Two

The Home: Part 4

I waited in that empty void of a dimension while you fought the heroes.

Your brother didn't even recognize you. That was the most infuriating part of the entire situation. Not the fact that you were losing, not the fact that you were being ordered to fight the people who mattered most to you, but the fact that your closest friends and family couldn't recognize you.

I related to that, deep down. The first time I saw the count, a small part of me resented him the most for not even knowing who I was. He ruined my life, and he couldn't even recognize me. It stung.

You eventually lost, which was funny. You were a two while Mario was a twenty, yet he still managed to beat you. If I had to guess why, it was probably because you weren't fighting with your whole heart. Deep within yourself, Luigi was fighting against Mr. L as well.

I still found it humorous that you lost. I also found it funny that you were the one living in Mario's shadow. You were a two. You were the legendary man in green, yet he still somehow managed to take the spotlight? It didn't make sense. 

I supposed it was because you helped push him into that spotlight. When we were younger you were always telling him that his number didn't matter and that he was just as important. You probably pushed him to become who he was. 

Still, watching you fight wasn't the worst part about waiting in that empty dimension. Watching you combat your friends and family didn't make me feel guilty in the slightest. It simply made me feel afraid.

I watched as you did something the you I used to know would never do. I watched you lose what made you, well, YOU! The worst part was that no one seemed to even care. 

The same thing was about to happen to me. I was going to kill you. I was going to kill you, knowing that I will also be killing a part of myself as I do it. I was going to sacrifice both of us for the hope of bringing the sun back to a restarted world. 

I was going to sacrifice both of us so I could stop Count Bleck.

. . .

"Whoa, now! Hey! What are you doing?!" You cried, jumping back after I had just set a small explosion off beneath your feet. You looked up at me with a confused expression. It probably matched the expression I wore when I looked up at Blumiere seconds before he betrayed me as a naive child.

It didn't feel good to be on the other side of the story. I couldn't help but wonder if letting me go was this hard for Blumiere. Did he plan it, but struggle to force himself to follow through? Or was what he did unplanned and inspired by nothing more than a wash of fear?

Either way, I hated him for it. If he never let me go, I would never even have met you. I wouldn't have to go through the same betrayal script. It was beginning to get old. 

In a perfect world, there would be no betrayal. Ever. Betrayal is the worst kind of feeling, and the fact that I was going to have to do what I was about to do to you made me feel so lost and broken.

The younger version of me would have been disgusted with what I had become. He would have tried to make a speech about forgiveness instead of a speech about why the world needs to be destroyed. He would have smiled and said a pun instead of a simile. He would have smiled a true smile instead of whatever expression I had sown onto my masked face. 

"You said it yourself. You can't go back to the count now. So get lost," I hissed.

I didn't even sound like myself. I couldn't even recognize myself. How could I have let myself become this? I thought I was a good guy. I thought I was a hero. I still wanted to be a hero, but what kind of hero would this make me?

"Not a funny joke, Dimentio... if I wanted to laugh, your face is inspiration enough," you said, crossing your arms and grinning, clearly proud of your comeback. You were treating this as if we were simply roasting one another like teenagers. 

I scoffed, refraining from saying something along the lines of, 'A round of applause goes to you for giving me a piece of totally useless information,' and instead sticking to the script I wrote myself. The script that I had run through my head over and over again, just to make sure I got it right.

I wanted to make you hate me. Just in case everything failed, I wanted everyone to hate me so they could see my death as a victory. I wanted the world to see me the way it did when I was a child. 

"Such temper! Your nostrils, they flare out like the hood of a hissing cobra! I can't have you around the count. If I am rid of you here, I won't be found out. And the others will never find you. Yes, this is my moment to grasp. It's time for you to take your final bow, Mr. L." I said, my tone empty.

You could tell that this wasn't what I really wanted to say. You furrowed your eyebrows, cocking your head to the side slightly and looking at me with an expression that said, 'What the heck are you doing?'

It was a confused, oblivious expression. The same expression I wore moments before Blumiere betrayed me. 

I waved my hand, forming a yellow execution box around you. You jumped, immediately recognizing it and turning around yourself. You muttered something along the lines of, "No, not again," quietly under your breath before bringing your hands to the side of the box and looking at me with an expression of inspiration. "Whoa! Hey now! What's this? You've lost your mind, Dimentio!!"

"Have you lost your mind, One?!" You cried out, years ago, pressing your hands to the yellow glass.

It was the same story. The same nightmare we were stuck in.

I laughed. It wasn't a real laugh, but it felt nice. It felt easier to cover my true feelings whenever I laughed.

"Shhhhh. Don't worry. It won't be so bad, I promise. I'll send those heroes your way soon, just so you'll have someone to play with!"

Translation: I was going to kill you AND your closest friends. Yay me.

Your confused, desperate expression turned to a more frustrated one.

"That's it, then?" You spat. "He wins?"

You chuckled to yourself, then looked down, resting your forehead on the box. 

"Oh, I get it. You hate him more than you care about me," you breathed. "You hate him more than you care about yourself."

'WHO'S FAULT IS THAT?!' I wanted to scream. 'WHO INSPIRED ME TO STOP BLAMING MYSELF?! IT CERTAINLY WASN'T ME!'

"Oh, and by the way... it wasn't your fault," you had said.

Maybe if you never said that, maybe if you just let me blame myself, then we wouldn't be in this mess. 

I turned away, then snapped my fingers.