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Athazagoraphobia

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Athazagoraphobia is most commonly known as the fear of being forgotten.

However, athazagoraphobia is also the fear of forgetting someone you know is important to you. It is the fear of being greeted by someone who has love and importance plastered on their face. You can’t remember their features, like it’s the first time you've seen them. You can't even bring yourself to remember their name, as important as they may look.

They were important, once, maybe even yesterday, but you’re villainous enough to forget they ever meant anything to you.

Despite all that, in the end, it is only a noun. A noun created by the fearful to give word to the common phobia of forgetting and being forgotten without having to go through much detail.

 

With all that said, you do not have athazagoraphobia. You are far past the point of fearing forgetting- your life has been plagued by forgetfulness, and it has maybe always been a part of your life, shaping who you are like clay in a child’s hand.

 

Your name is Ranboo. Just Ranboo- if you’ve ever had a second name, you do not remember it. Had it ever been important, it would have been written in ink in one of your memory books, but alas, the unimportance of such a name declares to you and everyone else that it was never meaningful enough to have a place in your mind.

Where you come from is of little importance, too. You belong nowhere and everywhere, to no one and to everyone.

Well- actually, you used to belong nowhere.

Your current home resides in Snowchester. It isn’t a literal house, of course. It is your home, the place you go to when you feel like the world is crumbling down with you in it. The place with the people who you know will continue to be by your side despite your flaws (your actions say that this is not quite the case. Have you told him yet, Ranboo?). The family you can count on if anything ever happens. (Can you really count on people who know only the things you choose to tell? Can they count on you?)
The two people in this world you would die and kill for.
Those two people mean the world to you, and for the first time, you are so deathly afraid of forgetting.

Afraid of forgetting who those people are. Afraid of forgetting Tubbo, afraid of forgetting Michael. Your sources of will, your anchors, the people who make it okay to sometimes not be okay.

The two beings in this server who will give you enough strength to actually end a man’s life, a life you have only known to cause pain to others.

You, Ranboo, the Enderman who isn’t quite an Enderman, are the most selfish person I have ever seen. Despite what you may tell yourself, this isn’t about the harm Dream has brought to others. This is about yourself.

Did you ever think about avenging Tommy when he was killed?

Did you think about spending more time with him when he was exiled for a crime that wasn’t his to receive a punishment for?

Have you ever stopped to read that silly book of yours to force yourself to remember, to truly regret your actions towards others? To look at all this damage you do and keep doing, all this chaos you keep denying. Have you even written your flaws in your books? The answer is no, I know this. Of course the answer is no, you are a hypocrite and would never want to remember your mistakes.

It will eventually come back to bite you, Enderwalker. You know this. It haunts you, it has haunted you for long enough that you can ignore it and push it to the back of your mind until it eventually explodes and hurts everyone around you except yourself.

The damage caused by the one called Dream did not quite matter to you until your life was put in danger. The trauma caused by the one whom they fear did not matter to your life until it was given a purpose, until you decided that people were actually worth caring about.

Does it feel good to wield a sword and know it in your heart that you shall swing it, not to defend yourself, but to defend the people you know have no more than one chance at living? Do you feel pride when you think about ending your nightmare once and for all? What about the selfishness of your actions that are just covered in a crappy disguise of selflessness?

“Shut it,” Your voice is coated with anger, the grip on the sword that you carry is strong enough for your claws to leave a dent on the wooden handle.

The truth is hard to accept, isn’t it, Enderman? It will always be hard to accept the truth because accepting means hurting, and hurting means vulnerability. Do you even know the real reason why the scent of gunpowder and what an explosion looks like are so familiar to you? Did you ever care enough to wonder?

You hesitate for a second and decide all this is not worth answering. Bickering with yourself is never quite a good idea, “I deserve to be selfish for once.” You say this, but you don’t sound confident.

You don’t deserve to, not really. Everything you've done, up to this point, was for your own benefit. Even now, when you have finally decided to suck in your pride and choose a side, it’s still for yourself. Do you not get tired of it?

“That's not-” You are cut off by a noise that catches your attention. It is loud and clumsy, unfitting for the quiet snowy forest surrounding you. The timing is impeccable, too- I do not care for your answer, as I already know it. You of all people should be aware of this.

The noise takes the shape of a zombie piglin that comes from the shadows in search of his father. The child looks up at his dad and puts his arms up, asking you to lift him up. He is soft and weightless, and he does not fear your long claws or your glaring glowing eyes or your purple sword (which you’ve put away). You hold him like he is the world, and he might as well be.

The enderman; that is to say, you- do not turn around when you hear a soft breeze or when the scent of gunpowder hits your nostrils. You do not care about the one who lurks and waits for you to give in and do its bidding.

 

The other half that completes your definition of home is waiting for you by the door when you reach town.