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russenoire · 1 year

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that scene in season 1 where teruki hanazawa exorcises ekubo mid-sentence... and shigeo's eyes widen in shock?

i really want to talk about it, specifically the explosion meter accompanying it.

normally, when the teenager's emotions aren't obvious to the audience, that meter relays to us a sense of what he is actually feeling. but we cannot trust the meter here. we see it jump up a few points at teru's 'psycho wave' sending the sleazy ghost to the shadow realms, and remain steady at 50% upon shigeo's recollections of the spirit's unsavory nature. the boy outright tells teru that he isn't bothered. and it's funny!

but shigeo isn't being honest with himself here either.

his face briefly gives his feelings away before resettling into its normal flat affect. (to be fair, what he's really feeling isn't teru's business. this kid is trying to provoke a fight out of him, after all.) after he's basically tortured into exploding, shigeo spends three hours in the pouring rain, searching everywhere for ekubo.

three. hours.

these are not the actions of someone who isn't bothered. letting himself get drenched to the point of sickness,

even though he literally holds the power to shield himself from it,

reads to me like unconscious self-punishment for allowing all this to happen.

after a large chunk of his short life spent denying and fearing them for good reason, shigeo's first impulse is often not to use his psychic powers -- even after his integration at the story's end. i wish this was discussed more, because many watchers cannot fathom why this boy with world-breaking psychic abilities would ever refuse to use them.

also: the explosion meter lying to us / representing shigeo's detachment from his own emotions alexithymia may occur elsewhere in the series as well, especially when he's not close to an explosion; i'm reminded of the tiny dent ritsu's provocation of him makes in it a few episodes later.

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zee-rambles · 1 year

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——————-

Let us help…

First I Prev I Next

Save ROTTMNT

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whumpypepsigal · 2 months

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Halo s02e05: “You’re all I have left.”

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sarah3210 · 1 month

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My mind just had to think of this painful thought lol but besides Hera blaming herself for Kanan's death, I wonder if Ezra and Sabine do too. Ezra because he was in charge of the mission and Sabine thinking maybe if she got there quicker.

#star wars rebels #kanan jarrus #hera syndulla #ezra bridger #sabine wren #Guilt #Self blame

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furiousgoldfish · 2 years

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socializing after you’ve been abused:

am I being useful right now?

useful enough not to be kicked out or considered a burden?

what if I ruin everything with my presence

is there anything else I can do to make sure everyone approves of me?

I haven’t done anything useful in a while, everyone must be mad at me

why is everyone ignoring me right now? am I being abandoned?

are they about to leave me? how did I deserve this?

I’m going to be alone, forever, I’m beyond help

everyone must have hated me all along and now they’re happier without me

I can feel them thinking horrible things about me. They must think how I’m stupid and don’t deserve to be here.

Is anyone seeing thru me? Can they tell I’m scared? I have to hide it better.

I’d do anything for reassurance that things are okay but if I ask for it I will be seen as annoying and too demanding so I can’t do that

It was a mistake trying to fit in, I’m ruining everything, this would all be better if only I wasn’t here

They’re all secretly blaming me for everything bad that happened, and I too am thinking of all the ways I could have stopped it and didn’t, it’s my fault

I’m being left behind, I don’t even understand what is going on right now and nobody is explaining anything to me. They want me to be left out.

I just want to be away from this, I can’t handle looking at everyone else being close to each other while I’m dying for this and will never have it

Was I wrong for thinking I could do this? Was I stupid for imagining for a second I would feel okay talking to people?

I’ve said something wrong and I’m embarrassed and ashamed. I can only imagine what everyone is thinking about me right now. It hurts so much I wish I wasn’t alive.

I just want to be alone again, and I’m terrified of being alone again.

#abuse symptoms #trauma symptoms #social anxiety #social abuse #trouble making connections #struggling to socialize #struggling to communicate #self deprecating thoughts #projecting awful things into everyone else's thoughts #believing the worst #self critical #self blame #toxic shame #toxic guilt #did anyone ever resolve this #i keep away from groups of people for these reasons

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howifeltabouthim · 4 months

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That he had hunted me so quietly, that I had allowed my neck to get caught in the teeth of something stupid.

