#since vivit's darker aspects have been something that have remained mostly visual

[vivit-s]

Why Not Me? | Written Piece

Content Warnings: Parentification/emotional neglect, exploration of mourning/grief, referenced suicide, unhealthy (& possibly sanist) views towards suicide/depression,

Author's Note: Since this is the first of these I'll be posting, let it be known that none of these writing pieces are necessary to grasp Vivit, but are simply bonus material that give a better look into the characters the way that my animatics may not.

This piece may contain spoilers. I don't think I'll have the time to explore this facet of Samuel and Vida's relationship in depth, hence why I've decided to post it, but this does contain material that hasn't been explored in my youtube content. If you want to avoid potentially risking a surprise for later content, then do not read.

Also as an obvious, what is written does not reflect my own views, only that of our characters. Vivit has never been a light story, and none of these characters are fully good people. If it makes you uncomfortable, good, that's the point. Please read at your own discretion.

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“She meant… so much to me.”

“I know.”

Vida had heard as much millions of times by then. It was routine—down to their father crying in their arms on his bed as they just sat there, unmoving, uncertain; the icon of stoicism that they needed to be for the both of them, because if it wasn’t them, who else would it be?

“I could’ve—I could’ve saved her. She didn’t—”

“Dad, no,” they hushed, as quiet and sweet as they could manage despite their increasing annoyance, “It’s not your fault.”

It truly wasn’t. They hated the self loathing he held, the insistence he was capable of doing more, and all the more hated their mother for leaving the two of them alone, because it wasn’t fair. They shouldn’t have to be taking their father’s shaking hands in theirs, to be whispering soothing words as he slurred over his declarations of blame. They did it anyway, because they loved him, more than heaven and earth and certainly more than she ever did if they were still standing while she was dead. 

“It is,” he insisted, voice straining as he spoke, “I should’ve… should’ve done more to stop her, fuck, I—”

He broke into sobs again, and all they could do was hold him. They held back their own tears—from feeling powerless, hopeless, frustrated that all they could do was offer sympathetic stock phrases and offer what physical comfort they could. They were supposed to make him feel better, they were supposed to be the one to fix things, but they never could. Not with this.

And the yearned nothing more to say the truth—that their mother must’ve been heartless to subject him to something so cruel. Because how selfish could someone be to take their own life when they had a goddamn family—a husband who’d done nothing wrong and a child who would never even get to know her. She wasn’t someone worth his tears because if she loved him, really, truly, she would’ve stayed.

But they don’t. Because that’s not what the narrative is. She’s the saint, the woman that was too good for this cruel world. The definition of purity, the love of his life, the special someone that had never, in her life, done anything wrong and was somehow deserving of over a decade’s worth of pity. They don’t get it. They don’t understand why he’s not angry. But they’re not supposed to. They did as always, frowned, offered empty reassurances, because nothing else could be done. She was 10 feet under and no misplaced sympathy was bringing her back.

“Please—promise, promise you won’t leave me.”

He looked at them with the kind of desperation they were only granted in moments such as that night. They despised having to go through the motions as though they hadn’t so many times before—as if between the last time and that moment (4 entire days, if one could believe it), their mind had miraculously changed. 

But it’s not about them. It’s never about them. So they play along.

“I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

They know their father needs reassurance more than ever because he’s afraid, but it doesn’t make it sting any less—that he still can’t trust them, that he still fears that they’d be gone in an instant. They wouldn’t—couldn’t put him through that same heartache again. They were better than that. They loved him more than that.

#vivit #writing #original writing #tw suicide #tw parentification #ask to tag further if needed #I'm really nervous about posting this if you can believe it #since vivit's darker aspects have been something that have remained mostly visual #and something about the written word really makes it all the more prominent #but nonetheless I thought it would be interesting to share #so I hope this gives everyone a better look into what I've been doing with my time lately