And so it goes. Days, then months, pass. For the most part, his therapy goes by rather well. I convince Karkat to continue to sit in on our sessions, even though he says his moirail is 'retarded' for me, and therefore, 'not fucking dangerous.' I tend to disagree. Though the herbal remedies I found seem to be working, I'm still hesitant to be alone with him while discussing triggering issues. Sure, I can hold him still with magic, but not for long. Hell, they're triggering issues for me, too. I just don't tell anyone about it.
We've just finished another marathon session, I feel like we've hit a plateau. It's frustrating, but there's not much I can do. A patient has to be willing to move on. His greatest fear is that of abandonment, so potent it links all of his issues like a Gordian knot. His fear drove his aggression when he lost his religion, raging against yet another disappointment by an important figure in his life. It continually makes him insecure about those around him, though he rarely shows it. We hover around and around the topic of his lusus like bees waiting a turn with particularly juicy flower.
I feel officially spent. Regrets about my mother and I drag across my mind like rusted nails coated in salt. It's going to be another bad night. Power crackles around me in uneven patterns, scorching the metal walls of my room. I was able to hold out during the session, but I'm not going to much longer. Pacing doesn't work. Knitting doesn't work. Bullshit snarky conversation will not work. I'm not going to bother Kan at this hour, anyway. I need release. On Earth, I used to dabble in witchcraft, both as something to peeve my mother, and as a genuine relaxation tool. I've taken it up again on the meteor as a way of passing the time, but I need ritual and comfort tonight.
I dress in a black ritual cloak, cowl and all. I convinced Kanaya into doing it after a laborious explanation of my former religious practices. She was very excited, but hated the idea of using black. It's more of a sparkly grey trimmed in a satin fabric that compliments my eyes. Close enough. The airlock door bursts in front of me with a violent push of magic. Over and over my mind endlessly replays every argument, every acidic diatribe. Every closing fucking door, signaling the end of another pointless battle. There was never a victor, just sulking loss. I shoot across the meteor, black fire licking off of my fingertips. My nerves jangle with disappointment and anger, so raw and electric it makes my bones hurt. Our last argument replays in my mind, every hollow word feeds the fire, streaking across the Void in front of me.
Landing in the crater I've chosen for my ritual grounds, I slam my altar to the center of the pentagram I designed out of loose rock all those months ago. Hands shaking, I turn on my Mp3 player to Afro-Celt Soundsystem's "Dark Moon, High Tide," on repeat. Something about that song is particularly evocative for me. I don't even know why I bother anymore. The universe where my goddess resided is dead. Can you kill a spirit? Or does it travel with you? I shake myself out of my musings, hurrying on. Control isn't something I'll have for much longer, so I'd better take care to use it now. Black fire interspersed with white lightning licks around the circle, alternately making it pitch black and blindingly white. The earth shakes beneath me as I begin a deosil clockwise, raising power to set and protect the circle. Making way thrice round, my chant becomes a mantra, words running into one another as molecules in water would:
By the air that is her breath,
By the fire of her spirit,
By the waters of her womb,
As above, so below,
The circle is made whole.
I stop at the western corner, stabbing an athame into my intended gateway. Something is off. The crater groans and wobbles, the earth below writhes. I keep hearing the slamming door. The screams into my pillow. The slamming door. The I hate-yous screamed in action, not words. The door, the door, the door, the DOOR THE DOOR THE FUCKING DOOR EVERY DAMN TIME SHE FINDS A FUCKING DOOR AND SLAMS IT SHUT AND I NEVER EVER GET TO SAY I'M SORRY, NEVER SAY I LOVE YOU. SHE FUCKING DIED AND IT'S ALL MY FAULT. Crouching and clutching my head at the center of the circle, black clouds and fire stream from my body into the Void. It's an endless expanse that will never fully relieve my heart of it's bitterness. I could push out that fire forever and never rid myself of the emptiness I feel. I could break and destroy everything on this meteor, end this stupid mission forever, but never feel whole. Hoarse howls and screeches fill the air, like the voices of the lost dead. I claw at my throat, hanging in the air. I'm speaking in tongues. The withering hollowness envelopes me like a poisonous blanket. Lightning shoots from my eyes and fingers, destroying everything it comes in contact with within the circle. Fuck. I'm Grimdark, and there's nothing I can do about it.
I'm shaking apart from the inside, unearthly moans escaping from my lips, forming endless blasphemy in the language of the woegothics. I am nothing, I destroy everything. I am a black rage contained in the head of a pin, the expanse of the stars. Writhing in agony, power within slowly begins to slice away the outermost layer of my skin. Blood as black as ink run in rivulets from every orifice. There is no stopping, only breathtakingly painful release. No thought can enter into the haze of dire terror within. Crumpling into a heap before the altar, each new wave of force twists my shattered form with malicious glee. Death awaits me at the end of this terrible trial, something willingly accepted. I thank the Void profusely that this breakdown remains reigned within the circle, directed outwardly into nothingness. Almost poetic, all my previous passive aggressive rages had also destroyed nothing. Nothing but the one who had them.
Screaming. Screaming permeates my awareness. Black fire surrounds, turning all it touches to molten waste. Pulsing power pours from me in an unending stream, black blood running down my raw throat from the wild cries it utters to the Void. The scream is not my own. With the last bit of effort I have, I scan around the top of the crater. Jegus. Gamzee. I weakly wave him away, preferring my own death to his destruction. His face is a mask of panic and pain, adding to the many guilts and faults that run in an unerring track in my mind. He flies to the western corner dodging deadly fingers of darkness and lands, frenetically gesticulating. No, not...gesticulating...FUCK! NO! Juggling. A white-hot athame. How does he fucking know how to do that? I've never once shared a ritual with anyone! He carefully traces a door, steps in, and closes it again.
All of the power trapped within the circle comes to bear down on the hapless troll. An elegant ballet unfolds, he dodges and rolls, flash stepping across the expanse of the circle. The circle implodes on itself, searching with wormy fingers for purchase on that purple asshole. Hissing white lighting pours from the sides, zig-zagging this way and that in a punishing rhythm. One strikes home on his arm, pushing him away while eliciting a cry of "MOTHERFUCK!" I'm prisoner to my weakness, unable to speak, move, or stop the awful music that is Grimdark. He lands, springs up, sprints forward, bursting through my coffin of jet flames, and scoops me up. The stink of scorching skin saturates the air, "Motherfucker! I said I'd help you, and I'll up and fuck off to Echo Side if I'd go back on a motherfucking contract." His blistered hands cradle my face with care, "Rosesis! Fuck! Come on, baby girl, come back to me!" His lips forcefully overtake mine in desperation. The fire closes over us both, and I pray to my dead goddess that death is swift.