Warning ahead for this fic: this was written as a... vent of sorts. It's coming up on a very difficult time of year for me, so I've been a little less... cheery than usual. This story will have a lot of drawn out, rambling bits to it and it DOES mention/reference towards self-harm in a segment of it.
So... just be warned. There was a lot of emotion put into this, and I didn't spend much time bothering to proof-read it for some obvious reasons.
If you're still taking the time to go through and read this despite all of that, I truly and genuinely thank you.
This is... less of a fanfiction, and more of a self-narrative referencing to Undertale characters - for the sake of actually having a sort-of-reason to share and post this somewhere. Fictionally, it is meant to be taken from the perspective of Frisk (the Reader).
Mother's Day. Of all the days in a year, it had to happen on Mother's Day.
The sky was clear and blue the moment everything turned on its head. There was nary a single cloud to be seen, and the pre-noon sun was warm and held the promise of a gorgeous, late-spring day. Birds were singing, and a cozy atmosphere surrounded your home. Just another weekend at Mom's house… and yet…
Something felt off. You had been sitting at the coffee table, on the computer, mindlessly trying to find a way to occupy your time. The silence in that house was of the uncomfortable, distracted type. Your step-father was downstairs, working away on one of his many projects without a worry in the world. For a moment, a knot formed behind your sternum, and forced its way into your throat as the overwhelming sensation of wrongness enveloped you.
A few minutes later, the house phone rang. You could feel my heart race with fear and anticipation.
The caller ID spelled out your step-mother's name, and you knew. You had made her swear to call if anything happened while you were away. Going to your mother's house was a gamble in itself – one you had been aware of, but willing to take. Your weekday home was becoming too much to handle. Then again, the tension was several years in the making. Everyone knew that delicate house of cards they'd built to surround it would come toppling down any day, now. But you supposed that, no matter how many years one spent living with it, mentally preparing yourself for it, nothing could truly prepare somebody for the loss of a loved one.
"Frisk, can you give the phone to your mom?" Your step-mother's voice was tight, and everything in you was writhing with anger at the fact that she tried to skimp out on this. All your life, you were always the last to know about these sorts of things. After all, at fourteen, you were the youngest in your immediate family, and everyone always tried to shelter the "baby" of a group. You told her your mother was at work, so she asked to hand the phone off to your step-father instead.
Inside, you were screaming at her. Don't you dare! your mind shrieked, Just tell me. I already know, I'm not stupid – so just tell me!
She didn't. Thirty minutes later, Mom came home from work.
She'd gotten off three hours earlier than usual. You could tell by the look on her face that she had been crying.
You pretended to be ignorant. You just wanted someone to tell you. Something made you think she knew that.
"Hey, Mom. I thought you weren't supposed to be home until one?"
She just nodded. You dropped the act.
"He's gone… isn't he?"
You couldn't remember if she started to cry again or not. But you did remember what she said in response:
"I'm sorry."
It's funny, how people say that after someone dies. As if it was their fault, or apologizing could somehow bring the person back to life. Like it could wipe away the pain. Or make the grief easier to bear.
You remembered how quiet the car was on the drive to your weekday-home a town over. The sun was still shining, and the air was warm. You couldn't remember a time where you had hated the sunlight more than in that exact moment. Where were the clouds? Where was the rain?
Why did it have to be so goddamn beautiful outside?
The first thing you saw as the car pulled up to your secondary home – the one you shared with your brother, step-mother, and father – was smoke. Your grandparents, one of your uncles, and your step-mom were all on the front step, smoking cigarettes. The front door was closed. The curtains to the living room had been drawn. Your older brother was nowhere in sight.
You couldn't recall if Mom and your step-dad had stayed or not.
You wanted to find your brother.
After a few, bone-crushing hugs, you found out he was in his room. You didn't want to go through the living room – that's where his bed had been these past few years. You didn't want to face that yet. But there wasn't much of a choice. Even if you entered the house through the side door, leading into the kitchen, you would still have to see that space. You would see him. You weren't ready for that yet.
But you needed to see your big brother. What if he needed someone to comfort him? He had a bit of a tendency to keep things bottled up, and it worried you. Who knew? Maybe seeing him would actually bring some tears to your eyes.
Because today, after God-knows how long (it was the better part of six or seven years – maybe longer), you'd finally lost him.
