FicWad

A/N: This story's not really supposed to make sense. I was practicing styles and repetition, so don't think I'm a freak for making this. And sorry for the incest, I was just fiddling with genres (and fandoms). You can pretend it's not there if you want. I also checked over my grammar, and while I'm sure I've missed something, the names are correct. "Lucas's" and "Claus's" is the proper way to write it.
Basically this story: One twin has a mental illness induced by trauma. (Dissociative Personality Syndrome) Which one is up to debate, I suppose.

Warnings: Violence, general strangeness
Genre: Psychological Horror/Romance
Mother 3 and the characters are copyright Itoi/Nintendo.





"Lucas isn't sure what to do anymore."
-Mother 3, final battle comment


Malfunction





You don't remember me, do you?

No.

You don't remember all too much at the moment?

Not really.

Shame.

Yeah.

This story is a tragedy--your story, I mean.

I guess.

You wouldn't know.

You're right.

So what justifies your opinion in this world of now when you know so little?

I don't know.

Of course you don't.

...

Be a good boy and go to sleep.

Yeah. I guess.

Trust me.

I don't know.

TRUST ME.

...Sure.





Some things are just too hard to deal with.

Lucas likes to think that he doesn't have any monsters under his bed. Lucas likes to play stick-ball and eat omelets and do everything that people tell him to do. Lucas likes to be a good boy.

But Lucas is dead. He went after a dragos and got killed at the bottom of a cliff. His blood was everywhere and his eye was popped out like a button off a stuffed animal. Poor Lucas.

So, yeah. Lucas has no monsters under his bed because he's under the bed himself. Way under the bed, Claus realizes with a bitter chuckle. Lucas and Dad are dead. It's only him and Mom left at their lonesome in the house. Things are quiet. Mom cries a lot. Claus wants to cry, but he doesn't. He needs to be strong. He was the one who always held Lucas together; he knows he can hold himself.

But, why is he slipping, then? Why is he slipping down, down, in the mud? Why can't he get up? Oh, if only Claus were.... But, he is Claus, he corrects himself stiffly. He is Claus and Lucas is dead. He never did appreciate his brother all that much. Now he's beginning to regret all the times he had teased his twin for being the more fragile of the two.

Lucas is breaking right now. Lucas is breaking because there are monsters under his bed and they are him and he can't run fast enough from himself. Lucas is scared about what's happening, about his Dad's lack of compassion for him--the weaker son--as he goes off to search for Claus again, who is probably de--

Poor Lucas. Claus wonders if the worms and bugs have gotten to his dear brother's skull yet. Mom wishes she could look for Lucas--she never saw him with his head crushed in at the bottom of that cliff, no she didn't, no sir--but she knows it is of no use.

Her cooking tastes like ash now.

But, what can he do? Dad is out all the time and he's the new caretaker of the house. He can't do it all by himself! Lucas has effectively become his Dad's new, worrisome wife in many ways. He cooks the meals; he cleans the house, their clothes, the dog; he tries to make new clothes for himself through his growth spurts and repair Dad's stuff; he sits staring blankly ahead for the ten minutes of the day he thinks he has and wonders if maybe this time Dad won't come back or--or maybe Dad'll come with the body, the body of--

Naw. Claus reckons life is better this way, quieter (sadder), but better. He no longer has to deal with a boy who cries when he skins his knee or has to drag him away from where he was talking to a tree. He no longer has to protect his brother, no longer has to shield him from the public scorn with hackles raised.

No one ever insults a dead person. But he supposes Lucas is the exception. He has to grit his teeth when he goes into town. Because--even though life is better--he loves Lucas, his brother. He still cares for that spineless little boy. Lucas was a part of his life. Lucas is important. And they speak of him ("crybaby Lucas, oh look, it's Claus, how do you feel now that crybaby Lucas is gone, Claus back yet? No? Oh, too bad, too bad, really, very sad, a tragedy") so crudely, as though Lucas isn't the single most important person in the universe.

They run on and on and they never stop. And he feels anger boil in his blood, forcing him to remember what Lucas was good at for him. Lucas was his balance. Lucas was the yin to his yang, Lucas controlled his short fuse, Lucas and he established an equilibrium between the two of them. Anger dissipates into fear when he realizes he needs him.

