Life in Turmoil {Lana & Zalgiman}

[TW: Sucidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Darker Themes. Read at own risk]

It was supposed to be the happiest moment for them both.

Lana still doesn’t fully understand what happened. They were married, husband and wife–in Savior, she has to remind herself–at long last, but when she went to embrace him, he’d hugged her back so stiffly, and then… he logged off. Disappearing in her arms. Without even a single word to warn her.

She’d waited a few moments for him to log back on. Maybe he’d been overwhelmed and needed a moment. She could understand that. She gets overwhelmed so often herself. Maybe his FISH unit was having problems, but she’d ordered a brand new one straight from the company, their nicest model–and it couldn’t have been Internet issues, because she would have been logged off, too, if that was the case. When a few moments became ten minutes, however, she realized he wasn’t coming back online.

She logged off, too, and she notices how dark it is outside. Had they been playing for that long? It’s so easy to lose track of the time in the real world when she’s in Savior, but… Maybe he’d gone to sleep. Maybe he was just that tired.

It’s an excuse she tells herself as she goes over to tiptoe to his door. He never locks it, which is a fact she’s secretly grateful for. She’s grown fond of being able to open his door when he’s asleep and to admire the way the moonlight falls onto him. But her hope of seeing that blessed image is dashed when she opens the door and finds that he isn’t there. The FISH unit’s been put away, but the bed isn’t crisply made like she likes to do for him when she greets him in the mornings. (She’d read once in an advice column that men appreciate little gestures like that.)

Her lips purse together, and she goes downstairs. Maybe he’s having a midnight snack in the kitchen?

The sound of her footsteps is light, almost something that Zalgiman doesn’t notice, so deep in his own head is he. One unlucky creak stirs him though, and a sudden bolt of adrenaline shocks him into motion. He opens a cupboard at random and shoves what’s in his hand inside, pretending to look inside the cabinet as the owner of those soft footsteps rounds the corner into the kitchen.

Then he firmly closes the cupboard, letting his eyes trail over to Lana.

His first thought is a dim realization that she’s beautiful in the soft light pouring in through the kitchen windows. She’s so small and delicate. The thought is immediately chased away on the heels of guilt. His silver eyes lower and he knows he owes her an explanation but his head is empty. His heart feels like a lead weight pounding away inside his chest.

“Hungry?” He asks, as if that’s what drew him to the kitchen in the first place. As if he doesn’t have a drawer full of snacks from Russia in his room.

She catches just a little bit of that hiding motion, that sound of the cupboard closing a greater tell to what had happened. It piques her curiosity, but the moment she lays her eyes on him, she’s transfixed by him. The sight of him in the moonlight, awake, his silver eyes–as she always thought that they might be–so lovely in the lunar grace. Yet the fact that he lowers them reminds her of that little chord in her heart that struck in her heart, quietly, when all the other reasons she could figure out for him logging off didn’t pan out. Something is wrong.

Elaine of Astolat, the literary part of her brain whispers.

“I’m okay,” she replies gently, although there’s a part of her that knows that’s a lie of its own accord. It’s like a tensing thread inside of her, something pulled at both ends, untwisting the little fibers within. So slowly. But she can feel them all the same. She walks closer to him until she’s standing by him, next to the cupboard he’d hidden something in. “Did you need help finding something?”

She offers him an apologetic smile. “I get lost in the kitchen sometimes, too,” she says. “Mother and Father left behind a lot of things that they never used.”

Lana doesn’t know why she’s talking about them now. Or why she’s not asking if he’s upset with her. Other than that it feels like she might frighten him if she does. She might even frighten herself if she does.

Zalgiman puts his back against the counter, his body blocking easy access to the cupboard that he’d been inside. He hopes it doesn’t look too suspicious. He can feel that heaviness pick up rhythm. His hands going slick with sweat.

“You don’t talk about them.” He says, clutching at the distraction with both hands in desperation. Anything to not talk about what he knows must be on her mind. “I’m… fine. You can go back to bed if you want.” He wishes that she’d leave.

It’s true. Lana’s never really spoken about them. It occurs to her that she’s probably spoken about them like they’re just… on a trip somewhere. That they aren’t in the local cemetery with marble headstones to commemorate that they’d lived. That their absence had triggered the long and yawning darkness of her life up to the point where she’d brought Zalgiman to this home. Their home. They’re married now. (In Savior.) Except it’s… nowhere as happy now as it should be. Go back to bed. It tugs at those little fibers some more. That whisper in her head comes again: Elaine of Astolat.

“They died.” It leaves Lana’s mouth like an iron weight. “When I was ten–or, well. Father died on impact. Mother was in a coma. It’s why I started playing Savior.”

She can already feel the emotions welling up in her throat, so she just shakes her head, like she’s trying to dismiss them. Trying not to cry in front of Zalgiman. Trying not to have tears well up in her eyes. It’s the last thing he needs right now. “It’s–it’s not important.”