Lisa Taddeo, from Animal

#shame #self blame #self recriminations #wolf in sheep's clothing #predator #victimized #negative self talk #quotes #lit #words #excerpts #quote #literature #lisa taddeo #animal #unassuming #deceptive

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serenityquest · 4 months

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#gaslighting yourself #self blame

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livingforthewhump · 2 years

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Could you write a prompt with a whumpee with a leg injury (maybe a stabbing or something) who has to completely act like nothing’s wrong because they’re walking back home with their friend who is already suspicious and they can’t let them know (for some reason)? Sorry that this is uber-specific.

No 4. Dead on Your Feet

Hidden Injury | Waking Up Disoriented | Can’t Pass Out

The night air hit Whumpee’s face in a rush. Their eyes flickered close, soaking in the warmth for a single moment before they had to keep moving. Whumpee followed Caretaker into the street, sprinting to a nearby alley that they could only barely see through the tears blurring their vision.

Their leg was a cacophony of pain. Blood had seeped down a good half of their pant leg, blessedly invisible against the black fabric in the dark night. Each step felt like it sent shards of glass into their bone, as though the knife was still embedded there. It wasn’t, which created more problems, as now they were bleeding out a lot faster.

“Whumpee, hurry up,” Caretaker hissed. Whumpee winced at how strained their voice was, even in a whisper. Maybe now that they’d finally gotten the job done, Caretaker would get some rest.

“Sorry,” they breathed back, fighting against a limp as they reached their friend.

Caretaker glanced back at Whumper’s base where it loomed behind them, jaw twitching in the dim light the street lamps provided. “If no alarm has been raised by now, we probably have until that guard you knocked out wakes back up. Are you okay walking back home?”

Whumpee furrowed their eyebrows. “Yes? Why wouldn’t I be?” They took another step and briefly found themselves unable to breathe. Lovely.

“Just making sure,” Caretaker said slowly, eyes just a little too perceptive. Whumpee stayed on the inside as they moved into the street, hugging the buildings and the shadows that clung to them. Their ragged breaths seemed to give life to the walls towering on either side, making them tilt and sway, the ground swelling.

Their shoulder hit the brick wall hard.

Caretaker turned towards them, face shadowed in the hazy streetlight. “Whumpee?”

Whumpee screwed their eyes shut, using the wall to push themself back upright. “Yeah. I’m good. Just tired, I guess.”

They didn’t get a response from that, only Caretaker watching them, a silhouette in the dark that Whumpee would give up everything for. Their leg was a dead weight beneath them now, heavy like lead and filled with glass that bit deep into their skin, their muscle, their bones, with each hesitant movement. Whumpee locked their knee when putting weight on it (wouldn’t want to be caught limping, would they?).

The world was still spinning. Whumpee leaned their head back and looked at the sky for a moment to try and disguise it, to hide the tears building in their eyes as sure as the headache embedded in their skull. “The sky is beautiful tonight,” they whispered. Not that they could see it.

Caretaker let out a small breath. “Yes, it is.” Their tone was softer now, and something gentle stirred in Whumpee’s chest.

“We should get home before Whumper wakes up,” Whumpee continued in that same soft tone. “You need sleep.”

“Is that honestly what you’re worried about right now?” Caretaker snorted, but there was no malice behind it. “You look exhausted yourself. But we deserve to celebrate tonight.”

Whumpee’s tears receded and they dropped their head back down. Their throat burned with the effort when they spoke. “Yeah. You’re right.”

Caretaker deserved to have a night of celebration more than anyone else. Whumpee wouldn’t take that away from them for the world. They walked on in silence, Whumpee’s hands burrowed deep in their pockets. Their fists were clenched against the pain, but beyond that, their extremities were getting very, very cold. They were almost surprised there wasn’t ice crusting along their fingertips, despite the warm night. Best to just keep moving.

Their vision was shifting in and out of focus, flashes of black coming in when they were certain they hadn’t blinked. They were shaking from the effort of keeping their leg moving, now. Their muscles were growing stiff around the weeping wound. Still, they kept their back straight. They kept their knees locked. Their breaths grew more and more labored, burning their lungs, but their breaths were there.

