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All Over (again)

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The snow fell heavily from above, battering relentlessly against his brittle bones. Any other time, he would have taken a shorcut to get wherever he wanted to go. Instead, he sighed, dragging his feet, fighting against knee-high snow, stiff, frozen clothes further hindering his movements. He was holding something, clutching it close to his chest, as if trying to protect it from the cold reaches of Snowdin.


Keeping his head down, hood up over his skull, Sans closed his eye sockets, pausing momentarily. He must truly look pathetic at this moment. And yet, he found he didn't care. 'what's the point?'


He shook his head, and continued onwards to his home. Or what was left of it anyways.


Finally spotting his house through the snow, he rushed without real vigor towards the door. He tried to open it with one hand, twisting the door knob and giving a push. It didn't budge. He let out a breath of annoyance, then tried again, this time, putting his weight into it.


The door burst open, sending snow and bits of ice, along with Sans, flying in to the house. Sans yelped, falling into the floor and hitting his head with a dull thud.


The skeleton groaned, getting up on shaky legs and slamming the door shut.


Only when the door close, did he realize how erratic his breathing had gotten. He tried to calm himself down, ignoring the bitter emptiness that resided in his SOUL. Looking down at the thing still trapped in his hold, his shoulder sagged in relief.


He sat there. On the living room floor, leaning against the door, sitting in a cold puddle of now melted snow, vainly trying to find it in him to care. He delved deep into his mind, desperately searching for something, anything at all. He found nothing.


With a sigh, he stood. Forcing his weary bones to move. There was pain in every movement, stiff joints gritting together without the former smoothness of the action. His bones gave an eery creak. He felt numb.


His once-vibrant eyelights, now dim, greying orbs threatening to flicker, barely even glowing. They always did have the nasty habit of giving away his emotions.


His healthy thick bones, once a white rivaling snow, now brittle and off-colored, thin from weeks of malnutrition and lack of food. He couldn't eat-- didn't want to eat. He didn't see the point in doing so.


His clothes, once soft and warm and, despite being constantly disheveled and stained with various condiments, clean and well-cared for. Now, the garments that hung from his slumped form were cold, soaked, and stiff with dirt and dust. He couldn't recall when they've last been washed.


His smile, once so genuine and one of the brightest around, now set stiffly in a painful grimace, threatening to fall and turn into a frown.


Trudging across the living room, he started up the stairs, not mindful about the wet trail he was leaving behind. He felt like he was about to fall, his legs threatening to give. A hand shot out to clutch at the railing, the other tightening around the valued item in his hold.


Any other time, he would have fallen asleep then and there, or at least pretend to nap until his brother notices and carry him to his room. This was not the time.


He rushed as quickly as he dared and by the time he finally arrived at the top, he had to lean against the wall in order to stay upright. Thankfully, Papyrus' room was the closest by the stairs.


He felt something sprinkling off his legs and gripped at the door knob, throwing the door open and, once again, falling on to the floor. He wanted to take a nap; he was so, very tired. But he knew what was about to happen, he knew what was coming, so he pushed on despite the lead dragging down his bones.


He found he couldn't stand anymore, he couldn't feel his feet. So he got on his knees and one hand, the other refusing to let go of the item he's clutching.


His eyes locked on the bed, he meticulously crawled over to the race car bed of eye-catching color, going as fast as he can as he felt even more of that sprinkling sensation from all around his bones.


When he was close enough, he reached out with the hand he used to crawl, grabbed onto the sheets, and pulled himself half-way up the bed. He laid there, his cheek bone pressed against the soft surface, his lower half hanging off the bed and proceeding to get unnervingly numb, the trickling sensation steadily spreading.


Finally relinqishing his hold, he placed the item beside him on the bed. It was a jar, see-through and it seemed to be made of glass. Inside it lied a silver-gray powder, shimering morbidly in the dim light.


Sans went to open the jar, then paused, finally catching sight of his crumbling hands. His hands, while unhealthily thin just a scant few minutes ago, were now comparable to either tooth picks or really thin chop sticks. Fine, silver-gray dust sprinkled off from his phalanges. He was falling apart.


He grunted, now rushing to twist the top off the jar despite the increasing numbness in his bones. Barely doing so in time, he sloppily dumped the contents on the bed, more than half coating what was left of his body, the rest spreading along the bed.


Finally done with his task, he watched with morbid fascination as the hand holding the jar finally crumpled up, joining the dust-- his brother's dust-- scattered all over race car bed.


With what's left of his arm, he reached into his pocket, and fished out a torn, red fabric. 'finally,' He hugged it close, clutching it to his chest as he started to lose feelings along his ribs.


'i just want it all to end.'




His SOUL gave one, final shudder before finally breaking, his dust scattering about, mixing with his brother's. And he knew no more.


All that remained, was worn, red scarf and an old, blue jacket amidst the dust.









"mngh?" He mumbled, before realization kicked in and eye sockets sprang open.


What greeted him was the cracked, plain ceiling of his room.




He didn't hear anything, his mind clouded in numb and panic.




His breathing hitched, eyesockets wide in horror, tears pooling up in response to his thundering emotions.


He can't understand...


'not again.'


He clutched at his head, the tips of his phalanges leaving scratches in his skull as his breathing labored.


His brother was back now, loud and bright and painfully possitive and alive--




His felt the sensation of his non-existent throat burning as he tried to hold back the bubbling agonized scream.


Shouldn't he be happy...?




He cried, painful numbness now completely encompassing his SOUL, setting his max HP to a permanent 1.


He couldn't find it in him to care anymore.


He couldn't find it in him to smile anymore...