Work Text:
He can't stand it. every time he's okay, every time he finally feels somewhat sane, that song plays.
he's told himself it's just a voice, just something in his head that torments him. a consequence to an action he doesn't remember.
as of recent, he went on a search for the source of this music. he didn't care if it was crazy, if it didn't make sense, if it made him look utterly idiotic. it didn't matter. not when he already felt that way for not being able to stop it, it wouldn't change anything. he felt like an idiot for having no leads, and would feel like one if he failed to find a source either way.
luckily, he found it. the comfort room. the first room he heard the voice, the room that betrayed him. it contradicted the very reason it was created. to comfort him. it was made to protect him from the wars, the people he feared, and all it did was put the one hes afraid of most in his own head.
but that makes no sense. if it's just a voice, a mere intrusive thought, how would it put the disc in the jukebox? but did any of this make sense? if clementine had her discs, confirmed hers, why did he feel so guilty over this disc, this song, this song that used to remind him of his friend has been warped so badly in his head. turned into an anthem of his pain, a song that played along to his guilt, strummed, and tugged, and yanked, and tore at his fragile heart strings. the sour tune reminding him of his decisions, the possibility he betrayed his own friend.
his closest friend.
but it wasn't hers. it couldn't be. and it couldn't be just a voice, just a hallucination, or guilt or whatever. intrusive thoughts couldn't put a physical disc in a physical jukebox.
there was two options. one, it actually was dream.
or two, someone read his memory book and is using it against him.
he couldn't stand it. he can't. he wont. when he finally found the disc in that horrid room, he put a stop to it. taking the disc out, carrying it all the way back to his little shack
he prayed on possibilities this would end it, he hoped on hypotheticals that this was all just a prank. he walked to his house, and heard the melody engulf his ears. it was so loud this time.
it was all he could hear, all he could feel, the music flooded his senses, it was overwhelming. it was ear piercing, and he'll admit he acted irrationally. he regrets his decision, he truly does.
he responded with aggression. breaking the disc into tiny shards that edges glistened with the sun, the broad daylight he was losing his mind in. the music never stopped, the symphony never shortened, the loud reminders never quieted,god,why wont they quiet.
why can't he forget, why does nothing make him forget, why is everything a reminder? if his memory is so bad why does he only remember the ill ones? does he forget, or is he not good at all? is the absence of good memories the proof of none at all? maybe this was the consequences of his actions, maybe he deserved this,maybe he died and this is hell,maybe he deserves hell,maybe,maybe,maybe.
he questioned himself, the shimmering fragments in his hands, he looked up at the sun, he questioned himself, he pulled his sleeve up, he questioned himself, he looked at the shard once more and found the answer to all of his questions. the solution to the music, the solution to his questions, the fix for his brain.
and he watched the blood poor down in regret of an action he didn't know he had in himself to commit. he watched the snow beneath his feet drip, and bleed red. going from so clean,and flat, to cratered, and bloody. maybe the snow was the only thing like ranboo. once a blank slate, and now a portrait.
he swallowed deep and stared at his wounds. he remembers standing there for seconds,minutes,more minutes, trying to fear what he had done to himself. and he remembers feeling nothing, hearing nothing, pulling down his sleeve, and kicking the snow until the bloodied frost was covered anew.
and he still regretted it. even now. when the song returned he did it again, and again, and again, and now he was running out of room but thankfully he lived in the snow. he never had to take his long sleeves off.
and now it was getting annoying. he had to do this so often just for a day of peace.
and even then he was sat in his little underground room with a more efficient tool than his previous disc fragment. he immediately discarded those out of pure guilt. he felt like a bad person for hurting himself with a record he believed was his friends moments before, and held her favourite song in it. now he uses a razor-blade he obtained from dismantling a disposable shaving razor.
it was a messy, and admittedly embarrassing task trying to take it apart. he ripped off the handle, leaving only the head, and a dull pocket-knife from Techno in his hands. the pocket-knife he used to cut the plastic safety guards, feeling immense guilt for using a gift from a friend in such a sense. "they should make these stronger." he thought, immediately correcting himself on how no normal person is dismantling the razor, and is in fact using it to shave!
and now he has four blades. he only uses one and keeps the others just in case.
he heard the music play over his thoughts, snapping him back into reality to nothing but him, mellohi, and the razor in his hand.
he was alone. tubbo and clementine were probably out having fun. dream was in prison, the server was peaceful, so quiet for everyone but ranboo. so pleasant, and perfect, and great. and he was stuck cutting himself to make a song go away. he felt pathetic.
he stopped stalling. taking the blade to the skin of his right arm, now that he was running out of room on the left.
