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You can’t breathe. You can’t breathe. The sun is bright and the sky is clear and your vision is fizzing out at the edges and each ridiculous gasp for air is stopped by the noose that’s tightening around your throat like a snake and you—and you—!

(you went back)

This can’t be real.

(you   went     back)

This can’t be real.

(YOU          WENT                    BACK-!!)

(YOU WENT BACK YOU WENT BACK YOU WENT BACK YOU WENT BACK YOU WENT BACK YOU WENT BACK YOU WENT BACK YOU WENT BACK YOU WENT BACK YOU WENT BACK YOU WENT BACK YOU WENT BACK YOU WENT BACK YOU WENT BACK YOU WENT BACK YOU  WENT   BACK       YOU        WENT         BACK         YOU                       WENT                               BACK)

You can’t move. You need to move you need to get out of here you need to do something anything but your body won’t listen and you can’t stop shivering and you’re cold cold cold—

It’s like—like you’re being frozen in time, but it’s not the same as the last-

(don’t think about it!)

-whatever many times it’s happened; it’s not the numbing sensation that quickly becomes lost in the thick miasma of other similar flavors of nothing you’d become used to, no, no, it’s what you can only imagine being frozen for the very first time must have felt like, forever ago when you were stupid and hopeful and could still feel the grass you currently grip tightly between stiff fingers.

You imagine ice crystals, numbing and deadly, spreading rapidly across your bones and flesh, your organs stuttering painfully, spurred on by blind instinct to keep going, keep breathing, keep uselessly pumping blood through your veins until the cold smothers them entirely and your insides begin to rot, rot, rot. There’s a name for that. You don’t remember it. Hah!

(you can’t do this again)

Stars.

You’re shaking. Every limb on your stupid body from the tips of your ears to each individual toe feels so overwhelmingly cold and hot and numb and tingly at the same time and you can’t handle it you can’t you can’t you need to get away from here-!!

A low keen escapes your gritted teeth. Please. Please please PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE-

YOU CAN’T DO IT AGAIN YOU WON’T YOU WON’T YOU WON’T YOU CAN’T GO BACK INTO THAT HOUSE YOU CAN’T WATCH THEM ALL DIE AGAIN YOU CAN’T LISTEN TO THE SOUND OF MIRABELLE’S CORPSE BEING SLAMMED AGAINST THE GROUND OVER AND OVER AND OVER-

WHY? WHY NOW? YOU WON, DIDN’T YOU? YOU WON AND YOU BEAT HIM AND AND HE WAS DEAD AND GONE AND YOU REMEMBERED YOUR FRIENDS AND YOU WERE WITH THEM AND YOU WERE FREE!! YOU WERE FREE!!! 

DID HE SEND YOU BACK SOMEHOW? NO, NO THAT DOESN’T MAKE ANY BLINDING SENSE!! HE WAS DEAD YOU KNOW HE DIED YOU KILLED HIM YOU ALL KILLED HIM AND HE WAS DEAD DEAD DEAD THE LOOPS SHOULD BE OVER YOU DID WHAT YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO DO YOU WERE OBEDIENT TO YOUR ROLE IN THIS PLAY YOU DEFEATED THE VILLAIN AND SAVED VAUGUARDE AND YET YOU’RE. STILL. HERE.

YOU’RE STILL HERE.

YOU’RE STILL HERE!!!!!

YOU’RE STILL HERE YOU’RE STILL HERE YOU’RE STILL HERE AND YOU!! CAN’T!!! DO THIS ANYMORE!!!!

CURSE THAT BLINDING MONSTER CURSE THIS IGNORANT COUNTRY CURSE THE HOUSE OF CHANGE AND CURSE THE ENTIRE STARS-FORSAKEN UNIVERSE FOR DOING THIS TO YOU!!!!!

You try feebly to swallow back the bile threatening to rise because you aren’t sure you could even roll over to maintain the dignity of not throwing up all over yourself! Ha! HAHAHAHA!!! 

Your face is wet and itchy and with every gasp of breath you choke on vomit and mucus and blood and you’re scared you’re scared you’re scared you can’t breathe you’re dying you have to be and—why does that scare you? 

You aren’t supposed to be afraid of dying, it isn’t in the script. Siffrin isn’t scared of anything. 

There’s no point in being afraid anyway. It’s not like death is ever going to blinding STICK. 

HAH!! You get it! You really get it now!!

You will never get to die! You will never get to rest! Never! You could take your dagger to your throat a hundred, thousand more times and it would never mean a damn thing!! Your suffering means nothing; YOU mean nothing. You are going to be trapped in this stars-forsaken prison, LOOPING and KILLING and DYING and ERODING UNTIL THE END OF TIME!!!

Or maybe—maybe you’re already dead! Maybe this—the sunny meadow, the fleeting touch, the victory, hesitant and hopeful and warm in your hands finally, finally, finally—is all just your own personal hell!!

Your limbs shiver, violently, freezing from the inside out despite the bright sun that logic tells you must be shining so lovingly in the distant and fuzzy world of the living which exists beyond the brim of your hat. You wish you could feel it. You wish you could be real. But you know, you know, the sun cannot warm you. You are detached, other. 

(you don’t remember what the sun feels like anyway)

(can’t miss what you don’t remember ever having~!)

Your throat constricts like a noose.

For some demented reason, you laugh. 

You’re just a pathetic ghost—the leftovers, of an unknown, unnamed, unloved traveler that died a long, long time ago—who will never be able to just. let. go! 

Stars.

Far away, dull waves of sensation pull you weakly back down to the corpse you inhabit against your will, though the cotton-like fog in your head makes reaching towards every thought and feeling a struggle akin to trudging through a river of sticky sweet syrup. 

