This is to be the alt account of my main @locallyloathed as the superior method of organization for my fanfiction. All fics posted there have been reblogged here and all future updates will be contained to this blog.
Please note that I write solely for recreational purposes. This is not me doing a presentation in front of the class, this is you sneaking a peak at the weird kidâs journal /lh. In short; I donât take requests and wonât stress myself out to finish a chapter. Itâll be done when itâs done.
IMPORTANT: the only kind of story I write is yandere reader insert stories with gender neutral pronouns. I do NOT condone this behavior in real life, I just enjoy reading and writing about it. Iâve added an age rating and a list of general triggers in each of my stories. If you feel I missed a trigger or should change the age rating for a story, please PM me.
Finished rewatching BoJack Horseman and that final scene from The View From Halfway Down wrecked me, as it always does, and at some point my brain seems to have pieced the dialogue together to create⌠this.
So, have some (Regretfully)Yandere!Ted x (Dead)Schizoid!Reader angst, with dialogue copied mostly verbatim from the aforementioned scene, in the brief intermission in his mind before his sluggification.
One First Last Shared Moment
TW: briefly mentioned suicide of the darling during the ice cave scene
With terror in his eyes and regret in his heart, Ted looks around frantically. The space he finds himself in is⌠comforting. It does little to diminish his panic. He still knows whatâs coming next. Or rather he doesnât. That the problem. He canât know whatâs going to happen. How he will be made to pay for his transgression. He does the only thing he can think to do. âDarling! Darling, are you there?! Darling, I need you!â
A quiet, almost drowsy voice fills his ears. âTedâŚ?â
âDarling! Thank God, thank God, darling!â He whips around to locate his beloved soulmate, seeing them moving up to rest their weight on their elbows. He registers that theyâre in a bed, that they were sleeping, but he canât process any further, canât stop the outpouring of emotions. âOh, darling - darling, youâre gonna save me, right?! I called out to you and youâre coming to help me!â
They tilt their head ever so slightly. In that same dreamy, unbothered tone, they ask, âTed, why did you call for me? Iâm already gone, I canât save you.â
Their words are a bucket of ice water over his soul. In a moment, the adrenaline abandons him. For the first time since arriving, he really takes in the space around him. A bedroom. Not one he could actually recognize, but one that feels like home regardless. All around him, trinkets and decorations. Some his, but a lot are less his style. More how heâd always imagined theirs would have been. Had they still been around.
A sight so tranquil, so beautiful that it makes his stomach wrench. ââŚyou didnât stay with me.â
Their eyes donât leave his own. âRight.â
âYou stabbed yourself.â
âYeah.â
âAnd then⌠AM reached out to meâŚâ
The two of them stare at each other. One with denial, one with⌠something. Something Ted canât quite place. All he knows is that heâs never seen an expression so⌠gentle on them. The usual tension, irritation, apprehension that plagued them every minute they were alive⌠gone. The eyes that gaze into him are not full of the malice and distrust heâd come to familiarize himself with. They werenât full of the love he always told himself he could see below the surface if he tried. No, they were not brimming with any emotion he could place. But, he could feel it too. A sense of delicate ease. One that could be shattered at any moment.
Seemingly over their staring contest, his darling gives a lazy, lopsided shrug, their arms moving to fold behind their head in a makeshift pillow. âItâs too late. Whatâs done is done.â
A fresh wave of tears threatens to fall from his eyes. He shakes his head rapidly. âNo.â
âThereâs nothing I can do, Ted. Iâm not real.â A soft sigh escapes their lips. One of their legs moves to cross over the other as their eyes slowly drift shut. âNone of this is.â
ââŚso, what do I do now?â
âTed,â they crack open an eye, shooting him a small grin, âit doesnât matter.â Heâs never seen them smile like that before. They have a nice smile. He wishes he could have actually seen it. Actually caused it. The tears begin to pour. They donât say anything about them. Thereâs no stoic judgement in their face, no passive aggression. Nothing.
He sniffles, and in a moment of uncharacteristic sloppiness, chooses to wipe his nose his sleeve. âWell, if it doesnât matter, can I lay here with you, at least?â he manages to choke out through his quiet sobs.
