[18+ Yandere Meowscarada x Reader] I'll Make Them All Disappear!

57 | I Remember My Name

Blueberry Academy Arc
Part One Finale

Midnight falls upon the academy. Halls are devoid of sound, the many students have taken to their dorm rooms, welled up in peaceful slumber and the deafening silence that comes along with being beneath the ocean. Those who haven't have strolled back down to the Terarium. Probably weaker trainers who can't fathom their own weakness and believe a little late night training will fix all their problems. Leave it to the determined ones to run their teams through the mud for hours on end, only to remain a powerless trainer who holds no significance like some kind of robot bound to the side of the road for eternity.

You're asleep, soundly snoozing away like a baby under the blankets. Cinnamon is as well, snoring gently as she's wrapped up in your arms, her button nose nestled snugly into the crook of your neck.

Meowscarada is the only one awake. As usual. For a magician who swears on the integrity of her magic, she sure doesn't get any rest to keep its flux from crashing. It's damn near like she doesn't need sleep whatsoever. Well, there's probably an explanation for that. It makes sense considering who — and what — she is. Do crystals really need rest? Is there such a thing as downtime for a being with a false vessel?

She wishes she knew the answer to that question, and to all the others at the same time. Instead, she's bound to take guesses, shots in the dark, until that cold voice emerges again from the back ends of her mind. Only then will some of her inquiries be brought to light, and put to rest.

Meowscarada climbs out of bed. She stares to the wall behind the headboard for a moment, daring to wish she were back home right now and the window greeted her with a stroke of moonlight. This place is starting to weigh down on her. The realization that this isn't home has begun to sink in, and now she's feeling incorrigibly homesick. Paldea is so very far away now. There's no way to tell how long this "trip" will last. She's stuck.

The feline retreats to the bathroom, careful as to not rouse you or Cinnamon with those squeaky door hinges. She steps in, shuts the door behind her and leans over the sink. Her eyes drift across the low mirror. Her reflection stares back. Reflection... can it really be called that anymore? She used to have a reflection of her own -- same body, same eyes, same tender catlike smile across her face when she happened to think of days spent with you -- but now, the thing in the mirror is not her. It never was.

It's that other Meowscarada, the one with lighter fur and a dimmer look on her face. The ring of rosery around her neck is tinted purple rather than lush magenta. The diamond-shaped etchings on her mask are noticeably brighter, almost to an extent Meowscarada wishes she was the one with them in order to attract more of her trainer's attention.

She lifts a paw to the mirror and presses it gently to the cold surface. Her reflection follows accordingly. Her eyes never stray from the glass, never turn away or blink in the event the reflection gains deviancy suddenly and bursts free from its glossy cell bars. There's a quick moment of pause Meowscarada holds dear to her, because she's afraid of what might happen if she continues moving. Her pawpads gently linger on the mirror, motionless.

Without lifting another limb, she summons her journal. It hovers freely next to her like a magic prop on a string, except this prop has none attached. It flips past old, withered pages, those she wrote in as she was first grasping the art of speech and writing but could only pump out scribbles and chickenscratch. There are some entries of her past self gushing over her trainer's body and choice of clothing, all of which eventually ended up pressed beneath the cat's nose when he wasn't looking. Meowscarada flips until she finds the pages she has yet to reach.