Angels Who Fall

Chapter Seven - Hideaway

7 - Hideaway

[A/N: if you would like to skip this next part, it's okay, just make sure you read the actual chapter. Somehow, the first part of this little rant ending up being a weird monologue-type thing... oops]

[A Longing, Sorrowful A/N: Oh... Oh Gog... Today, the day I type these words... this is April the Thirteenth, Two-Thousand Sixteen.

4/13/16.

This is the day that Homestuck ends.

So, to celebrate... No, no.

To mourn, here is a short monologue dedicated to the one thing that both changed and saved my life, and to the man behind the magic.

This is to Homestuck, and to Andrew Hussie.

So, Homestuck.

I've only been with you for a couple of years, but these have been the best years of my life. They have been full of joy, full of laughter, full of fun, and full of friends. They have been full of sadness, full of longing, full of tears, and full of pain. They have been filled with hope, life, love, and full of dreams. They have been full of memories, ones I plan to take with me until the day I die and afterwards.

How I began with you is kind of a funny story, actually.

It began with a dear friend of mine excitedly showing me a few videos that I could not, for the life of me, understand. Those videos were 'You Can't Fight The Homestuck' and the 'Magic Cupcakes' videos.

After watching them, I asked her what the hell I had just witnessed. Her answer, simple as it was, shook my world to its foundation.

"It's Homestuck."

My interest piqued, I looked it up one day.

Long, tumultuous story later, and here I sit.

It seems that an era has ended, an epic tale of universal proportions drawn to a close; giant, heavy, velvet curtains drawn over a scene that has embraced me, nurtured me, fulfilled me, and now, left me with only a ghost of itself to linger with. I feel as if I run my hand along the soft velvet veil as I walk slowly and reflectively across the stage, reminiscing about all the wonderful memories I've experienced there.

I feel... like I can't let go, I can't walk away; if I remove my hand from the dark curtain, it might disappear. If I take too deep a breath, it may very well crumble into dust and blow away beneath my fingers.

So I walk, with the others who feel as I do, trailing my fingertips gently along the curtain. Some do not stay very long. They quickly take a chance and depart, moving on to other stages where different tales unfold. Some go to sit in the audience, putting distance between themselves and the stage, but never straying too far. They could always come back if they wanted.

But I, I alone stay with the curtain, tracing the hem, following every crease in the fabric, never leaving it, never letting it out of my sight.

If everyone leaves, who is to say the entire stage won't evaporate? The thought of everything I've loved for two long years evaporating like water in the sun... it gives me chills. So I stay here.

Some would call me obsessed, and to an extent I would agree. But in truth, I merely want nothing more than to protect this stage where my soul resides.

The curtain grows dusty, and my mind drifts.

I wonder where the others have gone? The others who swore they'd never leave? Where did they go?

Then, something happens that never has happened before.

There is a deep fold in the center of the curtain. I reach my hand into it. It is much deeper than I thought.