[It's both too long and not long enough. Gradually the alarms of life and death begin to ebb, but as they quiet, they make room for shame. And as they do, the landscape changes again, something that can't be identified as any place or thing--it's most like static, and it's most like a feeling, a feeling of being trapped, grinding and grinding against a cacophony of colors and pixels--
Monika's voice again. Or is it? It sounds like something that's supposed to sound like Monika, remind you of Monika, but may not be Monika.]
"There's a little devil inside all of us."
Beneath their manufactured perception - their artificial reality - is a writhing, twisted mess of dread.
Loathing. Judgment. Elitism. Self-doubt.
[This awful ugliness inside of her, the lie that she'd never think of going through with something like this--no one should have ever seen it. No one should know. No one should have their eyes opened to this terrible reality.
No one should...
Shoulds and shouldn'ts are kind of made up, Sayori.
She holds tighter to Mista and keeps breathing. The flow of black mist from her mouth stutters, tangible evidence of her holding onto his words, onto the motions of his hands, despite Monika-not-Monika's words and the awful wail of sound surrounding them.]
All thrashing to escape the feeble hold of their host, seeping through every little crevice they can find.
no subject
Monika's voice again. Or is it? It sounds like something that's supposed to sound like Monika, remind you of Monika, but may not be Monika.]
"There's a little devil inside all of us."
Beneath their manufactured perception - their artificial reality - is a
writhing, twisted mess of dread.
Loathing. Judgment. Elitism. Self-doubt.
[This awful ugliness inside of her, the lie that she'd never think of going through with something like this--no one should have ever seen it. No one should know. No one should have their eyes opened to this terrible reality.
No one should...
Shoulds and shouldn'ts are kind of made up, Sayori.
She holds tighter to Mista and keeps breathing. The flow of black mist from her mouth stutters, tangible evidence of her holding onto his words, onto the motions of his hands, despite Monika-not-Monika's words and the awful wail of sound surrounding them.]
All thrashing to escape the feeble hold of their host, seeping through every little crevice they can find.