we're on earth — o, development/hysterical/injury

[center][fancypost=background-color:;border:0px;width:450px;text-align:justify;font-size:8pt;line-height:1.4;][ tw for mentions of violence, body horror-ish(?), stalking, the beginning of a panic attack. i'll summarize this at the bottom! ]

you're losing your mind. you can feel it unraveling, the threads of every happy memory you could ever recall all but a disarray of strings scattered about your feet. some might find that alarming, but not you. you just.. don't care, at the moment. a harsh, strong coppery smell has been invading your nostrils for the longest of times, something sickeningly warm geysers around your throat, but you haven't looked down since you picked yourself up and limped away. you haven't thought of anything either, since you started to walk. don't know what to think. cant think, cant focus. the doctor in you says that you're in a varying state of shock, numbed to the world and the thoughts that rampage in your mind because you've been scared silly.

but you don't feel scared until after you cross back over the border.

its like a trigger, a jumpstart back into reality the second your tiny paws hit the scent line. everything comes to you in a flash, and suddenly you're aware of it all- the time of day (its twilight, lilac skies cracked apart by a bruising of stars), the condition your body is in (it looks bad, but intensive care isn't needed. probably.), the weather (cool, moist air, rain-scented, weird on your skin) and most of all, what you feel- you're afraid. stepping back into the rebellion was like setting off a booby-trap; tension ropes around your arms, your legs, your face and you're suddenly animated, shivering, spluttering, panicking, little body twitching violently as it readies itself for the terrified sobs that threaten to spill and take over because dear god, you are scared. you have a good reason to be.

a literal ghost, your worst nightmare, has crawled back into the realms of the living. any safety you had hoped for has now shriveled up and died. you're no longer safe, and you never will be again. not with him around haunting you, chasing you, hunting you. he wants you dead. he wants you to stay dead and you don't even know why (cant remember why..). you're scared, you're so fucking scared. of him. nothing is scarier than him, you're sure of it. not moge-ko, not bill, not the nightmares, not even the underground. nothing can beat the man who targeted you for months on end, tortured you, beat you, mutilated you, and destroyed you. nothing. something goes off in your head then. ringing. what? ring, ring? where? in your ears? "you little bitch." that's his voice, those are his words. that's darkstalker talking. memories swarm beneath the walls that ban them to the darkest corners of your mind. bad awful memories want to surface with these words of the past. things that you don't want to remember. "no, no, stay out of my head.." you think almost desperately, your grip on reality threatening to slip again.

you try to clutch at the flowers that usually slump up your neck with a quivering paw, seeking solace from the latest development you've just run into by digging your fingers into the gold-hued petals, only to remember that there aren't any. no, that's right.. he ripped them out.. he ripped them all out, and now the skin there, flesh or scar tissue, infected or nonexistent, is freed from its flowery captivity. its visible for all the world to see and what a sight it is; a strike of pale pinkish-white meat stretches from your neck to your collarbone, thin bodied crimson snakes trickling from where the tissue has been pulled at too hard, tearing it and reopening a nearly year-old wound.. as for the flowers that once curled up into your left cheek, they have also been ripped away, and now its clear that you never had a cheek to begin with, nothing but a gaping hole with burnt-scar tissue ringing its edges. and, even though bill was the one who scarred your leg not him, darkstalker pulled out the flowers that grew there anyway, almost out of spite. "don't you ever try to hide what i did to you." is what he whispered when he was done, but you didn't try to hide it, you didn't. he put the flowers there, just like how he laid down the scars, not you. its funny how he blames you though, and its god damn ironic that him, being the one who grew the flowers, is now the one who weeds them out.

back to the present, you shake your head, trying to clear your mind (it doesnt work-- stepping over the border seems to have damned you, and now you cant hide away in that benumbed shell you were in beforehand) and it quivers violently, almost as if there's been a drill taken to the back of your skull. you're tense even as you start to move further into the carnival, stiff-legged, a bad tingly-feeling rioting throughout your bones, and there's a wail lodged in your throat, making your body as a whole convulse, because you are trying so hard not to cry even though thats all you want to do right now. but you know that if you cry, you wont stop. and then you'll have to admit to being broken.