The thought makes you want to gag. Your jaw barely twitches. It can’t. There is a smile, your smile, saccharine and painful and ugly and ridiculous stretching across your cheeks without your permission. You think you remember someone once warning you against making a face for too long, otherwise you’d be stuck like that forever! Hehe!

Your stomach protests the thought violently. Something hot and acidic burns your mouth and dribbles past your lips. You can’t help the manic laughter that stutters out in between desperate attempts to force air in and out of your lungs. Hahaha!! That can’t happen, stupid!

You breathe. And breathe. And breathe.

You don’t know when you sat up, nor when you pulled your knees to your chest or ducked your head between them—some childish attempt to hide your rot from The Universe. The only thing anchoring you to the ground is the fingers digging painfully into the sides of your stomach in some weird self-hug.

An uncomfortable pressure is building in your face and throat, a dam begging to finally break with every whimper that slips through against your will. It’s a familiar sensation, one that rears its ugly head every time you let your mind wander just a tad too long. You’re normally just much better at keeping a handle on it, at controlling yourself. HAH! You don’t feel in control of much of anything right now!! You can’t even stop laughing, even though the only joke in this stars-forsaken field is YOU!!!

You laugh

And laugh

And

          your      shoulder   flinches violently,

                                                                       there’s… 

Warmth,

Pressure, 

attempting to pull you out of the ball you’ve tucked yourself into

You

 grab blindly,

 chasing the feeling of warm,     warm,           warm, of life and love and everything   you   aren’t

Hands reach out clumsily, desperately, grabbing and pulling as if you could steal the life from everything around you until you can at least pretend to be a person again

You think there might be voices, loud and overlapping and somehow both so close and yet so far away. 

Arms wrap tentatively around you, broken you, rotting you, and the touch and the warmth and the gentleness is so overwhelming you feel like you’re suffocating but you can’t let go don’t let go please please don’t leave-

The last shred of your self control dissolves, and you wail.

You sob and shake and cry and scream, and yet still the warmth does not retreat, and you can only cry more.

You don’t remember the trip to the clock tower.

You’re sitting in a bed, staring blankly at the wall. You think you have been for awhile now.

Your body is… heavy. You struggle to think about it much more than that. Not that you try very hard.

You’re tired.

A clock ticks from somewhere distant. You don’t remember there being a clock in here. The tower’s big clock is broken, you’re pretty sure.

Something touches your forehead. It’s warm. 

You miss it when it leaves.

You blink. 

A few extra… somethings have been wrapped clumsily around your shoulders. You can’t think of the word. Not towels, or sheets… whatever.

One threatens to slip and fall down your back, but you don’t move.

They’re soft. The Kid probably put them on you. 

… 

…No, no that’s not… right…

…

Bonnie. Their name is Bonnie.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Your head feels light. 

Bonnie, Bonnie, Bonnie.

Bonnie, and Mirabelle, and Isabeau, and Odile. Your party. Your friends. 

You remember.

…?

…Oh. Right. You’re in the clock tower.

It’s a little uncanny, now. You haven’t looped back to.. whatever this town’s name is in awhile. You forgot how to, you’re pretty sure. What else is new.

…A lot, you realize. A lot is new. 

You stare at your hands resting limply in front of you. Like a puppet with snapped strings, or something similarly dramatic. It feels… unnatural.

You’re normally so careful about how you carry yourself, shoulders pulled taut and head held high, trying so hard to emulate the Siffrin of before, the Siffrin everyone expects you to be—instead of the actor playing them. 

(you suppose there’s no point, now)

A fuzzy blur moves in the top-left corner of your eye, your head lifting reflexively.

A beat too late, it seems, you realize it’s Isabeau standing at the edge of the bed, holding a bowl. Something you can’t parse flashes across his face so briefly you immediately question if it was there at all, before he shuffles to your right and tentatively sits criss-cross on his side of the bed. Ah. Right. You forgot the eye thing is still somewhat new to them. Sometimes you forget you ever even had two of them. You should probably smile or something to show him you appreciate the gesture like a normal person, but as it stands you don’t really know how to control your body right now. 

Oh, he’s talking isn’t he?

“-bon was pretty insistent that you eat all of it, or, uh, drink all of it, I guess, haha,” he titters, rubbing the back of his neck with an odd smile. “And, uh, I know you said you weren’t hungry but you-”

You… don’t remember saying that. You don’t remember talking to Isabeau at all, actually. Stupid.

“-ly believe that so maybe you should try to eat? Just a little?”

He smiles at you so kindly, even though you can see the way the edges of his lips wobble ever so slightly in politely hidden disgust. You appreciate him pretending, you suppose. That he doesn’t hate you. That you’re still a person.

You should pretend too, shouldn’t you? Take the out he’s giving you? 

Meet his eyes, tell a joke, laugh off the entire afternoon and go eat dinner with everyone else. That’s what Siffrin would do, probably.

Step one,

…

You. Can’t look at his eyes. They’re the windows to the soul, after all. And yours is a festering, pus-filled wound.

Part of you wants to tell him that it’s fine, he doesn’t have to pretend to care about you, but you know what you are. You’re a leech. A nasty, monstrous bloodsucker. You drain the life out of the people around you because it’s all you know how to do.

You think of arms, circling. Your stomach turns. You did that. You made him touch you, made him hold you together under the threat of you shattering to pieces otherwise, so that you could taint him with your vileness. 

Disgusting. Manipulative.

Phantom touches linger, still, on your back, your shoulders, your head. You hate it. You hate that you miss it. You hate that you crave it in the way you often crave that wine in the storage room. You don’t deserve their touch, their warmth. You would only ruin them like you’ve ruined everything else in your blinding life. You know this. You know this like you know the scent of scorched hair, like you know the sting of a glass shard, like you know the sound of a skull shattering on lightless stone you deserve nothing nothing nothing-

Fingers twitch helplessly, restless energy desperately craving direction, aching to tear and gut and rip skin and sinew from bone until you find whatever it is inside you that makes you so awful—so that you can turn to your friends with gore caked under your nails and say look! You’re safe from me now! We can pretend it didn’t happen! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!

