Small Continuation Of The Previous Post.

Small continuation of the previous post.

TW: mentions of death, self-harm

Liam was…He was…She could barely remember.  All she could focus on was that he was dead.  Deaddeaddeaddead.  And it was her fault.  He wanted to protect her.  If she was stronger…Not damaged not frail not weak not sick.  He might have been able to stay sane, but taking most of her share along with his made him the most unstable out of all of them.  She lost him the moment he made that choice.

Viola, pretty Viola with the pretty ugly, broken smile at the end.  She wanted to, tried her hardest to, to reassure her that none of it was her fault, but how could she come to terms with what she made her do, how could she come to terms with why she had to make her do that.  All the plans all the promises they made together turned to stardust.  Why wish on a star when it was too far away to help and you never knew how close it was to burning out.

Jake; she felt a bit of  pleasure at what she did to him.  They were always fighting in her memories even though she could barely remember anything at all.  He was always being mean to her.  Looking back she realized he was the one who believed in her the most.  He never did anything nice for her.  He always brought back things he thought she’d like when he went outside.  He was rude and her best friend and her hands were drippingdrippingdrippingdrippingdripping with his blood and she liked it and didn’t like it and he was kind to her and she forgot him.  He helped her learn her limitations and how to have fun in spite of them.  Everything she was died with him.

Father Brown was the one who ran the church and looked after them.  Looked after her the most because she was frail, so frail she could fall down from a single sneeze.  She hated it.  Hated being treated like the old vases next to the front doors.  She liked it.  Liked mattering to someone.  It was the most affection she had ever received from an adult.  He… she scratched her head some more.  He always made time for her.  Always told her about the places he’d been, always answered all her questions as much as he could, always read her stories to protect her from the nightmares and thoughts, always teaching her what she wanted to learn and what he thought she should learn.  He wasn’t just the church’s Father he was her father.

She scratched her head more and more and more and more and more.  She still had her memories.  She knew that.  They were just jumbled and still influenced by the medicine.  She just needed to dig them out.  So she dug at her skull until day turned to night and night turned to day over and over and over again.