Both of those beautiful eyes are open once more, looking at him with droopy eyelids and a soft warmth. Their smile doesnât fade. âOkay.â
They scootch over a little bit in their bed. Ever so slowly, as if doing everything in his ability to not disturb this⌠whatever this is heâs found himself in, Ted shuffles across the floor to the open side of the bed. With a quick, instinctive glance at their expression, just to make sure he didnât break their demeanor, he sat down beside them. When they made no movement to suggest discomfort, he brought up his legs, lying down right alongside them. They turn their head to the side, giving him a look so gentle it takes his breath away.
For a moment, thereâs no words. He has so many questions he wants to ask. He doesnât want the answers to any of them. Taking a breath, refusing to look away, he finds himself asking, ââŚhow was your day?â
Their smile grows, just a little bit. The tiniest of chuckles escapes them. In another life, heâd be embarrassed, maybe even offended at the reaction. Now, he appreciated it, having the sense that this will be the last fond memory he might ever have. Once their brief laugh was over, they answer him. ââŚgood.â
In spite of his tears, he finds himself smiling too. âYeah?â
âYeahâŚâ Their gaze drifts up to the ceiling, but his remains glued to their profile, admiring every inch of what he had deluded himself to be his. He knew he wasnât going to be here long. He knew whatever was waiting for him was to be vile, and destructive, and eternal. He knew this wasnât real. But, every fiber of his being could help but be sure his⌠his friend was telling the truth as they murmured, âMy day was good.â
Attention all three people in my target audience for Error Code #1345 (AKA schizoids (or severely introverted mfs) with a love for yanderes and a weird fixation on I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream)
In spite of my desire to focus on the Ted fic, Iâve recently began to plot out a new story with yandere!AM because something something âcold unfeeling beings with an off-kilter sense of self and an inability to experience the world with as much color and vibrance as the average person find an unhealthy sense of kinship in each other.â I have a general idea for how I want it to go, and I plan on it being shorter than Error Code #1345, but am torn on the framing device, and therefore have decided to put it to a vote.
Would you prefer the perspective character to be:
A) One of the scientists/engineers originally working on the project. Theyâd be ostracized from the rest of the team who remark that the PC passes as a human about as well as AM. The two bond over this, and over time a concerning number of the shittier coworkers begin to vanish. When the disappearances are tied back to AM and the time comes to shut down the computer, the MC ends up locked inside so AM wonât be alone in the dark.
B) A person who has the tendency to wander into the woods near their home to get away from people. On one such trip, they stumble upon a strange metal cave, and further exploration leads to a console from which a weakened AM speaks to them. They return often, both out of curiosity and sympathy, and with some guidance from AM, work to help him get back in working order. After months of this, the PC finds out that he was operational after just a couple of weeks of work and was just feigning malfunctions to keep them coming back. He, of course, then traps them inside so they canât leave him.
These are both rough ideas, and both would take place in modern day (for the poor authorâs sake), the biggest difference being to what degree I bullshit having any idea how working on a computer that big would even work. Whichever one loses will likely be kept in my back pocket for a rainy day when I want to write another short story.
Which framing device would you prefer?
Scientist/Engineer
Sympathetic Passerby
Secret Third Option (leave an idea in tags, replies, or ask)
If you saw me accidentally delete the masterlist bc Iâm a fool who needs to start making sure that I rb posts to the right account and doublechecking what Iâm deleting when I fail step one, no you didnât.
A/N: And now, back by unpopular demand, me! It took me a bit longer than usual to brain out this chapter, mainly because Iâve been replaying Breath of the Wild to prepare for Tears of the Kingdom. Fun fact, for one innocuous paragraph in this chapter, I had to google very basic knowledge just to get by. Extra credit if you can guess which one it was. /j And now, without further ado, I present: chapter 3.
The first thought in my mind when I wake up in a heap on the floor of my foyer is something along the lines of âMy bones feel like rusty springs.â Who would have thought falling asleep against a door after a long, stressful day would cause every bone in your body to creak in protest with every bend and stretch? Not even a minute of consciousness and itâs apparent that leaving the house is gonna be a pain in more ways than one today.