…Stars. You are so blinding gross.

You ignore your own disgusting fantasies and instead force yourself to look back at him. He’s frowning, now, a crease in his brow that makes you want to crawl into a hole somewhere and die.

Some small, paranoid part of your brain whispers that he must know what you were thinking about. Another, similarly irrational part imagines him killing you for it. Wouldn’t that be nice? Wouldn’t that be novel? You think of his hands, built to protect, wrapping around your throat. Crushing your windpipe. Why kill yourself when you have friends who could carry that burden for you?

 You press your nails into your palm.

“...Sif? Are you still with me, bud?”

…

You rasp a quiet apology. It seems to appease him well enough.

“So. Food time?” 

You nod. 

He smiles.

Isabeau begins to slowly bridge the gap between you, bowl held carefully in open palms, as if afraid he might scare you away. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen him so gentle, and yet it seems to come to him naturally. Maybe you just haven’t been paying attention.

Rays of late afternoon sunlight stream in from the window somewhere behind your bed, highlighting the soft wisps of steam that float in the air between you. Light catches on his earrings as they sway back and forth, giving them a shine. 

You… think you remember wondering how his ears never seemed to hurt from holding the heavy jewelry all day. Maybe you even asked him about it, once. You can imagine he probably laughed and made a pun about it, like he usually does.

Right now, you can see the way his earlobes have slightly darkened from irritation. You think he might’ve mentioned sensitive skin once. Or.. something about an allergy.  The memory is too distant to be worth chasing.

Your eye drifts over to meet his for the first time since he walked in. Something in you feels off about being able to hold eye contact with him. You think he usually looks away by now. 

If he notices the way your hands tremble as you accept the offering, he is kind enough not to mention it.

It’s some kind of soup.

He talks as you eat, mostly casual yapping that you struggle to keep up with, though he thankfully seems content to talk enough for the both of you. The distant sound of Isabeau’s voice combined with the weight of the bowl in your lap and the heat of the soup on your tongue all help you feel a little more tethered to the planet. You don’t remember Bonnie ever making this before. You swirl the pieces of chopped carrot and onion and some other vegetables you can’t think of the names of around with your spoon. It’s good. You… can’t really muster up the energy to feel much else about it.

…

You had once thought that if you ever got to eat anything new, you would’ve cried out of happiness. You used to think a lot of stupid things, though. 

…

.  .  .

You.    breathe in, and out, and bring the bowl to your shaking lips, finishing off your meal. A pleasant warmth fills your stomach. You try to focus on that instead of the fog creeping back in from the recesses of your mind.

Isabeau grins at you. “You like the soup? Bonbon ran all over town getting the ingredients for it. Said it was their ‘Super-Special-Feel-Better-Soup.”

Ah. Cue pun. “I better tell them how soup-er good it is then.”

It was low-hanging fruit, and your voice is scratchy and ugly from crying and disuse, but Isa laughs boisterously anyway. Good. You haven’t totally lost the ability to be normal, it seems.

 “I’m glad you’re feeling a little better, buddy. We were all, uh, pretty worried about you. It was kinda scary, to be honest. ” He looks off to the side, rubbing the back of his neck again (you forgot about that nervous tic of his. You really haven’t been paying attention, have you?) For once, you can’t really be bothered to be that embarrassed by the coddling. He continues, then: “But! Eating is definitely a step in the right direction to getting your strength back! After all, we’ll need to be in tip-top shape for The King tomorrow! Gotta appear fierce,” he chuckles,  and       you 

   forgot           about   the                     King

          He…

                          He should be dead, right?

      you        killed   him,     you killed him you killed him you killed him you killed him you killed him you killed him you killed him you killed him you killed him you killed him you killed him

…

…

“...rin? Hey, Siffrin, can you look at me? Everything’s okay, you’re safe. It’s just our friends, buddy.” 

…

Isabeau is closer, now. His knee is only a few inches from touching your own. He looks upset again. You should probably care about that. 

Your head jerks slightly in a nod. You can’t… really think very well. It’s annoying.

Odile is leaning on the bedpost by your feet and Mirabelle stands nervously at your bedside. Oh. He did just say that, didn’t he? You don’t remember them coming in. You blink a few times and will the fuzzy edges of your vision to go away. They don’t.

“Are you feeling any better, Siffrin?” Mirabelle asks softly. You try to focus on her, but your eye slides vacantly across as if she isn’t even there. 

You hum in a way you vaguely hope is affirming, willing your useless face to smile. Judging by the kicked-puppy noise Mirabelle makes in return, you think it’s safe to say that you failed.

A few beats pass silently, everyone seemingly unsure of what to say. You rest your eye. You’re tired.

Until Odile breaks the peace with a sigh. “We likely don’t have long before Boniface finishes dinner. Anything that we don’t want heard by young ears needs to be said quickly.”

“R-right..! Uhm..” Mirabelle perches herself on the edge of the bed, careful not to touch you. “Siffrin… you know you can always talk to us, right? If-if something is wrong? I know that… that this mission has been really stressful, but we’re here to help, you know?”

You nod minutely, gaze dull and blank.

(hah. sure you can)

Another moment passes awkwardly. Mirabelle seems to deflate a little.

Isabeau clears his throat. “So. Sif. Siffrin. Siffarooni. Do you maybe wanna open up to your cool awesome friends about what happened earlier? Like maybe what caused it, at least? It’ll probably help you feel better!” 

