.
They turn the water on and lower your arm under the stream which turns bright red and stays like that for a while. Fresh cuts burn as the water washes some more blood out of them and you welcome the sensation. Frisk doesn't let you contemplate it too deeply, though, as they make quick work of drying you off with some paper towels which they dispose of in the toilet. You'll need a plumber soon if this keeps up. Maybe you'll convince them to simply use some toilet paper next time. Yeah, right. You can already imagine how this conversation will go.
They wrap your arms tightly. They're a meek little thing but they know how to dress a wound. It's a skill that comes with practice, just like your proficiency with a knife. You can guess where they developed it but you don't like thinking about it. It makes you want to break the promise you gave them twice as badly as usual.
After they're done with the clean-up, they finally look up at you and hold your gaze for a moment.
You should have woken me up.
"You did wake up."
They purse their lips in a way that they do when they're upset but won't say it. It's probably supposed to make you feel guilty or something.
They take your knife away for safekeeping. It means they'll hold on to it until you steal it back again. A waste of time, really, but if it makes them happier, you're willing to play along. Maybe they'll dispose of this one. It doesn't make much of a difference. You're like a magnet to the things that hurt, that cut and kill. Bringing pain and destroying runs in your blood. You don't need much; any semi-sharp object will do. You know how to wield it to bring the exact amount of damage you want it to. But Frisk doesn't know these things. Or rather, they know them theoretically but they're shit at the execution part.
During your mad killing spree in the Underground you were the one guiding their strikes. They're only any good at dodging out of the way. They barely even know how to take a punch. And when push comes to the shove, they have no idea how to wield a weapon. No idea whatsoever as to how to take the pain the world gives out and pay it back in kind. How to make the world suffer just as much as it makes them suffer.
This has to stop, they sign once they herd you back to your small bedroom. They make you sit on their bed and look at you with their squinty, concerned eyes.
No, it doesn't. It's the most reliable method you've found.
You don't say it out loud and they don't call you out. They never do. Deep down, they must know you're right. That this is the only way to keep you under control. You're not the kind of person who can just be left to their own devices and be trusted to behave. You'd tear the world apart if you wouldn't clip the urge in the bud from time to time. All plants need a little trimming to flourish. Otherwise, they wilt, shrivel up and die. Or they grow too big, too wild and messy, and suffocate all the life around them.
You don't even try to protest when Frisk climbs in next to you. You're sleeping with them tonight. Not like that's different from any other night but still. They make a nest from a blanket and far too many pillows around you both. You don't get what you're supposed to do with more than one. Do they eat them in their sleep? Is that where they keep their midnight snacks? They wiggle and move around a lot, fluffing the pillows and bundling up the covers, and you're going to snap at them if they don't stop soon. Eventually, they lie down next to you, scooting closer unapologetically until your faces are a breath apart. Only then do they settle.
They're such a fidget toy, you sometimes forget how small they really are when they stop moving. They almost disappear underneath the comforter. They look as dangerous as a kitten and maybe that's why it pisses you off so much when they don't even try to change that. You never saw them touch a knife out of their own volition and yet they'll take it away from you the first chance they get.
They like pretending that a lanky stick can protect anyone or better yet themselves. It's fucking laughable.
You need your knife and they need you to have it too. As much for protecting the world from yourself as protecting them. They would let themselves be eaten alive before they did anything about it. They get to keep their hands clean but that means they need to let you have the damn knife.
Promise you'll wake me up next time, they sign when you're both buried under the ridiculous amount of layers and you can't escape their heavy look.
You have no choice but to listen to what they have to say and at least pretend to consider it. They have you trapped, the sneaky, scheming brat. Right. You almost forgot. This is what they do instead of fighting. This is how they get by. They don't face the threat head-on. Instead, they run in circles until you get tired and either give up or give in. They step on the mousetraps enough times to trick you into thinking they'll fall for it every time, and then they line them up just the way they want to.
"Do I look like the smiling bag of bones?" you scoff. "I'm not some useless loser making promises they can't keep."
They pull a disappointed face with extra sad eyes like you said anything other than the truth.
Promise you'll try, they sign stubbornly because they're annoying like that.
Fucking stupid. You start to turn away from them so they'll maybe take a hint (not bloody likely) but they grab your bandaged arm suddenly and with a surprising force. You pause in spite of yourself. There are small pinpricks of red showing on the dressing. You must have bled through the inner layer. The cuts throb in the rhythm of your pulse that Frisk has trapped beneath their fingers.
Chara, they sign with their free hand. Please. I need you safe.
Their eyes are drawn, their brows furrowed, like they're carrying the weight of the world. They're looking at you with helpless desperation hidden behind an attempt at a steady gaze. They're scared. You know that look because it's as familiar as the colour of their skin. Their fear is a primal force that can rival even your anger sometimes. The only difference is, they never do anything about it. They don't fight, they elude it. They flee and hide or pretend they don't notice until they no longer can. But in the end, they always let it win. And in the end, so do you.
"Fine. Whatever." You rip your hands away from their grip and cross them stiffly over your chest. Frisk lets you. No heartbeat lullabies for them tonight. "Are you planning on sleeping at all or do you just expect me to cover for you tomorrow like you always do?"
They brighten up like a fucking lightbulb. Their face relaxes, their gaze softens and they practically radiate warmth and other disgusting things like love and kindness.
Goodnight, Chara, they sign, smiling ever so slightly because they probably think they're really fucking smart.
You roll over harshly, so you're facing the wall instead of their stupid mushy-feely look. How are they even so fucking expressive when their default appearance is a poker face? You clasp your arms extra hard and shuffle away a bit to show them how much you don't appreciate them being there for you.
After a moment their weight shifts and a bony arm sneaks around your middle, gathering you closer. You pretend not to notice. You also pretend you're making yourself more comfortable when you lean back a little into them. They're warm, like a hot water bottle, and make for a far better pillow than the ones they’ve gathered.
The moment you close your eyes, a cheerful trill sounds out in the distance and another one follows. Fucking fuck . You cover your face with your arm stifling a groan. It's still dark outside but not for long. Early birds already started the daily yapping so it means the sun will be coming out soon too.
Fuck school, actually. Neither of you is getting up in the morning, you decide. The birds keep humming and the first light of dawn slips through the curtains when you finally fall asleep again.