𝕾𝖍𝖔𝖗𝖙 𝕭𝖎𝖙𝖘

1

Punctuation might be a little wack in this sorry. If I give any misinformation about certain topics, please educate me, I'm doing my best here.

NOTE: The bit is written in an open format that one can imagine the main character as an oc or can pertain to any pronouns

TW: - slight mentions of blood, suicide

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Snow; white.

Sky; white.

Structures; blurry.

No, they were dull. My eyes were clouded with tears. Tears of sorrow and unadulterated pain. My knees numb in the ground, the dampness crawling up the fabric of my pants.

My hands were bloodied but, I could only tell because I knew how I felt the injury earlier, the one on my arm. An arrow that was shot through my upper arm. It was removed properly and had stopped bleeding, albeit the earlier encounter I had with a dear friend of mine, Quackity.

Oh, Quackity.

Words, how hurtful they became. How they brought more pain than the physical pain he caused. Well, at first it was like that.

I ran, I can't believe I ran away from a fight. The notion was drilled out of my head at such a young age, the punishment for running was always worse than failing. I can thank my father for such heavy instincts that I seemed to ignore in that moment. When Quackity came at me over and over for siding with the pig, the murderer who took his eye, the country he adored, and apparently me. I came so close to killing him so many times, the multiple openings to maim him. My father's voice screaming at me to take advantage of his weaknesses.

No, I dare not listen to my father, for it was Quackity. Quackity who was my best friend for years. The person who gave me the first feeling of trust, who taught me true friendship, who never judged me for who my father made me to be. I wouldn't kill him, despite the many chances he unintentionally gave me.

He knew I wouldn't, and I knew he was clever enough to use that against me. During the battle he would constantly throw himself at my blade, knowing I was skilled enough to evade his mock suicidal attempts. He created the openings that wouldn't have been there if I had just killed him like the voice screamed in my head to.

I would never kill him, nor hate him, which left me in the current predicament. This hazy feeling of weightlessness. My movements, if any sluggish. My mind, bouncing about, trying to find a purpose for my life from now on, trying to find out how to feel.

I felt useless, just as I always have. I felt stupid for even thinking as such, for many people have experienced this setback and continued on, but why do I still feel so helpless?

I remember when I ran away from the fight, quickly evading Quackity's roaming eye. I remember finding my way back to the snowy tundra as my vision blurred. My emotions running rampant as I worked to find home. I remember my father's vicious, boisterous laugh ringing in my ears. A sort of slap echoing in my brain, that taunted me, told me I shouldn't have run from that fight, as the punishment was always worse than failing. For once in my life I agreed with my father, for the consequence was not my life but the gift to see life.

Suddenly interrupting my thoughts that threatened to drown me was a velvety cloth against my right side and back. I took a deep breath to calm myself, but to no avail. I knew who was at my side, I needn't worry about that. I worry for my strength in his presence. I should always appear strong for him as I shouldn't be a burden. Not to anyone but, especially not him. He, who I trusted second and gave me a true definition of loyalty.