You… shrug. “‘Dunno,” you mumble.

Oh. wait. You think you remember something like…

“I’m hungry…?” you guess, as if taking a test. And failing.

They all look at you weird. You pick at the skin around your nails. You wonder where your gloves are.

“I mean, we can ask Bonbon to bring you more soup obviously, but… you can’t really expect us to believe that’s it, buddy,” Isabeau says with a weak chuckle. Something uncomfortable churns in your gut. When that isn’t enough, he continues: “I don’t know how much you remember, but… you were really, really upset, Sif.” Odile scoffs in the background, as if the wording were absurd to her. “And even after you calmed down it was like.. like you were just dead to the world. We, uhm, had to help you walk back here..?” His voice ticks up at the end, testing your memory. You know he can tell by your stare that you do, in fact, not remember. You hate looks of pity you get in return.

Your skin crawls. You don’t want to talk about this anymore.

Your eye catches on a small Change figurine dancing on the dresser behind Isabeau’s head. On its face is a smug little crayon grin that, irrationally, ticks you off. 

For a moment, you’re overwhelmed by the feeling that there’s something off about the statue, before it hits you that you’re used to only seeing these blessed icons of Change as a thousand shards of porcelain strewn across the floor. 

…

You’ve been quiet for too long, again. You just.. need to get them to leave it alone.

“I’m just… stressed. About The King.” Saying his name makes nausea flood your stomach anew. You swallow harshly. That better be good enough.

Isabeau nods encouragingly, prompting you to keep going. Urgh. What else does he want from you??

You glance at the others and try half-heartedly to keep a glare off of your face. They’re all looking at you so intensely, so determined to make you gut yourself in front of them like livestock and let them examine the entrails. Your heart pounds violently in every inch of your body, telling you to run, run away, run some place where no one can ever look at you like that again. 

You breathe in, and out. You’re fine. You’re fine. They’ll give up eventually. They always do.

Mirabelle worries at her lip, hands clasped firmly at her chest. Isabeau and Odile share an unhappy look. You hold back an annoyed sigh.

Odile huffs, pinching the bridge of her nose. Why does she get to be upset? You’re the one being blinding interrogated. If they’d just leave you alone then everyone could be happy!

She opens her mouth; you stare unblinking, daring. “One thing. Just tell us one actual thing that-”

And you can’t help it—you laugh at her. A choked, hissing sound like a cornered animal with its tail between its legs, teeth bared and eye wild, a final defense tactic. There’s a thick lump in your throat. 

“Siffrin..!” Oooooh, Odile’s upset! You’re so scared~! Stars, can they really not just take a blinding HINT?

WHAT DO THEY WANT YOU DO SAY? WHAT DO THEY WANT YOU TO DO? YOU GET UPSET ONE TIME AND SUDDENLY THEY DECIDE THEY NEED TO KNOW EVERY LITTLE SECRET YOU KEEP? IT’S NONE OF THEIR BLINDING BUSINESS!

SHOULD YOU JUST TELL THEM THE TRUTH? IS THAT IT? WILL THAT SCARE THEM ENOUGH? WILL THAT MAKE THEM FINALLY STOP LOOKING AT YOU LIKE YOU’RE SOMETHING TO BE PITIED?

HAH! You should!! Let them feel a single DROP of the pain you’ve silently endured for hundreds of loops!!! Let them see what a monster you really are!! Warn them to just give up now, since none of you are ever getting out of here—!!

Your jaw snaps shut with a crack when you feel the tears running down your cheek.

…haaah.

You snap open your eye to varying expressions of shock and discomfort. Well!

You aggressively scrub the tears off of your face (ignoring the way your limbs jerk awkwardly), ready to pretend that didn’t happen. Your head hurts. You feel like you’re floating in your own body. You really should’ve ended this loop a long time ago.

A fist pounds loudly against the bedroom door. You flinch. Someone yells something from the other side, though you can’t make it out over the ringing in your ears. 

Everyone is staring at you. Mirabelle looks close to tears herself. Odile’s glare studies you for a long moment, before quietly muttering something in Isabeau’s ear and pivoting towards the door. Bonnie momentarily appears on the other side, before they both disappear with a click. 

You sniffle. Snot dribbles down your face anyway, so you cave and wipe it with your sleeve. You hate crying. You hate this.

“...Sif?” Isabeau asks tentatively.

You look up at him. Whatever your face is doing makes him hesitate, but only briefly. He lies his left hand on his chest emphatically—his right, you realize, is holding one of Mirabelle’s, rubbing gentle circles into her knuckles. You imagine it must be comforting. 

He offers you a smile. “Breathe with me?”

…Oh. Right. That’s a thing that used to calm you down.

You… never realized anyone had noticed.

…

You follow his lead, placing a shaking hand over your heart. It’s still pounding as if you’d run a marathon. Isabeau starts, taking long, slow breaths in, holding, and exhaling. You and Mirabelle copy, though it takes you a few frustrating attempts to fall into the familiar rhythm: In, 2, 3, 4; hold, 2, 3, 4; out, 2, 3, 4. 

In… and out.

In… and out.

You let yourself fall into the quiet lull of following your friends’ breathing. 

When you open your eye you feel… not particularly calm, but a little less like doing something stupid. Though you can’t name the last time in which that breathing thing worked at all, so. Small victories or whatever. 

Odile returns shortly after with Bonnie in tow, a steaming new bowl of soup in the former's hands and a precariously full cup of water in the latter's. The preteen’s tongue sticks out of the corner of their mouth in concentration, brow furrowed and gaze steeled, as if spilling a single drop would be a matter of utmost offense. Impressively, they succeed in their balancing act as they shove the water in your face. You, on the other hand, immediately lose several sips to your lap before the cup is even fully in your grasp.

