Poth Short Stories and One-Shots

What You Fear: Alternate Ending - Restitution

Chapter Warnings: Character death, depression, suicide

The featured song is Destiny Bond - Instrumental Cover by GlitchxCity.

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He couldn't let them die! Palette... he was everything to Goth! He... couldn't......

Tears fell and the sound of a siren could be heard in the distance as Goth crumpled onto Palette's left shoulder, his energy spent.

---

Goth groaned as the evening sunset prodded him awake.

Where was he...? It felt so warm... and he felt so tired...

He might have drifted off if not for the sense of urgency clawing at his chest, goading him into action. Unable to ignore the strange feeling, he forced his eyes open. He was in a pale orange room, where the fading was filtering in through a nearby window at just the right angle to shine on his sheets.

How did he even get there? And the smell... it was disinfectant. Was he in a hospital?

Everything came flooding back, making his skull pound. The meeting... the fight... Palette! Goth began to panic as he searched around frantically, unable to locate the other skeleton; was he too late? No, it couldn't be-

"Oh my, you're awake!" Goth's skull shot around to the sight of a middle-aged, greying human woman peeking into the room. She bustled over to the monitor on his left, blipping away a steady rhythm matching his own soul beats, taking note of the readings. "You were in such a nasty sounding fight, dear. You came in, passed out cold with half of your magic drained. Nothing to worry about, though; a small transfusion fixed you right up."

"Ma'am...," the small monster interrupted the woman, receiving a curious look, "Have you seen my friend? He was really hurt earlier and I don't see him."

The nurse quirked her lip in confusion for a few seconds; it cleared moments later, replaced with a look Goth couldn't describe, "Did they have a green hat and a green and gray jacket?"

Goth's face lit up, "Yes, that's him!" She knew Palette! And he wasn't in a hospital bed, so he must be alright! Seconds ticked by and nothing was said, causing a bead of worry to dig into him, "So... is he still here or did he go home?"

The bead dug in deeper as the woman grimaced, "Oh, dearie... I'm so sorry..." She turned solemnly to a corner of the room and Goth's eye light followed, shrinking as reality sunk in; a green hat with two white stripes sat pillowed on top of a green and gray jacket. Both laid on a solitary chair, freckled with hints of dried marrow and dust.

Goth could have sworn he felt his soul shatter.

"The poor dear dusted before the paramedics even got there," he heard the woman say, "They said you were laying in a pile of dust, along with that hat and jacket, when they arrived to transport you." Laying in...! No, did he touch Palette when he fell unconscious?! No... the energy; he was.... he...

"I'm so sorry dear," the old woman crooned, placing a hand on his shoulder, "is there someone I can get ahold of for you?" But Goth's mind was elsewhere, his sockets never leaving the chair and its contents as silent tears carved a path down his cheeks. A few hours later, Reaper arrived to retrieve his forlorn and silent son; neither said a word as the young skeleton was picked up, tightly grasping his lost love's belongings as they headed home.

---

Goth stood in front of Palette's grave; the funeral had ended about half an hour ago, taking place a week after the incident. Everyone else had gone to the reception at Palette's house, but the hooded monster continued to stare at the sculpted stone tablet marking the resting place of his crush. Goth was the only one who hadn't broken down and cried; he wasn't sure he had tears any left to cry anymore.

Palette's dust had been buried in the ground, but Ink and Dream had thought it would be better if Goth kept their favorite hat and scarf, if only to provide some closure. He had silently donned the hat and replaced his own red scarf with his companion's paint-stained version; he was still wearing them even now.

He never got the chance to tell them... he never got the chance to say goodbye and it was all his fault. Palette was gone and he only had himself to blame.

Raising his right hand slightly, Goth summoned his scythe. A broken grin played across his face as he raised the blade to his chest. Finally speaking for the first time all week, he found he did still have tears to shed, "I'm coming, Pal."

Taking one last breath, he ran himself through, splattering marrow against the grass and flowers surrounding the grave as his body crumpled to the ground; his weapon dissipated as he balled the tail of the beige scarf in his fist, bringing it to his cheek and closing his sockets. Within seconds, the stains were joined by a cloud of dust amid a hat, a scarf, and a hoodie.

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Word Count: 840