Art the clown/reader Let me in
⚠️Warning: this fiction contains strong depictions of self harm, blood, drug abuse and graphic details of death. Slight NSFW but not anything major. 18+ Proof read maybe once ⚠️
Word count: 2512
Summary: one bad trip. A fic in which Art shows up during your high and you debate whether he’s real or not.
Just another bad trip, that’s all this was as mismatching colours swirled around your room from blue to green to yellow in a rhythmic dance, pulsating like a kaleidoscope.
So, when the air shifted and your bedroom door swung open, you barely noticed or you were too euphoric perhaps to care. Through the haze of your vision, however, a face emerged, a bloodied clown with black and white face paint and a black dot at the tip of his nose. He smiled, his teeth dirtied and yellow and you smiled back in fascination. “This is new.” You slurred. “I never see faces.”
The clown cocked his head slightly to the side and his smile faded somewhat before his brows raised into a surprised glare, his eyes setting on the new cuts on your arms and then to the blade next to you. He pointed at the blade, then to you, as if to ask if you’d done it to yourself, he never said a word as he sat face to face with you.
“Yes.” You laughed to which he clapped, proud of the harm you’d inflicted. There was something unsettling yet oddly captivating about the clown you believed your brain had conjured, the colours pirouetting around him like they were drawn to him, you studied his every move as he studied yours. He picked up the pill bottle next to you, examined the contents and shook his head as if disappointed.
The clown reached his bloody gloved hand toward the blade that was slick with your blood, picking it up to observe it. With a quick exaggerated motion, his fingers danced over the metal before popping it into his mouth and sucking every last drop of the liquid. A small part of you recoiled in horror, while the rest of you felt a thrill at the sight, excited at the way his eyes rolled back as he enjoyed the taste of you. A small shaky breath left your cracked lips as a heat rose within. He pulled the sharp metal out from between his lips and smirked at you, eager fingers shoving the blade back into your hand, willing you to go again. Complying, you placed the blade to your arm, watching how his nose flared and his lips parted while you cut into your flesh, he practically drooled at the sight of fresh blood mingling with dried blood. You groaned, happy to be pleasing him as you slashed three more times. You held your arm out to him, delighted with your work. The clown silently laughed and gripped your arm tight, pulling it to his black lips, his tongue swirling around the fresh wounds, lapping up every trickle. A small moan left you, earning a startled glance from the clown, his lips shaped in an ‘o’ which quickly turned into an animalistic smile as he pulled away, satisfied, the colours around him fluctuating. You were far too lucid to pay mind to the impossibility of the dream soaked reality you had fabricated to truly appreciate your situation, and the fact that, this clown, however improbable he may seem, clearly cannot be a hallucination.
“Can you see them?” You suddenly ask, mesmerised at the way the clown amplified your surroundings.
The clown tilted his head, unsure as to what you meant.
“The colours, the faces.” You continue.
Art glanced around your room for a second and then shook his head.
“That’s a shame. They’re so pretty.” You giggled. “You’re pretty.” You blush at your sudden admittance as the clown batts his eyelashes and smirks at you, a hand waving you off.
His eyes burnt into yours and his pupils seemed to swirl in your intoxicated state.
He was beautiful, this man was beautiful, even as the colours around you faded to grey to black to white, your trip coming to an end. “I wonder if I’ll see you again next time.” You ponder, leaning closer to his face, soaking in every detail before he inevitably disappeared…but he never did and the usual pain that formed in the centre of your head began to build letting you know that your high was over. That was when a slight panic set in and your breathing became harsh.
“How are you still here?”
The clown silently laughed, pointing his finger at you in mockery.
“Who are you?”
The clown showed his teeth in a snarl as you leaned in even closer, a tentative finger reaching up to touch him on the shoulder. You half expected your hand to go through him like a hologram but as it connected with the padded feeling of a body, you laughed, unsure of what to do next as his hand reached up to your head and patted it.
“What do you want?” You blinked rapidly, the clown simply wagged his index finger side to side as he stood. Shaking legs from your high failed to get you to stand and your body all but began to crash to the floor before the monochrome man grabbed you and steadied you, throwing you down onto your bed. You went to stand again but the clown held a hand out to tell you to stay put.
He crouched down and grabbed your pills, shaking the contents dramatically with a plotting smile.
“What are you doing?” You whisper. “They’re mine.”
The clowns focus unwavering as he disappears out of your room and out of your eye sight. Standing, your clumsy feet tripped over themselves, following him towards the bathroom where he stood over the toilet. Your heart sank as he unscrewed the cap and tipped the bottle upside down, the pills spilling out like small white stones, clattering against the porcelain bowl.
“No!” You scream, rushing forward and into his body. “Stop!” But it was too late, he tossed the empty bottle to the floor and, in a swift motion, pushed the lever down. The sound of rushing water echoed in the small bathroom, your lifeline swirling away.
“Why did you do that? I need them…You-you don’t understand.” Tears well in your eyes as your voice croaked, turning to face the clown who was wiping his hands together as if to say he was finished with his work.
Panic became fear and fear became anger, a storm brewing inside as you lifted your hands and began hitting the clown on the chest, each strike fuelled by the frustration of loosing the one thing you need to survive. “You don’t know what it’s like!”
