
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7246630.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Gravity_Falls
  Relationship:
      Bill_Cipher/Dipper_Pines, BillDip_-_Relationship
  Character:
      Bill_Cipher, Dipper_Pines, Mabel_Pines, Grunkle_Stan_|_Stanley_"Stanford"
      Pines, The_Author_|_Original_Stanford_Pines
  Additional Tags:
      Trans_Dipper_Pines, Human_Bill_Cipher, Demon_Bill_Cipher, Repressed
      Memories, Self-Harm, Drugs, Mental_Breakdown, this_is_going_to_be_dark,
      Older_Dipper_Pines, Dysphoria, Gender_Dysphoria, Body_Dysphoria, Adult
      Dipper_Pines, 18_year_old_Dipper, Animal_Abuse, Animal_Death, Emetophobia
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-06-19 Chapters: 2/? Words: 2084
****** Journal 6 ******
by otapocalypse
Summary
     Dipper, having forgotten completely about Bill Cipher, can feel his
     sanity slipping away and begins to document his thoughts in hopes of
     finding the light.
     This is going to be a dark and disturbing fic, folks, so read with
     caution.
***** Something Missing *****
Chapter Summary
     Dipper starts his sixth journal
I have a theory.
If you are anything like me, you've surely heard stories of images, videos,
that cause insanity when viewed. We all laugh it off, go looking for such
legends, even. It's thrilling.
But what if those stories were true? What if, each time you watch a scary movie
with your friends, or view those Top 5 Creepy Paranormal Footage videos on the
Internet, you lose it a little bit?
Hear me out.
I absolutely believe that there are things we as humans are not meant to see,
things our minds are simply not equipped to deal with. Repression of traumatic
events is an example of one defense mechanism we all have.
We aren't meant to see death. Aren't meant to experience things like torture,
watch someone commit suicide, or have to puzzle through whether something we
just saw is real or not.
But things in this world get worse than that. Kidnapping, sex slavery, abuse
and even rape and murder not only of innocent people, but innocent children.
What if our mind cannot deal with even representations of such things? That is
my theory. Because of my own experiences with these things, and my own mental
health, I'm going to start paying more attention to the connections they may
have, and what those connections mean.
It started when I was a kid. Way before we were sent to my Uncle's house that
fateful summer. It may seem strange now- considering the adventures you already
know I've gone through- but as a child, I wanted to be a veterinarian.
That led me to read endless information on medical maladies of animals, to the
point of obsession. This, of course, eventually led to a fascination with human
illnesses, parasites in particular.
It was around this time that Mabel and I- more on her later- were first
introduced to the internet. Our family was, suddenly, financially stable enough
to afford a monthly subscription to the cheapest local service in town, and I
struggled with the connection to watch creepy yet informational videos on the
web.
And I was hooked. Fear of getting in trouble kept me away from the more graphic
stuff- I still didn't have my own computer, and I didn't want my parents to
walk in and catch a screen covered in bloody limbs and other disturbing
imagery.
And so it was that I spent my free time this way until Gravity Falls, which
served as my distraction in the summers of the next few years, while I would
continue to watch increasingly edgy videos once I was sent back home.
It was around the time I turned seventeen that I began to feel as if my sanity
was slipping. I would begin to see, hear, and feel things that were definitely
not there, and that were unexplainable. A minor irritation would cause me to
imagine murdering someone for hours after. And panic attacks, deep at night,
for no reason, that sent me rocking and shaking and silently sobbing myself to
sleep.
My dreams became vivid, confusing, intensely unsettling nightmares. Most of
them included either harming myself or some small creature or child. Granted, a
lot of it seemed accidental in the dreams, but it still made me lose sleep.
And here I am.
I live alone in a small apartment. I'm working on completing online classes for
a Biology degree. And I can't shake the feeling that I'm going to end up on the
news sooner or later, for shooting up some event full of innocent people.
I have never been so afraid of my own mind.
I have to figure this out. I have to know. And that's why I'm keeping this
journal. There have been others; I've filled Great Uncle Ford's third and have
gone on to complete two more, as well as correcting and updating a lot of
valuable information, all pertaining to Gravity Falls.
But this is different. The threat isn't on the outside anymore, it's inside of
me.
And I can't help feeling like there's something I'm missing.
Doing my shot takes my mind off things, even if it's only temporary. Peeling
away the plastic, filling the syringe with that liquid elixir, plunging it deep
into the muscle of my thigh, slowly pushing down, watching to make sure none of
the concoction ekes out of the wound and puddles back onto my skin.
That was what happened the first time I did it myself; the normally clear
liquid had been tinted brown from my blood and what I imagine must have been
puss. It freaked me out at the time, and I'd called Mabel, in tears, and had to
let her talk me down from it.
And then I had to plunge the needle back in again.
Self-mutilation is a phase I only went through once, for about two years once
puberty came in and destroyed everything I'd ever known. Nobody ever sees cuts
you put on your chest, not even when they know.
Even that has come back, and it terrifies me. Having someone walk in and find
my lifeless, cold body in a pool of its own blood is right up there with
becoming one of the pieces of shit that shoot up elementary schools.
I've rambled on too much for this first entry. Now you know the whole of it,
and you can reference back to these pages if you need.
For now, it's already 4 a.m. I'm going to sleep.
-Dipper
***** Sweet Dreams *****
Chapter Summary
     Dip rambles about a particularly disturbing nightmare to him, and
     tries to figure out what could have caused it
     If you're sympathetic towards animals, I would skim or even skip this
     chapter
I had another nightmare.