Except they’re the reason she’s here. And in a way, it’s the reason he’s here. He’s her promised one, given to her by fate for the tragedy and darkness she’d endured. An apology from the universe in the form of a savior who cares so genuinely for her. She manages a small smile. “I’m not tired. Do you want to make a meal together?” As husband and wife? comes that little part of her brain that’s clinging so hard to the marriage ceremony, to that little moment of happiness that it brought her. Even if it’s just in a game.

They’re dead. He hadn’t known. He’d thought that they were on a trip. That they lived in some - probably bigger - house somewhere. Zalgiman knows she’s lying when she says it’s not important. It’s so clear to him that their death has affected her life drastically. Probably in ways that he doesn’t even know.

Death is like that.

“I’m not really hungry.” He says, his voice half apologetic. Zalgiman rubs a hand over his left wrist. His throat bobbing as he swallows words and thoughts. “I should…” His eyes drift to the side. “Try to sleep.”

“So should you. It’s late.” He wishes she’d leave. The thought is full of despair and desperation.

It’s then that Lana tries to pick through his words. Tries to discern what he’s going through that’s unsaid and unspoken. Elaine of Astolat, the voice says. You’re Elaine of Astolat. Except she’d succeeded in one measure where the Elaine of Tennyson’s poem never did. She’d married her love. (In Savior, comes the reminder voice again, quietly.)

She thinks of what she would have said to Zalgiman in all of those midnight fantasies that she would have when she opened up the door to his room and saw him sleeping, those fantasies where he’d been awake or woken up because of a betraying creak in the floor. Except it was always Zalgiman who invited her to come to bed to lay in his arms. You’re Elaine of Astolat. ‘Nay, for near you, fair lord, I am at rest.’ Those are the words.

But they’d married. Zalgiman is no Sir Lancelot. She is no Elaine. Or so she protests in her head.

“Can I come with you?” she asks. Her cheeks burn a little brightly as she realizes that the words really did come out of her. “Sometimes, I have trouble… sleeping, and…”

She hates herself so much for even asking. Her eyes lower. Elaine of Astolat. “Sorry… But umm… I would like it if…” Her hands are trembling now. This is a disaster. Words are just leaving her. They’re married (in Savior) but she can’t shake that creeping feeling that he doesn’t love her. That was why he’d logged off. That he’d put on a performance for her sake. That he’d done exactly as she’d paid him to back in Savior. She’d hoped beyond hope…

You are Elaine of Astolat, the voice reminds.

He’s glad that her eyes aren’t on him, because her suggestion sends a thrill of terror through him. It washes over from head to toe, and he shoves it quickly in a closet. Its all you’re good for. Zalgiman isn’t sure if it’s Marsward’s voice in his head, or if it’s his own. He wonders what would happen if he ran. Right now. Just… fled back to his room and locked the door. There’s a lock he’s never used. He could.

He doesn’t.

You should give her what she wants. He clenches his hand on his wrist hard enough to bruise himself, but he can’t feel the pain of it. Be a good boy.

Nails dig into flesh and he realizes that he’s not breathing. That he hasn’t said anything. That he’s just standing there. He has to say something. “You…” His voice cracks. “You don’t want that Lana.”

The response is laughable. Of course she does. She just asked him…

Desperation clouds his head. He can’t think.

“You don’t want me.” He’s not sure why those words come out. His skin is crawling. Zalgiman bites down on whatever might have come out next. He needs an escape and the world is closing in on him. He just wants… needs her to leave.

You are Elaine of Astolat. It follows right on the heels of Zalgiman telling her she doesn’t want that. Doesn’t want him. It’s like Sir Lancelot’s rejection. How he tells Elaine that she doesn’t love him–her love is simply the first flash of love in youth, how she can do better than a poor knight, how she deserves a marriage of her noble station.

Lana’s lips press together as she looks back up at Zalgiman. A part of her wonders if he’s ever read Tennyson. The other part, however, simply doesn’t wait.

“Then suddenly and passionately she spoke:
‘I have gone mad. I love you: let me die.’”

The quote falls from her and she looks at him intently. Her own hands trembling. “I love you, Zal,” she says. “Way too much, I think by some people’s ideas on love, but you’re the only reason I can… do anything. That I can live. I want to spend time with you and make you happy. Especially when you seem so… upset. Especially when the reason you’re upset is my fault.”

You’re Elaine of Astolat. She feels the beginning of tears in her eyes. “You don’t have to keep pretending for me anymore. If you don’t love me, that’s…”

She was going to say it’s okay, but… it isn’t. She begins to sniffle.

He could hurt her here, and it’d be for the best. It’d save her the pain of the future. A future without him in it. She’d never have to know the lie in his heart. That he was growing each day to love her more. That he loved her now, like a tender bloom growing in his heart.