Then their leg buckled underneath them, and none of it mattered.

The world swung back into place slowly above them, circling and circling like water going down the drain, long after Whumpee had gone still. A muffled ringing filled their head. A noise was lingering beneath that, thick and soft like whoever it was was yelling through a mattress.

Why did it all hurt so much?

A face appeared right above them, blocking out the golden streetlights. Whumpee stared blankly. They were terrible at reading lips, and for some reason Caretaker was just mouthing words. Or—no, they were speaking. Whumpee just couldn’t hear them.

After a moment, Caretaker seemed to realize this. Their face was creased deeply in worry, and Whumpee felt a spear of guilt thrust into them at the realization that that was their fault.

“‘m sorry,” they forced out. Caretaker froze. Their expression changed, tightening. When they spoke again, it was very deliberate, so that Whumpee could make out what they were saying.

“Can you hear me?” The lips said. Whumpee shook their head, closing their eyes as the world dipped around them. Caretaker waited until they were looking again. “Where are you hurt?”

Whumpee hesitated, tears rising to their eyes again. They didn’t want Caretaker to have to deal with it.

Something like anger swelled in Caretaker’s eyes. They grabbed onto Whumpee’s chin, forcing their gazes to meet. The intensity of Caretaker’s expression cowed them, and one of their shaking hands reached down towards their leg, then slumped down in defeat.

Instantly Caretaker was down beside it, ripping away the soaked pant leg. Whumpee was pretty sure they screamed as it came away from the wound. They didn’t have time to think about it, though, because they promptly passed out.

When Whumpee woke up, their hands were warm, and their clothes were dry. It took them a moment to process anything else.

Slowly, they opened their eyes, rubbing the sleep from them. They didn’t remember going to bed.

“You’re awake,” a strained voice said. Whumpee sat up, wincing at a pain in their leg. Caretaker was sitting at their bedside, face like stone and eyes red and bloodshot.

Another sleepless night on their part. Whumpee could have drowned in their guilt. Their hands felt out the lump in the covers where their bandages were.

“I passed out,” they remembered. Their voice was weak.

Caretaker took a deep breath. “Yes.”

“I don’t—” they started, then deflated under Caretaker’s hard eyes. “I thought I could make it.”

“Clearly.”

“I’m sorry.”

“…I don’t understand.” Caretaker crossed their arms over their chest. They hadn’t accepted Whumpee’s apology. Whumpee waited for them to continue. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Whumpee’s eyes dropped. “I. I didn’t want you to worry.”

“I’m worried now, Whumpee.” Their voice was sharp as a dagger. Something dark flared across Caretaker’s face, receding just as quickly. Whumpee knew it was still there. They just nodded, morose.

A thin silence stretched between them. Whumpee’s head started pounding, and they leaned back against their pillows.

“I went for a walk this morning,” Caretaker said suddenly. “When you were still asleep. I was tired of sitting here.” They swallowed, brows lowering over their eyes. “You left a trail of blood last night, did you know that? I could follow your footprints all the way back to Whumper’s. And last night I didn’t even notice.” Their voice broke off suddenly, and for the first time Whumpee noticed tears in their eyes. “Why didn’t I notice?”

Whumpee hugged themself. “It’s not your fault.”

“No, it’s not my fault that you decided to just ignore your stab wound. It is my fault that I noticed something was wrong and I didn’t do anything until you were bleeding out on the ground.” Caretaker’s voice was raised now, and they cut themself off with a grimace. Their voice was soft the next time they spoke, but still shimmering with anger. “Were you going to tell me?”

“Caretaker…”

“No. Answer the question, Whumpee.”

“…no.”

All the air seemed to leave Caretaker at once. They slumped over, elbows resting on their knees and face in their hands. Whumpee had never seen them brought so low.

“Why?” they asked again, and it sounded almost begging.

Whumpee didn’t have an answer. They just sat there battling back their tears, because Caretaker deserved to feel upset without Whumpee stealing the moment again.