and he pulled, and scraped, and listened to the disgusting sound it made as it broke his skin, and hair, and the crimson covered up any initial thoughts he had before he got the satisfaction of glittery maroon running quickly down his arm, staining his white under-shirt "fuck" he pulled his sleeve up further, repositioning his arm for it to drip in a more fortunate puddle on the floor.
the music was quiet, but not silent. he needed silence.
he cut deeper this time. the blood didn't pool in immediately, giving him the displeasure of viewing his flesh from the inside. it did frost over in scarlet tears dripping from his skin for the drought in his eyes he couldn't muster up the courage to even cry.
and the quiet sounds of uneven breathing, no music, no torture, felt like coming up for air. he felt the release course through his body, his veins, his brains, his fingers shake as he sets down the blade and running through his body is no longer relief, but regret.
he didn't like it. he hated it. he hated how often he stared at his arms, how often he wished people knew, he wished he was noticed. he wishes he wasn't the only one who noticed it was so deep it caved in, he wished he wasn't the only ones who noticed gaps between the wounds and skin, he wished when his sleeves accidentally pulled up, and caught up, and revealed his deep secret someone would share it with him, he hates how often he wishes others seen it.
he feels disgusting for it. no normal person wishes for their friends to see their worst. their bloody, scabby, bruised, messy, awful worst. no one wishes someone will find them in the horrific act that is self harm.
but ranboo does. sometimes his sleeve drawing up isn't an accident, sometimes it's really his disturbing way of begging for help. even if it makes him disgusting, even if it makes him bad, horrible, manipulative, even if it makes him like dream, he doesn't know how else to ask.
he doesn't know how to tell anyone he hears creepy music no matter where the freaky fucking disc is, even if its broken, bloodied, and disposed of in the garbage. even if he holds it in his hands the tune still haunts him. he doesn't know how to tell anyone the only way to deal with it, the only way to shut it off is to cut himself good, and deep, and perfect enough to let whatever it is show him mercy from the grip he's in.
to anyone, even himself. the one who goes through it, this sounds utterly insane.
they'd take him hostage. probably lock him up in the very prison dream rots in. they're not much different in his opinion.
he wiped off the blood with an old t-shirt that's just a soaked burgundy rag with no use to be worn, no use other than soaking up blood. he's not very clean with his cleanup, not anymore.
at first he'd clean and disinfect his cuts, but, it almost got him caught more than once. and even if he craves attention, somehow he feels the contradicting feeling that is resenting it as well.
he'd have to explain it even if someone did notice. they wouldn't understand, or help him. they'd poke, and prod, and question. rightfully so. he doesn't know anyone else who hurts themselves.
he never even heard of it, or considered it until that day. and now it's everything, it's all of him. he is it, and it is him, and he will never recover from their fusion, and never split away from what's haunting him. it's not just the song, it's not just the voice. it's also how he deals with it. it haunts him, it follows him, it affects his every decision, and interaction, and hang out, and routine, and outfits.
it hits him he really can't wear short sleeves. he really can't tell anyone about this. he wont ever be able to dress appropriately for summer again. he'll never find a solution that works as well, it follows him further into life than that stupid voice ever will.
and now hes trapped. its a box, and it's suffocating, and it engulfs his lungs, and he takes up ninety five percent of the box, and in the small space for breathing the only thing that cuts off his air flow is a tiny razor blade. he can't move away from it, he can't leave the box, he can't take it out of the box, he cant stop the gas that is filling his lungs.
and he can't stop the blood that starts to puddle under the razor, and eventually fill up his claustrophobic box and takes away what little breath he had left. and he can't stop that when his mouth reaches the top and he sucks up what air bubbles remain, he hears the spine chilling song play. even if he's drowning in his blood the song still plays.
and he cant see himself living past today, or tomorrow, or monday or next tuesday and to be true he doesn't remember what day it was yesterday. he cant remember the last time he hung out with his friends, and he laughed, and actually found it funny. he cant remember the last time he was with his friends and smiled and felt actual joy.
and now he feels lost. if there's no escape from the song, or escape from his escape, what has he been running from the whole time? he has to remember. he has to.
the song silently began to loop in the background of his thoughts as he searches. but what is he searching for? he pondered, and paced, and checked every place, eventually noticing what he's searching for is in front of his face. his memory book
he grabbed the pencil, and book, and opened it up to the first page to see a haunting smile he can never erase.
he rubbed the eraser as hard as he could against the writing. to every beat of the song his motions quickened, to every tear in his heart, pain in his arm, sleeve that stuck to his skin. every memory soured, every second of hell influenced his effort. and he scrubbed, and scrubbed and convinced himself that when the page was cleaned he would also be. and he lifted the pencil and the page was blank, and the song was over.
it was finally over.