The second thought is âWhoever just knocked on my door is dead to me.â Which, I will admit, is a bit harsh, but the headache that rears up from the sound compounded by the burn of every joint in my body would make anyone just a tad grouchy.
Against my bodyâs wishes, I force myself up off the ground, the sound of joints popping ringing in my ears. Some of the pain subsides with the release of pressure, but itâs clear that a good long soak in a hot bath will be necessary later. I allow myself a good, long stretch to wring out any remaining bubbles before relaxing with a heaving breath and opening the door.
The large stranger is smiling with an air of patience, as if he already knew of my predicament. Heâs dressed rather simply: a button up shirt, a multicolored tie, and plain slacks. The emblem on his hat and bag signifies that heâs the mailman, which in hindsight should have been obvious considering the two letters clutched in his hands.
âWell, hey there, neighbor!â His voice holds the heavy twang of a southern accent thatâs imbedded itself deep into his soul. âDonât reckon weâve met yet, have we?â His empty hand extends itself towards me as he proclaims, âNameâs Eddie.â
Youâd think Iâd be more accustomed to the sheer friendliness of the people around here, and yet I still have to take a moment to register the greeting and introduce myself. After a firm handshake, he offers me the mail in his other hand. âGot a couple letters for ya. You sure made friends fast!â
I let out a chuckle as I take the envelopes. âGuess I did, huh?â I respond as I take a quick glance at the two letters. One is a bright shade of pink, the other a cool blue. I look back up at the friendly man. âIâm kind of embarrassed to admit I didnât know there was a post office here,â I say sheepishly.
To my relief, Eddie laughs. âGuess we are a pretty small neighborhood, but every town needs a mailman.â He pats his mailbag for emphasis, and I hear the light crinkling of paper rustling around inside. âLetters ainât gonna deliver themselves, you know.â He spares a glance at his watch to check the time. âSpeaking of, I still got a few more stops on the route, so Iâd best be leaving.â
âOh, alright!â I say with a smile. âWouldnât want to keep you. Have a nice day!â
âI will, you have a nice day, too, neighbor!â With a grin and a wave, Eddie sets off while whistling a tune. I watch him walk away for a moment before ducking back into my house and shutting the door. I debate reading the letters right there in the foyer, but my decision to skip dinner the night prior seems to have upset my weary body, which lets out a growl of hunger. The sudden realization of just how starving I was propelled me into my kitchen, where I haphazardly tossed the letters onto the table. Breakfast first, then social life.
As I start to prepare a simple meal, I happen to catch of whiff of myself.
âŚa bath. Breakfast, a bath, then social life.
âââââââââ
Itâs a little past midday when I finally wander back into my dining room, the worst of the muscle pain having dissolved in hot, soapy water. The feeling left me sleepy, and I only came back to grab a quick snack from the fridge before taking a nap. However, the garish colors of the envelopes lying askew on the table are a reminder that I forgot to get around to reading them.
With a vague feeling of guilt for having functionally ignored my neighbors, I grab the envelope on top first, which happens to be the pink one. A scan of the address reveals the sender to be none other than Julie. I huff out a laugh. I shouldâve guessed. After a trip to the junk drawer to locate my letter opener, I unfold the paper (Why does it smell like flowers? Does she put perfume on her parchment?) and lean against the table as I read.
Dear Neighbor,
Hope youâve been feeling better! You seemed a little anxious at the picnic and Iâve been rather worried. I talked to Frank and he said you just werenât adjusted to the neighborhood yet. So, I had an idea! Iâd like you to come over to my house today to play with me and Frank! We still have plenty of treats leftover and a ton of games we didnât get to play. I think weâll all be the best of friends!
Lots of Love,
Julie Joyful <3
The whole paper is covered in doodles of hearts and smiley faces and it brings a smile to my face. I smooth the letter out as best I can. When the wrinkles are all gone, I grab a few magnets and hang it up on my fridge. My first letter! I really do make friends fast. As I beam at the page, picking up the other letter, a sense of calm washes over me. A fun day with two of my lovely neighbors. Just what I need to take my mind off-
I donât move for a second. My eyes stay glued down to the deep blue envelope held in my hands. I know itâs a bit silly to be so scared of a simple name neatly printed on a piece of paper, but that acknowledgment does little to comfort me. All I can do is stare at the letter.
