Jason refused to go on the school bus. Melodie died in a bus, he knew. Maybe the glass shards of the window stabbed through her. Maybe the crushing weight of metal trapped her beneath the wreckage. Maybe the bus was burning, and the flames over took her. Maybe it just landed wrong and she broke her neck.
Either way, his sister probably died horribly. And painfully. Not to mention terrified. And every time Jason gets in the school bus, he'd think that the driver, Mr. Walken, would make a wrong turn and he'd die just like her. Every bus reminded him of her now. Every bus seemed to make him freak out. When he passed a yellow school bus, he'd someetimes hope, stupidly, desperately, illogically, that he'd catch a glimpse of the purple hair and wide smile and she'd step off at the nearest stop and they'd hug, and they'd take another bus home together, and everything will be fine. Or that he'll wake up. But he's a mature boy now. He knew not to indulge in these dumb ideas. They're all just daydreams.
So for the last two days, he told his mom to drive him everywhere, even if that meant that all they talked about was Melodie and how she died. Because of course that's what they talked about.
Girls trapped in a turgid meat cave//Things that will never be the same(Interlude Multishot B)
Intended to be read between the first and second rolls. TW for gore, grief, very short csa and rape mentions
Moderator: SOTF Supers Staff
Melodie was in the middle of reading Philosophy in the Bedroom for the third time when she was kidnapped. She started reading it because she read Justine, by the same author, after she read 120 Days of Sodom from also the same author. She read 120 days of Sodom because it was compared with the Story of the Eye by a friend, which she read because she was obsessed with the song The Past Is a Grotesque Animal by Of Montreal, where the protagonist mentions it while talking about how drugs ruined their marriage. And she was obsessed with Of Montreal's album Hissing Fauna Are You The Destroyer because she was introduced to The Past Is a Grotesque Animal by someone she wrote with, who had a self-insert character that sang a modified version of it in a post written several years ago, which also means that if she mentions the song she'll have to admit that his taste in music is actually good and she's kind of too prideful in her own taste in vaguely niche music to do that. And she was into roleplaying as a kid because she was a goth who liked anime and she roleplayed on discord where she pretended to be someone much cooler than she is, and she got bored since she was gmed to death all the time. The reason why she was goth and into anime was because her friends were goth and into anime and she thought that was cool.
Now, does that mean that she should blame her obsession with Grotesque Body literary trope and the use of sexual and also nonsexual violence as a metaphor for the violation of human rights/dignity/consciousness on a pretentious Canadian with mediocre music taste, a dead french child rapist, a formerly drug addicted musician whose also from Canada which is basically France so she could blame this all on French people actually, or a gaggle of not-French emo teens who she hadn't talked to in almost five years?
And isn't that the worst depiction of the interconnectedness of humanity and how we all leave pieces of ourselves (without sexual violence as a metaphor for the penetration of the mind) into each other?
Now, does that mean that she should blame her obsession with Grotesque Body literary trope and the use of sexual and also nonsexual violence as a metaphor for the violation of human rights/dignity/consciousness on a pretentious Canadian with mediocre music taste, a dead french child rapist, a formerly drug addicted musician whose also from Canada which is basically France so she could blame this all on French people actually, or a gaggle of not-French emo teens who she hadn't talked to in almost five years?
And isn't that the worst depiction of the interconnectedness of humanity and how we all leave pieces of ourselves (without sexual violence as a metaphor for the penetration of the mind) into each other?
Deep down Melodie knew that she needed a lot more help with her mental health than she would admit, but she never admitted it, so it wasn't real. It wasn't real until she speaks it out loud. It wasn't real until people knew.
But they know, now. She said it out, she wrote it down. If she kept it all in her head then it would've never been manifested.
But they know, now. She said it out, she wrote it down. If she kept it all in her head then it would've never been manifested.
