I wish there was a way to turn back time, to erase the mistakes of my past, to erase it all, to wipe my slate clean and start anew— but there isn't, and I have to face the world each and every day bearing the weight of every awful thing I've ever done, crushed beneath the weight of my decisions, of the things I've said and done. It tears me apart, ruins me as I carry it, Atlas of my sins, bearer of the worst— I don't know how much longer I can take it, how many more years of this can I withstand before it becomes all too much? Before I give up entirely, before I'm crushed wholly and completely by the pressure of existing ("It really hurts mama!"), letting the raging sea take my limp body, emptied of life ages ago, wandering Helovia without purpose, without life.

I stand before Sia, still and cold to the touch, holding my breath in hopes perhaps if I hold it long enough I'll pass out and sink into the welcoming water at my hooves. Instead I just stare at her, trembling before a queen I let down, a raging storm trapped within amber champagne hide, acid burning on her lips as she looks down at me ("They always look down on you."). I can feel it in the way she says my name, says it like she wants it out of her mouth as fast she can, like a bad taste she's so desperately trying to dispel. My ears swivel back and amber loses focus, gazing beyond her, into her, looking for some shred of decency, something to cling to as her blue eyes burn into my skin. I don't want to face a frozen ocean, do not want to let my fingertips burn against her frigid kiss, not anymore. It hurts too much, repelling my obsessive and desperate mind, unable to touch her anymore the way I'd longed to before I tripped, stumbled, crashed into her life, destroyed it.

My lips are trembling as I look to her, licking them with a dry tongue and tight throat as my body tenses at her question. The Marsh, my old haunting ground. I can almost see the scattered Asylum members wandering casually, unafraid of the bloated corpses and wisps of spirits, unmoved by the rot that encompasses the territory or the darkness that lingers. There's none of that now, just a faded atmosphere of despair, dusted aside by the cleanliness and filtered sunlight, something that makes my stomach turn uneasily ("It's not supposed to be like this.")("Wrong, wrong, wrong!") "I suppose... it's... a little cleaner than before..." My words are weak, dull and intriguing as I look away from her, amber burning against the body of the Sea Soul with her foul mood that's spoiling the air around us.

And I am receding there at her words, at the velocity at which they fly, harsh and piercing, sinking into my flesh and leaving me bleeding out before her. My mouth is dry, my mind is wiped clean, left blank, stuttering and spilling out as I cannot meet her gaze, flinching at the syllables flying from her tongue, spitting venom and crushing me in the palm of her hand. I am a fly, something insignificant, something to squash beneath a heel or crush with a nearby object— and I feel it, crushed, flattened beneath her anger. My mouth is stupidly hanging open, caught between closing it and leaving in a hurry, rushing to forget about her entirely, to toss myself away like a worthless item that's never used, or just leave Helovia, start anew somewhere else. My brows twitch, itching to furrow, face begging to frown at her cold attitude.

'Don't, Amara. Sameira does not want Amara doing more pain to Sikeax. Enough is enough.' The hound is close, she is lurking somewhere within the Marsh, wading through muck, hovering near the clearing but not close enough, the altar makes her too nervous to approach the area. "Oh but Amara! Aren't you fed up? Aren't you tired of taking her shit? Isn't it your turn to be mean? To be cold? Let's see it now!" Wicked ivory grin curls, cheshire and mocking as They whisper into my ear, giggling at the implications. "Tell it to her face! Tell her how you really feel!" How do I really feel? I'm searching, reaching, desperate to find what I feel, how I feel, turning up with all too much, a prosperous bundle that cannot be untangled, a big, shitty knot that makes me gag as I look at it. Ok, fine. Chestnut brow furrows, hollow features solidify, stone cold gaze locks onto the blue mare and heart beats furiously, begging to turn back now. "Amara, Sameira does not like this feeling." "Listen to me, Sikeax—" her full name feels foreign, does not come out smoothly from my lips as I meet her at full height. "You cannot blame me for the things I said and did at that time, cannot make me feel guilty for doing what something else did— not me— some twisted parasite, something that took me over, not fucking me.
I am tired of feeling guilty about what I did not do to you. You cannot keep this up, cannot keep acting like it was me who said whatever was said and did whatever was done. Because it wasn't me," I take a deep breath, shaking, slipping, grip unsteady on my consciousness as I go on, feeling them looming over me in preparation for when my hands slip and I fall down, down, down..

"You tell me to get over myself, to stop feeling the way I do, to stop acting like a child. But Sikeax, have you listened to yourself? Looked at yourself? Who is the child, Sikeax, pointing the finger, looking for someone to blame for your feeling shitty? You get over yourself, stop blaming me for all of your problems. I'm not the one who made you fail the Throat or put you in that position in the first place, not the one who always makes you feel like shit— that's all on you. Start taking some fucking responsibility for how you're feeling and acting and stop putting it on other people. You know I didn't say what the wraith said, but you continue to act like it was me. It's been years, and you're still blaming me for it. I'm not going to apologize for something I didn't do, I'm sick of apologizing for things I had no hand in, sick of being your scapegoat so you can keep being sorry for yourself while telling me to stop being sorry for myself." My words are churning, heating up, my blood is boiling and Sameira is howling rampantly somewhere in the distance while They cackle madly at my side, finding gross pleasure in the way my spit gathers at the corners of my lips while I raise my voice at Sia.

I think I want to spit at her hooves then, but keep my lips pursed as I breathe momentarily, letting her take in what I've said before moving on. "You think I'm the selfish one, doing things without thinking them through, but you're over here guilt tripping me and blaming me without ever once taking into consideration how that makes me feel. It fucking hurts. And you cannot tell me to get over myself, to stop sulking, because I've tried, I try, and it's going to always be there Sikeax, they're always going to be there and I can never stop it." I look out at the Marsh, at the dancing shadows as the clouds roll over the sun and the world grows quiet around us, Sameira's howling silenced, Their laugh faint but still there as they weight for what comes next. "So just... just stop. Is that too much to ask for? Is it to much to ask of you? Can we both agree to just... try and stop moping, just for a moment?" There somewhere in the distance I can see us, racing together through the Marsh with panic clear on our faces as we run side by side, the worry and fear settling in as the world closes in around us, leaving us trapped in our own bodies but unable to escape. It was then that we were distanced, separated, ruined, for when I returned to the conscious world, Sikeax was fearful and cold, traumatized. And all she could do was blame me for it, and I could not understand why. It has such a heavy impact on her, has crushed her, but she does not know how life changing that time spent only spectating was to me— I did not return the same person I was before, split between a million different pieces, listening to the rattling of a thousand voices whispering in unison about every moment of my life, watching the toothy grin of the Walker teeter over me whenever They have the chance. And she was there with the accusatory finger, the anger and hatred loaded like a gun, ready to fire in a moments notice.