The All-Knowing Eye [Yan!DSMP x Reader]

III | CHAPTER 29: Als een trein die spoorloos rijdt | III

Translation: As a train that's driving trackless (from song Spoorloos, by Ghost Rockers, which inspired the last part of this chapter)

A/N: I'm updating this in a break between two economy classes, which is why there isn't any fanart section today! (I wrote this during two breaks btw lmao)

You're close to dying, that has to be it. That's the only logical explanation for what is happening to you. Your body and mind, almost not existing anymore. Your soul, if there even is such a thing, is preparing itself to leave the machine that is a fleshy, ill, decaying corpse, the mere shell of what you used to be. Although you don't believe in a god, like you might've once done, you're hoping that he's regretting ever putting you in this position, because you're so close to losing it all.

You're lying in a bed – thankfully (and conveniently) Philza had a couple spare ones, enough for you and George, but forcing Aimsey to stay in the living room. According to the winged father, Dream had been the one to tell him about the fire, suggesting that they let you stay over until you'd have come to another idea. It's all very suspicious, obviously, and you'd like to say that you were too tired to think too much into it, but unfortunately, your cursed thoughts and paranoia don't let you move on from this.

"I've always liked the stars," Ghostbur, the spirit lying next to you in your bed like he's been doing for two hours or so, keeps on rambling. Although he's speaking with the intention of calming you down – or at least, that's the only acceptable assumption you can make – his words are only driving you insane.

You want to sleep. That's all that you want at the moment. The interaction with Sam, the DeMeter visit, the fire, the fallout with Jack: it's all stressed you out and brought you to a new low, the bottom of the bottle. Everything's been so stressful to you, but this is just another casual dose of things to worry about.

And the worst is that you can't get Jack out of your mind, but you can't even blame him. If you were him, you would've done the exact same thing, if not worse. If you could, you'd love to say that to yourself. You'd love to tell yourself to fuck off, but unfortunately, that's not going to achieve anything. Despite your self-hatred, you have to take yourself everywhere you go, and you have nothing to say in the matter. You just have to live with the fact that you'll never be able to love yourself, like these lunatics love you. Like Tommy loves you. Like Aimsey loves you. Like Sally loves you.

No matter how many tasks you'll fulfil, or how many experiments you lead, or how many times you take away another part of your body, it's never going to be enough. Nothing's going to be able to fill that hole inside of you, the emptiness in your heart.

Perhaps that's why you love Sally so much. Because she actually makes you feel like you can love yourself. Like you can like yourself. Like you can look yourself in the mirror and see something else than a wreck. You're a god. You're the President. You're able to do anything and everything, but that little, small, yet so important thing, you can't even do right. How come terrible people like Dream and Sam can appreciate themselves, but you can't even delude yourself into thinking you're anything more than a glitch in the software?

Maybe that's why you hate them too. You envy them. Wilbur, Quackity, Niki, Fundy. Obviously, you despise them for their unacceptable behaviour and constant crossing boundaries, but maybe it's also because they come closer to loving you than you ever could. When they look at you, there's a desperate admiration. Obsession? Yes, most definitely. Unhealthy? Without a doubt. But can it be seen as love? That's a question to which you don't know the answer yet.

What even is love to begin with? The only romance you've ever known is with Sally, but you're undoubted passion for Aimsey and Tommy also counts as them. And, of course, the gratitude that you held for Ponk, for making you accept the fact that you and Sally were indeed lovers, but when is it not love anymore? Where does it cross?