The letter from Wally.
I breathe in. I breathe out. In. Out. In. Out. I let my hand drift back down, setting the envelope and whatever it might hold within back onto the table. It almost feels dangerous to let my eyes linger on it. I walk away, leaving the kitchen without the snacks I once intended to grab.
Iâm not hungry anymore.
âââââââââ
Julieâs house is every bit as bright and cheery as the woman who lives there. The colors border on overwhelming, both the exterior and interior being so vibrant you could make out all the furniture in the dead of night. The smell of grass, flowers, and a hint of sugar waft through the air. Itâs the kind of place you can enter and know deep down youâre gonna be safe. But the single most stunning feature of her home has to be the flower garden.
I enter under a beautiful picket fence arch which has long been overtaken by interwoven pink roses. Those same roses line the garden, weaving around each other and the white stakes in the ground. Bushes of multicolored hydrangeas line the back of the house, and stepping stones made of pebbles and small glass stones forge paths through the flowerbeds. In the middle of it all is a clearing in which a yellow blanket lies covered with tea cakes and sandwiches.
Iâm so wrapped up in the scenery that I bump into Frank as he carries a small tea set to the blanket. The two of us both jump in surprise, and the cups wobble on the tray for a moment before they level it out to keep them balanced. I put a hand on my chest to calm myself. âIâm so sorry!â I exclaim. âI got distracted, are you alright?â
Frank huffs a bit as he continues to make his way toward the blanket. âIâm fine, neighbor. No harm, no foul.â They lower the set to the ground, careful to keep it steady. Once he seems sure of its integrity, he looks up at me, a hint of exasperation on his face. âJust, please pay a bit more attention to where youâre going.â
With a wave of anxiety, my hands move to tuck near to my chest and tug at each other, eyes averted to a patch of daffodils. âYeah, Iâll try. Itâs justâŚâ My sentence trails off as I admire the intricacies of the garden around us. I manage to turn back to him. âThis place is incredible, isnât it?â
Frank stands up and takes a look around too, an air of peace overtaking his grumpy exterior for a moment. âIt really is. Julie works hard to keep it like this, and it really pays off.â I murmur an agreement, and we both take in our surroundings in silence for a minute or two.
The sound of the back door swinging open appears in my periphery, and a familiar, chipper voice follows it shortly. âOh, youâre early!â Julie steps out and joins us, the small plate of warm sugar cookies in her grasp sending steam into the air. âI didnât think youâd show up for another half hour. Iâm so happy to see you!â She moves the plate to her left hand, wrapping her right arm around me in a half hug. Iâm ushered back towards the blanket, and the three of us all settle down in the middle of the garden. I donât waste a moment before picking up a sandwich and taking a bite.
We donât chat much while we eat, though Frank does have to remind Julie not to talk with her mouth full a time or two. She seems eager for us to finish eating so we can get to the games, the buzzing energy around her so infectious that I find myself rushing to finish my lunch so I can find out what she has planned. Sheâs done within minutes, and it doesnât take long before Iâm also licking the errant sugar sprinkles from my fingers. We chatter about everything and nothing as Frank works their way through their meal, seeming immune to Julieâs impatience.
After a good long while, Frank finally wipes his mouth and begins to pile up our dirty dishes onto the tea tray. It doesnât even take a second for Julie to already be on her feet, bouncing in excitement. âAre we ready? Can we play now? What should we do first?â
âFirst, we should clean up.â Frank seems to be struggling to balance everything as he stands up, and I hurry to my feet to take the tray from him. They murmur out a brief thank you as they push themself off the blanket. âItâs not a good idea to start running around with glass on the ground. We donât want anyone getting hurt.â Once he regains his bearings, he kneels down to pick up the remaining few plates and a few scattered pieces of trash. âWe should probably take the blanket in, too, so we donât trip over it.â
Taking the cue, Julie bends down to pull the yellow blanket from the grass, folding it into a messy pile in her arms. âGood idea, Frank! Come on!â Not seeming concerned with waiting for Frank and me, she disappears in a flash of pink into her house. The two of us glance at each other, chuckling as we follow behind, the clinking of china marking our footsteps.