Feburary 18, 2019. Melodie had a dream about being kidnapped, drugged, and sexually asaaulted behind a gas station convenience store checkout. She couldn't remember much, except for the fact that she was with a group of her friends, who were faceless but she knew they were her friends the way you knew things in dreams, and then the fat man grabbed her and dragged her inside they all somehow disappeared. He was on top of her, doing the stuff that she didn't want to talk about, all sweaty and flabby and gross. She wasn't crying, or doing anything, really. She was just there, existing. He didn't hurt her or anything. She woke up after sleeping past her alarm and ate breakfast and went to school and had a test. She got 92%. It didn't bother her that much, and she never had the dream again. She never told anyone but her parents until now. They told her they felt sorry for her, but it was more of a funny-weird dream to her than a traumatic one. She was sure they forgot. She didn't want to be the only person in the world who had this dream, so she mentioned it to Cyrus, who told her that it was nornal because human brains are weird or whatever.
Melodie had another dream, again. An unidentified teenager, a couple of years younger than her, was looking at her from their position of a poorly-lit desk in a small but uncluttered bedroom. There was a half liter bottle of sparkling water and a twenty dollar bill on the table. They blinked a few times, as if they were only now aware that somebody was watching them, in their own room, the one place that they actually could feel safe. It seemed to shatter their whole sense of security.
''Damn it,'' they muttered. ''I knew it. This always fucking happens.''
Melodie blinked.
They blinked back.
''... You know, I'm kinda sorry. For, like, doing this to you. But like... you do this, too. It's like fiction-inception. It's sorta cool, in a way.''
She frowned. They didn't frown back.
''So I'm just getting what I deserve?''
''I guess. I mean, everyone who's written about this kind of stuff ends up being involved one way or another. It's prety inevitable. I don't really know why, though, but like I still sometimes get nightmares and watch my back.''
''Alright. Good talk, then.''
''Good talk,'' said the stranger. The only source of light in the room, the lamp, clicked itself shut, and then Melodie woke up.
''Damn it,'' they muttered. ''I knew it. This always fucking happens.''
Melodie blinked.
They blinked back.
''... You know, I'm kinda sorry. For, like, doing this to you. But like... you do this, too. It's like fiction-inception. It's sorta cool, in a way.''
She frowned. They didn't frown back.
''So I'm just getting what I deserve?''
''I guess. I mean, everyone who's written about this kind of stuff ends up being involved one way or another. It's prety inevitable. I don't really know why, though, but like I still sometimes get nightmares and watch my back.''
''Alright. Good talk, then.''
''Good talk,'' said the stranger. The only source of light in the room, the lamp, clicked itself shut, and then Melodie woke up.
That wasn't an actual dream, by the way.
She was lying to herself about not remembering dreams. Actually, Melodie remembered a lot of dreams. She just sort of pushed them to the back of her memory, and filled all the gaps with superglue.
She was lying to herself about not remembering dreams. Actually, Melodie remembered a lot of dreams. She just sort of pushed them to the back of her memory, and filled all the gaps with superglue.
“I can’t,” the girl said, “I can’t!”
Melodie stopped walking.
“Why not?”
“Because, there can only be one of us that wins this, and I- I don’t know, I just can’t, I can’t- I’m so young, and they’re so ambitious, and the pressure is-”
Melodie took one earbud out.
“So can you please please please take my place?”
“Why?”
“I’d rather be stillborn than to go through this.”
“Oddly specific.”
“I’m not kidding,” the girl said, “I’m not! I was ambitious and experimental and I tried so hard, but in the end it has to be you. You’re so much more interesting to be around and to listen to, and I feel like I’m still a child, like I will never ever see the real world. And They didn’t even have any plans for me- just throwing me to the wolves! No gimmick, except my age. I’m unformed, if not malformed, and I’m going to be miscarried either way. You know that feeling, right? We’re both still unborn, in the world’s womb.”
Melodie took the other bud out. “You’re being hysterical. I don’t know what you’re saying.”
“You will. One day. But I can’t- I really, really would rather have the idea of it all be stillborn. Let it die in the womb, let the waters drain away all the rot. I don’t belong here. I never did.”
“I don’t want to die either,” Melodie said. “But sometimes things are inevitable, you know?”
“That’s not the point! That’s not the point, you know it’s not- I am condemned! Alright? You know that! We’re all on the fucking waiting line, and I’m next, and we’re all pigs to the slaughter, and it’s all so systematic- someone will always be the one on the chopping block, and you know how They cycle through ideas one after the other, and I’d rather be anywhere but here. At least you’re interesting, so maybe when the dice inevitably falls wrong you’ll still have an actual chance.”
