I'm into Insomniacs (discontinued)

Dipper's march to the sea

(A/N: Trigger warning~ SELF HARM AND SUICIDAL REFERENCE~) 

~Dipper's POV~

It's face was smooth, the first thing I noticed when my hand rested upon its skin. An ominous warmth omitted from the creature, as if I were waving my hand just above a lit stove. It was terrifying to feel such a thing, and yet such an undeniable urge. An urge. What was this urge I had? This strange concept which felt so familiar, yet left me feeling so lost. I couldn't grasp what I felt, yet, I enjoyed the shear energy it evoked. It was like left over cherry pie in the fridge, if that makes any sense. Like finding something I wanted, but not in the form that I wanted it in. Death. That's what I wanted. Yet, the concept of finding death in suicide felt... wrong. It was a sure thing, something you knew wasn't often undone, and it frightened me. I still had so much left to do. I wanted a family. I wanted friends. I wanted to graduate high school and go to college and be something. The thought of suicide had popped into my head once or twice, yet I never took it, all because of this undeniable desire to live and create a 'me' that I didn't hate. A 'me' that was most definitely not me, but someone I'd love to hang out with and get to know. Everything that I felt hopeful of; friends, family, a good job; It all held me close to the ground and tied me to this Earth. I was always so optimistic of the future, hoping that things would slowly get better, and I'd be happy.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and was rustled from my thought, being twirled around to face an enraged Pacifica and a frightened Mabel. Once again, I could see their mouths moving and their eyes strained on mine, begging for attention, yet I refused to give them any. I couldn't hear them, and it wasn't because I had another song in my head. It's because she was whispering to me. "Dipper. Wanna see something?" I didn't really care either way, but my head still seemed to slosh from side-to-side, reluctantly peering over my shoulder to take a peek at the creature. It broke my heart at what I saw. It was momma's face, plastered onto the beast's body, a trickle of tears poking past the rim of her glossed, dead eyed. Her eyes were poor and pale, yet seemed to trail me just the same without pupils. The corners of her mouth drooped in sorrow, almost clown-like, as a single tear fell from her face. I felt sick. She was in so much pain and I had no idea why. Her face was so sad. Her face was so... scary. 

Her dead eyes, watching my every move, welled up with tears of blood as she stared. Oh God. The blood was so thick. Not slick rolls of watered down blood, mixed with tears. Thick, clotted, deep red shades of blood, slowly sliding down her face as she watched me, disappointed. She didn't like me anymore. Maybe I'm just not what she wanted. Maybe I'm just no- "Dipper!" Pacifica shook me, snapping me back to her attention, forcing me to look her in the eyes. "Where is it?! What did it tell you?!" I put my hand on her cheek. 'It's so smooth', I thought. Human flesh... I hate how soft it feels. I hate how easily it can be torn open. I wanna rip her face open. I wanna rip her face open. I wanna-  

What am I thinking?! "Get away from me!" I push her away, my back bumping into the nose of the beast. Mom. Beast. Mom. Beast. I crouch under the creature's chin, hoping to be hidden by it's huge body. Hoping to hide my shame. I cover my face with my hands, wishing to claw away this mask of mine, as if it were made of rubber, held together by glue. As if I could remove this shame so easily. This face. God, this face. It's sick. I want to look away from it. To deny its many crimes and flaws. Yet, I can't run away from myself. That scares me more than anything. An uncontrollable shiver is drawn out of me, and I find it unbearable how petrified I am. Of what? What do I fear right now? 

Myself. I fear what I have. I fear the power I evoke from within, the things I've done, the things I've had done to me. I can't run away from it, no matter how hard I try to scramble to my feet. I always manage to trip and get the wind knocked out of me, to be infected, filled, with everything done to me. With everything not yet done to me, but surely to come sooner or later. A cry, perhaps my own, is heard. I clasp my hands around my own mouth, feeling the open gap which I used to release this cry. 'Yes. It was me. I made the sound.' I muffle the sound. I cast it away as best I can, squeezing my rough hands over the opening of my mouth, preying to God for silence. The webbed area which protrudes between the thumb and the index finger, I bit into it, if not to stifle my screams. Yet, I could still hear it, the pained shriek which slipped beyond my fingers.