#undertakermybeloved writing

[undertakermybeloved]

Here's an old fantiction that I wrote for amino a month or so ago :) I don't love it, but it's alright so I'm posting it on here

Rating: Mature (14+)

Warnings: Angst, disturbing imagery, possible implied sexual assault, graphic descriptions of vomiting and being burned alive, attempted suicide

Here it was again. Dark and dripping with the tears of the damned, wrapping its tendrils around the man who had fought so hard to keep it off.

The Undertaker was a miserable man. His laughs were a facade, hoping- no, pleading- that if he played the part long enough, it would eventually come to be true. The sound of his high pitched giggles made him feel sick with how fake they were, and every time he made the repulsive sound, he nearly choked with how forced it was.

He could feel his stiff mattress as he sat upon the edge of it, but he could really feel it. Blank sensation, like the feeling of cold breath on skin, it wasn't really there.

The only thing he could feel was a creature from the depths of his own mind, a shadow painted black with malencholy and hatred. It choked the Undertaker with its many arms as they tightened around his throat, threatening to pull him down into an ever-present pit of asphyxiation.

He stood up from his bed with such a force he had to pause for a moment as his vision turned to spots, no doubt due to his malnutrition. He couldn't stand to eat. It was human. It was disgusting.

The first thing he saw as light finally penatrated his retinas was his mirror. It was dusty and old and had rust around the simple metal frame. It was a wonder the thing still managed to told itself to the wall.

But the state of the mirror was the least of his focus.

It was what he saw within it.

An old man, perverted and pathetically small, dirty and untidy in such a way one would think he'd crawled from a sewer. Scarred and pale, sickly and gross. It was a truly pathetic sight.

Disgust, anger, and hatred with himself intertwined in a whirling storm as they burned in his stomach, hot magma threatening to make its way up his throat. The sour taste was evident on his tongue before it even hit the roof of his mouth, and he keeled over as bile spilled onto the floor. He hardly had anything to vomit, so he stood there and gagged, both at himself and his mess. The scent burned his eyes and they blurred and watered, and for a moment Undertaker thought he was crying, the idea nearly pushing him to another vomiting fit.

He was so repulsively weak, so close to human, it was truly sickening. His gaze caught his own eyes in the mirror once more, and he felt anger wash over him. How dare he allow himself to stoop to this level.

Without looking away from the vile view in his mirror, he grabbed an ink pot from his desk and threw it with as much force as he could muster at the freak reflected back at him. The glass shattered immediately upon impact, causing his reflection to become deformed and misshapen. Some of the smaller shards fell from the cheap metal frame and onto the floor as the ink from the now ruined pot seeped over the broken reflection, covering it with the inky black that had been threatening to choke Undertaker just a moment before. He could see it now. The ink dripped over his body, his eyes, his face, his hands, it was everywhere, truly inescapable. His own actions were the cause of his downfall. Disgusting.

There in the mirror stood the true monster he was. Many eyed and covered in black deeper than the night sky, it was what he truly felt he was. Repulsive.

The Undertaker was nothing. He was a shadow, a shell, an empty husk. He almost wanted to laugh at himself. He was becoming one of his dolls. But his dolls weren't weakened by something as trivial as human emotions.

He couldn't stand to look in the mirror a second longer. He looked away, turning so quickly he quite nearly dizzied himself. He could feel it, choking him, pulling him in. No amound of red hot anger could singe the bonds that held him in his misery. One thousand, one hundred and twenty four years of walking the earth, and the only reason he still moved was because he had no choice. He was dangling on puppet strings, a doll made up from frozen tears and dried blood, held up by strings made from nerves and arteries of the men who'd sacrificed their lives in the hope of achieving their unattainable peace.

Time after time, attempt after attempt, freedom from reaperdom was forever beyond his reach.

Hands on his body, touching, grabbing, sucking out every ounce of will he'd once had to keep himself sane. He couldn't handle it. The hands were fire on his body, burned into his flesh. Wanting, needing, taking, they couldn't be cooled. So he'd simply have to fight fire with fire. He would forever feel the burns on his flesh from these desperate hands, it was impossible to rid himself of them. So he'd simply have to even them out.

Again he whipped around with near dizzying force, smacking his oil lamp off his desk and onto the floor. Immediately the oil caught and a small flame burned into his wooden floor, slowly growing.