Despite how much you willed yourself to avoid it, your feet didn't want to listen. Next thing you knew, you were standing next to his bed; it was special, with a weird, bubble-like mattress that would adjust itself electronically. It was used to keep bedridden patients from developing sores. There... wasn't much use for that anymore, you supposed.
The sheets had been drawn up to his shoulders, but his arms were above the blankets. There were chairs at his bedside, and you imagined he might have been holding someone's hand as it happened. You hoped he wasn't scared or in pain.
You hoped he would forgive you for not being there with him, like his parents, his girlfriend, and his brother were.
Like his son was.
You'd seen him struggle and fight and conquer for the better part of your childhood; memories of him before he was sick were… lacking. And the ones you did have were blurry and incomplete. Now all you could picture in your mind was the shambling, slurry-voiced, stubborn ass-of-a-man that you loved more than life itself. The one who had poor motor functions, and felt more skeletal than human when you hugged him.
ALS is one hell of a disease.
In your mind, the different images were clashing together – a mixture of what you saw, and what you thought.
In your mind, he is strong. That ever-present, protective force that has been a part of your life these fourteen years spent on this earth. Posture slumped, his body more of a prison than a vessel. His steps are dragged and ungainly, and there are many times where he would stumble and trip. Hands no longer working, fingers curled, arms hanging limp like weights from each shoulder. His skin too pale, voice garbled and slurred in a way you'd grown used to over the course of your childhood. His form was like a skeleton with skin.
A disease that has eaten away at his body, though the strength of his will and mind stay the same. Even now, you could still see the spirit in his eyes. The love and affection of a parent in his voice, his hugs.
But you also see him laying on his bed in the living room, the curtain drawn, and the atmosphere dark and cold. You remembered the cool feeling of his skin – too cold to be human – and the kind of peace only death could bring at this point in time.
Your father: strong, passionate, loving; sick, probably scared, and tired.
So now, he sleeps.
And despite all of that, you still could not find it in you to cry.
What kind of child were you, if you were unable to shed even a single tear on the day your father died?
Dad died on a Saturday.
The following Monday, you went to school. You couldn't stand being in that house all day. Not with the way your mother would cry. You couldn't stand it when she cried, and now it seemed like that was all she had the strength to do. Nor could you ignore the empathetic looks your step-father sent you, on the rare occasions you left your room. Because he knew what it was like – you knew he did. He had lost both of his parents by now, and his father had died at an age even younger than yours. But... it was just too much.
The walls of that house, once your weekend sanctuary away from the stress and strain and screaming matches your dad and step-mother had nearly every day and night, were now your prison. Paper-thin, allowing you to hear every last sob, every muffled word your mother uttered from upstairs.
Asriel had not come home with you after the ambulance came and took your father's body away. He wanted to stay and keep an eye on your step-mom, so she didn't have to be alone.
You couldn't bring yourself to spend another minute in that house, now that your dad was gone from it. The bare thought of it was enough to make you anxious.
At school, you didn't speak a word of it, though your mother went to the office to tell the school's councilor what had happened. You'd visited her a lot this past year or two, and she was one of the few adults that you considered a friend. Or, at the very least, trustworthy. She sent an email to your teachers, explaining what had happened – bless that woman's soul.
You mingled in the threshold of the school before class started with your little group of friends. You'd been sitting on the ground next to one of them while she read, not really thinking nor interacting much with the environment. Everything just felt so... surreal. Like a dream. You hoped that you would wake up soon.
When one person of the little group – Papyrus – commented on how quiet you'd been – more so than usual, which was saying something – you quietly mumbled to him about what had happened under your breath. The others had paused to listen, but you didn't really mind it. Although, seeing their smiles drop when they heard made you feel guilty. They looked shocked – horrified, even – to see you willingly go to school a mere two days after your dad's death. You couldn't really bring yourself to explain why, so you shrugged, and said, "I need a distraction."
Papyrus had all but launched himself across your mutual friend's lap, throwing his long arms around you in a smothering hug. He dragged you awkwardly to the side, while the friend sandwiched in between wailed about him squashing their legs.
"YOU'LL LIVE!" he shouted back, and went back to hugging the life out of you. The others gathered around, and all you could see were arms and heads as your friends all joined in. It made it a little hard to breathe, but they were warm, and you appreciated the much-needed comfort.
