you don't need to hide my friend, for i'm just like you
Eventually you have to admit that a life free of pain is not going to be an option for you. That there is no destiny to give you a place in the world. That nothing can fix you and make you new. That you're not real, and not meant to be here, and that's going to be agony forever and you just have to deal with it.
You very nearly die of that realisation. If the world is never going to want you, if you'll never be more than an unwelcome intruder, then why inflict yourself on it? Why not do the right thing and cut yourself out like the tumour you are?
And if you were alone, if it was only you that was like this, you would. But by some strange and backwards miracle, you're not.
She's not the same kind of monster as you, but she's still a monster. Creation's fabric hates and hurts her even more than it does you. And she is beautiful, and fierce, and kind, and so good that you can't believe she deserves any part of the pain. And even that's not all—
—because it's not just that she understands you, as if that weren't gift enough. It's that she loves you.
(And she loves the same way you love, too. Like hungry, like don't-let-go, like prized-jewel, like mine-all-mine-forever.
"You are my treasure, my-vizier," she tells you, clever artist's hands tracing your face and stroking your hair, voice warm with affection. "There's no better evidence for the world being wrong than that it doesn't love you.")
And no, it doesn't take away the pain, any more than you can love away the curse that claws at her.
Fill: Chuubo's Marvellous Wish-Granting Engine, Seizhi/Miramie
Eventually you have to admit that a life free of pain is not going to be an option for you. That there is no destiny to give you a place in the world. That nothing can fix you and make you new. That you're not real, and not meant to be here, and that's going to be agony forever and you just have to deal with it.
You very nearly die of that realisation. If the world is never going to want you, if you'll never be more than an unwelcome intruder, then why inflict yourself on it? Why not do the right thing and cut yourself out like the tumour you are?
And if you were alone, if it was only you that was like this, you would. But by some strange and backwards miracle, you're not.
She's not the same kind of monster as you, but she's still a monster. Creation's fabric hates and hurts her even more than it does you. And she is beautiful, and fierce, and kind, and so good that you can't believe she deserves any part of the pain. And even that's not all—
—because it's not just that she understands you, as if that weren't gift enough. It's that she loves you.
(And she loves the same way you love, too. Like hungry, like don't-let-go, like prized-jewel, like mine-all-mine-forever.
"You are my treasure, my-vizier," she tells you, clever artist's hands tracing your face and stroking your hair, voice warm with affection. "There's no better evidence for the world being wrong than that it doesn't love you.")
And no, it doesn't take away the pain, any more than you can love away the curse that claws at her.
But it makes it all so much more bearable.