Undertaker threw his papers, books, trinkets and antiques, everything he held so dear at the fire to edge it on. A choked sob escaped his throat as his hair lockets joined the burning pile.

The room was dry and dangerously flammable. Red heat crawled up the walls, surround the Undertaker in suffocating black smoke. Flames engulfed him, boiling his skin and cooking his flesh. His epidermis bubbled and melted off his body, his hair catching and burning to his scalp. His bones singed as he allowed himself to be taken by the hot agony.

He sobbed dryly and screamed into nothingness, not because of the pain, but because he could still feel the hands.

Undertaker fell into a hysteria, desperately rolling around in the flames as flesh dripped from his body in repulsive bubbling piles on his floor. He needed to burn, it needed to be hotter, to evaporate his muscle and tissue and turn his bones to ash.

He was pathetic, truly pathetic, rolling in flames like a dog for just a moment of relief. His eyes had melted into his skull, rendering him unable to see. If he could, he'd be witnessing a sight horrible enough to make him want to vomit yet again.

His body fell apart, flesh falling from bones and hitting the floor with sickening wet squelches. His eardrums had burst with strain from the heat, and he could no longer scream as his vocal chords shriveled away. His flesh was too far gone to move, and yet he still held consciousness. It was a curse, the horrible curse of a reaper, to be able to remain aware during a situation such as this. He couldn't even feel the painful raging heat anymore, as he'd lost too much flesh to have a working nervous system.

He knew when he awoke his body would be once again intact. Covered in bubbling burns and red hot agony, but still intact. He could never escape. Never. This was the curse of the reaper.

[undertakermybeloved]

As a person who experiences OSDD 1b, I've always headcanoned the Undertaker to have the same disorder. The way he so quickly switches between personas reminded me of how I experience my own disorder, and I decided to write this on it. Please note that is is not reflective of all disassociative disorders, and is based off of my own experiences!

Rating: Mature, 14+

Warnings: Mentions of death and murder, minor mentions of necromancy, necrophilia and sex

I wasn’t always like this. At first I didn’t even know. It seemed to happen so quickly, when really it was a slower process than trying to get your scythe registered with dispatch. 

Dispatch.

That's what caused this. It's all dispatches fault, of course. It's always their fault.

    I am the Undertaker. I’m sure you’ve heard of me. If that doesn’t ring a bell, maybe the name Legendary Death does. The most famous reaper to ever exist, loved by all and hunted by his own admiriers. Once a stoic man, unsympathetic, unloving, unattached. Wherever did he go? There is no possible way me, the kooky old mortician with a necrophelia problem, could ever be the same person who reaped Marie Antoinette and judged the soul of Robin Hood. Well, that would be because I’m not.. Partially.

    My body was indeed the vessel that completed those tasks, but I was not the one orchestrating them. I was in the back seat, an observer of my own life. I lived like that for so long, I didn’t even realize it was out of the ordinary. It was like sleepwalking. I did not control my own movements, did not hear my own thoughts, and did not speak my own words. Because they weren’t mine. They were Adriens.

    At least, that is what I have come to call him. I know what you’re thinking, and it is indeed ‘my’ old name, but I cannot seem to associate myself with it. My name is the Undertaker, that is who I am. Adrien is no longer me. A part of me, yes, just as much as I am a part of him.

    We are split. Two pieces of a whole being, separated into two seperate conciousnesses, to complete two separate jobs. 

    Being a reaper is a horribly taxing occupation. You commit suicide and are now forced to live forever for your horrible crime against the universe, against the very God all humans revere so. Your punishment is an immortal soul, and a job where you are forced to watch others finally achieve the peace you never good. It truly is the most clever and sinister punishment. 

    Being one of these criminals for over a thousand years, (I don’t care enough to keep track of the exact number,) I may be one of the oldest reapers who has not yet been forced into a medical coma to keep them out of the way, despite my frequent infringements against Shinigami rule. 

    Anyhow, I’m getting side tracked. Back to the point.

    Adrien. While that used to be my name, it is no longer me. I had to train myself as a reaper, not only physically but emotionally as well. Do not be sympathetic, do not become attached. Simply do your job and move on. But it takes a toll on one to, every day, watch the sick and the healthy, the old and the young, the rich and the poor, all laying upon their deathbeds. Especially the children. The poor, crying children. One cannot simply watch them sob as you take their soul and not feel some sort of remorse for the action. So, I put up an act. Played the part of an emotionless, stoic man long enough for my conscious to split. There was the reaper, the one who could handle seeing the dead and the dying, the one who didn’t experience the gut wrenching emotional grief.

