The Mountain East (An Undertale Fanfiction)

Act II (Gaster): Chapter 45

"...

I don't know how to start.

Like ya seriously expect me to just sit down here and write about myself? How conceited can one get?

...

Alright, mama, I said. I'll write a fucking journal. Don't hold your head so high. I ain't doing this for you. This day'll come eventually. Whether I like it or not.

...

Now what the hell am I gonna do with you?

Mister Dixon said every good piece o' writing starts with an introduction. Like, fuck me. As if writing one wasn't embarrassing enough, now I gotta explain my life to inanimate objects. Now that's a new low.

Well, would ya look at that. Played like a fiddle. Already wrote a hundred words about not wantin to write at all.

Arright, arright. I'll cut to the chase. It's probably already a day late and a dollar short.

The name's Brian. Brian O'Dell. And I'm just a no one. Never was, never will be.

...

Ey, if anyone's reading this, that splotch of ink ain't my fault. Just checkin' behind my shoulder, mama could come in any second now. She doesn't like it when I'm sarcastic. As if I'm ever not. It's already a cut above my usual behavior, especially when I don't get to speak. That's another reason the pen never fit me. Can't use tone, can't be me. It's as simple as that.

And me mouth is always quicker than me hand. And they both move quicker than me brain. I'd botch a thousand spellin's before I get one freudian slip. Me mom doesn't like that about me either. She's always said that the language was made to be written.

Come to think of it, mama never really liked anything bout me. Not blaming her, of course. She's till me ma. She just wants me to be a perfect child. Someone who I'm not. She wants me to acknowledge the corn, and not the big fuckin elephant in the room. That gray concentration of mass squashing down on me with all the strength he has. He ain't putting the second nail on the coffin, though. Avoiding death narrowly is my sport.

... Maybe I'll just write about ma. It's easier to write about someone else. Easier than talking, anyway. Ya don't put a lot o thought into it. It'll get you places, ignorance.

... Such as heaven."

"I'm back.

Miss me?

Eh. It's only been a few days, and I'm already asking questions to a blank piece of paper. Great. It's just a matter of time until they lock me up at the looney's place.

I realized I really only talked about ma. It ain't fair, really, despite it bein a clear trend. Like, when do the dads get some recognition from their sons, ey? Mother this, mother that, father fucking never. Like, I get it. Dads usually gotta earn the dough, never really got father time on their side. Irony at its finest. So let's even the playing field, ey?

Papa just came back from France. He was limpin' slightly, must've gotten chipped in the leg somewhere. Eyes slightly hazy, and though he swore to put down that wretched rifle down, to revert back to when everything and everyone was happy, when the world was at peace, and hadn't unleashed upon themselves hell, I saw somethin even ma didn't. He had changed. For better or for worse. He was no longer the papa I knew, the same soft-spoken, civilized, young Englishman.

He's a veteran now. And though he was only twenty and five years old, that youth ain't ever comin' back. It was stuck. In that plane, on that seat, and when he failed, in that trench.