She doesn’t love you.

Be a good boy.

She doesn’t even know you.

It’s all you’re good for.

“What’s my mother’s name?” He asks, throwing the question into the bloom of her tears. “Or my fathers? How many siblings do I have?” His words are short and pain-filled.

“You don’t love me.” He hates himself so much. He hates and he hates and he hates. “You don’t even like me enough to have asked. Go away. Go away and leave me alone.” Hurt her. Make her go away. He’s earned everything that’s coming to him then.

Every single word’s a dagger through her. It’s true. She’d never asked. It sounded to her like his father wasn’t supportive, though, and she never wanted to make him unhappy by asking. (In truth, she never felt like she had the right to know.) But his demand to make her go away just unlocks a new form of desperation in her. Something that’s fully just dark and unhappy.

“You’re the only one I can think about, the only thought in my head at all hours,” she says, taking a step forward, tears streaming down her face. “I didn’t want to fall in love when I went looking for companionship. I was crossing off an item on my list. My list before I took my own life.”

She takes another step. “Please. Please,” she says softly, so softly. “Anything. Anything. Anything you could ever want, I’ll give it to you–”

Zalgiman is clinging to the counter, as far from her as he can manage without running. She’s got him backed into a corner and he doesn’t know why he says it. Why it comes out of him. Maybe it’s because part of him is desperate to wound her. To push her away. “I WANT TO DIE.” He screams the words, they’re punched out of him like the raw wound they are. “If you love me you’ll just go.”

There are tears in his eyes suddenly and he knows that one more push and he will run. That he’ll run away and… he doesn’t know where he’ll end up. Desperately he whispers. “Just go Lana. Go away.”

She stiffens and stills entirely in her steps. There’s a darkness that overtakes her completely as he shouts, and then as he whispers. She loves him. It’s a hurt to hear him scream those self-destructive words. But they also ring true to her. At the bottom of her heart, it’s what she’d always thought of in her worst moments. But she kept finding reasons to put it off. ‘I haven’t had my first kiss yet. I haven’t fallen in love yet. I haven’t…’

There was still so more that she wanted to do on that list. It was all with him. But reality’s crashing down now. He doesn’t want to live. He doesn’t want her. There’s a strange light in her eyes then.

“If you don’t love me, then I want to die too,” she says. Softly. Way too calmly. Like something’s broken inside of her. The tears are still streaming from her eyes. “We can die together if that would make you happy. I’d never bother you ever again with my love. You can be free of me. We could just turn the oven on and… I think there was more to it than that, but that’s the way Sylvia Plath went.” She’d looked it up before. Her words are so strangely hollow, though. Like she’s giving up on something. Herself, really.

Of all the things that he was expecting, this was not it. He’d wanted her to go away. He’d wanted her to… There’d been this half-baked thought that if he just disappeared from her life that she’d realize that she didn’t need him. That she’d never really loved him the way she thought she did. It’d be a revelation. No one would ever find him. He’d be…

Alone. Free.

The thought of her dead… it’s not what he wants.

“But I do love you.” His voice breaks the silence, and he wishes that he could explain better. He’s never been as good with words as he wanted. For all the secret poetry he writes, when he needs them, his words fail him. “I just can’t… I can’t bear it Lana. I can’t bear loving someone who doesn’t care about me anymore.”

It’s too much.

He moves around her in the kitchen, past her, his bare feet almost silent on the floor.

I do love you. It’s the breaking of dawn in Lana’s head. Four words transform her darkness back into the light. It patches up what had broken inside of her. She realizes now–it doesn’t fix her. In some way she will always be broken. But with him, with those words…

She reaches out as he passes and catches him in her arms, pushing her tear-stained face into his chest. She wishes suddenly that she was taller. That she could comfort him properly. But she squeezes tightly. It’s the only thing she can manage with her size.

“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “That I ever made you feel like I didn’t care. I do. I want to know everything about you, Zalgiman. That night at the restaurant, when you told me something real about yourself–your love of poetry–I dared to hope for love, I dared to let myself fall so completely for you. I’m sorry I rushed things. I just was… so happy, for the first time in such a long time, just having you here in my home… I never caught on to how truly unhappy you were. I think I just told myself what I kept wanting to believe because I’ve never, ever loved anyone before you.”

She allows herself a long breath, enough to gather her thoughts. “You’re my only light,” she says, “and I want to make you feel better. I want you to be happy. I’d do anything to make you happy. You don’t have to forgive me now, but if you’ll let me make amends…” Her words trail off as she looks up at him with those teary violet eyes.

He doesn’t return her embrace. Zalgiman can’t force himself to do it. He can hear Marsward’s mocking laughter in his mind. He doesn’t want her to make him happy. He doesn’t want amends. Logically he knows that her embrace should feel warm and comforting, but it feels like a trap. “Just… let me go.”