I was at my old middle school, standing on the hill above the playground with
my mother, father, and Mabel standing around me. Mom and dad were carrying on a
conversation about god knows what, not really paying attention. Mabel is a few
feet away, goofing off.
I hear barking, and turn my head to see two dogs coming up the hill, snarling
like hellhounds. One is bigger than the other, and mottled, maybe a greyhound
or pitfall. The other is smaller, white and ginger, maybe a jack russel.
They only rush us, then jump away, still barking and snarling. Mabel laughs it
off, trying to get the bigger one’s attention and call it over so that she can
pet it, I guess. It bothers me, and I try to get our parents’ attention, but
it’s like nothing even happened. I give up as the dogs rush us again, coming
closer this time.
I try to ignore it, like they do, and warn Mabel not to get too close. I feel
sharp claws on my leg; the smaller dog, yipping up at me as it jumps on my leg.
I step back, suddenly realizing we are all standing on a concrete staircase. I
have to go on to the next step to get away from the dog.
The two of them charge again, the bigger, darker one at Mabel, the smaller one
at me. Again, they peel away at the last second, but the scratches on my leg
hurt, and I don’t want them to get too agitated. I beg my parents to leave, but
they only wave me off and continue talking. I can’t hear or understand what it
is they’re saying.
The smaller dog is at my leg again, and I nudge it away with my foot, gently,
trying not to provoke it, but it comes back. Irritated, I nudge harder- and the
dog flips backwards, landing on the next step on its back and remaining still
for a moment.
Before it starts twitching.
I look on in horror and guilt as it begins seizing, then blood begins to seep
into the concrete around it, coming from its back. It is at this moment I wake
up in my pitch-black, one room apartment, heart pounding and tears in my eyes.
I killed it. I didn’t mean to.
I don’t what this means. Nothing I watched the day before had anything to do
with dogs, or any animals at that… did it? Fuck. I don’t know.
I flip the light on and sit up in my bed, leaning up against the wall as I
repeatedly tell myself that it was just a dream; Mabel is safe, I didn’t murder
an innocent dog, everything is fine. It doesn’t work for a long while.
I look at the clock; 6:15 A.M. Sighing, I decide write about it.
It was graphic, it disturbed me, what else can I say? I love animals, I always
have; just because I didn’t bring home a pet pig from the fair doesn’t mean I
don’t. I just don’t show it as much, I’m not as vocal about it as Mabel. Sure,
it may be repressed aggression or something like that, but why not against a
person?
I’ve had plenty of dreams where I’d had to take care of something small and
helpless, a child or a newborn kitten or something, and failed miserably,
either losing, hurting, or accidentally killing the subject and having the
resulting adrenaline rush rip me back to reality, where I would wake up crying,
even sobbing or screaming sometimes.
I’ve also had several dreams about fighting people, whether it was to defend
someone else or myself, and always remembered having fun in those dreams.
Unless I couldn’t move fast enough. Then it was horror.
It would make so much more sense if this had been one of those dreams; why was
it so goddamn graphic-
Wait.
I’m calming down now, and I’m remembering a few things that may have caused
this. I don’t know if I have the strength to write about them… but fuck it, I
have to.
I remember, when I was a very young child, mom and Mabel were out one day,
doing what, I can’t remember. We’d lived in a very old, rural house at the
time, and wildlife ran amok; garter snakes, foxes, deer, wildcats, you name it.
My father had captured one of the snakes once; seemingly thrilled, he showed it
to me, before grinning and proceeding to nail it, still very much alive and
wriggling, to a wooden board. Each strike of the hammer came, and I didn’t
flinch. God, why didn’t I flinch?
When he was done, the snake was still trying desperately to get away, squirming
in place, the rusty, crooked nail sticking up from just behind its head. If
there was any blood, I don’t remember seeing it. We both stood there, watching
it for a long time, before dad nudged me and said to leave it alone.
Two hours later, the board, and the snake, were gone.
The second instance was several years later, but still before Gravity Falls.
We’d moved from the old house to an apartment complex, where I met several kids
my age. We would run around the place, exploring and doing dumb shit like
taking running leaps off of walls and roofs to see who could jump from the
highest point without chickening out or getting hurt.
It was springtime one of the years there, and again Mabel wasn’t around. We’d
found some newborn birds who had been abandoned by their mother and kicked out
of the next to land, naked, blind, and squeaking, in the dirt below. They were
going to die anyway.
One of the kids said “Watch this,” and before anyone else could react, they
chucked it at a brick wall.
The others, after a moment of silence, whooped and joined in.
And so did I.
It took several throws for each bird before their stomachs burst, large, bloody
bubbles or organs leaking out. Mine was still conscious and chirping endlessly
now as it bled in my hands, and when the other kids got bored and dropped their
birds in the bushes, I followed suit.
I felt horrible about it afterwards and didn’t discuss it for years, and the
kid who’d started it all couldn’t recall the day when asked about it years
later.
The most recent instance was a few days ago, when I was researching two teenage
boys, just a bit younger than me, who had gone on a killing spree and posting
several images and videos online. One of those images was a selfie taken with a
black and white dog, hung from a tree, a lifeless grimace on its bloody face
while one of the boys stuck his tongue out towards its neck.
…I don’t like thinking about all of this. It makes me sick.
I’m going to try to get more sleep.
-Dipper
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