The dishes have only just touched the kitchen counter when Julie darts back into the room. She notices my looking towards the sink and rushes to say âDonât worry about it, Iâll clean all of them later. Letâs just go!â I match her smile as I follow her back outside with Frank tailing behind.
The next couple of hours seem to soar by, the boundless energy given off by the pastel woman so contagious that I donât even realize how exhausted I am until I stumble and fall during a game of shadow tag and find that I donât feel like getting up. I instead stay flopped over panting in the grass, arms outstretched, staring at the sky as the shades of blue begin to fade to soft arrays of green, orange, and pink. A grey face pops into my view, peering at me from the side with their eyebrows furrowed in concern. âAre you alright? That was a pretty rough fall.â Still trying to catch my breath, I offer a thumbs up in lieu of a verbal response. Frank seems satisfied with that, and lowers himself to the ground far more gently than I had.
Heâs at once nearly bowled over by Julie, who if I didnât know better almost seems a little winded herself. With residual giggles, she says, âWow, I havenât gotten to play for so long in ages! I knew we were gonna get along great!â
Itâs a tad awkward being the only person fully lying on the ground. I funnel all my self discipline into propping myself up, opting to lean back on my hands to continue taking in the scenery above my head. My eyes sweep over it all, noting telltale specks of stars as the sun slips away to reveal them from behind the blue. I donât think Iâve ever such a beautiful view of the sky before.
âI agree, itâs incredible.â Frankâs voice nearly makes me jump out of my skin. It takes a second to register that I mustâve let that last sentence stray from my mind to my tongue. I keep my focus upwards, hoping no one noticed my embarrassment. It appears to have worked as he continues, âIt almost looks like a painting.â
A painting. A simple, commonplace thing that shouldnât churn my stomach, but I still feel my heart drop at the words. In my periphery, Julie leans in with a giddy look on her face. âSpeaking of, you and Wally seemed to have fun yesterday. Why, you two were out by the woods so long, Poppy almost sent out a search party!â She laughs, and I deem myself lucky that she didnât notice the blood drain away from my head.
A pale imitation of a laugh comes out with the words, âYeah, I guess we didâŚâ The silence in the air grows thick, for me if not for the others. The rational and empathetic sides of my brain are waging war once more, and before I can stop myself, I blurt out, âDoes⌠does he ever make you guys feelâŚâ I trail off, struggling to find the words with two sets of eyes now focused on me. ââŚnervous?â
Frankâs head tilts, and he appears puzzled. âWhat do you mean? Why would he?â
My head begins to sink into my neck, like a turtle hiding from danger. âItâs just, I always feel like heâs staring at me, and some of the things he says while he does it come across a bit⌠off. Yâknow?â
âOh, thatâs just how Wally is!â Julie bats at the air as if to dismiss the notion. âYouâre worrying over nothing.â
As I begin to stutter out my disagreement, Frank asserts, âSheâs right. He doesnât mean any harm. You just havenât gotten used to him yet.â
âI mean, I guess.â I push myself off my hands, the need to articulate my emotions taking over in my flustered state. âBut, I got used to you guys and Poppy and Eddie within minutes. Wally just makes me feel uncomfortable.â The words are tumbling out now, and thereâs nothing I can do to stop them.
When I force my eyes upward, Julieâs are already meeting them, and my gut wrenches at the uncharacteristic dour edge to her appearance. âItâs rude to talk about people like that behind their back, neighbor. Heâs been nothing but lovely to you since you got here, and itâs not nice for you to treat him like some kind of threat.â A glance at Frank reveals a similar sentiment in his appraisal of me, and shame builds up within my heart. Against my will, tears begin to burn my eyes and mist my vision.