He really, honest to God, needs him. He can't do all of this on his own, all of this living. Lucas is used to a life for two. Lucas is used to two pairs of shoes next to the door instead of just his own in their lonesome. Lucas is used to celebrating birthdays and having a cake that has two people's names on it. To hold each other's hands and whisper a wish before agreeing it (because if they both were to wish the same thing, the power of it happening would double for sure) and blowing out the candles together, before scrabbling over who got the best looking corner of the cake.

Lucas needs to go outside more. He is getting pale. But why go out when the only person who dragged him into insane adventures was dead at the bottom of a cliff--Dad never saw him with his head crushed in at the bottom of that cliff, no he didn't, no sir--and rotting as he thought of this?

Lucas cries, trying to be quiet.

Claus grits his teeth, trying to be quiet.





I am not you, contrary to your beliefs.

Oh.

I am something like you, but never you.

Okay.

You must understand, you are an individual and even more so now.

I guess.

Knowing so little, this is one thing you must come to terms with.

Yeah.

I'm gone now and you're still there; your story of tragedy still rolls on.

...

I'm dead.

...

I'm dead and you must continue with life.

No.

Yes, you must be strong now.

NO. NONONONONONONONONONONONONONONOIHATEYOUNONONONONONONONONONOWHYWHYWHYWHYWHYWHYNONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONOPLEASENONONONONONONONONONONONONONONOILOVEYOUSOSOSOSOSOMUCHNONONONONONONONONONODONTGONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONOILOVEYOUNONONONONONONONOPLEASECLAUSNONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONO.



Denial breathes fresh life in his mind once more. It rattles through him.




And all of a sudden it's just Claus, Claus, Claus, Claus, Claus, Claus, Claus, Claus, Claus, Claus, Claus, Claus, Claus, Claus, Claus, Claus and he's beginning to sound like a gibbering maniac.

Giygas. He's sure the word will make sense in time.

Claus has nightmares about a creature by that name. He has nightmares of his brother and a Giygas. And all of a sudden it's just Lucas, Lucas, Lucas, Lucas, Lucas, Lucas, Lucas, Lucas, Lucas, Lucas, Lucas, Lucas, Lucas, Lucas, Lucas, Lucas, and he'd beginning to sound like a gibbering maniac. Like Giygas. The alien beast of his dream who caresses his supposedly dead brother with such ease and knows how jealous Claus is of it, being able to touch what is no longer there for Claus.

Lucas shudders, closing his eyes as he hides under his covers, curling up into a ball. He has nightmares about a creature by that name. Giygas. Claus and Giygas are one--a human and an alien and a monster--and it laughs at him. Tells him that he's the dead one. That Claus is alive. Alive.

I'mnotdeadnosirnopemylawsI'mnotdeadnopenomeansnonosir.

Claus gets up and leaves the house early, because he knows that Mom's cooking will be horrendous and she'll insist on him staying for some food if she catches him before the door. When Claus gets out the door, he pretends. He pretends that he's Lucas and that Claus is dead. Lucas is sad, sure, but Lucas is alive. Alive.

But Lucas is terrified out of his mind also because he is so confused. Is he Lucas? Or is he Claus? Perhaps neither or both? Who is he? So Lucas does what he always does when he is scared and no one's being too judgmental of what he is ("crybaby Lucas, oh look, it's Claus, how do you feel now that crybaby Lucas is gone, Claus back yet? No? Oh, too bad, too bad, really, very sad, a tragedy").

Lucas sits down on a tree stump and cries.

He cries and he screams until he doesn't know the difference between that either. Life twists and bleeds out and soon he's bleeding with it. He knows he is, because red equals blood. He is seeing red. It's on him. It's over him. It's within him, upon him, without him.

Picking up his hand that was too tightly clenched upon the edge of the stump, he stares in fascination at more red. He wipes the red off on the grass, but only more red (red equals blood) wells forth to take the place of its fallen brethren. And now he wipes it on his shirt (does his shirt have blue or red stripes? He can't tell, he can't tell anymore, oh God, he's going insane).

He holds his head in his hands, gasping shaky breaths into his person. Whoever that may be. Mr. Heart goes thudthudthud and he doesn't know why. He doesn't want to know why, though, so that's just fine.