They then snatch the empty bowl from your lap, inspecting it thoroughly.

Everyone lets you breathe for a minute while you drink your water, the cool liquid soothing your throat. You’re grateful for the reprieve.

“So… so you liked the soup, Frin?” They ask timidly to the bowl, only risking occasional glances in your direction. “I, um, couldn’t make it the right way. ‘Cuz you’re supposed to use beans, and put them in water for a whole night, but I didn’t wanna wait ‘till tomorrow to give it to you, ‘cuz you feel bad now, so…” They pause, abruptly glaring at you, cheeks puffing out. “So next time you should tell me before if you’re gonna get sick so I can be READY, you DUMMY!!!” They plop down on their bed next to you and kick their legs angrily. 

“I think we could all agree it would be far more beneficial for this to not be a repeated scenario at all, actually,” Odile adds absently from your bedpost, writing in her book. Isabeau winces a little. 

...Ah. There it is. 

At least someone’s honest about how annoying you are to deal with. You.. shouldn’t be surprised, really. You’re not. It’s fine.

The persistent buzzing under your skin doesn’t seem to agree and abruptly becomes about ten times more annoying. Stars. You can’t go five blinding seconds without freaking out, can you? And over what? Finally being told the truth? Oh, Poor Siffrin. So fragile, so pathetic.

You avoid the urge to claw your arms open and instead turn your attention to picking at the edge of your blanket. Your eye feels heavy. You kind of wish everyone would go away so you could sleep. Isn’t that silly? You… don’t know when the last time you’ve actually slept was. Unless you count being frozen. Your body resets every loop and all that, so you don’t really need to rest. But.. it’d be nice, wouldn’t it? Your eye droops shut…

…

…

Someone is snapping in front of your face.

Your head jerks back up without your input, much to your displeasure. Can’t they leave you alone?? Didn’t they hear you say you wanted to nap?

Oh. Wait. That was just in your head. They can’t read your thoughts, you’re pretty sure. Stupid.

“-ou hear us? Siffr-”

Ahhh they’re talking again. Why… can’t you focus?

You blink, blink, blink and look at… someone’s lips. The Researcher. You can’t remember her name, even though you’re pretty sure you knew it a few moments ago. 

(you think that should probably upset you)

She’s squinting at you in what you think might be anger. Probably because you aren’t listening to her.

Would she yell at you? Would she hurt you? She should. Rational, perceptive. She knows what you’ve done. She knows what you deserve. She knows she knows she knows she knows she knows-!!

Look at you!! Accepting the help from these people, these STRANGERS, wallowing in the grave you know damn well you are never going to dig yourself out of, content to drench yourself in their blood over, and over, and OVER AGAIN—because that makes it all worth it, right??? It’s fine, that you keep hurting them!! It’s fine that your laziness, your negligence has gotten them all killed more times than you could count!! It’s fine, because at least they’re here with you!! At least their blood staining your hands reminds you that you’re real!!! 

But she knows!! You’re covered in their blood and she- she can see it too!! She can see what you’ve done, what a monster you are, and she’s going to tell everyone and they’re going to HATE YOU-

(you    feel           a              tug          on-

Your            arm       jerks towards your chest. Your hand tingles.

…What? What?

Someone    grabbed you?

You hear a squeak from beside you, and the hand is gone.

You look at her. At Mirabelle.

“S-sorry! Siffrin! You just- you were scratching your arm?? Really hard?? It looked.. painful,” She worries at her lip. You blink slowly at her. You were? What.. were you thinking about again..?

Her eyes widen somehow more. “Sorry, I know you don’t usually like touch! And- and it probably made you feel worse, just, I thought-”

What…?

Did she… think you were offended by her touching you…?

“What..?” You mumble. It seems effective enough in stopping Mirabelle’s spiral in its tracks. You take a second to get your sluggish thoughts in order.

“I don’t.. mind touch…?” You tilt your head. It feels oddly heavy, like lead.

Various shocked expressions stare back at you. 

…?

You’ve known for a while that none of them want to touch you, but that’s just because they know there’s something wrong with you. It makes sense. 

                                                                                       (you think       of warm, calloused       hands,  cradling your face, but they    disappear as quickly as they came. you shiver.)

You… don’t know what to say. Should you be apologizing..? 

You awkwardly duck your head, looking at the aforementioned arm where dark, overlapping scratch marks have rapidly bloomed. You’re kinda surprised you didn’t draw blood, with how long your nails can get. You miss your gloves.

Isabeau shakes himself from his stupor the fastest, an exaggerated pout on his lips. “Oh man, you’re telling me we could’ve been having Sif-included group hugs this whole time? We have a lot to make up!” He laughs. Something about it sounds off. It’s unnerving.

You stare at him. Why would he want that?

Whatever expression that is on your face makes his own smile falter just a bit, eyebrows crinkling slightly.  “Only if you’d want to, of course! I know these muscles can be pretty intimidating,” He lightly flexes, striking a pose.

The corners of your mouth tug upwards a little on their own, the ghost of a laugh exhaling through your nose. Isabeau grins like he’d just won a prize. 

“I, uhm.. wouldn’t mind hugs,” You mumble, staring at your blanket. Why did you say that. Why did you say that. Why did you say that. 

Mirabelle gasps excitedly. “Really???” Her eyes light up in the way that you think is normally reserved for talking about her book characters. (Not that you really remember~!) You. nod.

Bonnie scrunches up their face. “Then why do you always jump? It’s weird,” they grumble.

“Bonnie..!” Mirabelle cries. “It’s not weird! It’s just… um,” She clasps her hands under her chin. “Well, whenever we touch you, you tend to look… scared? And-and there’s nothing wrong with that! But we didn’t want to make you uncomfortable or overwhelm you.” Her face falls even further. “But… we should have asked… I’m sorry.”