    And then there was me. The weak one.

Weak. 

Too weak to do my own damn job, to the point I managed to split myself in two. A mirror image of myself, the same but better, better at his job, better at interacting, simply better. 

    I sat in the back for hundreds of years, stuffed away and watching my body be puppetted by one who was not me. I watched myself murder, I watched myself make love, but I was never there. I wondered sometimes, why did I feel like I was no longer in control? Well, it is simply because I wasn’t.

    It was like watching a movie where you play the main character. You see them, and it looks like you, but it isn’t. The way they act, talk, and even just carry themself is so drastically different from your own mannerisms that you can scarcely believe it is you who you are seeing.

    When I was finally in control again, it felt like I had just been saved from drowning. It was just a second, such a minor slip up of my counterpart, but it was long enough for me to realize I wasn’t alone, and had not been for longer than I’d ever known.

    That was when I left. I forced myself into control, and I had to make sure everyone knew I was no longer me. 

    One extravagant show of mass genocide later, I was free. I was free. Free from my own alter ego, free from the association, free from my punishment. Despite being part of the undead, I had never felt so alive.

    I traveled everywhere, released everything that had been hidden away in my own body for so long. Finally, I was the one to murder, I was the one to make love, I was the one to simply experience. It was me. 

    Eventually, I became weary of traveling the world. I was free enough. Free to control my own body, and that was all I needed. 

    I settled down, found a little shop on the market for cheap and took up mortuary studies.

    After my life as a reaper, most would think I’d prefer to stay away from death, but rather it brought me comfort, and continues to bring me comfort to this day. No longer having to watch people as they die, I am able to deal with them while already dead. And that is the difference between me, the Undertaker, and my own frgament, Adrien. 

    Being split like this for so long, the line between myself and Adrien is distinct and rather hard to miss. However, there are times where the line blurs, where we mix and entertwine into some sort of amalgamation pretending to be what we once were. The time on the Campania was where the line was blurred the most, to the point where there was hardly any line anymore. It felt like our subconscious was desperately trying to force us back together, despite being separated for much too long for such a thing to be even considered as a simple possibility. 

    Raising the dead was a combined effort between the both of us. Both of our anguish and grief, anger and despair, and sheer desperation to be one again came out in the form of necromancy. That is why we are better apart. The two of us are simply too different, too separate, by now to be able to merge without only causing problems.

    Being together again- or, as together as we could be- felt odd. I was both in and out of control at the same time. I could instruct our body to move, but I was only half there, and it was the same for Adrien as well. We were in control, but only partially. Our movements and speech wound together and created new movements and sentences, a new method of fighting, a new way of speaking. I’m surprised we weren't both a mess, being in control at the same time, but I suppose the half-assed merge was either to thank or to blame for that. We split again afterwards, which did not come as a surprise, and it was far from as dramatic as the first time. Trying to put us back together again is like cutting an apple in half, then carmelizing half of it and putting the other half in a pie, and trying to put the pieces back together once it's done. It simply doesn’t work, and it's much easier, more pleasant and more convenient to enjoy the two separately. 

    I don’t have much recollection of what it felt like to be whole, but it doesn’t bother me too much any more. Like I’ve said many times, and like I’ve come to realize after many years, is that we are simply better separate.

    Dispatch most likely already has a theory about my split personality. They always seem to know more about their reapers than the reapers know about themselves, and despite being retired, that rule remains the same for me. While I consistently refuse their ‘offers’ of a psych evaluation, (their offers being closer to not so gentle insisting and persuasion simply to have me in captivity,) they’re probably going to take me in by force eventually. I am old, after all. About a thousand something, I don’t care to remember. I can’t fight of these young, energetic reapers forever. They’ll reign me in, most likely sooner rather than later, and quite frankly I’m not particularly inclined to care what they do with me once they have me. Torture, questioning, what have you, I don’t much mind. They’re going to do what they please with me, whether I like it or not. If there's just one think I know about dispatch, it's that they always get their way.

    Oh well. If they somehow find a way to kill me, they’ll be doing me a favor. Maybe I’ll have my own body in the afterlife.