It made you smile, and you laughed for the first time in days.
The days kind of went in a blur after that. It was a month away from the end of eighth grade, after all, and everyone else around you seemed to be in a tizzy about moving on to high school. As excited as you had been before, now that prospect just seemed... scary. More so than before. You had moved into your mother's house full-time, but you'd yet to pick up your things from the other home. Asriel still visited on weekends, but two days in comparison to seven had you feeling more than a little lonesome, and you were really starting to miss him.
Everything still felt so... unreal. Like some long, extended weekend at Mom's house, only it wasn't, because though you were staying at Mom's house, it was for good now. Because Dad wasn't there anymore. You wouldn't be walking to his house after school anymore because he was gone now. Dead and gone and he was never coming back and that thought made you feel numb inside. But you didn't want to feel numb. You wanted to experience every last second of your own, personal Hollywood moment, where the skies thundered in sorrow and the rain mingled with tears while they poured down your cheeks. You wanted to moan and scream and lament about how unfair it all was – why you, why your family, he wasn't a bad person and there are so many other people who have done so much worse so why did your dad deserve to have this fucking disease; you wanted a moment where you fell for your knees and just screamed. Crying and calling until your lungs ached and your voice was gone while everyone crowded in around you to offer comfort, and the world would stop while everyone realized that a great, great man had just been lost to them. And everyone would take a brief moment to stop and appreciate the tragedy of this loss that had torn an entire family apart.
Just like in the movies.
But... that obviously didn't happen.
It was a tragedy. It was tragic and unfair and devastating to you and your family but no-one besides them seemed to notice. People didn't stop to give you a comforting pat on the shoulder – the poor youth you were, now lacking a father and having lost someone you loved and admired and cherished with every last beat of your heart.
No, that didn't happen. Because the sun still shone and the breeze stayed warm for another week, two weeks, three weeks after that. The clouds were nonexistent, without a droplet of rain in sight. Flowers bloomed and birds sang and your peers moved eagerly onward to summer and their futures all around you while you felt like you'd stuck one foot permanently in the past. In the doorway of that house you couldn't bring yourself to visit anymore, where a man lay stubbornly in bed, hardly able to walk and his body failing and wasting away around him while his mind and comprehension remain untouched. Where he knew he was going to die before his children had finished growing and he knew that it was going to tear them apart, and who could guess? Maybe he had been scared of that. Terrified. You would have been, but you didn't know how he felt because you'd never had the forethought to bother asking.
There were so many things you wanted to ask him.
And out of the masses of adults in your family, hardly a single one took the time to comfort you. The poor, unfortunate little fourteen-year-old who had been waiting for this moment all their recalled life and now that day was here, that day had come and now it was gone. Just like you father was. And when they tried, they put in an effort, but eventually it became too much because they were his parents and brothers and sisters and they had known him so much longer than you had but he was still your dad and you were his child so why didn't that seem to count for anything here?
Dead or alive, you had always put on a brave face. Held a stiff upper lip even though your throat lumped and burned with stifled tears while you patted them all on the back as those goddamn adults broke composure and they would break down sobbing into your hair and the next thing you knew, mere moments away from finally trusting yourself and them enough to talk about it, the roles had switched and they were gone to some other part of this sad, lonely little world within the hour. Leaving you behind to feel even more frustrated and empty than you were before.
Every single night for weeks, maybe even months, you would lay in bed, listening to the sounds of your mother sobbing upstairs and you were starting to forget what it was like to see her fall asleep sober, or at the very least with dry eyes that weren't bloodshot from the tears.
You remembered crying yourself to sleep nearly every night during the last few years he was alive, needing to release the stress and anxiety from school and its bullies and the ever-looming inevitability of death that hung around your old house with each breath. You would cling to a pillow for dear life, praying for it to just end already because, god, you didn't know how much longer you could do this. He'd been like this since you were seven, maybe even younger, and it was putting so much pressure on you, and even though you knew it was selfish, you wished he wasn't so helpless.