You.. don’t know what to make of that. Stars, you’re too tired for this.  You duck your face into your cloak… that you aren’t wearing. Urgh. “It’s fine,” you say, “I.. think I’m just not used to it..?” you shrug halfheartedly. “That’s probably why I jump, I guess.” You don’t really see why it matters.

The Researcher- Odile her name is Odile stupid- looks down at you. She adjusts her glasses, wearing an expression someone else might call concern,

                                                                   (but you know better)

                                                                                                           and says, “I see. It seems we may have made an… unfortunate assumption. Apologies, Siffrin.” 

“‘s fine,” You repeat. 

You hear shuffling to your side, and look up to see Bonnie standing next to your bed, determined. “So, so if you’re not used to it, should I warn you? So then you know it’s coming, and you can be ready for it! And then you won’t get scared! Right?” 

Worth a shot, you suppose. “Sure, Bonnie.”

They throw their fists into the air. “OKAY!!” they shout, making your head spin. “I am going to touch you now!!!”

They throw their entire fist forward as if moving to throw a punch and oh stars please no your body already hurts—only to freeze an inch away from colliding with your fragile stomach. Carefully, they stick out their pinkie finger, and very gently poke you. When that doesn’t make you shatter into a thousand pieces, they poke you a few more times normally. On your chest, your shoulder, your forehead (ow), until you stop flinching entirely. You can hear Isabeau suppressing a chuckle from your other side. 

Bonnie leans back, looking very pleased with themself. “See??? You stopped jumping!! I was right!!” they yell, hopping in place. Ouch. Your head throbs.

You release your breath with a stuttering sigh. Tingles dance up and down your body, making you wiggle in place a little. You flex your toes, stretch your limbs, and crack your neck so hard Isabeau cringes. It… feels good, you think. A little more real than you’ve felt in awhile.

Odile shoots them a nod of approval, studying you. “Very smart, Boniface,” she says, plucking her pen from her pocket and writing in her book again.

Bonnie cheers again, pumping their fists in the air. “Yeah!!! I’m super smart, the super smartest!!!”

The preteen’s enthusiasm is ever-infectious as Isabeau joins them with a “Yeah Bonbon!” and the pair share a celebratory high-five so loud, both you and Mirabelle briefly jolt in surprise. The latter quickly dissolves into giggles as Isabeau immediately clutches the offended hand to his chest, weeping dramatically like a sorrowful maiden. To your surprise, you find yourself weakly laughing with her.

As you all calm down from the silliness, Mirabelle meets your eye with a gentle smile. She glances down at your hands resting in your lap before looking back up at you, gaze hopeful. “May I…?” she asks softly. 

..?

She… wants to touch you? Even though Bonnie already did? Stars… A touch of heat rushes to your cheeks as you nod, suddenly having a very difficult time making eye contact. Instead, you focus on how she carefully, tenderly, takes your hands into her own.

Each point of contact prickles sharply against your skin. You think you’re starting to get used to it, though.

You’ve held her hands before, but it’s an entirely different sensation without the barrier of your gloves. Her battle-calloused fingers cradle your own protectively against her warm palms, thumbs slowly caressing the tiny scars that litter your knuckles. You shiver involuntarily. Stars.

Mirabelle takes a deep breath, seeming to prepare herself for something. You try not to tense up.

“Siffrin… I’m sorry," she says.

You frown. Why would she need to apologize? You’re the one who keeps making everyone baby you.

“It’s just… you always seem so unbothered by everything, you know? So mysterious! And cool!” She shakes your hands in hers a little for emphasis as she speaks. It’s cute. “So I… I never really thought to ask you how you were doing,” she admits softly.

You… don’t know what to say to that. It’s not her job to worry about you. She’s the one with the world on her shoulders, after all. “You don’t need to worry about me, Mira.”

She pouts at you, annoyed. What??

There’s movement to your right, and you turn your head to see Isabeau scooting closer to your side. His cheeks are dark. “Can I, uh, hug you, Sif?” 

…Oh. Your lips part slightly to answer, but no words come out. You… settle for a nod, ducking your head. 

He wraps an arm around your shoulders. You stiffen, briefly, before… hesitantly leaning into his side. Warm. Comfy. You could fall asleep like this.

“You know we like, want to help you, right? Because you’re our friend? And we love you?” He says, like it’s obvious. Like he’s telling you that the sun is bright and water is wet. A simple, immutable, fact. You’re almost too distracted by the soothing lull of his chest rumbling as he speaks to even register the words.

They… love you?

…

He’s… probably just trying to make you feel better so he can finally leave. He’s spent so much time today dealing with you that could have been used on literally anything else.

…

…But. 

You’re so tired. You don’t want to be alone anymore.

…

Just this once. You want to let yourself believe it. 

They love you. They’re your friends, and they love you. And you love them.

You’d forgotten.

…

Mira looks at you, worried. “Siffrin…? You’re crying again…” 

Ah..? You touch your cheek. It comes away wet. 

Isa holds you tighter, rubbing soothing circles into your shoulder. You turn your head to hide your good eye in his chest. Mira squeezes your hands gently, grounding.

“...I missed you guys,” You whisper. 

…

You sit like that for a little bit, listening to the sound of Isa’s heartbeat and letting yourself cry until the last of your tears dry up. 

“Ah! I forgot! Can I, um, heal your arm? Please?” Mira frets, ripping her hands from yours to hover near your scratches. You know you should probably decline; she needs to save her energy for tomorrow and it barely hurts anyway. But just thinking about saying all that makes you want to sleep for the next 10 years, so instead you nod. 

Cool healing craft washes over your body in waves, and in a few moments it’s like your scratches were never there in the first place. Erased from time. Something about it makes you frown. 

