The Ruin Script

fragments of the thirteenth: chapter iii

in the wreckage of identity—there is clarity. the masks no longer hold. space open for truths—not the polished kind, but the kind that bleeds. and in that space, defiance grows. survival becomes a choice.

i realized then—i don’t want to vanish quietly. i don’t want to be s e e n only in f r a g m e n t s, filtered through what’s acceptable. i want to be whole. m e s s y. t r u e. i want to be visible without needing to be perfect. i want to take up space without guilt. so i said it, aloud or in thought—i’m not sure:

fuck the masks. fuck the demands. fuck the standards.
fuck the shame they taught me to carry.

i chased the idea of p e r f e c t i o n like it was s a l v a t i o n. but it was just a t r a p. a l i e. thinking it held p e a c e, only to find myself deeper in the d a r k. but somehow, even in the dark, i endured. i adapted. i remained.

i looked back at the mirror. this time, i smiled. not because i was healed, not because i was whole—but because i knew i didn’t need to be. not anymore. then the mirror shattered, as if it finally released what it had held too long.

thunder echoed again, and i woke up.
for real, this time.

my pen was in my hand. the journal beneath it was damp—either with tears or with rain, i wasn’t sure. i whispered, “oh, i fell asleep.” then i looked out the window. the storm had passed. the sky had cleared. the world outside looked calm.

and still—
it was the thirteenth of january.

author’s note:
— bled by @achilleusdeirdre
— thirteenth of july, year 2025
— open to criticism; all echoes welcome.
— lowercase intended for signature writing.