marcato | (no subject)

(no subject)

WELCOME TO YOUR PRIVATE CHANNEL, SATURNSCHILD. FOR SECURE COMMUNICATION, USE 001.00.653.90 * SATURNSCHILD has joined 001.00.653.90 <saturnschild> Hello. <saturnschild>** I'm listening.

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[In his home world, Aunamee had only one friend. His name was Daniel, ironically enough, although he wasn't very similar to the Daniel he knows in this place -- he was very quiet, very serious, and whenever he smiled, it was a fleeting, pathetic little thing that was gone again in an instant. Daniel's parents had kept him in a dark closet whenever he misbehaved, and while Aunamee knew he didn't deserve it, the years of abuse molded him into someone he had an easier time understanding.

For Aunamee, normal people are confusing. Broken people make sense.]

What became of him?

[Her biological father, a lifelong alcoholic, had died of cirrhosis while Amanda served time in prison for a crime she didn't commit.]

Doesn't matter. Point is, I replaced him. Twice.

[Once with John, whom Aunamee met in the form of a very convincing imitation, and once with the Fog God, the 'mother' whom Aunamee also fervently serves. So Amanda doesn't need to mention either replacement by name.]

Edited 2019-12-04 22:38 (UTC)

[He thinks about his old god, how it discarded him when he was no longer useful. If his dream was to be believed, it had lured him to his demise, twisting his thoughts until they told him the wrong things.

He thinks about the Fog God's reassuring words in his ear.]

No. You corrected the mistake.

Edited 2019-12-04 23:12 (UTC)

[He's not fucking getting it, or so it seems to her; he doesn't understand that she's essentially a needy, pathetic child without a real self to speak of. Someone who'll redefine herself as needed to conform to what her new parent wants of her, because she's a hollow shell who'll collapse under the weight of her own instability without their explicit approval.

Yet despite the reasons for her clinging, the fact remains that all her adoration for her parental figures is entirely real. That her capacity for genuine love in and of itself signifies her full personhood is an epiphany she may never have.]

I'm nothing. Inside. There's nothing there but emptiness, so I fill it with them.

I'm empty too, Amanda.

[It's a different kind of emptiness, but emptiness nonetheless. One almost entirely emotionless, and the other overly emotional to a genuinely unhealthy degree. ]

Perhaps that's why I'm so fond of you.

[She'd be more touched if she weren't such a fucking wreck...but hearing that he's fond of her does make her feel at least marginally less like shit.]

So where does that leave us?