Because there was already enough to deal with and it was really rubbing salt into the wound but you loved him. You loved him so much. But there were times where you hated him and you hated that house and you hated having to exist in a place like that. But you still loved him, and his diaphragm was failing so it couldn't be much longer now. You'd all been so sure he wouldn't live to see the end of the year, but then he started to get better and you dared to hope again, and then five months later he was gone. The doctors said he wouldn't make it to forty and he did and he was just two months away from his forty-first birthday but he finally decided to rest.
And now... despite all those nights you'd fallen asleep in tears beforehand...
Now you'd lost count of the nights you spent awake, staring at the ceiling in the dark, wondering what was wrong with you because you couldn't cry. It was like someone had removed your tear ducts and sucked all the water from your body because it had been months at this point and for some ungodly reason you still could not cry. And you hated it.
It wasn't the first time you'd wished to make everything stop, and it most certainly wouldn't be the last, but you never recalled the desire to have it all just end being so strong before.
But you couldn't do that. You weren't the only one who had suffered loss, and there were so many people all over the world who were going through so much worse and you should be grateful for what you have but it was so hard to be grateful for anything when all you felt was nothing at all. Because your Dad had already died, and everyone else was in just as much – if not more – pain than you were in.
And goddamn you before you forced that sort of pain upon them all over again.
High school was difficult. You were living with Mom twenty-four-seven now; you hadn't visited your step-mom nor the house you once shared since the day of your father's birthday, two months after he died. The summer was rather... dull, to say the least. But now, here you were, forced to go to a new school district during one of the biggest milestones of your young life while everyone you knew and called a friend went on to high-school in your old hometown. You had been going to school there since the first grade. A lot of it had been miserable – bullying was a common occurrence, and you had more than a few insecurities and old scars to show for it – but you had finally made some friends, only to have them ripped away from you. Now you were thrust into a place where everyone knew about everyone and these people had already known each other for years. There was no way you would fit in. You were too awkward. Too shy.
The majority of freshman year had been spent hopelessly clinging to the sides of the deeply-rooted cliques of your new school, trying to get closer to the few acquaintances you'd managed to make in class. They were nice and interesting, and they'd been kind enough to offer you a spot at their table during lunch so you didn't have to be alone. And you already felt so isolated and lonely and you just wanted a friend to turn to in your times of need without having to drive a half-hour to their house first. But a wallflower was a wallflower, and a socially-anxious outcast like you had no place among these popular kids. Your new school and old school were semi-friendly rivals, which meant people between the two intermingled, and the rumors and jokes about you from your old district were already beginning to leak across the grapevine.
Some of them said they didn't buy in on the rumors, and you believed them. But others would simply point and snicker behind their hands.
A few months into the year, you'd gotten a phone call from Papyrus. You'd drifted apart over summer, and a little while before then, as well, as he became fully invested in a relationship. The one he'd been dating had immediately caused dislike in you, but he was happy. That didn't mean you weren't hurt when he started ignoring you and the rest of your friends in favor of his partner, though.
When he called you, he sounded quiet and insecure. He apologized for his actions, before confiding that his relationship had... a rather unpleasant end. He admitted that you were the only one who had ever, genuinely cared when it came to topics such as these, and though you'd never dated or gone through a breakup, you did your best to sympathize with him from the get-go. It annoyed you at first – after all, why should you bother? He'd shunned and ignored you for that ass who teased you, and now he came crawling back because there was no-one else left to go to with his heartache. But... no matter how miffed you may have been, it still hurt you to hear a loved one cry.
So you stayed with him on the phone for hours at a time, awkward and quiet and unsure, but still trying to help guide him through the heartache as his former partner seemed to move on without a hitch. Sometimes you would wake up in the wee hours of the morning to your phone buzzing on your bed. And you picked up, every single time, forcing yourself to stay awake long enough to talk until he'd tired himself out enough to finally fall asleep. Most weekends were spent at his place, where you lazed around the house, helped him with his chores, made spaghetti and baked goods, and sat and listened when he started to break down again. Hugs were offered when words failed you.
In retrospect, you were thankful for it. You and Papyrus were still best friends to this day.
Your other best friend, you met on the bus around the same time Papyrus first started calling you. Every morning, they would get on the bus with a male friend, and take a seat behind you. At first, they annoyed you, the both of them – you were quiet and reserved, and they were so very awake and alive. Definitely a morning person. Oftentimes they accidentally ended up pummeling the back of your seat during a squabble with their friend. But they were kind, and always apologized on both of their behalves.
