you saved the world from me [septiplier]

xxi. to live another day

"And bad mistakes, I've made a few

I've had my share of sand kicked in my face

But I've come through"

–Queen, We Are the Champions

⧔⋯⧕

YOU did not invite my family to the funeral. You didn't even tell them I was dead, because you knew how many complications it would cause. Links would be made between me and Antisepticeye, my grave would be destroyed and I could never rest in peace. I like to think you did this because, somewhere, deep down, you still love me. I hope.

My funeral was small, with only you and your friend, Felix. I suppose I wish there were more people there—more people who cared—but then again, I have never been a social person. Still, a few more people would not have hurt too much.

Apparently, you did not cry. I did not expect you too. If I had not been who I was and I had not done what I had done, you may have shed a tear or two. I would have if you had died.

It was cold, I heard, and there was an icy wind travelling through Ireland at the time. You were probably wrapped up in a hideous red scarf that matches your appalling, fire hydrant red hair and wearing a warm, woolly coat you would never wear again. You most likely donated it later. I imagine that in front of Felix, you were wearing a stony face, but that, when Felix left, you stayed a little while longer and talked to me and let the mask slip off, just a bit. I couldn't hear you—I'll only ever know what Anti told me and he didn't tell me much. He would never tell me that.

You headed down to the pub afterwards and talked a little with Felix about me. After a couple of hours, Felix wanted to head home. You told him goodbye, but before you headed back, you walked the streets of my hometown. You wondered what I was like when I was young—you wondered what I was like when I was good. I wouldn't have been able to tell you; I don't remember.

It was dark as you left Ireland, but it was still light when you arrived home.

I wake up in my grave when you fall asleep not too much later. It does not startle me—when I was stuck in my mind, in a place between life and death, Anti told me this would happen. I had asked him how to get out, he just rolled his eyes. Teleportation.

I go to a house you don't know I have. It is empty and cold and not at all to my tastes (not after spending months in your warm home) but for the meantime, I suppose it will do. I sit at the fireplace for hours, endlessly wondering and planning what to do next. I do not know what to do or where to go—to the world, I am, as far as anyone knows, dead. I can not go anywhere or do anything, I cannot build a new life, I cannot leave my past behind me. This, this is it: the price I must pay for crimes. I cry out in frustration and throw a vase or two and in the back of my mind, I think I hear Anti laugh. He doesn't, it isn't him.

Anti is gone.

Fin.