Some days, the void rests, a shroud of black velvet over her vision. There is quiet, save for the splintering of rock as the ground quakes and shatters. Tiny, barely-visible insects scatter from her paws as she traverses the endless night. Other days, the void rears back with a roar. The shadows grow restless as they roil and curl at the edges of her vision. Eternal whispers grow louder and more frequent in her ears as she searches for a place to rest. She does not recognize the passage of time. There is nothing to help her mark the hours (days? Weeks? Months?). There is only the unnerving chatter of creatures she does not recognize. There is little to see out in the emptiness, so the slow decay of her vision should not matter much. Still, it feels like she is losing something. A piece of herself, drifting away into the strange wisps of nothingness that reach for her shivering form. She does not know what to call this place. She barely knows what to call herself. A Disruption of Clarity. She longs for reprieve, yet suspects it will never come. This is her life, if she can even call it that. Memories fade along with any semblance of warmth. Does anyone miss her? Was there ever anyone to miss her in the first place? Is there any use in wondering, if this is all that’s left? She does not dwell long on these thoughts. She crouches to chase another bug into the nothingness, feeling a small spark of satisfaction as it darts into a jagged crevice. Disruption of Clarity lets loose a growl, hearing it echo all around her. At least she has the sound of her own voice to keep her company. It reminds her that she is still here. Present. Alive. This thought alone guides her forwards as she clings to the last few shreds of her sanity. This is clearly no place for the living– and yet here she is. What will it take for her to be free of this waking nightmare?
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The last memory Disruption of Clarity has involved her mother, Pluto. Like her, Pluto has (had? She has no idea if her mother is still alive) jaguar’s blood running through her veins. She would tell her daughter stories about worlds beyond the stars. About falling comets and the beckoning cosmos. About the silver sky, holding pathways to the ancestors and to dangerous realms where strange entities might be waiting. These tales always frightened Disruption of Clarity. She would often wake from nightmares about falling through pitch-black water, or finding herself stranded on a bit of shale floating through outer space. She wonders if her mother’s stories are connected to this pocket dimension. She thinks it’s a pocket dimension. What else could it be? She’s not dead. She would know if she was dead, wouldn’t she? She still gets hungry and tired. Eats and sleeps. Gets itchy and bored and angry and sad. DO dead lions feel these things? Are the ancestors watching her somewhere in this void? Do they care that she is alone, muttering to herself in the barren landscape, chasing shadows? At least she can’t remember enough to miss anyone. She isn’t sure if she misses her mother. She can’t recall much about their relationship. Her eyes are seared into her thoughts, though. Those glowing, fiery-gold irises, accompanied by a startled roar as they are pulled farther and farther away. Maybe Pluto lost her on purpose. There’s always the possibility that Pluto never cared about her at all. These are some of the thoughts that sneak up on Disruption of Clarity when she is at her most vulnerable. It’s easy to turn to dark thoughts when darkness is all she knows.
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If she listens very closely to the cacophony of whispers, some of them sound like her name. The voices unnerve her. They do not sound happy or kind. They sound anguished and desperate. She hates that they know her. Hates that sometimes, they speak directly to her fears.
You are alone, hisses the loudest voice.
You will wither in this emptiness and no one shall remember that you ever existed. She’s long since given up speaking back. They seem to ignore her, no matter what she says. Most days she hardly pays them any mind, used to their endless predictions about her pain and suffering. Sometimes she suspects that they’re not actually there. They could be mere hallucinations– signs of her psyche unraveling. Random words will appear in the mix– words that almost have meaning, but have lost their significance through the passage of time. “Pride.” “Stars.” “Lake.” Like clinging to the edges of a disappearing dream, Disruption of Clarity will try to remember where these words come from. She feels they might connect to her life– the one she had before vanishing into this between-space. The existence of a before means the existence of an after. It means there might be a hidden door, or a shimmering portal, or even a tunnel that could lead her out of this howling nowhere. She does her best to make pawprints in the dust to mark where she’s been. It’s mostly futile. Often, a shrieking wind will rush by and blow all her markings away. It’s as if the place wants her to get lost. It wants to keep her. The void does not wish to let her go. Disruption of Clarity is stubborn, however. This much she knows. If there is a way out of here, she will find it, no matter how long it takes. It could be decades… centuries… millennia. The before-world– the one she swears is out there– could crumble to dust before she forces her way out of the void. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. She’d rather live in a flaming hellscape than in this perpetual doldrum.
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Disruption of Clarity crushes a writhing insect beneath her claws. This will be the day she gets out. It has to be. And if not today, tomorrow… and if not then…
She has time. She has so much time. To give up is to lose herself. She will not despair. There is hope still. She will find a way. She just needs to think a little harder…
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