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Always Thought I Might Be Bad

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Some days, he’s afraid he doesn’t exist.

Well, doesn’t exist as him anyway. He thinks he’s probably Rose—Rose who’d forgotten herself, Rose who’d wanted to grow, wanted to be free, (Rose the shatterer), and whatever she’d—he’d—done before he was born had done something to his memory, so that he couldn’t remember. She’d, he’d, given himself amnesia, made himself weak and powerless, just so that he’d be able to grow into his powers, like she—he—had always wanted.

But he’d still done all those things she did.

Once, that had been the sweet in these bitters—he thought that she was so amazing, and he was her, and yes, it was sad, scary, that he wasn’t himself, but at least the person he really was was someone awesome. Someone benevolent, and kind, and always loving, who saw beauty in everyone and everything. The type of person who—if he wasn’t probably her—he’d want to be.

These days, though, it’s not sweet—not now that he knows who she (he) was, what she’d (he’d) done. Some days, he swears he can still feel those Pink shards in his hands, cutting into him, and he doesn’t think healing powers—tears or spit—would help.

Invariably, when he thinks of this, he lays a hand on his Gem, feel its boundaries, the spaces where its edges meet his flesh, and thinks about what it means to be embedded.

Then he thinks of Lapis, the mirror, how she had gasped and fallen when he’d taken her Gemstone out from inside it, and how her eyes look every time she thinks of it now, how she always calls it a prison.

On his worst days, he wonders if he’s not Rose Quartz at all, but, instead, if she is still there, inside him, still herself. If she’s trapped, and he’s her prison.

If that’s true, the noble thing to do would probably be to take her Gem out. Let her go like he did Lapis.

But he loves being alive, loves being himself, and he doesn’t know for sure, but he has a hunch that he can’t exist—or at least can’t exist as the same person he is now—without that Gem pulsing away like a cry for help inside his torso.

He can’t take it out, or he doesn’t want to…He doesn’t want to…

So he doesn’t.

(He wonders if that makes him bad.)