I wrote you a story, Derpibooru, because I love you. And because I’ve lost my batty, little mind.
They call it a memory of a memory… something lost that has yet to be found. Perhaps it’s fear that has stayed my hand until now, perhaps something else, but regardless I find myself in front of a keyboard once again.
“Are you trying to be philosophical, Master?”
I’ve been gone for a long time, elsewhere, perhaps even elsewhen; focusing on other things while the entire world dives deeper into insanity all around me.
“I only ask because you’re not especially good at it.”
I’ve been hedging my bets, being careful not to post until I was certain that I had something at least somewhat decent to say.
“I dunno, that’s debatable.”
I’ve been trying my hardest to stay safe and sound amidst the chaos.
“It’s not really a metaphor, you’re just talking about the Coronavirus.”
Goddammit.
Me: “Can’t I just have this, Medi? Please?”
“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! If you want to apologize for being gone for so long, then just apologize. It’s not that hard.”
Me: “It is if you have crippling anxiety!”
“Your next therapy appointment is this coming Thursday, so I can’t help you there. I work on the body, not the mind.”
Me: “No kidding, bub.”
“What was that?”
Me: “N-nothing.”
“That’s what I thought. Now, knuckle-up and apologize for faffing about and not coming back to the thread until now.”
Me: “…”
“Do it.”
Me: “You can’t make me.”
“Sure I can.”
Me: “You’re smaller than my hand, Medi. I’d like to see you try.”
“B’okay.”
[The sounds of screaming, deep in the blackest distance. It seems that some poor child looked between two options chose death.]
Me: “Okay, okay! I’m sorry! I’m really, truly sorry!”
“See, don’t you feel better now?”
Me: “B-baka.”
“That’s what I thought, Master.”