When their male friend stopped riding the bus in the afternoons – you assumed he was involved with sports – they began to sit with you instead. You were unsure at first, but they were kind and outgoing and had this... this magnetic personality that enamored and fascinated you to no end. You learned that their name was Chara, and there were many similarities between you.
The both of you looked very similar, although you were taller and their hair was much longer than yours, but was very close in color. Once they braided a lock of your hair with theirs, and by the end of it, neither of you could tell which was which. They wore glasses and had a quiet, cute snort when they laughed. They were athletic and competitive, but still very gentle and courteous and intelligent. They loved to read even more than you did. You both had lots of freckles. Chara had really pretty eyes, and apparently they thought the same thing about yours.
You both had very similar tastes in music, which bonded you two together better than anything else. You would listen to it together on the way home, sharing earbuds and leaning close to quietly talk about the day until you got off at your stop a half-hour later. Chara had bad carpal tunnel and poor circulation, so their hands were almost always cold – unless they were upset – so you eventually began to offer your own, warmer hands to regulate the temperature. Eventually the action became a familiar comfort, and you would hold hands the entire time you sat together on the bus.
By next year, Chara would have a very rough time, with various medical issues that required lots of surgery and your loyal, guiding hand to help them along. It bonded you like nothing else in this world, and you would quickly think of them as your nearest and dearest friend... but that is a story for another time. For now, you enjoyed their company, their liveliness, and all but craved their friendship. The first, real friend you had made in your new school. And you wouldn't trade up that companionship for all the good in the world.
You did not talk to Chara as much as you would have liked over the following summer. But you knew they understood.
After all... you had a funeral to attend.
Making plans to fly across the country went by without a hitch, and a lot faster than you expected. After all, it'd been over a year at this point. Thirteen months, to be exact. You father had been cremated after his death, and he'd been placed inside a beautiful urn – black with intricate, ornate gold patterns webbing all around it. You and your brother both had smaller urns with his ash in it – Asriel's looked like a miniature version of your father's, but yours was heavy and heart-shaped. They were stowed in velvet pouches, on the shelf in your mother's closet. You couldn't really bring yourself to look at it, no matter how beautiful those gold designs were.
The trip across country made you nervous for several reasons. Where you lived, the weather was mild almost year-round, with reasonable summer temperatures that let you wear your jacket outside without getting too hot. You were too self-conscious to walk around without one on now, for more reasons than one. But it was early June, and where you were going, it was going to be very hot. Not just that – but humid, too. You were going to be out-and-about and surrounded by your family the entire time. You doubted wearing your jacket would be very sensible – let alone healthy. You could do without having a heatstroke, thank you very much.
You weren't a religious person, but you prayed beyond all hope that no-one would ask about the scars.
Over the course of a year, things had been rather dicey for you, personally. Between the stress of being in an entirely new environment, friendless for a period of that time, the increased workload in your classes, and trying to keep your grades up, that... that numbness inside of you had been giving you one hell of a time. It left you drained and passionless. Your previous interests in writing and drawing were a distant memory at this point, and your sleep schedule had been utterly screwed for months, now. You had nightmares most nights, and they left you struggling to stay awake for as long as you could manage each evening.
That, among other things... it really piqued your curiosity in certain... coping methods.
Truth be told, you had wondered about it years before, but you'd been too scared to try anything. You weren't exactly fond of any sort of prolonged pain, and some little piece of you had always been scared that you would do something wrong. Doing it in the wrong place and end up hurting yourself badly or worse, getting an infection, or having someone notice the leftover marks and calling you out on it. What were you supposed to say if something like that happened? "Whoops, sorry, it'll never happen again"?
You didn't particularly feel like being pitied or scorned for it.
But... well, as the saying went, "curiosity killed the cat".
It started out as mindless curiosity. You'd seen it written about in stories, or mentioned in media or television. You noticed some of your friends in junior high and high school having peculiar scars, but never really brought it to their attention. Some little part of you figured this wasn't the sort of thing you talked about in the general public's eye. It was seen as bad.
At night, when you had nothing else to do, the wondering would hit a peak. So you... did some research. Why people claimed to do it, how they went about hiding the remnants, how they did it and where – after all, how did they make sure they weren't hurting themselves too badly? Why did they voluntarily cause themselves physical pain? You couldn't fathom it, and it drove a morbid sense of interest into your skull.
