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Who are you?
You would have laughed at a question like that, before. Before all of this, you were the Heart, the emotional side, the honest one. One who took it upon himself to tell the Mind and Soul everything they knew, deep down, but didn’t want to acknowledge.
Acknowledge that they are human, real, emotional; just like you. You are not you. You are a falsehood, according to Mind. Mind promises you that there is more, buried beneath. Beneath the reflection of Soul, there is some trace of the truth. Truth he must bring out by force, if necessary.
Necessary evil, he calls it; blades cutting through your hair, your wings. Wings you should not have, sprouting from your skin. Skin covered in the scales Mind leaves everywhere in his wake, his relentless assault against the disease.
Disease takes root within you, it always has.
Has he really not given up on you yet? Yet it is not you he is doing this for; at least he doesn’t see it like that. That horrible way he talks to you, like you are merely a shell, a vessel, carrying what is left of the true Heart– a vessel for something more real than you.
You were told the same thing by Soul, you remember, many, many times. Times you spoke in apathy, after the shot.
Shot to wound, not kill, never kill, only injure, see his blood stain your hands. Hands shaking as you still held the gun. Gun sparkling in the sun, bright not with joy but rage. Rage of the Soul, directed at you.
You lose sight, and yet you See.
See everything, as it could be and as it is. Is it too late for you all?
All you had was Mind, and he left. Left you to rot in your bedroom, pushed you away, never gave you the opportunity to talk to him; you don’t know if he ever saw your confession for what it was.
Was it as you remember, or has it all become muddied in your memory?
Memory cannot save you, even as you cling to it. It burns you, chasing after it without rest. Rest can happen once you reach your goal.
Goal, you? You sound like Soul.
Soul was kind, soft. Soft hands, holding yours, brushing through your hair, holding your chin– his hands around your neck. Neck aching with bruises you wore proudly. Proudly leaning into him, grateful he could show his love for you, kiss you, lay in bed with you every night.
Night, when the moon and stars shine, he used to drag you outside and tell you about them, tracing constellations onto your hands.
Hands held tight together, in love, in prayer. Prayer to something greater, someone that will save you, freedom from your relentless cycle of suffering. Suffering in His name, Atlas, holding up the sky, keeping it all together. Together you would die and be reborn.
Reborn in His image. Image of a man none of you have ever met, hung on the wall, watching. Watching the fighting, the friendship, the joy, the hate.
Hate sickens you, now. Now you can hardly stand the feeling, you don’t even know where to direct it. It should be you who suffers, that is what you are for. For all the things Mind and Soul have done for you, this is the one truth. Truth that you are rotten, you are wrong, and they must show you who you are.
Are they right? Right, they must be, this is what you are made to do. Do nothing, sit still, let the water run its course. Course laid out ahead of you, all you must do is follow.
Follow, follow, follow. Follow along as they lead you to their rooms, explain the way they know things to be with an air of absolute confidence and ease. Ease you into it all, and before long you’re drowning.
Drowning isn’t all that bad, really. Really all you need to do is let the water run over you, into you, embrace it, feel it burn you from the inside out, cleansing you– a baptism.
Baptism of fire, tines splitting your skull open, reducing your eyes to a useless wet mush that pops out of your sockets and slides down your cheeks alongside your tears– the last tears you would ever shed.
Shed scales litter Mind’s bed– he tries to clean it as best he can, but he can’t stand leaving you alone.
Alone, you can think. Think about Mind, Soul, try to ignore the burning pain in your back, knowing it’s only a matter of time before they regrow– an endless cycle; the definition of insanity, Mind once told you, is doing the same thing, over and over.
Over time, you grow accustomed to him again.
Again, he tears out your wings, digging his hands in in an attempt to pull out the roots. Roots wind around your heart, squeezing, you gasp and shake and try to push him away, but you can scarcely move these days.
Days pass, he holds you, feeds you, gets you anything he thinks you could want, whispers endless apologies and promises.
Promises he will fix this, fix you.
You are broken.