"Terror unendingly renews with advancing age. Without end, it returns us to the beginning. The beginning that I glimpse on the edge of the grave is the pig in me which neither death nor insult can kill. Terror on the edge of the grave is divine and I sink into the terror whose child I am." - George Bataille, 'My Mother'
It is now the one hundred and fifth LOAD.
As Frisk finished loading their SAVE, they impulsively made their way forth. Again. A disturbance in the skeletons' synergy brought to light through every gesture, every word, pleased the hungry beast within, an avid observer in their prior runs just as they are in the present moment.
How perfect, they mused, running their fingers smoothly along the svelte knife. Well, thought Frisk with a frown, almost perfect.
Their pupils, initially dilated under the spell of macabre curiosity—a festering realm of thoughts—now turned the size of fine-pointed needles—livid beyond thinking. Frisk, now nothing more than a vessel for the abnormality, has been vexed to the point of torture. The seductive whispers intensified into virulent verbosity, raising a cold-blooded killer with every malignant word. It left them no moment of clarity, let alone the ability to think for themselves anymore. Every now and then, Frisk's actions were allowed, only to be taken away in an instant. They have become a wretched monstrosity; a living nightmare.
Frisk . . . A biting pang hit their debauched psyche. Frisk twitched.
Frisk . . . the voice continued in a deceptively soft murmur; a hostile undertone, yet so mellifluous.
Frisk!
The call too strong to ignore, they responded internally. I . . .
Frisk stopped, biting their lip so hard they bled. I'm not sure I want to do this anymore, Chara. I . . .
The child meekly voiced their concern to the terrific entity within. A layer of mistrust laid between them with every failed attempt, every LOAD. It was only a matter of time.
It had taken so long.
Chara— We can't keep doing this. I'm—
Silence—the expectation of Chara's interruption never came true—but for the hum of rushing blood in their head.
Tentatively, weak and weary, Frisk thought, I'm scared . . . I'm so scared . . .
Frisk, responded Chara the fiend within, you know what you must do: kill them. Spare no enemy. We must secure this timeline, and bring it into nonexistence. Just like all the times before, my dear partner. I admit, I can't help but be . . . disappointed.
Had you not let me down multiple times . . . .
'SANS, LET ME DO THE HONORS!' Papyrus said before unleashing a barrage of knife-like bones falling from the ceiling, some emerging from the floor, my SOUL held captive as I bled out—
A blink. Sans stood on top of me, grinding his slipper atop my throat, choking me as I gurgled blood from my lips, my head feeling foggy—
'now!' yelled Sans as him and his brother, Gaster Blasters aloft, fired off blindingly-hot lasers at me, disintegrating every bit of me, their eyes blazing—
The skeleton brothers punched and cast spell upon spell, orange and blue, my body rebounding with every hit, only to be impacted with all manners of blows, again and again—
'BROTHER,' declared the lanky skeleton as he held me by the foot, 'LET US KILL THEM NOW!' Sans grinned, eye sockets unfathomable, striking me on the chest and head repeatedly with a blunt femur until my face looked like mush—
Are you listening to me? said the voice, annoyed.
Frisk blinked hard, shutting off grisly images of themselves, their body tense.
As I was saying, had you not let me down over and over again, I wouldn't be so aggrieved with you. Don't you see, Frisk? This will be a milestone for us. This timeline is much too rare—too precious—to give up on. A singularity among the ordinary, Frisk. Isn't great? Isn't it just the coolest? The battles with Sans have become stale. This is a welcome change. A welcome change indeed.
Shallow breaths escaped Frisk's dry throat. Their mouth parched, Frisk reached the front of their tightened throat (memories of Papyrus and Sans decapitating and amputating Frisk's limbs flashed behind their eyelids, bile accumulating in the back of their throat in revulsion). Swallowing the painful lump, Frisk regained their wits with a wild shake of their head and kept walking.
Stay determined, Frisk. Your resolve has brought you this far, hasn't it? So don't—let—me—down.
The voice within had acquired intelligence of their own, one so cold that Frisk would never wish Sans or Papyrus to know. To the skeletons, Frisk's true intentions hid in obscurity. What became evident: the hungry beast residing inside Frisk will stop at nothing to quench their blood-thirst, to achieve their own perverted sense of fulfilment.
After all, the voice continued, we are still partners, right?
Right?
The child shakily nodded, head limp upon their head in defeat, brown fringe hiding frightened, sorrowful eyes. Yes.
Very good, Frisk! jeered Chara. So now, you know full-well what we must do.
Frisk clenched their fists; Chara's chilling memento trembled from the added pressure.
So be good, my child.
Won't you?
"Yes, Chara," said Frisk under their breath, sniffling, angrily rubbing at their corneas with the back of their left knuckle, knife held limply in their right hand.
Tell me, sweet child, echoed the horrifying voice in Frisk's head as they began to execute their final plan, why are there tears upon your eyes?