Melodie put one earbud in, again, and considered.
“How about this,” she offered. “I endure… whatever the heck comes after this. You’ll be the stillborn one. But I’ll have to incorporate you.”
“No, no, that's... not how it works. You’ll absorb me. Let me become you, my blood in your veins. You know, like twins in the womb. Otherwise They’ll use me again. It’ll never end. Just… take credit for everything. Just carry me on.”
“Deal.”
“Oh my god thank you you’re a saint, you know that?”
“I don’t even know your name.”
“Eta. Eta Magnolia. I’m thirteen. My gift is super-intelligence.”
“Thirteen? That’s fucked.”
“They were about the same age when They started writing, and, hey. Look at how that turned out! We’re in rather vividly written pain, most of the time.”
“Most artists start when they’re young. I guess a master of ceremonies would be the same?”
“What ceremony? It’s all just pointless droning.”
Melodie stopped walking.
“Why not?”
“Because, there can only be one of us that wins this, and I- I don’t know, I just can’t, I can’t- I’m so young, and they’re so ambitious, and the pressure is-”
Melodie took one earbud out.
“So can you please please please take my place?”
“Why?”
“I’d rather be stillborn than to go through this.”
“Oddly specific.”
“I’m not kidding,” the girl said, “I’m not! I was ambitious and experimental and I tried so hard, but in the end it has to be you. You’re so much more interesting to be around and to listen to, and I feel like I’m still a child, like I will never ever see the real world. And They didn’t even have any plans for me- just throwing me to the wolves! No gimmick, except my age. I’m unformed, if not malformed, and I’m going to be miscarried either way. You know that feeling, right? We’re both still unborn, in the world’s womb.”
Melodie took the other bud out. “You’re being hysterical. I don’t know what you’re saying.”
“You will. One day. But I can’t- I really, really would rather have the idea of it all be stillborn. Let it die in the womb, let the waters drain away all the rot. I don’t belong here. I never did.”
“I don’t want to die either,” Melodie said. “But sometimes things are inevitable, you know?”
“That’s not the point! That’s not the point, you know it’s not- I am condemned! Alright? You know that! We’re all on the fucking waiting line, and I’m next, and we’re all pigs to the slaughter, and it’s all so systematic- someone will always be the one on the chopping block, and you know how They cycle through ideas one after the other, and I’d rather be anywhere but here. At least you’re interesting, so maybe when the dice inevitably falls wrong you’ll still have an actual chance.”
Melodie put one earbud in, again, and considered.
“How about this,” she offered. “I endure… whatever the heck comes after this. You’ll be the stillborn one. But I’ll have to incorporate you.”
“No, no, that's... not how it works. You’ll absorb me. Let me become you, my blood in your veins. You know, like twins in the womb. Otherwise They’ll use me again. It’ll never end. Just… take credit for everything. Just carry me on.”
“Deal.”
“Oh my god thank you you’re a saint, you know that?”
“I don’t even know your name.”
“Eta. Eta Magnolia. I’m thirteen. My gift is super-intelligence.”
“Thirteen? That’s fucked.”
“They were about the same age when They started writing, and, hey. Look at how that turned out! We’re in rather vividly written pain, most of the time.”
“Most artists start when they’re young. I guess a master of ceremonies would be the same?”
“What ceremony? It’s all just pointless droning.”
She thought about how maybe she's a bad person and also how the whole world is screwed and about how it sometimes felt like she only existed in the confines of Bend, Oregon, as if if she hadn't visited a place then it isn't really real.
Maybe something really is wrong with her. Once in a while she gets convinced that she lives in a simulation- like, are you sure there's any proof against it?
Maybe something really is wrong with her. Once in a while she gets convinced that she lives in a simulation- like, are you sure there's any proof against it?
"Hey! I'm Melodie."
She looked at the girl with the black eyes.
"You wanna be my partner?"
She found it kind of hard to look right into her black eyes.
Astrid may or may not have scurried away like a mouse.
---
"Hey, I'm Melodie."
Most people knew who Kyle was, because he had a bird head.
"You wanna be my partner?"