She doesn’t immediately let go of him. “Promise me you won’t hurt yourself tonight, or let me stay in your room–or you stay in my room with me–and I’ll stop holding you.” Lana quickly adds, “We don’t have to share a bed at all. I’ll sleep on the floor when I’m ready to sleep.” As much as part of her just wants to hold him, she won’t impose that on him. “I just don’t want you to be… gone, when I wake up.” She has to protect him.

He could push her away. He’s stronger than her. He could force the issue. Zalgiman doesn’t want to make promises. Doesn’t want her arms around him. Doesn’t want her watchful eyes. “I won’t.” He says finally, moving just enough that if she doesn’t let go that she’s aware that he doesn’t want to be held anymore.

It’s good enough. At least for now. Lana opens up her arms and looks up at Zalgiman with her heart in her eyes. “Goodnight, then,” she says gently. A small smile on her face.

She can’t quite shake the feeling that she’s letting him go and do something bad to himself. But… he clearly doesn’t want her to impose any more than she already has on him.

“I love you,” she adds. Like she hopes that could help in any way.

Zalgiman slips away almost instantly, headed for the doorway out of the kitchen. There’s no door to close, nothing to put between him and her but distance. He doesn’t stop or pause, just methodically moves toward the only place he has to go. Her words are so sweet and kind and he wants nothing to do with them. “No, you don’t.” He reminds her harshly, disappearing into the hall.

Zalgiman doesn’t stop until he’s in his room and closing the door between him and the rest of the house. He locks the door, sliding to the ground and wrapping his arms around his legs. Distantly he wishes Marsward were here. The other man would know how to punish him properly for his mistakes. He presses his face into his knees and hurts himself in all the small ways he’s allowed. Holding too tightly. Pressing blunt nails into his skin. Screaming silently until his throat is hoarse and hurting. None of it helps.

Finally he finds himself looking emptily up to the ceiling, wondering why he’d made the promise at all. Why he’s not lost in the woods somewhere far away from here. His mind runs circles around the small, unobtrusive knife he’d left in the cupboard. He wants to believe that Lana won’t find it. Won’t care.

It should hurt more, but he’s all empty inside.

She stands still in the kitchen as she watches him leave. His last words to her sting like a slap across her face. How can he tell her…?

Her eyes wander around the kitchen then. She goes to the cupboard where he’d stowed the knife and opens it. Of course it stands out against all of the various other things that were in the cupboard. Ice cream scoops. A lemon juicer. So many things that she can barely recall ever using, and some that she’s certain have never been used. She knows what he wanted to do.

She takes the knife in her hands. Immediately she hates it. Hates it for everything that it could have done to the one she loves. Something within her decides to do something… Incredibly insane. The only thing that she can think of, to protect him.

Lana goes to the front room, to a package she’d ordered online and hadn’t quite opened yet. It’s more of Zalgiman’s Russian snacks. One of the things she’d done to try and show him that she cared, that she loves him. She understands now–he doesn’t want that, doesn’t consider it her love. She’ll keep them anyway. He’ll either eat them or they’ll rot, so she empties out the box and places the rest elsewhere for her to restock his room with later. What matters more is the box. She puts the knife into the box.

Violet eyes peer at all around the kitchen. There are too many things in here that he could hurt himself with. One by one, things get put away into the box. It becomes a game at some point, after she moves on from the sharper and more dangerous chef’s knives to the silverware. It’s noisy. It’s somehow… Therapeutic to toss all of her parents’ fine cutlery into a regular shipping box lined with bubble wrap. It’s noisy, too. Enough to be heard from upstairs.

But when she’s done, she’s satisfied with her bare silverware drawer, save for the spoons, and the lack of the sharper tools in the kitchen. She hoists the box and carries it with her back up the stairs, jingling gently all the way with every step. She stops into her bedroom and opens up her closet, stuffing the box in there.

Now he can’t hurt himself, she thinks. Or at the very least, he’d have to get very creative and desperate to try. She can just go get silverware from the box if they need it, or they can just use the plastic cutlery that’s only just good enough to facilitate eating from when she orders takeout.

The second order of business… Well. She could just input Zalgiman’s name into a search engine to learn more about him. But in truth, she’d already done so, and didn’t find really much of anything, to the point where she’d wondered if it was his real name until she got the paperwork from–

“Chimera,” she says softly in realization. She gives a glance over to the open door of the bedroom. Upon ensuring that there’s no Zalgiman haunting her doorway, she shuts the door and she goes to enter her FISH unit.

Chimera would be able to tell her everything she didn’t know. She’d show how much she loves Zalgiman in the way he wanted her to. Those advice columns were wrong, she thinks hopelessly to herself. Only Chimera, someone who knows Zalgiman well, could.