Odile clears her throat, brow scrunched in thought and mouth an unhappy line. She glances at Isa, who gives her a subtly pleading look in return. It seems they’ve been having a silent conversation for a bit now. The way she studies you makes you want to squirm. 

Eventually, she seems to give up for the time being. She drops her arms to her sides with a short huff. 

“Right. Well. If you insist on not telling us what is actually wrong,” She squints at you. Stars, this again? “Because don’t think for a second I actually believe this is just about the King, young one,” Her tone is even, but you can hear her trying to pick you apart in her head. You feel yourself bristle a little. 

Her tone softens. “Then… just know you can talk to one of us if you change your mind, I suppose.”

“Yeah! We’re here for you!” Isa grins.

…Oh. She’s. Not gonna push it?

“Well, not for much longer. All bets are off after we beat the King, so you better decide soon,” She smirks. You think she’s trying to lighten the mood.

…

…hah.

…

Your skin buzzes. You think you can hear ticking again.

The rest of the evening is… nice. It’s really nice. Your friends insist on eating dinner in the bedroom, so soon enough Bonnie’s dishes have been spread out across a picnic blanket on the floor. 

Bonnie eventually reminds you (yells at you) to eat your second bowl of soup before it gets cold, chef’s orders. It is cold, a little, but it’s still good. It’s really, really good. So good that it must show on your face, because Bonnie insists on giving you thirds “Since you like my cooking so much!” they say. You devour that bowl, too, and for the first time in a long, long time, your stomach feels full.

Your friends touch you casually throughout the night, always making sure you know it’s coming first and giving you ample time to decline. You never do. It’s overwhelming most of the time, but you can’t bring yourself to pull away. 

They love you. They love you, they love you, they love you. You repeat it like a mantra. Like a wish. They love you, they love you, they love you. You don’t ever want to forget. Never Again.

(You ignore the feeling of wrongness that still lingers in your bones. You know. You know it can’t last. But you want to live in this dream. Just a little longer) 

“Hey Bonbon, got any 4’s?” Isa says next to you, leaning towards the preteen in dramatic anticipation. Despite how long this round has been going, he’s somehow only managed to discard one set of cards. 

“Nope! Go fish!!” Bonnie retorts. 

“Not again!!” 

“Yes again!!! Get fishing!!!!”

Isa puts his hands up in surrender, obediently adding a new card to his (very large) pile. He could have won a long time ago, but you think he’s probably trying to let Bonnie win. Unfortunately for both of them, you have been looking at almost everyone’s cards. It’s not your fault they’re all so bad at hiding them, really.

You blink slowly from where you’re sitting against the pillows and smile to yourself, waiting for your turn where you can deal the killing blow. 

Mira puts down a set of cards, and…

…

“Sif? You awake buddy?” 

Huh?

You reluctantly open your heavy eyes. Everyone stares at you with amusement, save Bonnie, who just looks confused. Ah. You fell asleep. 

“HAH!” Bonnie points at you. “You dropped your cards!”

You look down at your lap, and sure enough your last three cards have been revealed to the whole world. Oops. 

“Well Sif, you snooze, you lose.” Isa nods very solemnly.

“And you snost and lost!!” Bonnie tacks on.

“That’s… not a word, Boniface.” 

“It is now!!”

You should probably say something funny… but stars above, you are so exhausted. Your eyelid flutters shut again. 

“Aww… sleepy Siffrin,” Mira giggles.

“Would you like us to move downstairs so you can get some rest, Siffrin?” Odile asks. 

Your eye shoots open as you shake your head so fast your headache immediately returns with a vengeance. You don’t want them to leave. You need all of them to stay right here. 

“You guys can keep playing. It won’t bother me,” You say, with an edge of desperation you can’t seem to quite tamper down.

Your friends seem more or less unfazed by your clinginess and easily agree. You don’t know why they’re putting up with you, honestly. You’re too tired to look a gift horse in the mouth.

But… you want to keep them close. Just this once. 

(maybe… maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. living like this. in the loops, with your friends)

(maybe one day you’ll even work up the courage to tell them)

As you lie down to sleep, mind drifting hazily among the background of hushed voices belonging to the people you love, you let yourself feel… happy.

(It isn’t enough.)

When you wake up in the night it is not with a cry. It is not with screaming and thrashing, not warm tears and warmer arms holding together what is left of you. 

No.

You wake quietly, small, trembling, and stare at the unchanging ceiling above, just as you have hundreds of times before. 

As you study the knots and swirls in the rafters that have long since been memorized, you finally realize another simple, immutable, fact:

It. isn’t. enough.

They’re your friends, they love you, and it simply, damningly, isn’t enough for you.

You think, perhaps, you should be afraid. Or angry. Though those thoughts feel as distant as the bed you lie on.

Instead, you are… calm.

It is the sort of calm that settles, deeply and entirely, into every inch of you; the kind that gently lulls a freezing man to finally rest his weary body in the snow. It’s okay, it whispers, this is what is meant to be. 

The pins on your cloak are being fastened before you’ve even realized you’re out of bed. You aren’t sure where you’re going. You just know you need to leave. 

(Part of you, distantly, fights wildly against this notion—that primal instinct to survive you had thought had long since been snuffed out—you pay it no mind)

Your hat sits on the dresser across from your bed, gloves resting neatly atop the brim. Next to them, the Change figurine stares at you. You put on your things and resist the urge to knock the statue onto the floor and shatter it. The thought strikes you as odd. You aren’t even angry, right now. It just feels natural for it to be broken.

A blink, and the door is in front of you. You turn the knob,

“Siffrin?” 

And. freeze.

“What’s wrong?”

Your voice catches in your throat. You can’t bring yourself to look at her. 

(please stop me)

“Just. need some air,” a voice chokes out.

