Discord
11-20-2019, 03:24 AM
Frostbite- 2018
Ringor Mortis, General Morbit
CW: Depictions of psychosis/chronic illness
Dysthanasia goes out to get meds.
You bundle yourself up in lineart, your grin warping into a grimace as it formed a tight dress around your body. You wouldn’t bother with it most days, but it’s an all new low temperature in the city, and you learned your lesson last year. Your body may be tough enough to bear it, but having your slime that cold felt fucking terrible. You glance over at the mirror, grimace worsening as you see yourself blink. You give your reflection a thumbs up, grateful that at least that seems synced up with the rest of you. You cover your eyes up quickly, hair extending over your face. Time to get moving.
Elevator’s broken, because of course it is. You check around to make sure nobody’s watching before wrapping some lineart around your feet, making some impromptu boots. Those stairs were icy on a good day, and you weren’t testing your luck. You’ve lived in this complex long enough for the other tenants to get used to your appearance, and they didn’t even bother giving you a second glance. At first you were grateful, but there was something sobering about it now- your brain is quick to tell you that you weren’t worth thinking about now that they got used to your weird looks. They believed your story hook, line and sinker, and if you actually went and told the truth, you’d just get laughed at.
No high god could be this small, or this sick.
They ran out of your meds at the drug store again. You maintain your smile and tell them it’s all good, you’d just come back again tomorrow. They apologize profusely but avert their eyes, and you’re pretty sure they’ve got plenty in the back. You’re not sure whether to feel proud that they consider you enough of a problem to take all the extra strength painkillers off the shelf, or like shit. You buy more cheap candy than you should and leave before they can give you the change back. You didn’t need the stupid medicine anyway.
It’s snowing, and most people are trying to get the hell out of the cold. You’re a few blocks from home still, and things are starting to get fuzzy around the edges. It’s not even that heavy, but your bag of candy is getting hard to hold. You keep yourself upright and try not to slip, and keep focusing on your steps- one in front of the other. You didn’t need the meds, and you were going to get home in one piece, and it wasn’t really that cold, not worth thinking about. It didn’t hurt, and you were fine
and now you’re inside. The elevator is working again, and you’re okay.
You’re riding up to your twelfth floor apartment, and you’re okay.
You’re stripping down and throwing your candy onto your bed, catching your face distort in the mirror as you repeat your mantra over and over- you’re okay, and you’re home.
You don’t know how long it takes for your mind to clear, but it does, as much as it can. You unwrap some candy and pop it in your mouth, and it helps some. Who needs painkillers when you have this, right? You drag your computer over using some lineart, careful not to drop it- it took a while to save up for one of these portable models, and you’d kick yourself for weeks if you broke it. No one’s responded to your new posts, but you’ll make more of them, and something’s gotta come of it.
It can’t be like this forever.
Elevator’s broken, because of course it is. You check around to make sure nobody’s watching before wrapping some lineart around your feet, making some impromptu boots. Those stairs were icy on a good day, and you weren’t testing your luck. You’ve lived in this complex long enough for the other tenants to get used to your appearance, and they didn’t even bother giving you a second glance. At first you were grateful, but there was something sobering about it now- your brain is quick to tell you that you weren’t worth thinking about now that they got used to your weird looks. They believed your story hook, line and sinker, and if you actually went and told the truth, you’d just get laughed at.
No high god could be this small, or this sick.
They ran out of your meds at the drug store again. You maintain your smile and tell them it’s all good, you’d just come back again tomorrow. They apologize profusely but avert their eyes, and you’re pretty sure they’ve got plenty in the back. You’re not sure whether to feel proud that they consider you enough of a problem to take all the extra strength painkillers off the shelf, or like shit. You buy more cheap candy than you should and leave before they can give you the change back. You didn’t need the stupid medicine anyway.
It’s snowing, and most people are trying to get the hell out of the cold. You’re a few blocks from home still, and things are starting to get fuzzy around the edges. It’s not even that heavy, but your bag of candy is getting hard to hold. You keep yourself upright and try not to slip, and keep focusing on your steps- one in front of the other. You didn’t need the meds, and you were going to get home in one piece, and it wasn’t really that cold, not worth thinking about. It didn’t hurt, and you were fine
and now you’re inside. The elevator is working again, and you’re okay.
You’re riding up to your twelfth floor apartment, and you’re okay.
You’re stripping down and throwing your candy onto your bed, catching your face distort in the mirror as you repeat your mantra over and over- you’re okay, and you’re home.
You don’t know how long it takes for your mind to clear, but it does, as much as it can. You unwrap some candy and pop it in your mouth, and it helps some. Who needs painkillers when you have this, right? You drag your computer over using some lineart, careful not to drop it- it took a while to save up for one of these portable models, and you’d kick yourself for weeks if you broke it. No one’s responded to your new posts, but you’ll make more of them, and something’s gotta come of it.
It can’t be like this forever.
![[Image: TCP%20customs.png]](https://pile.randimg.net/3/13/190751/TCP%20customs.png)