When Caretaker lifted their head up, their eyes were wet. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. I am going to go get you some food and medicine. When I get back, I am going to be calm, and you are going to have some damn good answers for me.”

They stood up while Whumpee cringed and nodded. As they got to the door, Caretaker looked back.

“And Whumpee?”

“Mm.”

“Never let this happen again.”

—

Taglist: @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @twistedcaretaker @lonesome--hunter @poppys-writing @endless-whump @multifandoms-multishipper @shadowylemon @utopian819 @whumpkitty @journey-the-panda @freefallingup13 @prettyboysinpain @1becky1 @temporary-whump-sideblog @chartreusephoenix @thelazywitchphotographer @mylifeisonthebookshelf @badluck990 @lockedupuniverse @luna-rein @broadwaybabe18 @pinescales-whumps @silverwhisperer1 @embersalive @the-bloody-sadist @batfacedliar-yetagain @nicolepascaline @whump-angst-fluff-repeat @susanshinning @didieatyourdog @corvid-voidbur @insane-writing-things @thebaffledtiewriter @morning-star-whump

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vegaspetesupremicy · 2 years

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What do you think Pete was up to after Vegas went into surgery???👀

#probably nothing good #lotta self loathing #depression #self blame #regret #ya know just normal ✨angsty things✨#yall know i love soft or angst #one day ill get to smut but...#ya #vegaspete #kinnporsche #kinnporche the series #vegas theerapanyakul #fanart #Pete Phongsakorn Saengtham

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traumaisnofun · 9 months

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I may be completely wrong about this but a long time ago I had a therapist who said that victims blame themselves because it gives them the illusion of control over what happened to them which I thought was a little reductive. Then a few years later I realised that although it isn’t the whole picture, part of accepting what happened to you a) happened to you and b) wasn’t your fault is truly emotionally and viscerally (not just intellectually) accepting a reality in which soul destroying things can happen to you at anytime and you have no control over it.

I know it seems kinda backwards because our nervous systems are already acting like that and we can’t control it and that’s the problem but I think maybe those of us who’ve repressed the hell out of ourselves need to catch up to what our bodies know in order to accept it and then process it and move on. Idk what do you guys think?

I will say though depending on your trauma it differs as to whether you will ever actually be that vulnerable again so I guess it’s a balance of accepting but also not living in fear idk

#personally I’m terrible at being in my body 😅#let alone emotionally processing things sigh #childhood trauma #trauma #trauma recovery #recovery #trauma processing #cptsd #ptsd #shame #self blame #victim blaming

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zee-rambles · 1 year

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———

Once you start, it’s hard to stop.

First I Prev I Next

#rottmnt #rise tmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt #rottmnt leo #tmnt 2018 #tmnt 2018 nightmares comic #unpause rottmnt #bring back rottmnt #rottmnt mikey #trauma #nightmares #healing from trauma #asking for help #rise of the tmnt #brotherly love #self blame

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honeycollectswhump · 8 months

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Things End | People Change – Staining Touch

this is shameless friendfiction of my dear friend @whumpcloud's story Things End | People Change, featuring poorest little meow meow vincent, my beloved. go check it out if you haven't already !!!

CW: guilt, so so much self-blame and self-deprication, references to past torture and also past SA undertones (vincent is going through it)

Clary has brought him something new, something to slowly fill out the empty space of the basement that is not his but as close as it gets.

It’s a mirror, almost two-thirds of his height, strange and wobbly and cause of a weird noise Vincent cannot categorize into his existing knowledge when it is bent. Arguably, it is doing a very bad job of being a mirror, besides the fact that it is floppy and almost entertainingly noisy before being put up on the wall, because it distorts his reflection at the edges, pulling him into comical shapes like dough if he moves.

But most importantly, most off-puttingly is the fact that it portrays his reflection at all.

At first, he can do nothing but stare.

In a little under two hundred years, all Vincent has seen of himself was through the eyes of others and those never regarded him too kindly. Not that he didn’t share that sentiment.

He knows what he can see, from the brown of his hair to the shape of his body, he knows what little is left that connects him to Henry, like the green of his eyes, and he knows what separates him, like the scar that sits right under them, as if mocking.

