Reader is Frisk
Trigger Warnings: mentions of suicide and past child abuse, thoughts of murder, thoughts of self harm, anxiety attack, really terrible self esteem, dissasociation, PTSD probably, Frisk can't tell themself apart from Chara, a little bit of swearing, basically these kids are have so many problems and need help
This is Frisk
This is Chara
These tiny murder children are very messed up but I love them both. I apologize in advance for any confusion since Frisk is kind of having trouble with sharing a head with someone. And existence in general really. Poor kid. Uh... Chara/Frisk if you squint. You can interpret it however you like.
9:03 PM
You should sleep. Or at least try to, anyways. Mom tucked you in over an hour ago and she's going to start getting suspicious if you don't get enough sleep. You should really go to sleep.
...You know you won't.
9:57 PM
The limited number of books in your room can barely hold your interest anymore. You've already read all of them at least twice. You and Mom need to go to the library soon. You'd like some better entertainment for when you can't sleep.
Whatever. You can live though reading a few more yet again.
11:34 PM
You want to scream into your pillows and beat your fists and break everything you see but you can't because Mom's in the next room and oh God what'll she think she won't want you anymore just like they did you're crazy-
monster-
demon child-
get that thing out of my house-
11:45 PM
The memories that aren't yours burn in your mind. You don't tell anyone about them, ever, because how do you explain sharing a mind with a murderous demon who's supposed to be dead?
Nights without sleep are hard when you share a head space.
12:11 AM
Pacing seems to alleviate the anger in your mind that doesn't belong to you. Or does it? You hope it doesn't belong to you because it burns like a wildfire and swirls in a mix of confusion and pain and exhaustion. You can't tell sometimes though, and so you just pace across the room because you're too tired (weak, scared, broken) to try and figure it out.
1:19 AM
Frisk.
Step, step, step, turn, step, step, step, turn, step-
You can't keep ignoring me. We share a head. I know you can hear me.
They always try to talk to you, but you're certain this time that you're not going to reset, they won't be able to corrupt you again, so you keep walking, don't listen don't listen
d o n ' t-
Frisk! Pay attention to me!
2:39 AM
Crushed buttercups slipped oh so easily into your (their?) medicine "I'm doing this for us Azzy"
Oh God you can't tell where you end and where they start and we're dying-
Run Azzy, please, run Azzy, you have to RUN-
Monsters turn to dust too easily why why why why there's dust on the ground and you can
see
but you can't I'm so sorry mommy daddy please forgive me
you're dreaming you're awake you're real you're not and where does it start and end help help
please (I'm) send (here) help (for you)
3:56 AM
You don't remember putting a knife in your closet. It's the one Toriel uses for cutting pie that went missing two weeks ago ("No mom, I haven't seen it") and there's little snails decorating the handle. It looks so innocent and threatening at the same time, but that doesn't really matter because the feeling of it in your hands is so familiar and oddly comforting.
(they're sinking into your thoughts, aren't they)
You wonder what you should do with the knife.
You could kill someone. Whoever you liked. You saved before dinner, so no one would notice. You could creep into Mom's room and watch her turn to dust in front of your eyes and no one would ever be the wiser and it's been so long since you felt that power under your fingers-
(no, no, no, i don't like this, stop)
Or you could turn the blade on yourself. It wouldn't be the first time you died. Death didn't really scare you (us) anymore, not after around the first, tenth, sixtieth, billionth time (Don't lie. I was fine after the buttercups. It still scares you.) It wouldn't even be the first time you turned the blade on yourself. You'd died over and over (and over and over) because you could, you were hurt, it was too hard.
But deaths didn't leave scars. Deaths are easy. Death is easier than breathing, a simple plunge and you were diving into the void before resurfacing in barely anytime at all.
But scars are lasting. Scars leave permanent reminders beyond death, reminders that you can't get rid of. You think you need to be reminded of mortality. You raise the knife above your (our? their? you aren't sure who's driving right now, but it doesn't really matter) wrist, debating on where to mark. You make your decision, and your hand freezes before you can make the mark.
It's my body too, Frisk. Don't fuck it up, 'kay?
You stop, this time of your own accord. Those thoughts, they're not supposed to be yours. The thoughts of murder, and death, and pain, those are supposed to belong to them, not you. You save everyone, time and again. They kill everyone, time and again. Right?
Besides, Mom'll notice. She can always tell when things get really bad. So just- You think the voice wavers, but that has to be your imagination. Just put the knife away, alright?
You put the knife back in the closet.
5:17 AM
The sun's coming up. It no longer takes your breath away, or fills you with awe. It stopped after getting out of the Underground for what felt like the hundredth time. It probably was.
You roll over and face the wall.
6:30 AM
Mom will be up soon. Another sleepless night.
7:00 AM
"Good morning my child. How did you sleep?"
"Morning mom. I slept fine."