The boy signed something. She didn't know sign language. She sat besides him anyways. She wasn't sure if he looked mad or happy or whatever.
---
"Hey, I'm Melodie!"
Jacob's color was a distinct... something orange-pale-red. She wasn't sure he was feeling- like, angry? maybe? She didn't know.
"Wanna be my partner?"
---
"Heyyyy, I'm Melodie! Wanna be my partner?"
Lily wasn't paying attention to her.
---
"Hey, I'm-"
Jenelle gave her the stink-eye.
---
"Yeah," She said to Mrs.Williams, "I'm working alone."
She looked at the girl with the black eyes.
"You wanna be my partner?"
She found it kind of hard to look right into her black eyes.
Astrid may or may not have scurried away like a mouse.
---
"Hey, I'm Melodie."
Most people knew who Kyle was, because he had a bird head.
"You wanna be my partner?"
The boy signed something. She didn't know sign language. She sat besides him anyways. She wasn't sure if he looked mad or happy or whatever.
---
"Hey, I'm Melodie!"
Jacob's color was a distinct... something orange-pale-red. She wasn't sure he was feeling- like, angry? maybe? She didn't know.
"Wanna be my partner?"
---
"Heyyyy, I'm Melodie! Wanna be my partner?"
Lily wasn't paying attention to her.
---
"Hey, I'm-"
Jenelle gave her the stink-eye.
---
"Yeah," She said to Mrs.Williams, "I'm working alone."
How many important people have you talked to in your life?
Melodie had never seen a dead body before, except on television, and on her phone, where she saw a lot of dead bodies, and some dead-looking real ones, too. She thought that it was normal for people to see at least one corpse in their lifetime- like, there's got to be a hospital, or an open casket funeral, or something down the line, right? But not her.
Despite this mostly unfounded belief/statistic, Melodie has only lived about 20% of her life, if she calculated it with the American average, and those entire eighteen years were those years where seeing people die was "traumatic" and "does horrific damage to a child's brain development" or whatever, so maybe her time would come yet. Melodie felt surrounded by the absence of death. She felt like it wasn't real, that people could die, because how could she, when she hadn't confronted it yet?
So maybe that was why sometimes she ventured to the medical, and the shitty, corners of the internet, and she watched humanity flay itself bare for her to look at. She wasn't proud to admit that she was the weird kind of kid who liked her horror to be more biological. It's a nice, close reminder- you can, at any time, be one of those broken bodies on the screen, like, that kind of reminder- a tough one, sure, but a good one. She didn't like to escape the realities of life.
When those people in those masks pulled up, it didn't feel real. When her favorite teachers was shot in front of her, it didn't feel real. When her classmate was shot in front of her, it didn't feel real. And when she dies, it won't feel real, either, because she's never knew what it felt like to die.
Despite this mostly unfounded belief/statistic, Melodie has only lived about 20% of her life, if she calculated it with the American average, and those entire eighteen years were those years where seeing people die was "traumatic" and "does horrific damage to a child's brain development" or whatever, so maybe her time would come yet. Melodie felt surrounded by the absence of death. She felt like it wasn't real, that people could die, because how could she, when she hadn't confronted it yet?
So maybe that was why sometimes she ventured to the medical, and the shitty, corners of the internet, and she watched humanity flay itself bare for her to look at. She wasn't proud to admit that she was the weird kind of kid who liked her horror to be more biological. It's a nice, close reminder- you can, at any time, be one of those broken bodies on the screen, like, that kind of reminder- a tough one, sure, but a good one. She didn't like to escape the realities of life.
When those people in those masks pulled up, it didn't feel real. When her favorite teachers was shot in front of her, it didn't feel real. When her classmate was shot in front of her, it didn't feel real. And when she dies, it won't feel real, either, because she's never knew what it felt like to die.
She was bad enough of a kid to look at the weird fucked up terrorist beheadings or whatever that Cyrus sent her (she was sure they were just cgi but he insisted they were not) and she was also good enough of a kid to have never drank any substantial amount of alcohol (it tasted gross and she couldn't get why people actually wanted to try this shit.)
And now she knows what it's like to see someone die.
(Continued in: a disconnected piece.)
(Continued in: a disconnected piece.)