And now that he can see his eyes again, for the first time in what feels like an eternity, for the first time in two human lifespans, which is distinctly one more than he had any right to, he can’t look at what remains of Henry without seeing what remains of Lyfelde.

That man, he…

Vincent swallows. If it could, his undead heart would be beating faster –skipping like a rabbit– with each step that thought takes.

…He loved to leave marks.

Not for some desperate desire to be remembered in an ever-changing world, but instead with the same expectations as couples that carve their initials in the bark of a tree, curious to see the way the tree tries and fails to heal the cuts, to see how they will twist with time.

Vincent is no stranger to cuts, to initials carved into his delicate flesh, to being torn open for amusement and to satiate careless curiosity, even though they will never show on his skin, no matter how he twists and turns to get a good look at himself in the mirror.

Lyfelde however never needed force to leave evidence of himself, even if he can proudly wear the title of the last permanent remainder of Vincent’s weak mortality long gone by, and at his hands no less.

After years and years of captivity, of relentless, giddy torture, Vincent couldn’t point out individual marks of memory, couldn’t remember the incisions, the lacerations, the breaks, only the aftermath, the pain ripping at the edges of his sanity.

But when Vincent closes his eyes, when he imagines his being as he sees himself, there are stains on his chest, in the shape of a freezing claw, long delicate fingers decorated with rings much older than Vincent ever hopes to be.

There is one right over his heart, claiming it rightfully as Lyfelde’s, honouring the hard work he put into tearing him apart just to shape him into a–

Into a toy.

He is collared –like a pet–, marked by two hands wrapping around his throat and squeezing, a brute display of strength Vincent thought could keep him safe.

Even now, after all of these years, his mind produces the image of his hands clearer than the face that is already blurred beyond recognition by time. Neither time nor the Hunters could beat Lyfelde’s touch out of Vincent’s memories.

Vincent stretches, looking over his shoulder, pointedly ignoring the way his ribs protrude through sickly ashen skin. Even the thought that this is a far cry from his jutting ribcage in captivity, the corpselike result of starvation, turns sour with the sacrifice of those that feed him.

He is tainted, he knows, from comfort twisted to form a blade –a stake– and embraces that should have been kind and understanding, that Vincent now can’t even bring himself to call “warm”.

He wonders –briefly– if, behind his back, in the security of Vincent’s blindness, Lyfelde’s expressions would have betrayed his intentions. If there was a way a trick of light and precognition could have warned him, if he had just seen it, seen the signs that should have been so glaringly obvious.

Still, at the cost of himself, he had found comfort and solace in the deathly cold touch, and that should have been warning enough.

Almost obsessively, his gaze scans over his own marred, unmarred skin, even as it is stretched and squished by the metal-mirror, now that he finally has the chance to, after decades of nothing. Some quiet, drowned-out part of him whispers back that this is why he avoided anything similar for so long, that the evasion of his own reflection was not only by force of his vampirism but by some self-preserving instinct.

It’s excruciating in a way that is dangerously addicting, a sizzling fire that he cannot look away from. Pain for the sake of pain for the sake of entertainment.

Curiosity and her twin sister punishment.

If he dares to let his eyes drop lower, his hips will carry two hand-shaped brands of intimacy and trust that were only ever one-sided, burned into his skin deeper than any silver and scratch marks betraying the attempts to rid himself of the ever-present poison seeping from every pore.

They condemned him to be both poisoned and poison at the same time, always a victim and always a monster and always rightfully so.

Vincent swipes the mirror from the wall, heaving, watching it fall to the ground, deafening but too slow. He wants to fall to his knees, begging and ripping the metal to shreds, ripping his own reflection to shreds so that he will never have to look at it again. … So that it will never be looked at again.

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whumpshaped · 3 months

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Happy New Year!

A New Year tradition in my area is the Mummers parade, which is...awesome to watch, just as a side note.

I don't know how much you know about Mummers, Mummery, whatever, but it's got me thinking.

Part of the performances, especially for the String Bands and Fancy Brigades, are these HUGE costumes covered in feathers and sparkles. And once a year, today, the entire day is dedicated to performing and competing.