It’s silent for a long moment as she watches you. Part of you is tempted to run. She wouldn’t be able to catch you. 

You think she hums. Your ears are ringing. Your vision is blurry. You can't quite breathe right.

“...Very well then. Don’t be too long, we have a big day tomorrow.”

You nod, though the words seem to have drifted right through your ears and into the open air. The door opens with a light squeak. You usually push down on the knob to keep it quiet, but seem to have forgotten this time. No one stirs behind you, anyway, so you step into the hallway—

But a light catches your eye.

…

You look back, slowly. The candle on her nightstand has been lit, the one she always keeps close for nights when her insomnia acts up and she wants to do some late-night reading. It’s usually a book about Vauguarde, and she only reads it when she thinks everyone else is asleep. You used to want to ask her about it. 

…You. don’t know why you remember that. You shouldn’t remember that.

(why now? why now? why now?)

She puts on her glasses, pulling a book from her bag and settling back into wherever she must have left off with only a glance towards you, frozen in the doorway. You think the cover says something about the old Vauguardian monarchy.

Your hand is on the doorknob.

…

You. 

You look at your friends, for a moment. 

They’re splayed out across their bed like a starfish, snoring loudly, feet hanging off the edge due to their habit of kicking in their sleep.

She’s fallen asleep with that book she likes still in her hands, though you know she’s already read it front to back several times. 

He’s probably overheating under the extra thick blanket he found, because he knows you get cold at night and you usually steal the covers anyway.

…

…

…

“I’m sorry,” you think.

…

You stagger down the stairs. Through the hallway. The front door looms over you. Your body stops.

Absently, your fingers brush the brim of your hat, though you can't seem to quite feel it. You’re shaking, a bit. Or maybe a lot. Hard to tell.

For a moment, you just stand there, rocking back and forth lightly.

You remember… something.

It’s not the right context, not quite, but…

You leave your hat on the table next to the door as you go.

The moment you step outside, something inside you settles into finality.

(you can’t do this anymore.)

You don’t stop at the porch. You don’t stop in the village. Your legs carry you on instinct past the farm and the library and the Change statue, down the tiny path at the edge of town you barely remember ever taking. You think you made a wish here, once. You don’t remember what it was.

With every step you take away from your friends the weight pressing down on your chest gets louder. It sound’s like a clock’s bell. You keep walking. 

(was it worth it?)

You think, in the back of your mind, about how long it has been since you’ve seen the stars. Siffrin does not look up. 

(to watch him disappear?)

You used to wonder if It was still watching you. You had once thought The Universe would reward you, if you put on a good enough show. Hah.

(to destroy the only hope you had left?)

The favor tree barely comes into focus before you’re throwing yourself onto the ground in front of its oversized roots.

(to remember the people you love, but can never know?)

You look up. The massive canopy sprawls far above your head, blocking most of the moonlight and casting you in the tree’s dark shadow.

(to be held?)

You can’t see any stars through the leaves. It’s going to storm again.

(to be consoled?)

You’re tired. You’re scared. You wish you were back in bed at the clock tower. You wish Odile would scold you for taking so long. She’s waiting for you.

(to be told “we love you, we love you, we love you”?)

Your head hurts. You feel like you're drifting outside of your body.

(...)

A heavy gust of wind shakes the tree. A leaf carries itself on the breeze and lands on the ground in front of you, an ugly, bug-eaten thing.

(...but it never mattered, did it?)

Siffrin picks it up with shaking hands and clutches it to your chest like a lifeline.

(you were always going to end up here.)

“Please… please lead me…” you whisper.

Tears stream down your cheeks and drip, drip, drip onto your knees. You rock yourself back and forth, a pathetic final bow.

You… you should be thinking about your friends. Your journey. Your life. The loops. anything.

..You don’t think you have the energy anymore.

“Please lead me…. please lead me..” Your breath hitches. “Please, someone, anyone,” you cry. “Help me!”

There is light, and,

(you think about strong hugs and calloused hands and warm soup and watchful eyes and-

There is a body under the favor tree. 

It is not yours. Not anymore. 

It sits at your feet. Cold and stiff and soaked from the rain. 

Underneath it, the ground has cracked, a dozen thin fissures spider-webbing outward in every direction, expanding. Blinding light shines through in a shade that doesn’t exist.

There’s people coming around the corner behind you. You can’t move.

Someone yells. More quickly follow. 

Passively, you wonder if they’re going to attack you. If they think you to be a monster that killed their friend. (aren’t you?)

“SIFFRIN-!” 

You

Turn around

The Housemaiden is running towards you, hand already reaching out and sparking with craft. Tears run down her face. The others are close behind. They… came to find you. 

You whimper.

“Mira…?” you whisper, afraid your voice might break the illusion.

They came to find you.

The ground trembles under your feet. 

They came to find you..!

You step once, twice toward your friends as the cracks follow close behind, that unnatural shade of light nearly blinding you when you attempt a glance. It scares you.

You break into a run. The rifts nip at your heels, growing larger, brighter. You want your friends. They can help. You need their help. You- you don’t know what you did, but you don’t want it! You don’t want this!!

Mira is only feet away, now. You reach out to her, desperately, as if to say I’m here! I’m sorry! Please help me! Please hold me, please love me, please please please-!

Her hand   

                    passes        

                                    through  

                                                                yours

                                                                           like you were never even there.

You stand, with your arm outstretched. Reaching         out               to                         

nothing. 

The world is crumbling around you, piece by piece. You think you can hear crying, behind you. You don’t want to look.

You stare at your empty hand.

Something                   guides your head to turn.

 The favor tree is gone. The whole world is gone.

There are only your friends, cradling a corpse in a darkless void. 

And then there is nothing at all.

(you feel a tug on your stomach)