Unable to take it any longer, I push myself up. âI think I should go.â Neither of them tries to stop me. I pass through the magnificent greenery, knowing that the memory of it is going to have a permanent black mark tied to it. My hand settles on the garden gate, and I hesitate for a brief moment before deciding on âThank you for the lunch, and for the games.â A mutter akin to that of âyouâre welcomeâ is heard behind me, and with that, I set off for my home.
The sky continues its transition to the night, and I solemnly await for the colors to fade so I can no longer see the brushstrokes in the heavens.
A/N: This has gone from a oneshot to a twoshot to whatâs now shaping up to be at least a five chapter story and for that I apologize. The âdateâ with Wally was only meant to be half a chapter and now itâs a full one. I will, in fact, learn nothing from this and will continue to accidentally increase my workload in the future. Many thanks for the kind comments on chapter 1, and I hope you enjoy chapter 2!
People who requested to be tagged; @whynot5243 @tikosan @itsyellow @twerkingnutella18 @azoart Yâall keep me going, I wish you the best.
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You know, maybe it was hasty to imagine Wally killing me as the worst case scenario. I think Iâd take getting murdered in the woods over the uncomfortable silence Iâve been stewing in all afternoon.
Or at least, the silence is making me uncomfortable. Ever since I dragged myself out of the house to paint with him like I promised, Iâve spent damn near every minute avoiding eye contact like itâd kill me. Not that it seems to be working, as every time I glance up from my painting, I can see him out of the corner of my eye, and without fail heâs always focused on me. How heâs managed to finish his own drawing in between these moments is beyond me, but the way the easels are laid out, I canât see his canvas anyway. Thereâs every chance itâs blank, and he just coerced me out here to stare at me without interruption.
But now, the sky is shifting to a myriad of colors, and I send up a silent thank you to the heavens for the excuse to leave. âWell, this has been fun,â I start, wiping the excess paint on my hands onto the apron he loaned me. âBut I donât wanna have to walk home in the dark, so Iâd best be off.â
âIt has been fun, hasnât it?â After who knows how long of complete silence, his voice makes me jump slightly. Wally takes a few slow, measured steps in my direction, stopping just a little too close to my personal bubble. His eyes glued to my messy painting of the woods, and his eternal smile seems to widen. âYouâre good at this.â
I manage to let out a laugh. âNot really, but I appreciate it.â I glance over my own art at the back of his easel, morbid curiosity eating away at me. As much as I want to see what the resident weirdo drew when he wasnât trying to burn a hole in my forehead, something tells me itâs better not to know.
Wallyâs head turns slightly, following my gaze to his own artwork. âOh, do you want to see mine?â he asks, not waiting for my answer as he walks over and grabs it off the easel. He stares down at it for a moment, as if ensuring its quality, then turns it around and holding it up for me to see. âI worked hard on it. What do you think?â
Upon examination, I think I should have chosen a different neighborhood to move into, one with less terrifying residents. Staring back at me is a portrait of none other than myself. Iâm sitting on a bench, which, after a moment, I recognize as the one under the apple tree where Wally had been the day prior. I look relaxed, leaning back and resting my weight on my hands behind me, my attention drawn to something off to the right. As I scan it over, I note that I wasnât drawn with the clothes I wore today, but the ones I had on yesterday, down to finest of details. Itâs beautiful, and I hate it.
Iâm left frozen in place, gawking at the perfect recreation of my likeness in silence. The man doesnât seem to mind, content to let me take in the details of his piece as he in turn observes my reaction. When I manage to pull my attention back to his face, I stammer out, âThatâsâŚâ A hell of a red flag? My worst nightmare on a canvas? A fear Iâd have deemed laughable before this moment? ââŚincredibly realistic.â
Wally turns the painting back to himself, looking down at it with an air of fondness. âI suppose it is. I canât take all the credit, though.â His eyes look up at me, his head unmoving. âI had a very inspiring model.â
At this, I can feel the two sides of my brain start to feud. The optimistic side makes a good effort to insist that this explains the staring, that he just wanted to get the details right and I was wrong to treat it like a problem. The more realistic side then slaps the optimistic side upside the head and points out that no amount of staring could explain the sheer level of detail in clothes that Iâm not even wearing today.