So, a character, who's already not feeling the greatest, still shoving themself into the performance, into this big, heavy costume. Perhaps they're even a Captain, and their costume is the biggest and most elaborate of all (though not just the captains get the big outfits).

They get out to perform, they're on top of a tall prop, and they just.

They pass out.

They fall.

They're direly ill, overheating, too weak to hold the weight of their costume, it's the most important day of the year and they suffer and fall in front of hundreds of people.

How will they deal with that? How will the people who care about them deal with that? While this prompt doesn't have to strictly lead to something Mummers related, most Mummers brigades are largely family and friends based, where members are often brothers and fathers and grandfathers, three, four generations of family out there.

Sorry, rambly. But it's new years, who isn't?

~𐂂

hey check out this cool thing the mummers parade reminded me of

tw sickfic, self-blame

This was the most important event of the year. Whumpee had practised tirelessly for the past months, in costume, out of costume, with the rest of the team, and without. This was the first ever year that the team decided they were fit to lead the choreography, and they couldn’t afford to betray that trust. Especially not in front of the baroness.

Except the overexertion was starting to take a toll on their body. As the date of the performance approached, Whumpee’s anxiety was becoming quite extreme. They were foregoing meals, sleep, any rest at all, and when the weather turned bad, they refused to stay inside instead of practising. With two days left until the parade, Whumpee fell ill.

It was miserable. They used all their leftover strength to pretend they were okay, going through the motions of the choreography in a dizzy haze. They had to do it. They had to go out there and show up for the team. They had to be perfect.

The day before, Whumpee couldn’t get out of bed. They told everyone they were preparing mentally, and the excuse seemed to work. Nobody even questioned them. Everyone was preoccupied with their own worries, they didn’t have time to get suspicious and investigate. And what would it have achieved, even if they had? No, it was much better this way. Whumpee knew they would feel better the next day.

They were wrong.

They saw two of every costume as they staggered into the dressing room, staring straight ahead while one of their friends helped them get into their attire. Their ears felt like they were plugged up, like all the sounds were coming from underwater. They couldn’t focus on a single word that was spoken, and they could only hope it wasn’t information they hadn’t heard a thousand times before.

The sun was too bright, the music was too loud, the prop they had to get up on was too tall, and their head felt like it had been stuffed full of cotton. Muscle memory carried them through the entire first half of the performance, and not even the baroness’s royal presence could penetrate through the fog that enveloped their mind. They didn’t feel anxious anymore. It was almost like the calm before the storm.

Whumpee got on one leg and kicked the other to the side, then reached both their hands up towards the sky—

The world suddenly tilted. The clouds were moving way too fast for a day with not so much as a light breeze, and Whumpee was distantly aware that it wasn’t actually the clouds that were moving; it was them, having lost their balance and falling backwards with nothing to soften the impact.

They gasped in pain as their back hit the asphalt, their head colliding with it just a moment later. If there had been any air left in their lungs, they might have laughed at the absurdity of it. All that practice… all to embarrass themself and all their friends in front of the baroness and her lackeys.

The music didn’t stop, but several of the people on their team rushed to their side, yelling to them and each other simultaneously. Whumpee stared past them, up at the beautiful, winter sky.

They wondered whether they’d ever see it again, after having ruined the baroness’s entertainment.

#asks #deer anon #sickfic #self blame #overexertion #whump #whump drabble

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ivyprism · 8 days

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I Was Wrong (Verbena Story)

Trigger Warnings: Includes severe manipulation, partner betrayal, Deity betrayal, heavy self-blame, heavy manipulation, mentions of deities, mentions of death, mentions of blood, self-loathing mentioned as well, abuse, mental abuse, emotional abuse, and mentions of cursing.

This may be a bit heavy for some readers.

If I got something wrong with this story let me know!

There is a POV from first to third after a while. Just a warning!

----

"When I first met them, they were extremely loving, kind, and sweet. Everyone wanted us to marry, they were friends with Birch and Sylvia, and it would bring me closer to her, to Sylvia, the Goddess I was lucky to know. Aeyar was perfect. That's what everyone thought, and everyone knew. They promised me everything, promised they'd ascend to godhood and would give me everything I wanted. They promised and swore on their lives to give me anything I desired…

They lied and I was wrong.

