Baby We're A Haunted House (GWay and the Green Knight)

by lllookalive

Summary:

Shit is real bad, but Gerard is gonna fix it, you guys. He is. He's totally got this.

(He doesn't actually got this and actually everybody is probably going to die horribly because nobody has any self-preservation instincts and in fact we've got the collective common sense of a baked potato.)

Let's get weird as fuck.

 

[This is the third and final installment of the Goth Gothic trilogy. If you haven't read the first two, go back and do it now, otherwise you're gonna be really confused.]

Notes:

Yet no matter how deeply I go down into myself
my God is dark, and like a webbing made
of a hundred roots, that drink in silence.
(RM Rilke)

Chapter 1

You’re not going to hear this.

I know, because in the moments when I can still feel myself, I try to picture your face but even the memory of you seems far away.

Just rough shapes

and colors,

and a feeling like beating wings between my ribs.

 

Do I still have ribs?

Do I still even have a voice?

I try to hold the thought of you and I shout and scream, or I think I might, but my throat is a tangle of roots and my tongue is only the taste of soil and I can’t hear anything over the sound of those wings.

 

I can’t tell how much of me is left on your side, how much more can slip through. The veil is thin as spiderwebs, and just as hard to escape. I make do with the parts that are both here and there by their own natural order:

roots,

running water,

new leaves.

I let them pull me across until I think maybe, if I can just shout loud enough…

 

The ghosts here are more solid than I am.

 

The air is still, and it feels

 

wrong.

 

I don’t know how much of this rage and despair is my own and how much is the earth itself. It spills open with a blind fury of new life, tangled and smothering and I can feel every new leaf, every petal, every twisting vine.

The spirit of this place wants to be free almost as much as I want to tear it out of me, but it is too consumed by its own bitter chaos and I don’t think I can tell its roots from my own veins anymore.

It will tear itself apart and take me and the land with it.

I try to reach you but my voice gets lost in the veil and nothing comes through except the wind rustling through the leaves

and the sound of falling water.

 

I try again, and again, until the branches bend and snap.

 

You won’t hear this, but I have to keep trying.

 

I have to warn you.