You would reason with yourself that this was all for the sole purpose of curiosity, but... well, deep down, you probably knew that was nothing but a big, fat lie. You were just too much of a coward to try anything. But you would sit there, on the edge of your bed, contemplating, wondering, a safety pin in-hand (the irony, right?), mentally egging yourself on. Bullying yourself into trying, but it never worked.
Then one night, your cat had scratched the back of your hand – right along the base of your thumb. It had hurt, and you were angry and upset after a long, emotionally-wearing day. So when you sat down to relax, you figured... well, it was already kind of done in a way, right? Why not help it along? It was a sick, twisted way of thought, but the next thing you knew, the base of your forearms were covered in long, shallow scratches from the pin's edge – it didn't draw blood, but the skin was so stiff with healing the next day that you couldn't even reach above your own head.
It all... kind of went downhill from there. You started wanting to see blood, and it would frustrate you even more afterward if you didn't, but the whole idea still scared you. You didn't want to hurt yourself that badly, did you? Why would you? It was a dangerous habit to pick up and you knew it, and you kept telling yourself it wasn't helping anything, but...
You were at an airport, waiting for your second flight with Asriel and your aunt, uncle, and cousins. The latter four had been off buying icecreams for you all (the airport was miserably hot), and you sat with Asriel. You figured that, if anyone were to notice, it would be him. He was your big brother, after all. So, after five minutes of waiting, you finally managed to muster up the courage to admit what you'd been doing under your breath to him.
He had looked... confused, and sad, and worried. He didn't push you on why, which you were eternally grateful for, but he promised the two of you would have a talk about it once you'd gone back home. After that, you drank your milkshake in silence, and hardly breathed a word on the next plane to your destination.
The gathering had had quite the turnout – you met a lot of family you'd never known before, and saw plenty of old faces you hadn't seen in a long time. It was surreal as the day Dad had died, seeing all of these people coming out here, just to lay him to rest...
His ashes were going to be buried right alongside those of his biological mother, who died when you were a toddler. You didn't remember her.
There was a day or two of time spent exploring, after the ceremony. It'd been oddly... fun. But... also not. One of the trips out involved a water/amusement park, and you'd been on-edge and self-conscious the entire day. You didn't have the greatest self-image, and swimsuits weren't exactly the greatest when it came to covering certain things up. Asriel had tried to soothe you while you were all walking around, saying that even if someone did notice the scars, they were the people who were most likely to accept them, and by extension, you as well. It helped a little, but... you still would rather not encounter that kind of situation.
If anyone noticed that day, they didn't breathe a word of it.
You'd gone back to the home you were staying in with one hell of a sunburn, though.
Which was equal parts ironic and stupid, considering the place had free sunblock dispensers in the water park.
For the funeral itself, though, well... it was a beautiful, sunny, cloudless summer day. Practically identical to the day he died, just over a year ago. It was in a peaceful cemetery, on a plot specifically designated for different members of your family's bloodline. It was on a bit of a hill, and there were trees lining the edges of the cemetery in the distance. The air smelled of flowers, and you saw a few fresh bouquets on a few of the gravestones. From the moment your aunt's car pulled to a stop behind a long row of them on a gravel path, the forming lump in your throat swelled tenfold. You were continuously chanting to yourself that you were going to get through this.
You weren't going to cry like everyone else. You hadn't cried a single tear in thirteen months, and you sure as hell weren't going to start now. It was pointless. You had been unable to cry over anything in over a year. Why... why should this change anything?
The masses of your family gathered around the freshly-dug grave. It was deeper than you expected. Seeing your father's and grandmother's urns sitting side-by-side at the bottom made something inside of you cringe. It felt much more real now, with them sitting before you. That numb feeling had given way to a kind of ache that clamped at your entire torso – like one, giant cramp. Your throat hurt like hell.
When everyone had settled, you purposely lingered at the back of the crowd, face down, a foot or two away from Asriel. Your face felt hot and your eyes burned. A few, short speeches were given by your grandfather, one of your uncles, and other assorted people. You and your brother were mentioned a few times, and every time, you tried to shrink into yourself even more, not a big fan of the pitying spotlight.
