== Dave: Be a doomed Dave, ill with love.
You sit there, on the edge of the bed in your apartment, not caring of the chaos outside- the imps, golems, and basilisks. They didn't matter, as you were busy with reading. Yes, reading. You, Dave Strider, were reading. It was the original type of reading- oh no. It was the reading that made you feel horrible. The kind that made you regret everything you did that harmed that poor innocent soul. The kind of reading that makes you want to kill yourself, and drag everyone down with you. You sigh and take out the first piece of literature, tearing up at the date that was displayed. It's been two long, long years since another letter was sent, the one you were currently in tears over being the first ever- which was sent from her to you about five years ago.
Dear Coolkid,
Roses are red
Violets are blue
In the bright sky
I swear I could see you. :)
A shaky sigh escapes your throat, and you smile, ignoring the fleeting instances of tears sketching your facial features. "Oh Harley..." You whisper softly, almost a murmur of what you wanted to say, which was that you missed her. That you were sorry for ever saying those things about her. That you apologize for anything that might've hurt her in any way.
Dear Harley,
Despite the fact
I'm still stuck on LOHAC,
my mind's still on you,
waiting until the words I see you
becomes true.
That one was from earlier in the game, when you thought it'd never reach her- but oh, it did. Through some fucked up time shenanigans, it reached it, and she replied oh so enthusiastically. She thought you forgot about the letter exchange, after it had been so long that you both ahd sent letters to each other. She tried to apologize for everything she's ever done to you, which was barely anything, except ignoring you on Pesterchum. Even THAT! It was nothing to apologize for really.
Ignoring the tears flowing fullforce down your cheeks, breath ragged as the basilisks beat on your windows, imps pounding at your locked door, you pick up a different letter, one from a little before the game, and read it slowly, as you hadn't before. You can't believe how you cherished those small pieces of paper, that took time to write with your hand, and the time it took to reach her, and back to you after she responded.
Dear Coolkid,
I'm so excited for the game!
Even though you say it's pretty lame,
I can put your thoughts to shame.
With us, won't you play the game?
You would have said no, if you knew what was coming. You would have told her to escape her island with Becquerel, to live with him, so he could hold her- cherish her before it was too late. You would have said that you loved her, but it was already too late. You had accepted her offer, and was planning out how to play.
A numb, painful feeling originates from your middle back, a black claw extending from your stomach for a few moments before it pulls out. You smile as you feel your blood slowly course down the skin of your neck, falling back onto the floor behind you, still crying as you slowly died. You breathed your last words, which would sound like gibberish to most people, but she'd understand. She always did.
"Lovesick...
Homebound...
Your poems that
keep me on the ground."
E N D