2 for the shuffle meme!!
oh no this one is so sad! (also apologies for being a day or so late hehe) i got “how to never stop being sad” by Dandelion Hands and i’m picking the lyrics “ Time has proven that fooling yourself into believing a lie is the most effective way to deal with things you have no control over”
I’m choosing to do a piece about grief with Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas. [cw for suici/dal ideation, alcoholism, murder, depressive episodes, grief and loss.]
“There’s no comfort in the bottom of the bottle,” is what they told you. What you’ve heard, what you’ve researched, but. But but but. There’s no denying the fact that it does make it a little easier to handle. A little less sharp and painful, less like a drop of poison every day, dosed multiple times whenever you wake up and still roll over to his side of the bed, hoping against the facts that he’ll still be there. Less painful means you can make it through today, just make it through today. You just have to fucking make it through today, that’s all you want. You’re not known for asking for much, you’re worried this is too much even for you but god you want it so much.
She’s at your door again, she looks more worried each time you don’t call her back as if she’s afraid you’ll finally tie that noose you’ve hidden under your bed to the rail of the stairs. She throws out every bottle in your house, she wipes down the counters and drags you into the dining room and forces you to wait. She burns the meat, she always burns the meat, she’s not a good cook and she gets that from your mom. It’s the only thing she got from your mom other than her own set of trauma and the bravery to beat back her own addiction. Rose stares at you with filthy, disgusting, caked-on pity over her face as you fork down as much food as she puts on your plate. It never stays down, you think she knows that, but you’re trying.
You told her you’d try, you promised but you’ve made no fucking effort. She asked you to do something as fucking simple as call her, maybe go the fuck to that stupid Saturday meeting. You didn’t, you wouldn’t. “Dave,” her voice sounds like she’s underwater or maybe that’s just how you feel. “Dave, you need help and I can’t keep doing this.”
He’s not coming back is what she wants to say, but she doesn’t say that because she knows it’s too soon. He doesn’t want you, he never did. It doesn’t matter because he’s… You can’t. Not in your own head, you can’t think it. You can’t see his face like that anymore. It hurts too much, it’s too razor sharp, like the teeth of a tiger biting into your windpipe. Rose is handing you the trash can and you vomit, it smells sour and mostly like whiskey.
If you’ve earned anything from him, it’s how to handle your alcohol. You learned other things, of course, but you remember that part the most. The whiskey on your lips, if you squint, you can almost imagine the softness of his lips against your forehead while you nurse your hangover after your dates. You always go too nuts, order too many drinks, stumble home together and find yourself wrapped in the sheets sweating while he fucks you hard until you can’t remember a single word except his name.
“I’m fine,” you cough, wishing desperately for mouthwash which she hands to you as if reading your mind. She should mind her own goddamn business is what she should fucking do, you want to say that to her face but she’d write it off. Another of Dave’s tantrums, another one of Dave’s amazing goddamn beautiful big bang breakdowns over the burned and brandished image of his husbands slit throat as he bled out alone on the back of his fucking eyelids. He’ll never get better, they whisper. They know, they know. They know too much, they point their fingers and use the hands that once held you so gingerly to accuse and demean. You should have protected him, this is your fucking fault for passing out on the couch and leaving him by himself in the bedroom that night.
Your breath hitches in a funny way, your head hangs into the bucket which she whisks away, giving you a look. She’s not here to comfort you, she’s here to drag your ass out of the fucking house. “You’re coming with me today,” she whispers as she wipes a wet cloth on your face. It’s ice cold and stings, it’s good to feel that at least. “Get off of the floor now.”
Rose slings your arm over her shoulder and she half-drags you into the bedroom again. You can’t go in the closet, everything he owned is in there and it still smells like him. She dresses you like a toddler, her hands carefully avoiding his side of the closet as she tugs out your best sweater and jeans. He’d tell you that you look nice, you’re sure of that. He’d kiss your forehead and tell you how handsome you look. Your throat burns like you swallowed acid when she collects you off of the bed. Water is poured down your throat and you want to let it drown you but your survival instincts kick in and force you to swallow it. It’s not going to be that easy, there’s no afterlife anyway and you know that.
Time doesn’t help, it just puts distance between you and the pain but you always crawl back. Rose helps you hobble down the stairs and you sit in on your first meeting. She speaks and invites you to do so, but you can’t. Someone says his name and it sears you like shoving your arm onto a flaming grill, but you bite back the urge to leave. She’d never forgive you if you left suddenly. She wants you to get better, she insists he’d want this. He’d want this, you know he would.
Karkat would want you to move on without him.
2 notes · View notes