Your tragedy is getting more tragic.

I love you.

Figures.

I love you.

Love, the source of most tragedy--love and hate.

I love you.

...

Please.

I love you, too.

Thank you.




He wakes up, but he doesn't remember falling asleep. He's in the house, but he doesn't remember going into the house after leaving in the morning. Dad's sitting on a chair next to the bed, staring out the window. Upon hearing his son's movement, he looks down at the boy. "Lucas."

Claus shakes his head. "No."

Dad--but Dad is dead--presses his rough hand against Claus's forehead. "What's gotten into you, boy? You nearly scared me to death back there. If Boney hadn't found you, I don't know what would have..." He clears his throat. "But you're fine now, Lucas. That's what matters."

He blinks in confusion. Why is Dad--but Dad is dead--calling him Lucas? He knows they are twins, but they are not identical. Dad should know the difference between Lucas and Claus. "No."

"'No'? What's wrong, Lucas?"

Words are caught in his throat for a moment before he spits out, "I am not Lucas."

Dad takes off his hat and examines his son. "Of course you are."

"I am Claus."

He stares for a moment, taken aback. "No, no you're not."

Claus shakes his head, watching his father grow concerned. Why is he so concerned? What is wrong? He still can't tell if his shirt has red or blue stripes. Red, blue, red, blue, who cares? "Dad, look at me. It's me, Claus."

Because Lucas is dead. And Dad is too. How is he seeing Dad when Dad is dead? Where's Mom? Where is Mom right now? His heart seizes. "Lucas, don't play with me right now. I'm not in the mood." Dad is never in the mood these days...

The panic falls from his shoulders like ice cascading off a glacier. Maybe...maybe he can pretend he's Lucas. If he can pretend that, things can be happy again. Lucas can be alive. (He loves Lucas, he loves Lucas so much and he wishes Claus felt the same but he won't know will he? No, he won't.)

"Okay, Dad. Yeah, I'm Lucas."

Dad doesn't notice the lack of sincerity in glazed blue eyes because he is too afraid to.




You don't remember me, do you?

Yes.

Regardless, you don't remember all too much at the moment?

Only you.

Shame.

Yeah.

This story is a tragedy--your story, I mean.

I know.

You wouldn't know.

You're right.

So what justifies your opinion in this world of now when you know so little?

You.

I do not classify as justification.

...

Be a good boy and go to sleep.

No.

Trust me.

I do, but...

TRUST ME.

ClausLucasClausLucasClausLucasClausLucasClausLucasClausLucaswhoamI?ClausLucasClausLucasClausLucasClausLucasClausLucasClausLucaswhichone?




It's a game of Claus, Lucas, I Don't Know. When you pick I Don't Know, you run from yourself, chasing your own tail feathers in vain. Right now, he has selected I Don't Know and he is most certainly chasing his own tail feathers. Attempting to rip them out.

He's crying like Lucas and breaking things like Claus. He still can't tell if his shirt has red or blue stripes. Cares who, blue, red, blue, red? Not he. He never sees himself with his head crushed in at the bottom of that cliff, no he doesn't, no sir.

"I love you." He doesn't know who he's talking to--Lucas or Claus--and he collapses on the floor beside his--Claus's or Lucas's--bed, holding his head in his hands. "I love you and y--you're..."




Denial breathes fresh life in his mind once more. It rattles through him. And it shrivels up like a dried leaf.




"There is something wrong with me," Lucas observes, suddenly calm. "There is something very wrong with me and I don't know how to make it right." Claus doesn't close his eyes, though. He is tired of doing that. That is something Lucas would do--how he loves Lucas, how he wishes Claus were here.




You don't remember me, do you?

If you're me, then no.

You don't remember all too much at the moment?

Not really.

Shame.

Yeah.

This story is a tragedy--your story, I mean.

But who's story is mine?

You wouldn't know.

I wouldn't.

So what justifies your opinion in this world of now when you know so little?

I don't know anymore.

Of course you don't.

...

Be a good boy and go to sleep.

Yes.

Trust me.

Of course.

TRUST ME.

I trust you, Claus.




And Lucas closes his eyes, reaching his hand under his bed feeling nothing but the floor beneath it.