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sort of a story


Kakaru

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It's easy to become emotionally detached from an account-- to rationalise, to decentralise, to marginalize, but nothing matches the pure terror of being so intimately and immediately associated with something so wrong and so terrible that your mind cannot deny it.

 

You feel the webs spread across your vision as you try to focus on the comfort of the yellow streetlight outside, but the longer you stare at it, the darker it becomes. You realise how empty it really is, how little power it has to help you. So you lie in your bed, clutching your pillow like a physical construct of the friends you never really had, pretending that it's that friend you wanted, the one you made to keep you company because they were the one who were always and could always be there for you; even when everyone else laughed, said it was ridiculous to have imaginary friends, or even said they weren't real.

 

How ###### dare they. They were real to you. They talked to you, helped you, cared for you, in a way that nobody else bothered to because they were too busy laughing at you, rationalising your problems and quirks through cold words and calloused laughter to make themselves feel better.

 

Yes, that's ridiculous of you to talk to your own friends when there are real people around, isn't that so funny. Don't you feel stupid? Come join us real people who will hate you and demean you for everything you do. Why wouldn't you want to join us? Why don't you understand the real world? Why won't you just admit that your imaginary friends aren't real and that they're all so childish and can't help you at all?

 

Maybe because they did help, ###### those ######s. Maybe because they were there for us when you weren't. Maybe because they're not just a thing for children, they're a thing for everyone like us who feel so terrified and alone around other people that it's the only hope we have of not living and dying alone. Maybe because, to us, they are real. Because we care about them, like we want to believe that others care about their friends.

 

No no no, that's just what you want to tell everyone, but you know you never can. You go over this in your mind on a daily basis but you know it's not going to help because they really won't ever listen. They may pretend to listen, but they'll mock you for it behind your back, justify the things that make them uncomfortable, arguing instead of comforting. So you don't bother trying to talk because they hate you for it, because they get defensive about your own life even when its none of their business. But then, none of that matters, does it?

 

You're still trapped in your room in the very immediate present. So you lie there for hours, wanting to cry to yourself because you're hearing sounds in the night.

 

They're not normal sounds that you can justify as creaking floorboards or the wind or any of that ###### that people love to tell you.

 

It's the voices. Not inside your head like people like to imagine it, those clever ###### mental issues that everyone jokes about. They're always outside, other things talking to you when you know they shouldn't. And you hear them now, that murmuring, whispering on the other side of the wall. That terrifies you, because your bed is pressed up against that wall and no matter what you do, you can only hear that whispering where you know no whispering should be. Nobody else is in the house, nobody else is awake, nobody else sleeps in that room. Ignorant ######s try to explain it away with any number of ###### excuses, but you know what you heard, and you know there's no explanation for it, not really.

 

There's something in that room, something that should not be. Speak of demons and eldritch abominations all they like, but there's something deeply wrong here, and the terror floods your mind because you know that whatever it is, it's right on the other side of that wall, and there's nothing you can do but lie quietly and hope it leaves. You know that if you checked there wouldn't be anything there.

 

No, that's what you hope. When you were younger, braver, you would go to check, and there would be nothing there. But things change. You're not so sure that there's nothing in that room because the dread in your stomach says that there is an inseparable amount of real, physical closeness and presence between you and that room, and there is definitely something talking in there that should not be.

 

So you hold your best friend tightly, because it's all you can do. You don't want to die alone.

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They may pretend to listen, but they'll mock you for it behind your back, justify the things that make them uncomfortable, arguing instead of comforting. So you don't bother trying to talk because they hate you for it, because they get defensive about your own life even when its none of their business

 

^ This stabbed me right in the chest. I struggle with that so often, even if it's just coming from the programming in my own head now, and I know other people do, too.

 

Beautiful story. It was very tragic and very real. You know that if you need anything, Rob and I are here for you.

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