You used to think that dying was pretty cool.
Old age or giving up on life was different. Those didn't count. You liked it when it was the culmination of one's entire existence. When everything in life had held a purpose; when everything came together to a perfect ending. You liked the story of the hero who sacrificed everything, even their life. It was your favorite movie, not that there were many choices in the Underground.
You and your brother Asriel watched it every Friday. It wasn't like you had many choices on a movie-night, and it was one of the few things you both liked. Actually there were only a few parts you liked, mainly the dramatic parts and especially the end; the rest was pretty boring. So you started watching it upside down with your head hanging on your bed, because sometimes you saw different shapes and colors that way, while you munched on some popcorn.
Asriel would hold onto the blanket for dear life the whole movie, sometimes even mouthing the motivational speeches minor characters gave to the hero. Whenever the end came though, he'd always toss the blanket over his head, and refuse to watch.
"We've seen this like, ten times already," you rolled your eyes and flipped right-side up. Muffled sounds came from beneath the blanket.
This was the best part – where the hero cut down everyone he loved, in order to protect the world. There was blood and guts and blood everywhere, like ketchup and it didn't even look real. It looked more like a work of art. Eventually the badass hero was cut down, and he gasped a few dying words, before the credits started to roll.
"You can look now," you told Asriel, and he peaked his head over the blanket. Tears had matted the fur by his eyes. "C'mon, big kids don't cry."
He was crying. You didn't feel bad about it.
There were tears streaming out of his eyes. There was blood too. It was gross. Blood was seeping out of his nose, and had gotten matted across his fur. It wasn't anything like the movie. There was nothing beautiful about this.
He was crying. You felt kind of bad about it.
You'd both been playing with sticks and you were the 'hero'. You bopped him when he wasn't expecting it. The stick dropped from your hands. "Are you okay?"
His face had scrunched together as if concentrating, or holding back pain. "Y-yeah..." He sniffled back tears, and you knew he was trying to be brave for you. You'd gotten a bit overzealous when pretending to be the hero. Your brother hated being the villain but you'd always insist until he gave in eventually. His heart wasn't in the role.
You handed him your handkerchief and waited with him until the blood finally stopped flowing. "Sorry," he apologized.
"Why?" You were the one who hit him. You should be the one apologizing.
"For ruining your handkerchief."
"Oh." You wanted to tell him that you were the one that was sorry, but you didn't for some reason. He thought you were strong. You wanted to be strong. Apologizing was admitting to the person that you'd been weak.
You were both in the kitchen, trying to make heads or tails of the recipe. It was written in cursive, which might as well have been a different language. He needed a stool to reach the counter, but you were tall enough. Pretty much all the ingredients had been gathered and tossed into a bowl, and you mixed it furiously because you were determined to make it the best pie ever.
"Sorry," he apologized. Not exactly new for him; he's always apologizing. But one key ingredient, he couldn't seem to read it off the list.
"Give that to me." You stopped your furious mixing and snatched the paper from his hands. You squinted, barely able to make the word's form. "Buttercups." You succeeded.
"Buttercups?" Asriel repeated, frowning. "Are you sure that's right?"
"Yeah, like the flower." You didn't actually know, you just thought that's what it had to be. What other buttercups were there? He frowned; didn't look very convinced. "Go get it!"
Buttercups. That wasn't right.
The flower was poisonous. Who knew. It wasn't like you were trying to kill your surrogate father. He'd eaten an entire piece happily, far too kind to tell you and Asriel that it tasted funny. Mom pulled you and your brother aside; asked what in the world you two had done. She thought it'd been some kind of cruel joke.
Halfway through her rant, Asriel started bawling. You told her that it was your idea and had been your fault. The recipe called for buttercups so you thought it was the flower. She let both of you go to your room after that. No supper, but the yelling had stopped when she realized it was an accident.
Asriel wrapped himself in his blanket, and started to cry again.
"Stop it," you told him, because him crying made you feel worse somehow.
"Don't you feel bad though? Dad - he - he could've died." He sniffled.
You just laughed. "But he didn't. It's fine." Your brother didn't answer.
You felt really bad. Your stomach was twisted in all kinds of knots, and your heart wouldn't stop pounding. It felt like you were going to throw up. You flipped the light off and neither of you were in the mood for much more conversation. Asriel kept on crying, eventually dying out into a few sniffles, until at last it ceased. All you could hear was the steady breathing; all you could see was the rise and fall of his blanket.
You snuck out of your bed. You were an expert and knew just how to turn the doorknob, so that it would fit neatly in place without the extra sound of that 'click.' You hurried to the bathroom.
You threw up.
And up. And up. And up.