[ TLDR; frisk ran into their old stalker/murderer/tormentor & learned that he's still alive. he ripped out all of their flowers & they just got back into the rebellions territory and are not-so-lowkey breaking down. bits of scar tissue around their neck has been torn, and they're bleeding a little, but its nothing real serious and its super easy to mend. tbh if somebody approaches them they're just going to start crying oops. dont feel pressured to match the muse! :'0 ][fancypost=border-width:0; font-size: 8pt; text-align: center; line-height: 95%; width:400px;] ✧ —AND I WALK THE EMPTY HALLWAYS / [color=#FFF]TAGS

tiny bump, since this is kinda some important plot development :'0

[center][fancypost=background-color:;border:0px;width:450px;text-align:justify;font-size:8pt;line-height:1.4;]its true; if not for that one night at the ferris wheel, you probably would have come to react to bill as you would anybody else who's been haunting your days-- petrified, paranoid, and (of course) fearful at just the thought of them. instead you got to know them, and you saw things that you're positive they didn't want you to see (you saw through their lies, tried to peek past the mask. didnt get far, but gotten far enough to know that they're fake as hell.). at the end of that night bill left off in a huff, apparently angry at you, but you had gained a little more insight into their life from the encounter. you don't exactly feel safe in their presence, but you aren't as scared of them as you could be. actually as of now, you're more wary of them than anything. the fear you felt toward them is slipping, and its all thanks to the block on your mind. you know that they've done things to you, to your friends (gordon, jonathan) and to your family (funhaus, cherviltea) but now you cant recall half of what those "things" are. like with nearly all "bad" memories they have started to fade with time, and the more you try to recall them the harder it is to remember.

you're walking, feet dragging, limbs tightly wound and quivering but when something moves in front of you and blocks your path, you stop. even through the ringing that berates your ears, you hear bill coming, and you know that its them because of the drag in the steps that sound, and because of the rot and heavy metallic smell that suddenly infests your nostrils, like the coppery smell but stronger. dealt with a hand of confrontation, you roll your eyes up off of the ground, drag them over bill's body, find blatant disgust chalked into their features. you do get upset about almost "every little thing", don't you? a crybaby, that's what you are, but its not what you try to be. you cant hide your feelings as good as everyone else can, and so they're almost always on display. you cant help but show your true colors. "stop that." the bluntness and poison in their tone of voice doesn't shake you, but you flinch anyway. you don't expect some soul to come and comfort you (didn't expect a soul to find you, either..) but you also don't expect someone to snap at you for your panicking.

you stare at them, round-eyed, startled, just as words buzz very loudly in your, louder than the ringing. "you're weak. will not survive in world." thats what bill said to you, hadnt they? when you two had waited out the night at the ferris wheel, talking and arguing? at the time, you flat-out denied it, defended yourself with your head held high. you thought you were strong, told them that you were, that they should never doubt you for being anything other than strong and you find irony in those words, because you now believe that you are (and always have been) anything but.

as you realize this the tension in your legs suddenly drops into pounds of lead, and you, weak-kneed, sag to the floor. you shake your head wildly at bills demand, snap your dome back and forth. you cant stop, its too late. your chest is aching, breaths coming in scratchy gasps, forcing air into your lungs with the grace of breathing through a straw, and your heart is shot with red hot adrenaline. its like you're suddenly bound, metaphorical chains snaking around your being and pulling you to the muddy ground and restricting your chest from pushing upwards, not allowing the inflation of your lungs. you still snap your head back and forth, but its not you consciously saying "no" anymore-- its just mindless movement, the only type of movement you're allowed. you grind your teeth as you finally burst, pop, like a balloon. tears form around your eyes, grow heavy on your lower lids, and then they rip away from you, a barrage of firecrackers, blonde droplets slathering down your cheekbones, the left side of fear-induced showers dribbling into the widened gap that was once a cheek and filling your mouth with salt. so much for not crying.

