They move, initially, outside of their own volition. Standing in front of the image of a cowering child with knife out and coated in flames, teeth bared in an expression that doesn't deserve to be graced with a description. There's a buzzing in their ears, and in the end-
Chara can't do anything. They can't change the past. They can't stop his father from bringing the club down.
On Guzma's pokemon, as it appears to protect him. As it tackles him into the wall. As Guzma stands, collecting up the fallen golf club, and-
And everything is red. It's red. Their hands, their chest. The weight on them is so impossibly heavy, and they can't breathe. They can't breath, with the hilt pressed into their stomach and it's all
so
very
heavy.
They're still standing where the center of the room had been. Still standing where the coffee table had been, when the memory ends. Stock still, aside from the rapid rise and fall of their chest. Staring off into the blackness and not seeing anything at all.
cw: panic attack
They move, initially, outside of their own volition. Standing in front of the image of a cowering child with knife out and coated in flames, teeth bared in an expression that doesn't deserve to be graced with a description. There's a buzzing in their ears, and in the end-
Chara can't do anything. They can't change the past. They can't stop his father from bringing the club down.
On Guzma's pokemon, as it appears to protect him. As it tackles him into the wall. As Guzma stands, collecting up the fallen golf club, and-
And everything is red. It's red. Their hands, their chest. The weight on them is so impossibly heavy, and they can't breathe. They can't breath, with the hilt pressed into their stomach and it's all
so
heavy.
They're still standing where the center of the room had been. Still standing where the coffee table had been, when the memory ends. Stock still, aside from the rapid rise and fall of their chest. Staring off into the blackness and not seeing anything at all.
Red.
It's all red.]