𝐈𝐑𝐎𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍 ᵈʳᵉᵃᵐ ˢᵐᵖ ʷᵃʳ

SEVEN: THE UNIFORM OF FREEDOM

"I have to show you something," Tommy says one day, his voice hushed and heavy on your ear. You turn to look at him—the fire flickering bursts into sparks when they hit your gleaming rosary. Tommy thinks you look haunted almost. But you blink, a kind smile on your lips, before you stand up and excuse yourself to the rest.

"What is it?"

He leads you into a tunnel, dirt crackling when he accidentally bumps his head.

"A bunker," He says. His voice echoes on the walls of cobblestone, "Wilbur thinks it's a dumb idea, but it might come in handy."

You stop before the end where a room of obsidian gleamed; heavy and glimmering as though it was sweating. Inside was a jukebox, an ender chest, and a crafting table. You take a tentative seat on the obsidian. Tommy hunches over the dark green chest, a hollow noise echoing when he closes it.

"What is that?" You stare at the thin object in his hand. He wordlessly puts it in the jukebox: a low tune seeped over the obsidian. You blink when he sits opposite of you.

"Listen," He says, "You know what you're getting into, right?"

You tilt your head.

"Odd that a child is asking me this. You're far more cautious than Wilbur."

"Yeah well, he's—Ugh. Whatever. Just answer the damn question."

You don't say anything for a while but trace the little indentations on the obsidian floor. Your eyes flicker up, fluttering shut and basking in the gaps of silence of the music.

"Today—angels. Tomorrow—maggots," you finally say. Tommy scrunches his nose, "This is what I believe."

"What? Don't you people worship some cult God in—" He hushes when you stare at him blankly.

"While it is true that the SMP has treated me well, it is not the answer to anything. It's strange; I thought I could live a life trapped in Damaziad, stupid and full with ideas of motherhood," You swallow loudly, heart beginning to beat in a frenzy. The mere thought of the enormous danger you averted was so great you didn't even dare to picture it. Swollen, useless, and crippled like that of a helpless heifer on its side, undulating before a bloodied...thing becomes separated from you. Was it a curse or a blessing, that infant, that matured pearl of corruption? You would be surprised at how much blessing and curse overlapped each other.

But you wished to hold back your tears and frantic prayers, protecting the one sitting before you the privilege of a composed composure.

"But Damaziad is black and white: violence or non-violence, life or death, male or female, husband or wife, guilty or innocent. There is no in-between, which breeds oppression. Do you not think that's also how Dream functions?"

Tommy furrows his brows. He recalls his clashes with the SMP. But before he could say anything you continue.

"I don't think anyone could bear living a life of black and white."

"What do you mean?" He looks nervous.

"I had a taste of freedom: grey—someone like you. I can barely remember him but sometimes I can see him in spaces where he isn't there," You shrug, "He told me that it's not black and white; it's a question of resistance or non-existence."

A moment of silence. The music sounds eerie now, as though dampened, and thick with your ominous story.

"I thought Dream saved me," You draw shapes with your fingers on the floor, "But in reality, he just moved me into a brighter Damaziad. Talking to you...Seeing Wilbur and Tubbo and Eret and Fundy...how could I ever turn back and go back to a place of death? Sometimes I don't know how I'm not dead yet. Yet I'm here. I want to know why I'm alive. I want to see if survival was worth it. I want no one to live under what I have."