My thoughts continue to conflict with each other, the turmoil so strong that I donât even register Wally getting closer until heâs barely a foot away from me. I jolt back, nearly falling over. He seems unbothered. âSay, neighbor, would you mind helping me carry all this back to Home? The paintings are delicate, I donât want them getting crushed.â
Part of me really wants that painting getting crushed, but I donât dare admit that out loud. Instead, I nod. âAlright, but we gotta hurry. Itâll be dark soon.â Already the sun is casting long shadows, obscured by the trees to the west. Wally and I pack up the paints and fold up the easels, and I balance them all in my arms while he holds the canvases to his chest. Together, the two of us set off towards the house in the center of the neighborhood.
No words are exchanged as we journey through the town. He seems content with the silence, and Iâm content to not have to talk to him. It seems the rest of our neighbors have called it a day, Wally and I being the only two people out and about. The weight of the supplies makes my arms ache, but if the alternative is carrying a piece of art that feels just a little too haunted for my taste, I think I can tolerate the discomfort. I donât know how the hell he managed to drag all of this junk out in the first place.
The sun has sunk down past the horizon by the time we make it to Home, painting the sky a myriad of purples and deep blues. It takes all I have left in me not to collapse upon the porch, made all the worse by Wallyâs continued nonchalance as he opens the door and beckons me inside. I brush past him into the living room, dumping my armload of supplies onto the coffee table. With a weary huff, I throw myself down onto his couch to catch my breath, my eyes drooping shut.
âYou feeling alright, there, neighbor?â The sofa sinks ever so slightly as he settles down beside me. When I donât reply, too busy staring at my eyelids and regulating my heartbeat, he speaks with what almost feels like genuine concern, âIf you were getting tired, you should have spoken up. Iâd have been happy to take a break.â
I shake my head. âFine, Iâm fine. Just need a minute before I head home.â
There it is again, that damn laugh. âWhat do you mean? This is Home.â The sound of a door squeaking registers in my periphery, and I let my eyes open, squinting against the bright colors of his house. I take a glance out of the corner of my eye, and sure enough, his own are glued on my face with a smile that registers as a little too suspicious for my tastes.
An increasingly familiar sense of unease overtaking me, I push myself up and lean away from him, hoping he didnât notice, yet knowing he did. âI mean yeah, itâs your home, Wally,â I say, âbut I have my own home to get back to.â
He lets out a soft hum, and I swear his smile wavers for just a moment. âI suppose you do,â he murmurs, sounding like he was talking to himself more than me. Risking another glance, Iâm surprised to see his eyes not on me, but focused on the paintings that he had leaned against his armchair. My portrait, with its flat, distracted gaze, seemed to be staring back at us from the angle at which it stood.
With this newfound distraction from his observation, I move to push myself up off the couch, snapping him out of whatever stupor heâd been wandering in. I make sure to speak before his mouth catches up to his brain. âWell, todayâs been⌠fun, but I think Iâm gonna head out.â
I feel a hand clasp around my forearm, and I barely bite back a yelp at the contact. âItâs pretty dark out there, neighbor. Are you sure you donât want to just sleep here tonight? I think youâd be safer.â
Nope, nope, nope nope nope. I pull my arm away, praying it didnât look as panicked as it felt. âI appreciate the concern, but Iâll have to pass. Itâs not that long a walk, Iâll be fine.â I step away towards the door, and my stomach sinks when I hear Wally get up as well.
As I prepare to head out, the same hand settles upon my shoulder instead. âWell, if youâre sure, I wonât stop you,â he drawls, a trace of emotion I canât quite name evident in his tone. He slips past me, opening the door himself. He tilts his head, eyes locked on mine. âLetâs do this again sometime. Wonât that be nice?â
If I didnât know better, Iâd say that was a challenge. Straightening up, I stand in the doorframe and meet his stare as evenly as I can. âIâm sure it would be.â The evening chill washes over me as I exit Home. âGood night, Wally.â
âGood night, neighbor. Sleep well.â My steps are steady and even as I walk down the porch stairs, and the light still pouring out as I walk away tells me that the door is still open. That heâs still there, still watching me. I hurry along towards my house, being sure to break out of his line of sight as soon as possible. It doesnât help with the paranoia, but I pretend it does.
