An Essay Upon That Which Claws at Me

[Nectarine Sunset]

Once upon a time, there was a playwright.

She was beloved and-

that's not how this goes.

You know that very well, dear Vacerayne.

You knew it as well as one could ever.

So how does it feel being dead, then?

It feels just like how I expected it.

Do you regret not listening to them?

A bit - but that was never my dear fate.

Where do you think you'll go when you leave here?

I don't know! It doesn't really matter.

... you were fallible. You weren't strong at all.

Yes, and? I did a lot more than others.

But your work is going to be erased.

No, it won't! I've made sure of that myself.

Now let me take a turn writing this down...

Once upon a time, there was a playwright. She was hated by most people, of course- but some people loved her very, very much.

It was overbearing, all the options, none of which had her making her own choice. Slowly, she began to slip into insanity.

Some part of her regretted never selling out her soul to the coven that had inquired; other parts wondered about necromancy.

In another universe, perhaps she would've been a towering ice queen, a living deity, a psionic tyrant.

Instead, she lies dead in her own bedroom, laid to rest by the one who killed her there.

Perhaps it's a mercy, dying to care. Perhaps it's a mercy being laid to rest, yes?

. . .

Will I get to rest?

Is that truly sure?

And, better yet-

Does it truly matter?

You won't forget me anyway, Meranthe!

Goodbye for now - maybe we'll meet again!