horror story (true story)
You grow up on a planet far away from here. The air is always cold, and it is always snowing and raining. Flowers bloom and die constantly; the trees sweep you up in their branches and cradle you; the stars tell you stories that you still remember for their bittersweet endings.
When you’re twelve, the aliens come. They tell you stories too, stories about people who fall in love and get married and have babies, and the idea sounds lovely to you. They say you can have it; you can join them; all you need to do is press a big, red button in a temple far away.
You agree. You want to feel so safe and loved and happy as those holograms they showed you seem. So you take your books and your sword and your cloak and you go with them to their planet. You head up the mountain, the button so small you cannot see it.
At thirteen, you find a village of new books. They let you read them, these new stories, but they start to make you uncomfortable rather than happy, speaking of bodies that look like yours writhing together on a bed. You struggle to picture it, and when you finally do it makes you feel itchy all over, like a virus has infected you. You leave and you try to forget the new stories, reading the old ones you know over and over again, and people call you a child for it. You feel the insult sting you, but you rebuild it into a shield and hope it sticks.
At fourteen, you find a bunch of caves. They look like the rabbit holes of your home planet, so you trust them and you fall down freely, landing in sticky goo. You pull yourself free and try to escape, but every cave you enter ends in stickiness. Your books end up trapped in one of these lakes, sinking and sinking even as you try desperately to pull them free and wrap them in yourself, and soon you have to leave them behind. You cry the whole way up to the surface, and the rabbits are there. They offer you soft books to cradle instead, but when you touch them they bite you, trying to get through your ribs to your heart, so you drop them and you run and you run and you run.
At fifteen, you find a glittering waterfall. It sings and sings and sings, and you fall asleep every night singing along with it. You miss your books, but you learn to cope with it. You cut down trees and leaves and you carve new stories into them, ones that you make up yourself, and because they’re yours you know they’re safe. No one comes for months, and you feel safe here, all alone, without anyone to stare at you or touch you. You start to forget about the red button, and it becomes smaller and smaller. It’s almost disappeared when the waterfall starts screeching, these horrible lyrics that evoke such horrid visions, these things you can’t get rid of, and where the water once cleansed you it now traps you, and you see it turning green like the goo that once buried you alive. You cut yourself out of it with your sword, but it sticks to you still, and you can’t slice it all off no matter how hard you try, instead leaving wounds all over yourself for the goo to slip into, and you feel dirty and sick and scared everywhere.
At sixteen, the dream you once held starts to feel like a nightmare. Love feels like the waterfall, all sweet and soft and unassuming, but whenever you step foot in its currents, it sweeps you up into something you can’t control, and it holds you there as you scream and scream and scream, the green goo coming for you. Marriage becomes an inescapable jail sentence, something that will trap you and keep you from your precious stories, and you stop dreaming of white dresses and start thinking about pajamas. Babies are an evil reckoning, an infestation of terror and pain and risk all tied up with a pretty little bow so everyone tells you it’s a gift, but you see them for what they are and you hate them, you hate them, you hate them. One day you dream of yourself with a growing stomach and a ring on your finger. You wake up in a cold sweat and build yourself a cottage in the dark, desperate for loneliness.
At seventeen, you lose your sword. All of your stories become about dark and death, and you feel them creeping towards you, all night. You build trenches and fences to keep the green goo out, and you board up your windows and you write your stories on the walls. You learn enough magic to get the food to your stove without ever having to leave, and you keep the door locked. One day, an alien stops by. They keep you company, and they let you tell them their stories, and they smile at you. They’re kind, and they’re sweet, and they’re funny, and you think this may be love. With them in your life love has become safe again, a sweet thing you can almost taste, and so because you love them, you let this alien tell you a story. And it is horrific, and horrible, and you cover your ears and you cry and you scream and you shove them out into the suffocating warmth, the humidity that wets your skin without your permission, and you board up the door. There is green goo on the chair they left, a residue of their wants, and you burn it in the fireplace and you build yourself a new chair. You realize you left your sword outside, where the goo is always bubbling, and you wrap your cloak tighter around you, too terrified to move.
At eighteen, your house collapses. There are voices everywhere, all these aliens come to make you push the red button, and they greet the goo like a treasured friend and they hack down your house with their careless words and invasive hands. You start to run, having lost all your stories and your safety, and you run and you run and you run and you run and you run until finally you find a pyramid. It is covered in green goo, but you must get away from the aliens that are chasing you. So you climb and you climb and you climb, and your cloak gets stuck and stays stuck no matter how hard you pull, so you must leave it behind, too sweaty in the heat and blinded by the brightness. Finally you reach the top, this huge room with so much space you can run through it, with a tiny red button in the middle.
Every day the button grows. At first you can write your stories and paint your wishes and everything is fine, though you feel naked and vulnerable and at the brink of collapse. But soon the button is half the room, and then more, and then more, and then more and more and more, and soon all you have is a corner, your precious little corner, and you can no longer remember how it felt to have your books or your sword or your cloak, because they have stripped you of everything, leaving you exposed and bare to do whatever they wish to. You say no and the button falls back, but the new books have been coming through the window and they bite you with their facts, the teeth that say that no won’t be enough one day and that the green goo is a natural thing to want and that if a baby infects you you will be forced to carry its sickness and die with it, and so, covered in bite marks and open wounds and green goo, you sit in the tiny, tiny corner left by the red button and you cry and you cry and you cry.
