The Mountain East (An Undertale Fanfiction)

Chapter 38

She saw the passage of time only through the orange streaks that invaded the inside of her eyelids. White, red, orange, then black, over and over again, illustrating the rays of light and straws of twilight when her pupils refused to open.

The constant fluctuation of seemingly random, yet predictable events. A place that bears a striking resemblance to the real world. The only thing normal about reality is that chaos' existence is the eldest law, and that all forms of written and unwritten verdicts, regulations, decrees, of morality, science, philosophy, will one day, like everything else, descend into a primordial anarchic pool of chaos.

...which, by definition, is law.

And it was only now she realized that her futile attempt to play hero held true to their namesake. They were futile. She was a child. An insignificant, broken, crippled and crushed child. In the center of this everlasting sunset, where the world had been torn back into its primeval colors, and where she finally showed her true colors.

And so, Chara sat. She sat, the signs of remorse and regret creeping up to her, and every time she turned her back to the past, they inched ever so closer. She tried to ignore them, to focus on what was ahead in time. To forgive and forget. But the memories, with their convulsing masses of gray dark and flawed light and bleak streaks, demanded scrutiny at all times. They, not unlike sirens, sang an entrancing song of their own. You will never escape, they said to her. Your counterfeit sense of remarkability is fueled by an inexplicable, disgusting sense of selfishness. That which is abandoned in the name of forgiveness is essential to your wretched life, because it is who you are. It will never change, the only constant in a swirling anarchic pool of chaos.

And, not entirely against her will, she listened.

She stood alone, atop the stage in an empty auditorium. She picked up the microphone, and the reverb bounced across the colorful void, the red swirls, the steaming, churning pot of stew, almost as if she was in some sort of circular dome. And she sang a ballad of historical sorrow. She gave an anecdote, a poem, of the story of an insignificant, broken, crippled and crushed child. How, in her misguided way, she wanted, above all else, to change, to save.

And she looked out into the mismatched audience, monsters and humans alike. They all wore that same facial expression. The one that hurt more than a frown, even when teeth were gritted. A blank expression of pain, hidden haphazardly behind the mask of a smile.

And as she continued, her confidence wavered. She now talked of a prince she met, how he had saved her from the fiery depths of her own hell and mended her soul in such a way that it would be like if it was covered in gold. The audience did not move a muscle. They remained in their stationary forms, the world around them a stark contrast from their lifeless being.

Chara fell silent. In a vacuum where only the world itself moved along with her, she could see no more point in continuing.

They stared back, their situation unaltered.

And silence.

Then, from the corner of her eye, she spotted a tall figure. He must be standing, unlike the vast majority of listeners, whose behinds remained firmly glued to their seats of air. His black cloak fluttered in the non-existent wind, passing by and enveloping several of the spectators in his vicinity. They did not move, did not stutter, yet her ears picked up the faintest cries of help, of release from pain.

Death stood up; his scythe propped against his long arm. He clapped. And as he did, the loud shuffling of a unanimous rising broke the silence.

Chara stared as everyone gave an unenthusiastic applause. The voices grew louder still, but it was easily covered by a ring in her eardrums.