They became a deity, but they killed Sylvia in the process. I felt brokenhearted, betrayed, and outraged… I should have left, but they said that they had a cause and that they would still offer me everything I desired. I was selfish; I remained dedicated and faithful. I believed they loved me, that they would understand what I wanted, and that I loved them. I couldn't accept they changed, but I loved them. They were gentle, they were kind, they were sweet...They were all I needed and desired. I expected them to keep their word and complete Sylvia's job.

I was wrong.

They disregarded their responsibilities, were monstrous, and ignored the prayers, tears, and pleas. But I continued to stay. I believed that if I worked hard enough, I would be able to save both them and the world.

I was wrong.

They used their honeyed words to deceive and manipulate me… But I was selfish. I didn't want to let them go. I loved them... Did I love them? Looking back, I'm not too sure. Their words, their flattery, they had me ensnared. I was blind, I was foolish, I was selfish... I believed that they loved me. They wouldn't try as hard to keep me loyal if they didn't...

...I was wrong.

I was afraid; I wanted them to stay and love me. They did not appear to care. When they'd had enough of my prayers, they pushed me away. I pleaded on my knees.

"I was incorrect, and it was my fault; I'm sorry. Please don't leave. I'll make offerings. Please stay."

They stayed. I wanted to believe it. That they loved me... I thought I failed them somehow... I was so stupid. I didn't see the red flags, I was blind. Their words were no longer as sweet, their warmth had turned as frigid as the stone I prayed on, and their eyes were no longer loving, but filled with scorn and indifferent emotion. I thought if I prayed harder, the Aeyar I loved would return…

I was wrong and I paid for it.

They got sick of me, tired of my prayers, and despised me. They made it clear how much they disliked me. They didn't care if I cried or what happened to me; my Aeyar had left. They were replaced with something other. The False Deity of Life, the most despised Deity… I hated them as well. My love for them became hatred. It devoured my entire being. I told them how much I loathed them and how betrayed I felt. I prayed they'd suffer and that they'd be punished for what they've done.

"I hate you!" "You monster. You do not merit the title of "Deity of Life". You aren't the actual one! You're a monster, a False Deity. That is exactly who you are!" "You're a traitor! A horrible person! I hope you are punished for what you've done. No, I pray it will happen."

I was punished for my transgressions. I was wrong. I was the wrong one. I was selfish, horrible, and a terrible person. They transformed me into something else. Something else, something no one, let alone a Deity, would desire. Something, they said, that reflected the state of my SOUL. I could not bear to look in the mirror, they were right. This was me. This is what my SOUL said I was...

A monster, a creature unworthy of love, I was wrong. I was wrong. I was wrong. I was wrong!

I... don't remember how long I cried for. How many days, how many weeks... All I know is I cried and I couldn't stop crying. I was a monster. I was alone, I was afraid, I had no one. No one could love a monster like me, no one. All I could think of, during that time was...

"I'm sorry. I was wrong." "Come back, I'm sorry." "I was wrong, please. Please forgive me."

I didn't have time to mourn because heroes began pursuing me like a common creature. I… I can't recall how many wounds I received, how many times I died, or anything… My memory does fail me from time to time. All I know is that it hurt. It would hurt every time.

I knew at some point, they had died but still, my prayers remained unanswered, unseen, unfelt... I gave up on it a long time ago.

Eventually, I met Benoit and Elpis, people like me. People cursed, people forsaken... We grew close, I suppose you could say we're friends... But I don't try and get my hopes up. I keep a distance.

I don't want to be wrong again. I can't be wrong. It'll hurt too much if I'm wrong again.

I... Eventually found solace in them... I don't know how my story will end, who I will meet... But thank you... Little human, for listening to my story. At least for a little while."

Verbena murmured as she cautiously dropped her head to Frisk, who sniffed and hugged her snout. She closed her eyes. Tears trickled down her cheeks.

She finally had someone to cry with, at least for a little time.

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