you're not very pretty when you cry, honestly. you don't glance up at bill with pearly tears snaking down your face, a soft forlorn look gracing your gentle features, the picture of heavenly and angelic misery. you lie there with a reddened face staring straight at them (quite nearly like your life depends on not looking away from them), entire being trembling, eyes overtaken and dominated by this steady flow of piss yellow beads that simply pour out of you, a leaky faucet, and then you're suddenly sobbing, spluttering sink. "fix yourself." they're talking about the scar tissue and how its been torn, but the words have more meaning to you than just that. you have no control over your neck and what its doing, head swaying back and forth with such force that its a wonder your skull hasnt rolled off of your shoulders yet. your jaws crane open, and you finally manage to blubber, inbetween panicked, fearful, miserable, air-sucking gasps, a crazed mantra dancing on your tongue "cant, cant, cant, cant, cant, CANT." you cant fix yourself, you've been broken too many times. you've never really healed. you're unfixable, quaking limbs slam violently into the dirt, a puff of dust rising up in its aftermath. your teeth are bared after every loud sobbing gasp leaves you, struggling to find air. [fancypost=border-width:0; font-size: 8pt; text-align: center; line-height: 95%; width:400px;] ✧ —AND I WALK THE EMPTY HALLWAYS / [color=#FFF]TAGS

[center][fancypost=background-color:;border:0px;width:450px;text-align:justify;font-size:8pt;line-height:1.4;]/c':
its already been established that you cant reign in your emotions, that anything you come to express is truly how you feel and your feelings are raw. you wont deny that you have challenged bill every now and again, have expressed a stubborness by the stone set of your jaw or a face sharpened by determination and defiance. you would push their buttons, but when things got too heated you would reel it back in, and the situation would cool shortly after. its like a game almost, a stupid one where you poke fun at the sleeping bear and the one time you dont mean to play with the bear, you get them to wake up anyway. and the bear, being bill, isnt patient enough to put up with you anymore.

something physical, hard, slams into your skull and all of your cries are silenced by the claws that swiftly hack into your head, a rocket of pain elicting immediately after. with the pain comes a flood of shock, and that is what jolts you back to your senses, puts an end to what could have been a nasty and long episode. your cranium snaps to a side as you flinch back, and you've bitten down on your tongue, encouraging a few scarlet drops to spill from your lips, but you can breathe again, the fictional chains around your torso snapping away from you and thats all that matters at the moment. you scramble back clumsily, shying away from bill with hackles raised in a perpetual state of aggression as you suck down air like honey, feel it swirl sweetly in your lungs, gulping it down like a ravaged animal whom hasnt eaten in weeks.

all of your former troubles are dulled now, lost in being knocked back into your senses with a harsh slap to your face, but now you're left reeling, realizing that, "they hit me." and you dont like that fact very much. walls begin to build around you as you revel in this information, and that wariness has turned into complete and utter distrust because they (seemingly) hit you for having a panic attack, something you have little to no control over. something that you cant really help.

you raise your eyes up at them, and while anger is blatantly portrayed in your buttercup depths you are more shocked by their actions than anything (but really, perhaps you should have been expecting it), and a paw comes to rest at your ear, rubbing over the spot where they hit you. your nerves arent quite quelled for the moment, but you're in a safer set of mind now that your head has cleared. or atleast, your head has cleared enough that your able to scowl up at your leader, lips twitching back to unveil tiny, sharp kitten teeth in a bitter snarl. theres a lot you can say to them for yelling at you alone, but with your tongue throbbing, bleeding, not even a peep escapes you. and thats probably a good thing.[fancypost=border-width:0; font-size: 8pt; text-align: center; line-height: 95%; width:400px;] ✧ —AND I WALK THE EMPTY HALLWAYS / [color=#FFF]TAGS

[center][fancypost=background-color:;border:0px;width:450px;text-align:justify;font-size:8pt;line-height:1.4;]you arent going to hide from what is, essentially, your home for the time being and you definitely arent going to hide your feelings because bill doesnt want to see them. you dont care what bill expects of the clan, nor what they expect of you. you dont care if the clan gets passed off as strong or not, either. bill's ideals are not very ideal to you, and you wont hide who you are just to fit their anti-clan quota, and thats something they will have to either accept or deal with; their choice. you are not a puppet on string, and you wont let them dictate over you. you wont be controlled, even now that a shitstorm has begun to brew over your head.

