“You and this Gaslamp shit!” It was Zara that was talking now, standing in the middle of the living room. “Everyone’s been uncomfortable around you! No one wants to be around you!”
There was a dull roaring in my ears. It sounded too much like my inworld. Or my first five or so friend groups. Or the body’s family.
And this household was never supposed to be like that.
cults
I wasn’t well-versed in Tarot at the time, but we had fun chatting with the bartender. We told them we were a polycule out for Valentine’s Day, who was dating whom. I wish I could tell you what the other three drew. But goddamn if my ass didn’t draw the fucking Tower.
That night was probably the final push I needed to spiral past the point of no return. Because, like I said, sometimes I obsessively pinpoint things. That was my point of no return.
A countdown was begun.
But like I said, I never really met the guy. Silas really broke when the household turned on us. I mean, imagine finding out your entire history, trauma, death, and family was all made up by someone who wanted to ensure they had one more twisted tie to sink into someone else’s soul. I’d have a two-year long breakdown and refuse to talk to anyone, too.
It’s the same shit as Ash pretending they could channel Arannan, Rebecca, Elisabeth, and Isola just to force more bonds with me. They’ve been doing the same fucking thing. And as my tagline suggests, I fell for it!
T w i c e.
Ash is a predator.
They go after systems and traumatized, mentally ill persons without a solid sense of self. They seek the under-aged or monster-like alters or “past-lives” for their own sexual gratification. They will synthesize a sense of belonging using religion and magic, and then turn the tides against you once you either learn to say ‘no’ or you start questioning too much.
Comparing and contrasting March with my troubles with April; the official birth of Gaslamp.
That’s when Arkady had dropped the bombshell. “[Ash] believes they’re March’s dead twin,” I’d seen March talk about his twin before. I’d seen posts about how this beloved sibling had died of an overdose at the ripe young age of 15– in some posts, 16. In one post, 17. There were no photos, no documents, no proof that the story itself had existed prior to 2018. But I didn’t know that then.
Living Fiction 