The clown stood there, his face monotone as he allowed you to project your emotions to him, not flinching once as you continued to whack your palms onto him. You wished he’d fight back, offer some sort of punishment, instead, he held your gaze, curious to see what you would do next, but nothing could have prepared him for the swell of pure sorrow that crashed down on you like a tidal wave as you delivered your last blow to him. Like a flood gate had opened, tears spilled down your face, your makeup melting away as water lines stained your cheeks and a harrowing sound that was alien to you came from deep within your throat. The clown watched as you fell to your knees and gripped onto his satin suit, deflated and utterly broken.
He titled his head and a silent sigh fell from him whilst he crouched down next to you, gripping your face harsh to look at him in the eyes. He offered a small smile, kinder somehow than the ones he’d given you previously, and his dark eyes glistened with an understanding that transcended words, a mute acknowledgment of the pain you were enduring.
Suffice to say, you were still none the wiser as to who this man was, but one thing was clear to you, he didn’t want you taking those drugs any more. “Why?” Your voice trembled as you searched his gaze, desperate for an answer. “You don’t know me, why do you care?”
The grip on your face loosened and his thumb traced the contours of your cheeks, following your tears and wiping them away.
“Who even are you?”
The clown pointed his finger in the air as if he had an idea then his legs took him to your mirror. He took a deep breath, puffing air against the glass, creating a thin layer of condensation that began to cloud on the reflective surface. Reaching his finger to the mirror, he began tracing letters, each stroke slow and careful. Once finished, he stepped back, arms presenting his work with an exaggerated flourish.
“Art?” You recite.
Art nods vigorously, a large smile stretching across his face as he clapped.
“I like it, it suits you.”
He then points at you, as if wanting you know your name.
“Me? I’m y/n.” You blush as he theatrically sits back next to you on the tiled floor and shakes your hand.
“But, Art, you still haven’t told me why you chucked my pills.”
Art rolls his eyes as if frustrated that you won’t let the subject go before pointing at the empty bottle on the floor and holding his hands in a cross shape and then sticking his tongue out and pointing his finger to his mouth. He shakes his hand like he disproves of you taking the pills.
“But what do I do without them now?”
The clown put a hand on your shoulder and pulled you closer to him, your foreheads just touching, his other hand points at himself and then to you.
“What about us?” A million thoughts race through your head, confusion taking over.
He then points at himself again and then extends his palm and pushes it down in the air.
“You’ll stay?”
Art moves his head back and nods at this, seeming excited, hoping you’ll take up on his offer.
“This is crazy.” You laugh. “I mean, thank you but I don’t know you. You let yourself into my apartment for gods sake.”
Art is insistent, however, pointing at you and him again over and over and then placing his hands together as if pleading you. You knew this was mad, and if better judgement had been on your side you would have said no, but, still hazy from you high you said what you never thought you would have, “okay then.”
The clown jumps up to his feet and practically dances around the bathroom. You giggle at this, watching the man you’ve just met who just somehow became your new life line.
“Well, I’ll have to talk to Eliza about it. She’s my room mate. Did you see her on your way in?” You ask.
Art suddenly stops in his tracks and his demeanour shifts, his eyes twinkling with mischief. He lifts his hands to the side near his head and offers a sheepish smile as if to say, ‘oops’.
“What did you do?”
The clown extends his arm out towards your still sitting form, head nodding to his hand for you to take it, which you gladly accept, electricity sparks within you from the contact causing you to blush. Slowly, he pulls you to your feet, making sure you were steady enough to walk, fingers gripping your hips as you swayed lightly. When he was sure you wouldn’t fall, he gently covered your eyes with his hands and walked behind you, pushing you along, a playful gesture that sent a thrill down your spine. You hadn’t realised how tall he was until now, and your body practically pressed against his had you grinning, you could feel the way his heart was beating rapidly against his chest, mirroring your excitement.
Each step you took felt like a dance, swaying in time with Art with his sporadic energy, the unspoken promise of something extraordinary ahead. As you neared your destination, your footsteps stopped and Art paused for a moment, allowing the tension to swell like the crescendo of a symphony. He leaned closer, his lips practically brushing your ear. Your breathing became heavy and your legs wobbled from anticipation all while his hands cascaded down from your eyes and slid down your arms lightly, causing a slight hiss from you as he grazed your new cuts. The sudden feeling of loss of contact from him made you groan as he stepped away from you, your eyes still shut but soon flying open when he tapped your shoulder.
The sight that greeted you took your breath away - a scene that was both shocking and surreal was laid before your eyes and there, Art, the artist, proudly presented his work with a display of his hands and a smile, eyes wide. He stepped aside slightly, allowing you to get a full view of your slaughtered room mate, Eliza, a grotesque tableau of colour and chaos painted your living room. Her insides had been filleted and her once green eyes taken from her skull; intestines and liver spread out for all to see. The only recognisable feature describable was that of her blonde hair which helpless gripped to her torn scalp.
Art twirled on the spot, pointed at the scene and then to himself, sweeping his arms wide as if to proclaim, ‘isn’t it magnificent?’, inviting you to join his twisted revelry.
A laugh left you, a deep guttural laugh that shocked the clown as much as it did you. Why did you not scream? Or cry? Or run in terror? No tears, nothing. Just a laugh that seemed to continue for ages, even as the clown silently laughed and pointed at your dead room mate. The absurdity of the moment settled over you as you found yourself mixed in the magic of his madness. He watched you, clapping now as you clapped with him. Words never came to you, they don’t need to, a wordless array of astonishment was all you could offer as you waltzed over to him and let your lips touch his.