After the speeches had finished, you stared at a slip of paper in your hands. Everyone had it, and began reading from it.
Slowly, a low, mournful hymn of Amazing Grace filled the air. You sat there, silently, throat clenching so painfully you could hardly even breathe. You tried to hide behind the fringe of your hair. The pressure inside of your body that built up from stifling the tears felt like it was slowly strangulating you. Killing and striking you dead right then and there, so you could hop into the grave with your dad and rest.
You opened your mouth, and tried to sing a quiet line of the song with the rest of your family, but you couldn't even get the first syllable out before your throat closed, and you choked out a whimper. You felt weak. It was a disgusting feeling.
Beside you, Asriel's composure was breaking. He swept an arm around your shoulders, and pulled you close. He turned you to his chest, and the two of you clung to one another for dear life. God, you missed him. You missed him so fucking much. Why did your family deserve this? You were only fifteen at this point – just a stupid kid – and KIDS SHOULDN'T HAVE TO BE BURYING THEIR DADS IN CEMETERIES.
God! Fucking! Damn it!
It hurt so fucking much. Why did it have to be so painful? All of the things you would miss together... your dad would never see you graduate high school, or get your license, or your first car. He'd never see you get your first job, or move out into your own home. He'd never get to see you fall in love and get married and have your own family. He'd never be able to meet and play with his grandchildren and tell them stupid, embarrassing stories about when you were their age.
You would never hear his voice again. You would never get to hug him or kiss him goodbye on the cheek ever again. You would never have the chance to ask him about when he was a kid your age, or what his hobbies had been, or what his life was like before he met your mom and had you and your brother. What his favorite color was. No more watching movies, laying in bed or sitting on the couch with him. No more telling stupid jokes and hearing him laugh. You'd never be able to see what his eyes looked like ever again. All of the lost opportunities felt like they were crushing you. The what-ifs and could-have-beens. All of the firsts, the seconds, the lasts. It was only natural for children to have to put their parents to rest one day, but those children shouldn't be teenagers and those parents should be old and wrinkled and having lived a full life, not forty and with so much left in store for them.
It hurt. God, it hurt. Why did grief have to be so horrible? Why did death have to be so sad? What if you forgot about him over the years? Fourteen is a young age to lose someone as important as a parent – you still had fifty, sixty, seventy more years ahead of you. You didn't want to forget about him. You were scared you would. In a way, you already kind of were.
You weren't there with him when he died and you were terrified of him hating you or being sad that he couldn't see you one last time before he left. But a part of you also tried to reason that he wouldn't want you to see him like that. But you still should have been there for him and you knew you probably weren't going to see him ever again after you left for Mom's house on Friday; you made sure to give him lots of extra hugs, and kiss his cheek, and tell him an extra time that you loved him before you walked out that door, but how could that possibly be enough? This was an entire lifetime you were going to spend without him there and youjust left because you couldn't stand the atmosphere in that house anymore. You needed a break, just a little one. It was killing you, eating away at you, and you couldn't bear to be around it for much longer.
You just wanted him to hug you and tell you it was all going to be okay but he can't do that anymore because he's dead and you're never going to hear his voice or see him or talk to him ever again.
That thought broke the dams you'd tried to build around you, and the next thing you knew, you were crying. And your big brother was holding you just as tightly as you held him and he was crying too and you could count the times you'd seen him cry on your fingers and the whole thing just shook you up even more. You were trying to stay quiet – making choked whimpering and hiccup-noises and you knew some of the others were probably watching but you didn't care. Right now you just wanted them all to shut up and go away and just stop singing that fucking song already.
You wished you could sob and curse and scream until you fell unconscious, but you knew that wouldn't do well by the adults at your father's funeral.
So you would just have to make do with what you had, because now, for the first time since your dad had died... you could finally cry.
And good god, was it liberating.
This was written as a way for me to personally express grief/emotion over the upcoming anniversary of my father passing away from ALS (AKA: Lou Gehrig's Disease), May 12th, 2012.
Four years hasn't had much affect on how much I miss you, Dad. I'll always miss you. I know I've messed up a lot over the years, but I hope I've done some good that can make you feel proud of me.
I love you so much.
Thank you all for reading. I hope you have a nice day/night.