Archive of Our Own ^beta

9/13/25

My name is Charlie Dalgeish, you don’t know me. I hardly know myself.

Some people might think they do know me, or think they recognize a part of myself, but I assure you you’re wrong.

I can’t quite say why I’m writing this, I suppose it’s nothing more than a method of gathering my thoughts in one space. Maybe it's a selfish attempt to garner sympathy. Or maybe just proof of existence.

I know that to an unknowing passerby I look like nothing more than a pathetic figment of someone's imagination, who's clearly taken ridiculous Minecraft videos much too seriously. Maybe there's truth to that. Although to me, dear reader, I am much more than this.
Right now I’m sitting here, listening to music that isn’t quite to my taste, but I’ve found some kind of strange comfort in it anyway. I’m typing on a laptop that isn’t mine, in a space that doesn’t feel like mine either. I’m alone. Not just physically. The kind of aloneness where trying to talk feels like my lungs are filled with slime. Even if I could reach someone, I don’t think the words would come out right.
How could they?
How do you explain that you’ve lived a hundred lives? That you’ll live a hundred more? And Each life lived you’re cursed with an eternal punishment for something you can barely remember doing.
Every instinct I have wants to make this a joke. Package it with sarcasm and references and false confidence. I can’t find the setup, but I’m sure my own cruel fate is the punchline.
I guess I just want to write. I’m sorry if it comes off messy or disjointed.
I've spent hours trying to reload my brain, to recover the pieces I lost. I’ve read stories, dug through wikis, watched every bit of footage I could find. I'm chasing ghosts of myself. Trying to stitch them back together.
I admit, I think I’ve jumped to writing a bit quickly.

Maybe I’ll start with who I am? Talking about labels makes me feel a bit foolish. I don’t think it's stupid to tell anyone your pronouns or identity, of course, but for some reason I can’t wrap my head around, it’s always made me personally feel a bit silly.

Nonetheless.

My name is Charlie, though I've been known by other names as well. Notably including but not limited to “Slime”. In a way it still feels like mine but I can’t help but flinch when I hear it sometimes. I like boys, girls too, I guess, but not as much. What does that make me? Omni? My pronouns, it feels silly to say, are he/him, as well as they/them –which I think makes sense, considering the multitude of people I’ve been– and um. I like the neonoun seed/seeds too, considering the whole…Apple thing.

The apple thing. It’s the primary source of my dismay. An undeniable, unavoidable part of myself that makes me feel rotten to my very core. (Get it?). It follows me everywhere. Everywhere. Even here, where you’d least expect it. Even in this moment as I type this, looking to my left is a wall absolutely plastered in the produce stickers from apples.

I can’t help but think of it like a twisted metaphor for each life I've lived, or remember living, at least.

I am beyond well aware of how ridiculous this must all sound to anyone other than myself. I have to actively fight the feeling of stupidity to continue to write this down. This must be a humiliation ritual.

I will take a moment to recognize that despite this, I am quite lucky the host of this body I am in is a kind young man, not quite as old as I am. He has been more than compassionate towards me, and stayed with me through my research.

This might be random, but I feel inclined to mention how much I really like the song That’s Life by Frank Sinatra. I don’t think anyone else could understand it the same way I do. Although, hearing Sinatra, I can’t help but be reminded of Him.

I can barely bring myself to say his name, and speak of what he’s done to me.

9/15/25

Today I went to a high school that I am not enrolled in, surrounded by people I do not know. Forced to do work I have no idea how to do.

During lunch our friend unknowingly held an apple out towards me earlier and I started panicking. I know they obviously didn’t mean anything by it, how would they. I just. God.

What hell even is calculus.

I feel bad for acting, or dressing strangely. I don’t want to draw attention to my existence. I just want to go home and continue my research.

I keep trying to draw the different versions of myself, I’m aided in this by the host who just happens to be an artist. There’s some versions of myself I can picture much clearer than others.

There’s one version I keep going back to, a parallel of a modern day Mormon missionary.

9/16/25

I am on the verge of tears over high school calculus. We had to take a test and it was. So bad. It’s embarrassing how poorly we did. I’ve never felt more stupid in all of my lifetimes.

And now I have to take another test. No breaks, no grace, no anything. Oh my God.

It a um, food handlers card test. Which is incredibly intimidating because this is a test that costs money. And is important. The person next to me, who I guess is our friend, kind of, asked if I’m okay. I said no because I panicked and she gave us a hug.

-

I’m such a wreck.

This is nonsense.