The kitchen is pleasantly small and clean. Toriel has always kept a clean house. The room you are in now is homey and familiar. Pleasantly furnished, but not too extravagent. Quaint, you might call it. The way she furnished the place, her perfectionism, her orderliness... It makes you think that she was never cut out for the royal life in the first place. All she has ever seemed to want is a family, and now she has one. Yet another dream that's come true for someone else...

Toriel lays a heavy hand on the kitchen table. Not banging it, exactly, but it carries enough force to get your attention.

"Frisk!" She cries, looking concerned. "Are you listening to me?"

You hadn't been; you'd been staring off into space, almost as though you had fallen asleep sitting up. "No, sorry - What was that, Mom?"

Her gaze softens a little when she hears you call her that. It has always warmed her heart and gotten you out of many a sticky situation. Toriel had been a loving mother, if not a bit overprotective and smothering. Not that you could complain, especially given the previous upbringing you'd had. Toriel definitely gave you lots of love, and that love is apparent by how she says her next sentence.

"I was asking you what you wanted for your birthday, child. You still haven't told me yet."

Your birthday. Tomorrow, you remember, wincing at the thought. You would have preferred to forget your birthday, mostly because it would mean smiling for the camera and pretending. That was the hardest part. Always pretending for Toriel and Sans and Papyrus that you didn't want to shrivel up and die.

"Nothing," you say at last, shaking your head with a small, forced smile. "I don't really need anything from you, Toriel."

Toriel gives you a suspicious look. Normally, when you call her by her first name, that's you distancing yourself from a situation. Now, it appears like you're hiding something from her... "Very well, then. Then you would not have any qualms about a family get together with all of our friends? I know everyone has been dying to see you, especially Papyrus and Alphys. And you know Alphys - if she says something, you know it has to be bad."

You smile a little more, though it hurts to do so. "Really, Mom, it's ok... I'd rather..."

You don't want to have to explain why you want to be alone on your birthday. It's too complicated, and even you can see how odd and weird and loser-ish that is.

Toriel narrows her eyes at you. "Frisk Dreemur, is this a teenage thing? Are you planning on running off with some boy or girl somewhere?"

"What? No! Of course not... You know I don't have any human friends..." You are impressed by Toriel's acceptance that you could possibly be a lesbian. You aren't, but it isn't like most people to be so open to that. Then again, Toriel isn't most people. She's a monster, and monster culture is a lot different than human culture.

"Who said they had to be a human, hmm?" She wriggles her furry eyebrows. "Don't you remember that time you flirted with me? And the date with Papyrus?"

You blush. "Mom! I was like, six."

"I'm just saying, sweetheart. You never talk about school or friends or crushes..."

"So what? School is boring, people suck, and love is fleeting. It's how life is."

Toriel sits up straighter, more concerned than ever. "I've never heard you talk like this, child. What's wrong? You never used to be like this..."

"I'm just saying it's not that big a deal. I don't pester you about whether or not you still fuck Asgore!"

"Do not use that tone with me, Frisk!"

You stand up from the dinner table, pie barely touched, glass of milk still still shining in the candlelight and the moonlight falling in through the open window. Toriel looks stunned. "And you wonder why I don't talk," you spit, hurrying up the stairs and into your room. You slam the door to drown out the fact that you can hear her voice calling you.

You flop on your bed and the next thing you know, you are sobbing into your sweater.

You hadn't meant to blow up like that. You feel as though you'd betrayed a secret, as though you had breached some line that should never have been crossed. Would Toriel hate you now, too? You wouldn't blame her if she did.

After all, you hate yourself, too.

You weep into your arms and pillow, and after fifteen minutes - you stare at the clock through your tears, and on occasion, your eyes will clear for you - Toriel still has not come to console you. That hurts. Perhaps she really is that angry with you? What have you done...? Suddenly, a frenzy comes over you. You ransack your room for something - anything - that's sharp. After ripping through your desk drawers, you find it. A stray paperclip.

You unfold it to form a point.

And you cut.

Your wrists. Your legs. Your toes.

The pain, nothing more than sharp scratches, feels almost good with each slice. Blood wells up with each quick flick of the hand, and you are free.

Your tears land in the cuts and it stings but it feels good. Sobbing gasps and snot protrude from your mouth and nose with your effort to keep yourself from crying. Not even that - but to keep from being too loud.

You half hope Toriel will come in and see all this.

See your hurt.

Understand.

Care.

But nobody comes.

When at last, your eyes dry and your fever has ended, you are covered in blood and too exhausted to face Toriel. You bandage your wounds, change your shirt - now also flecked with blood - you would tell Toriel later that it was just "spotting" - and fall into a bitter sleep. In your dreams, there is the laughing of single, maniacal flower, chanting in your ears: "I'll kill everyone you love."

Had you not done that already? In the past times when the loneliness was too much?

The following morning, you wake with a start. A sense of panic washes over you; for a moment, you think you're back there again - back in the field of yellow flowers. But you made Toriel change your sheets from yellow to purple, so when moments like this happened - and they were happening more often now than you would like to admit - your fears would immediately be calmed.

Seven.

Seven years since you and the entire race of monsters went free.

Six. Six that you've had to endure feeling this crushing, oppressive sense of helplessness. Part of you wanted to go back to those times when you were a kid. When you wore those foggy, flower-colored glasses and saw the world with the sense of innocence you now lacked.

You look at the clock.

It is 8 am. The sun shines through your white-curtained windows, illuminating the tea stain you'd managed to inflict upon one of them one evening, as you danced to Mettaton and Napstablook's latest album. Toriel hadn't been angry, but you were ashamed anyway.

Toriel. The thought of your goatmother and what happened last night hits you hard in the chest. Oh, gosh, no... What have you done?

You sit up and find a slice of pie, covered in plastic wrap, at the foot of your bed. The sight of it makes you tear up all over again.

You love your goatmom.