Press the button, the aliens chant, coming up the mountain. It’s only normal; press the button. It’s only natural; press the button. It’s only alien; press the button. You cannot breathe. You take your tears and your nakedness and your pain and you start towards the red button, even knowing that pressing it will kill you.
You don’t have to do this, says someone else. It’s okay. You’re not an alien. You’re not like them. It’s okay. You can love and marry and adopt children with one of us. It’s okay.
You look up and through the door, it’s another you. He has soft dark hair that falls to his shoulders and big shoulders that could keep you safe if they hugged you. He is standing in front of others, a man in a cloak and a girl with a sword and a person carrying books. He touches you gently and lets go as soon as you ask. He helps wash you of the green goo, and though your skin remains green where it was stuck before, you feel lighter, no longer like a body is pressing down on top of you like stone, keeping you from breathing.
They flicker like phantoms, the yous. They don’t seem real. But you cling to them like lifelines, and they take you away from the red button. They listen to your stories and they offer their own, and they’re all full of wonder and happiness and safety. You walk with them up into the stars, across a bridge of black and grey and white and purple, and you can feel your home coming closer, in your beating heart.
Then, one by one, the arrows come. They fall like shooting stars and they pierce the chests of all the yous that protect you, and one by one your shields fall. They are encased in coffins of green goo, and you run for your life, towards your home, towards your planet, towards the place you wish you’d never left.
You stop, dead cold, when you reach it.
It is covered in red buttons. Like floor tiles, you cannot take another step without pressing one.
You fall to your knees, staring up at the aliens. They smile down at you, kind and cruel, and you weep.
Please, you say. No.
But they don’t care and they don’t listen, and they march you towards the red button, tugging your wrist out and shoving it forwards. You scream, a ferocious last resort, and you sink into the ground, buried in the cold, dark ground.
In your grave, you lie. You hear the aliens moving above you, looking for you. It is lonely here, and boring, but at least it’s safe. It’s predictable. You cry in the dark and you tell your stories, knowing that no one can hear them and no one can see you. You miss your friends and your family and the possibility of love, but you know now that no one wants your kind of love, your pure and clean drink of water. You stay in your grave and you drink alone.
When you fall asleep, you imagine the green goo dripping into your tomb. You wonder what ill they speak of you, the dead. Your name means nothing, your love means nothing, your life means nothing. They did not care about your traditions or your feelings or your oddities. Where you saw special they saw child. Where you saw unique they saw liar. Where you saw happiness they saw freak.
You lie there, alone, in your grave. You can hear the other yous screaming, lured by promises of impossible dreams. You imagine a child you could’ve helped without birthing it, and you imagine a ring on your finger you were comfortable wearing, and you imagine a person who tells stories like yours that make you feel safe and loved and happy. You imagine these impossible things, and you think of the aliens, and how they came and slaughtered you and your similars with their ignorant words and social conventions and inhumane laws. You imagine yourself like you were before they came, and you wish and hope and plead that others’ planets are saved from this ravaging.
Your tombstone crumbles. They shave off the word human even as you brave the green goo, crawling from your grave to shove their hands away. They smile at you, so helpful, so well-meaning, so stupid, and they tie you naked to what they call the tree of life. You watch them write ALIEN on your tombstone, the last thing of yours that you had left, as the green goo slithers towards you, encasing your entire fucking body in itself. You hate it, and you hate them, and you love yourself.
You miss your shield of “child”. You dream of synonyms like asexual and normal. You die in that green goo, crying, asphyxiating in its grip. You die in that green goo, screaming, wondering how anyone could want it. You die in that green goo, pleading, starving for their fucked-up blood.
You die young, when they decide, because they can’t understand a life like yours, and you know it. You hear their empty promises and you wonder if this starving well inside of you will ever be full enough of stories, knowing it needs love to be filled. You twist yourself and your dreams into something even you don’t recognize, but at least it will keep you from the green goo. It may be cold and dark and dead, but at least you won’t be touched. At least you won’t be an alien.
Please, a human asks the aliens. Let me go.
Im so confused and overwhelmed by some friends rn
Feel free to skip this ( I dont know how to add the 'read more' thingy on my phone, my apologiez)
1. Few weeks before my birthday in early december, I told my friends that I usually hate my birthdays and therefore dont have any plans for that day. Just treat it like any other day. They made a big deal about it and wanted me to make plans with them and drink with them, play games etc etc. (Online friends) We talked about it couple of times before the day came, everyone still on board for a game night. On my birthday, I got no message from anyone. Nor the day after. Nor the day after that. Nothing. I, once again, was dissapointed on my birthday and want to celebrate it even less.
2. I heard nothing from them on christmas either. Nor new year for that matter. I reached out multiple times and if I was lucky, I got a reply days later. Saying that they're busy with family and friends etc. Dont get me wrong, I definitely understand, holidays are busy. But what I do see is that on discord it says that they've been playing minecraft for 8hours, three days in a row.
3. I talked to them about this, that I get it that people get busy, but please let me know if you cant make it to something we've planned etc. and that I'd appreciate still being included in things, and escpecially now that Im mentally struggling a lot. They tell me that I expect too much and cant expect them to reach out to me all the time ( even if it's me reaching out to them 85% of the time).
4. I've been there for them thru thick and thin, but now Im too needy for needing some reassurance or someone to talk to or someone to reach out to me as my depression is taking over my abolity to do that? Am i really asking for too much? I just dont understand where things went wrong. When I suddenly stopped being important to them? Enough for them to lie to me?
Im just tired of people.
Im sorry if you read all the way here