Oh God, you couldn't stop.
Dying was nothing like the movies. It was supposed to be like a thunderclap; loud, beautiful, with a meaningful impact. Also fast. Dying was extremely slow, and painful. You thought if you were suffering to save someone else, it would have been worth it.
But that wasn't true.
There was nothing cool about dying.
And it sure as hell wasn't pretty.
You hadn't eaten in days and could no longer hold down even a sip of water. Whenever you tried, your stomach reacted violently. There was nothing left for you to throw up, but somehow your body still managed - a green kind of liquid you never knew existed inside you. You were so sick that even resting didn't work right; laying down just upset your stomach further. So you were left in this kind of half-limbo world of awake-not awake, your eyes constantly half closed as you just focused on your breathing to lessen the pain.
At first, Mom had hovered around you at every passing moment. You begged her to leave you alone. You hated the way she looked at you; you couldn't help but think you were comparable to a dying dog. Your brother was the opposite. He hated visiting you, probably because you always asked him to bring more poison. So you told him to come see you more. He tried to talk you out of your plan on more than one occasion. It was like he was being strategic about it too, because he always seemed to argue when you were at your worst.
Like when you were sitting there waiting to throw up for the tenth time that day.
"I don't like this," he'd whimper. There was always something in his hands that he'd play with, as he watched you lean your head against the cool wall. This time he had that stupid camera. You prayed to God that it wasn't on, or didn't turn on, with the way he was fiddling with the lens and practically every button. "Isn't there another way? Let's stop, Chara!"
"Don't doubt me," your voice was so dry. "We... we have to be strong. We'll save everyone."
"You're already strong," he sniffled, tears welling in his eyes. "I... I'm scared. But if you think it'll work, if we can break the barrier and save everyone, then... I... I..."
"Stop crying. Go get more flowers," you winced; you wanted him gone. Not because he was crying, even though you couldn't say that.
But because as soon as he left, you started to cry, too. The tears streamed down your face and your chest heaved violently, your body feeling weak and your mind faint. This was what a hero did, right? This is what made life worthwhile, right?
Your life was meaningless. You could continue to eke out an existence, but there didn't seem to be much point. You weren't a good person. You couldn't live the life of a hero, of someone who was always patient and kind and good.
But you could die a hero.
You could die and save so many people.
It was the only way to ensure the rest of your life had ever held a purpose.
When you open your eyes, you're back in your 'room.' Your hands are folded neatly upon your chest. Gaster must have finished whatever it was he does, and left you here, alone. You don't remember what happened, and probably as some kind of coping mechanism, your mind had wandered into my memories that you decided to augment with made-up content.
"But that's what happened," you say quietly to me. "So what do you remember?"
I remember my brother crying all the time, him being obnoxious, and myself getting sick. I remember doing all the things you saw. But you inserted your own emotions and thoughts into my memories, like setting yourself as the main character in someone else's story.
"...Why don't you remember anything good?"
There isn't anything good to remember. It's my soul and my memories; you can't just make stuff up.
"But it's not your soul. It's mine."
Excuse me? If it's not my soul, what the hell do you think I am? Some kind of imaginary friend?
"Rez-idual effect of a displaced soul. A tremor."
You did not.
You did not just quote Gaster, of all things, did you? You can't even say that word right.
What's wrong with you? You think that I don't exist? I'm some kind of figment of your imagination?
You're the doll here. You're the one who doesn't have the capability to make your own decisions! You don't know how to do anything by yourself! You're just a copycat; you wouldn't have even given yourself up if Sans hadn't done it first for you.
That greasy short skeleton? Don't even get me started.
You listen to him like you're some kind of freaky pet, absorbing everything he does and says even when it doesn't make any logical sense. You don't even understand half of what he's trying to say or you wouldn't have poured ketchup all over Gaster's dust.
Why do you listen to him and not me? What makes you think his way is better?
You're a damn doll, an artificial human that lacks the capability of judgment and most definitely lacks any capacity for morals.
The only reason I've been patient with you is because we're stuck in the same miserable situation. That working together would be more productive.
It doesn't have to be that way. We don't have to be 'friends.'
You don't understand that I can make your life hell.
You gave me your body once and you couldn't take it back. Just because I'm stuck on this side of the looking-glass doesn't mean I can't shove you back here and take control. I haven't forgotten what it feels like to be you and now that I know it's possible, I'll make it real.
You'll mess up one day and I'll be right here.
You're holding your hands to your ears but it doesn't matter, you'll always hear me because I'm not some stupid imaginary friend or a convenient science effect to make yourself feel better.
This is my soul to keep. Not yours.
Don't ever forget.