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You remember having a mom.You remember having a dad.You remember the warm press of a kiss to your forehead, the sweet smell of cinnamon butterscotch pie wafting through the air, the heady profusion of golden flowers in the garden, the feel of overly large knitting needles held in your clumsy hands.You remember the sickly poison of buttercup petals, blistering your throat and pitting the palms of your hands. You remember mistakes, too many to count, and the pain of human weapons slicing you apart. Smashing into Asriel. Because you should have known. Of course he wouldn't fight back.That's always been your job.You remember falling down the hole. The school you left. The taunting, the teasing. The way your knuckles split when you punched the ringleader's teeth in and the satisfying wail he made. Only demons take pleasure in that, you remember thinking.Maybe you're proud to be a demon.You're certainly one now, drawing on Frisk's ability to dodge as you get ever closer to the last barrier between you and destroying this whole fucking world. Burn it to the ground is your new motto, standing tall and proud next to the old one. Kill or be killed. Your hand tightens around the handle of your knife, a well tested, dusty weight in unfamiliar skin.You miss. Bones erupt from the ground. You dangle, helpless, caught and split open on the top of the largest one. Your body- Frisk's body- twitches and spasms out its last pretense of life as blood bubbles down your chest. With your last gasp, you spit blood at him. It darkens his jacket in a meaningless splotch.Reload. Draw breath into creaky lungs. You lunge at him, but he sidesteps neatly, and you faceplant into the ground. You feel one of Frisk's teeth chip. The pain is immediate and exquisitely sharp. You almost welcome the oblivion when it spreads your insides out like a bloody mosaic.Reload. You remember Frisk watching TV with the comedian and his brother. Pretending to like Papyrus's spaghetti and secretly feeding it to the annoying dog. Laughing at Sans's jokes like they were funny. Maybe they were. Solving crossword puzzles. Frisk is a human but they might as well be a monster. They're nothing like the humans you know.Nothing like the demon you know. The devil's in the details, and the details are you.We can stop this, Frisk whispers in your head, a ghost's whisper, and isn't that ironic, you're the one who's dead. A walking dead kid. It still hurts when you forget you have to breathe.I don't want to, you tell them, and it's a lie, but the truth at the same time. Your knife scratches idle red lines into Frisk's thigh as you wait, patient, for them to subside. Yes, you do, Frisk insists. They're more stubborn than usual, you muse. Sans will be antsy, wondering what's taken you so long. Maybe he'll think you've found a shortcut of your own. Dust hangs in the air and makes you cough.I'm not like you, you say, and enter the room. He's waiting for you, one hand stuffed in the pocket of his ratty jacket and the other held up, twiddling a small, blue-tinged bone. You wonder if his jacket has your blood on it this timeline. His eye is full of sickly blue light. Blood trickles down your legs, painting tacky swatches across Frisk's dusty skin."Hey, comedian," you whisper and run headlong at him. You aren't going to miss this time, damn it. You just aren't. He flickers and disappears. You feel your soul grow thick and heavy and suddenly, you're pressed against the ceiling. Murderous red eyes stare down into Sans's stupid, smooth skeleton face."i don't think so, kiddo," he says, then slams his hand straight down. You soon follow.Reload. You pluck control from Frisk as they dive toward the reins.Desperate, are we? You chide. Frisk looks right at you, mouth set in a stubborn line.Yes, they say, and slap reset as hard as they can. You lunge toward them, a shout on your lips, when the world dissolves away into blackness.You open your eyes to a familiar bed of yellow flowers, pollen hanging in the air and making you sneeze.You are an utter cunt, you tell them. Frisk bows their head, offering nothing but a listless shrug.We don't have to hurt people, Frisk says. We can- I don't know. Help them.Sure, let's help the people who, let me remind you, have been consistently murdering you, you say, scathing. You can tell your words hit home by Frisk's defensive wince. But sure. I'm sure a little stick and being nice will protect you. That worked above ground, too, is that it? Because that's not what your memories say about your home li-Chara, stop it, Frisk demands. You shut up mid-word, colour blooming in both cheeks. That's too far and you know it.Fine, you admit. It's not quite an apology but you and Frisk both know that it's the best they are ever going to get. Still. You know what worked for me? Punching a bastard's teeth in. He cried for three hours and had to get two ice packs from the school nurse. I got a month of suspension and it was the best month I ever had.Violence isn't the answer to everything, Frisk tells you. Now they sound almost prim. You hate it.So what exactly are you planning to get out of this? You change the subject. The skeleton will remember. You know that, right?I do, Frisk acknowledges. I'll cross that bridge when I get there.Or when he pops in here, sees you, and murders you right where you sit, you sneer. Or did you forget he could do that? I bet he certainly could when he's angry.There's no reason for him to be that angry now, Frisk points out. You stare, incredulous, throwing your hands up.How the fuck do you figure that? You demand. Frisk looks almost smug.
Because now his brother is alive again.
...Oh. Oh. You hadn't thought of that.You hate that Frisk has.