speaking of which, you're still mulling over darkstalker, your paw slipping from your throbbing skull so that the fingers can close over the small, bloody torn flaps of scar tissue that snake around your neck. you're not freaking out anymore (that ship has sailed) but you're still understandably troubled. troubled and furious, though the irritation you feel now hails from bill rather than darkstalker, and their next word (question? demand?) definitely sets you off, "done?" as if you have to answer, as if its any of their business. your lips, already bent into a snarl, peel back even further, curling up over your teeth, and you, running on anger and exhaustion from the events that have taken place both here and outside of the territory, do something completely out of character and aim to spit a glob of bloodied saliva at the ground paved out before bill, dangerously close to their forepaws. risky? oh definitely, but you dont care at the moment. you're already mincemeat, if darkstalkers words mean anything, so why would you care if bill rips you a new one? your days have been marked anyway. you jerk your head up at them again and simply continue to glare, not even offering the ringmaster a mechanical nod in answer to their inquiry.[fancypost=border-width:0; font-size: 8pt; text-align: center; line-height: 95%; width:400px;] ✧ —AND I WALK THE EMPTY HALLWAYS / [color=#FFF]TAGS

[center][fancypost=background-color:;border:0px;width:450px;text-align:justify;font-size:8pt;line-height:1.4;]you watch bills lip curl up in disdain at your actions, and admittedly their response pleases you. sure, what you did will probably come back to bite you in the arse later (and to echoe bill, a demotion is likely), but its a short victory in this otherwise crappy day (to recap, you got beat black and fucking blue in the loner lands, and then come home only to get smacked around some more so yeah, your defiance really is the only highlight of this evening). at the gentle hush of pawsteps trekking through the mud and growth, you cast a glance to the side and see popee, looking intrigued (if not nosy) by the drama that has been elicited. how long has he been there? the entire time, or just now? before you can wonder this aloud, a demand is repeated and it catches your attention, "done?" you turn your gaze back to bill-- only to flinch when you see their hand raised. thats more of a knee-jerk reaction than fear of being hit honestly, a soft instinctive trigger, but nobody knows that and so that wince of yours can be viewed as something else altogether. you contemplate spiting them further and not answering their question, but then decide against it-- mainly because you're exhausted and aching to drag your bruised body into your tent and mend your injuries in peace. you dont drop your glare, pelt bristling still, but you give the leader what they want; a nod, robotic and forced, followed by a slurred murmur (slurred, because you bit down on your tongue only a couple posts back), "yes."
/WALL BREAK and you're fine @ / popee <33[fancypost=border-width:0; font-size: 8pt; text-align: center; line-height: 95%; width:400px;] ✧ —AND I WALK THE EMPTY HALLWAYS / [color=#FFF]TAGS

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[fancypost=border-width:0px; width: 450px; text-align: justify; font-size: 8pt; line-height: 125%]you watch the leader go on their way with a heavy, angry feeling in your gut. even after they've gone you find yourself glowering at the place where they had just stood before giving popee yet another sideways glance. hope he enjoyed the show. you look away, take a few steps in the direction of camp before someone else crosses your path. you pause and look up to see willy, ears flicking up in curiousity as he continues to move toward you. that is, until he stretches out a forepaw.

why is everyone so touchy-feely today? you flinch again upon a hand being raised in your direction, tiny body jerking backward slightly and wilds healing touch is avoided. even if you knew that he's just trying to help, you wouldn't allow him to do that. nobody else is going to carry your burdens, nor will anybody wear the scars that you not only earned but deserved. or you think you deserve them, anyway, "more like i got jumped." you correct, but there isnt any humor in your tone or.. anything in your tone, as of now. unless monotone counts. "man, who would injure a person like you?" lots of people actually, but you dont say that because that brings up questions, so you settle for meekly shrugging your shoulders.