𝐈𝐑𝐎𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍 ᵈʳᵉᵃᵐ ˢᵐᵖ ʷᵃʳ

FIVE: VIOLENCE TO REVEAL VIOLENCE.

Click.

A lock. The huff of your own breathing. The beginning of exile. An unfurling, continuous howl; you are now your own cries, trapped in the folds of the echoes.

The iron maiden's teeth grazed the delicate, white cloth of your dress. You can hear the whispers, fate entwined with the lineaments of desire, of death, of destiny; you can breathe in the lingering stench of drying blood within the millisecond of an exhale, a sight so familiar in the salty, moonish tides of a cycle—you can map out what makes you so desirable, so unfortunately you, so determinable to the naked eye.

You can't even bang on the walls of the iron maiden. All you can do is scream, scream, scream. Merge with the hollow cries, in the ringing silence, smeared with laughter and tears.

Even now when you close your eyes you can feel the loud chill settle over your face, hanging over your head like a hood, falling over your malleable expression like a veil.

Crack.

The fire crackles. Sparks flying like amber glitter. Sometimes, when the fire strikes at an odd angle and the moon aligns to reveal the silver iris above, it pulls you back to an inconsolable childhood: war, terror, death, oppression, static, numbness...the stench of gunpowder, bloody feet, bruises...

"—i! Oi!" A hand waves in front of your face. You blink away the fog in your eyes. A pair of blue eyes glare back. "Jesus Christ woman. What's wrong with you?"

"Don't be rude Tommy!" The older male reprimands across the campfire. He looks apologetic. "Sorry about the little gremlin there. He's always like that."

"I'm not a fucking gremlin Wilb—"

"Do you guys never stop fighting?" The fox snaps from the side. The two turn to him before they refocus their eyes on the woman sitting on the log. His tail bushes up. "I'm sorry about my father."

"It's alright," You say. "It's...hm. Funny."

"So, (first name)," The man with sunglasses, introducing himself as Eret, piped up. "Why are you here?"

"Oh right, I wanted to ask that too; you haven't really said anything to me other than the fact that...well, you wanted to join us," Tubbo says. "Was Dream mean to you?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if Dream was a wife-bea—"

"Tommy, that's enough," Wilbur snapped once more. "What he means to say is, why did you choose to run away? From what we saw...Dream's got the odds with him."

"The odds?" You echo, a bit dumbly.

"As much as I don't want to admit this, he is more prepared than us," Tubbo says, fiddling with his knee. "And he has more persons under his belt."

"Doesn't change the fact that he's a complete scumbag." Tommy comments.

"He was very nice to me," You say. Any chance of another bicker between Wilbur and Tommy dies down when you start talking once more. "He fed me. Gave me a new place to live. Showed me things that I have never seen before. Even now..." You stare down at your hands, uncurling and curling your fingers. "It doesn't feel real at all. Sometimes I feel like...that," You gesture to the flame. "The air above the fire...wavy, unreal, distorted...Am I making sense? I don't understand how I ended up here."

"What do you mean?" Tubbo asks.

"I feel like I should have died," You answer. You don't register the look of surprise on their faces. "I come from a place far from here. Things turn differently there. Time goes by slower..."

"Time?" Wilbur repeats.

"Time runs slower there to encourage pregnancy. It's a belief that the female body should not be rushed—"