[When Filbo's shadow is gripped so strongly, it's as if Filbo got immobilized too. It's squeezed, strongly, Rynlan doing what needs to be done. Were Filbo able to think right now on anything except his impending death, he would find that admirable. But he can't even say that much.
His shadow writhes, beginning to flake apart. Everything on Filbo begins to melt, losing its strength on him -- they're not needed anymore, after all. Rynlan is the one constricting him. And as sturdy as Filbo is, suffocating him by crushing his shadow is darn effective.
While his shadow is falling apart...a third memory comes.
'The party is next week. I gotta decide what to do with myself but maybe I'm hoping for too much when it comes to what may happen. Come on, there's gotta be something that'll make things better...!'
The sound of a glass is picked up. A drink, there's Lu Bixing in the background, inintelligible. Filbo's voice aloud says something along the lines of he not remembering exactly what this one has, but that it had the Doing Just Fine one, that he was sure of, but surely anything else he added was going to be a funny effect. And he took the drink, not remembering he had mixed that one with the Strange Medicine.
For a moment, his thoughts turned off, like it had all gone dark. Silence. And then...slow at first, voices nobody recognized. Voices that were being dismissive of him. Every single one grinding him down. Things that had been said to his face, things he had heard about him. Reminders of all his flaws, of everything that was wrong with him. Filbo's own was among them, echoing them.
With every passing second, the voices were louder, sharper, and faster, and soon, there were others -- the voices of everyone in hell. The demons and the fellow tortured souls, countless conversations in chronological order, sped up to the point nobody in the audience knew for sure what it all said.
At first, everyone's voices sounded weirded out. Filbo's own voice sounded resigned. But in matter of seconds, the more memories replayed, the voices seemed to take a lighter tone. More amicable. And Filbo himself sounded happier. Then when the conversations seemed to be around the time of the memoryshare week, everyone's voices kept the same uplifting tone, but Filbo's began taking a nosedive into melancholy. The more the memories kept coming to the present, the less and less happy Filbo sounded.
The moment it reached present time, it all looped again, faster, more frantic, over and over, three, five, eight, twelve times, and it was faster every time, and it felt like something was creaking, maybe it was the stage under Filbo's dying self, maybe it was his psyche back then, the carefully compartmentalized feelings and thoughts beginning to shatter and mix together and crumble apart to overwhelm him with the weights accumulated throughout the worst year of his life, his death, and two months in hell. Filbo's voice began sounding louder the more times it all replayed, deviating from the conversations and instead drilling a few sentences over and over:
'...what's the point. Going back to my life holds nothing for me. I will be alone. I couldn't do anything for anyone before I perished. They died because I wasn't enough. Staying in hell will only hurt. There's no future here. I can't go with anyone. Living somewhere else would be pointless. Everyone I cherish here will leave and go back to their lives. I'll be left behind. In a week and half this will all be over. If every option that awaits me is a dead end, then... There's no point in any of this anymore. Someone tell me what to do. I really don't know. I will be alone I'm not enough There's no future anywhere I'll be left behind I can't do this on my own I know nothing Because I'm just me. That's the problem, right? No wonder I'll be alone. No wonder I'm not enough No wonder I have no future No wonder I can't do anything on my own No wonder I know nothing What am I supposed to do now?
It kept going, loud and relentless, until after a long minute of cacophony, it all fell into silence. It was only a minute, but to Filbo it must have felt eternal back then. Lu Bixing's voice is still there in the background, and Filbo does respond, a bit dazed, but gives no indication of how in just one minute he had a total meltdown. "Wow...I think that one did nothing. Weird, eh?"
Wheezing, Filbo is almost immobile, on the brink of death, most of shadow sloughing off him except the bits covering what had already broken apart from him, and then there's in front of Rynlan, thankfully grumpus shaped, small and powerless, Filbo's shadow.
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His shadow writhes, beginning to flake apart. Everything on Filbo begins to melt, losing its strength on him -- they're not needed anymore, after all. Rynlan is the one constricting him. And as sturdy as Filbo is, suffocating him by crushing his shadow is darn effective.
While his shadow is falling apart...a third memory comes.
'The party is next week. I gotta decide what to do with myself but maybe I'm hoping for too much when it comes to what may happen. Come on, there's gotta be something that'll make things better...!'
The sound of a glass is picked up. A drink, there's Lu Bixing in the background, inintelligible. Filbo's voice aloud says something along the lines of he not remembering exactly what this one has, but that it had the Doing Just Fine one, that he was sure of, but surely anything else he added was going to be a funny effect. And he took the drink, not remembering he had mixed that one with the Strange Medicine.
For a moment, his thoughts turned off, like it had all gone dark. Silence. And then...slow at first, voices nobody recognized. Voices that were being dismissive of him. Every single one grinding him down. Things that had been said to his face, things he had heard about him. Reminders of all his flaws, of everything that was wrong with him. Filbo's own was among them, echoing them.
With every passing second, the voices were louder, sharper, and faster, and soon, there were others -- the voices of everyone in hell. The demons and the fellow tortured souls, countless conversations in chronological order, sped up to the point nobody in the audience knew for sure what it all said.
At first, everyone's voices sounded weirded out. Filbo's own voice sounded resigned. But in matter of seconds, the more memories replayed, the voices seemed to take a lighter tone. More amicable. And Filbo himself sounded happier. Then when the conversations seemed to be around the time of the memoryshare week, everyone's voices kept the same uplifting tone, but Filbo's began taking a nosedive into melancholy. The more the memories kept coming to the present, the less and less happy Filbo sounded.
The moment it reached present time, it all looped again, faster, more frantic, over and over, three, five, eight, twelve times, and it was faster every time, and it felt like something was creaking, maybe it was the stage under Filbo's dying self, maybe it was his psyche back then, the carefully compartmentalized feelings and thoughts beginning to shatter and mix together and crumble apart to overwhelm him with the weights accumulated throughout the worst year of his life, his death, and two months in hell. Filbo's voice began sounding louder the more times it all replayed, deviating from the conversations and instead drilling a few sentences over and over:
'...what's the point.
Going back to my life holds nothing for me. I will be alone.
I couldn't do anything for anyone before I perished. They died because I wasn't enough.
Staying in hell will only hurt. There's no future here.
I can't go with anyone. Living somewhere else would be pointless.
Everyone I cherish here will leave and go back to their lives. I'll be left behind.
In a week and half this will all be over.
If every option that awaits me is a dead end, then...
There's no point in any of this anymore.
Someone tell me what to do.
I really don't know.
I will be alone
I'm not enough
There's no future anywhere
I'll be left behind
I can't do this on my own
I know nothing
Because I'm just me.
That's the problem, right?
No wonder I'll be alone.
No wonder I'm not enough
No wonder I have no future
No wonder I can't do anything on my own
No wonder I know nothing
What am I supposed to do now?
It kept going, loud and relentless, until after a long minute of cacophony, it all fell into silence. It was only a minute, but to Filbo it must have felt eternal back then. Lu Bixing's voice is still there in the background, and Filbo does respond, a bit dazed, but gives no indication of how in just one minute he had a total meltdown. "Wow...I think that one did nothing. Weird, eh?"
Wheezing, Filbo is almost immobile, on the brink of death, most of shadow sloughing off him except the bits covering what had already broken apart from him, and then there's in front of Rynlan, thankfully grumpus shaped, small and powerless, Filbo's shadow.
Time for the final blow, Rynlan. Do your worst.]