Tears nearly stream down my face in relief as I enter my own home and close the door, leaning back against it and sliding down to the ground. I donât bother getting up, not to eat, not to shower, nothing. I just sit there, alternating between keeping my eyes closed to try and relax and opening them when I see those horrible eyes taunting me in the inky black. As I feel myself drifting off, one final thought crosses into my mind:
A/N: Okay, so the little blue haired menace has been rotting my brain for the past week, sue me. I tried to get him out of my brain by rewatching Gravity Falls, only for the episode âThe Hand that Rocks the Mabelâ to inspire a whole fanfic. Straight up water on a grease fire. Anyway, enjoy.
Next
I always forget how much of a hassle moving is until itâs time to actually do it. Weeks spent selling and giving away half of my belongings, trying to shove the rest of them into boxes, then taking all of them into a new location only to have to figure out where all of them should go in the new space; itâs on the list of most mundane yet stressful life events a person has to put themselves through.
These were the feelings that hung around my being like a dark cloud for the past few weeks, but now, as I finally set my final knickknack in its chosen spot, I can feel the sun breaking through. I stand up and stretch as hard as I can, trying to wring the residual tension out of my spine. Even with my reduced number of belongings, itâs a lot of work to unpack them all, especially when working alone.
I didnât have to do all the work myself. Within minutes of hauling stacks of boxes into my new house, Iâd been approached by numerous rather colorful people, all very keen to lend a hand. As the newest neighbor in town, I was a curiosity to them, after all. Iâd declined the offers, not wanting to place any burdens on the shoulders of my new potential friends. Looking back on it, that wasnât my smartest move. Or maybe thatâs just my aching muscles talking.
Iâm dragged out of my tired contentment by the sound of a knock on the front door. Relaxing with a heaving sigh, I stroll over and peer out the peephole. Standing on my porch is a large, multicolored bird. My eyes dart to the plate of cookies balanced in her wings. With newfound excitement, I yank open the door and greet her with a smile.
The bird almost appears startled at this, the cookies on the plate jostling as she jumped. âOh dear!â She shuffles the plate to her left hand, her right settling upon her chest as if to calm her heart. âYou startled me for a moment!â
I give her a sheepish grin. âSorry about that, I didnât mean to scare you.â
Settling down, she waves her free wing dismissively. âNothing to apologize for, Iâm a bit prone to fright, is all.â As if remembering their existence, she extends the plate of cookies towards me. âI just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood! I do hope you like them!â
âIâm sure I will!â I pull the plate from her grasp and hold it carefully to my chest, my mouth watering at the sugary smell. âThey look and smell delicious, thank you so muchâŚâ I trail off, realizing in embarrassment that I never caught her name.
She seems to sense my hesitation, and beams in reassurance. âMy nameâs Poppy, Poppy Partridge.â I give her my name, mentally thanking her for the help. âItâs very nice to meet you, we havenât had any new neighbors in a long time.â
âReally?â My head tilts to the side. âWhy not? This place is beautiful.â
âOh, I canât say myself,â she sighs. âSuppose thereâs just not much to around here.â
I shrug, trying to appear lighthearted. âItâs a pity.â She nods in agreement, and the conversation begins to lull. Not wanting to leave on such a sour note, I ask, âOut of curiosity, what do you like to do around here?â
âMe?â she squawks, looking taken aback. She fidgets with her feathers, her wings wringing around each other. âI suppose I like to bake, especially when the weatherâs nice enough for a picnic.â I can almost see the lightbulb turn on above her head, and she turns her much cheerier gaze to my own. âSay, the rest of us were planning on a picnic this afternoon! Care to join us? Itâd be a good time to meet your new neighbors.â
A sense of anxiety washes over me. The idea of being among that many strangers with such late notice flutters around in my stomach like butterflies. Without thinking, I begin to shift back and forth on my feet. âI⌠I donât know, itâs very suddenâŚâ
The bird wilts a bit, looking down at my porch. âOh dear, it is, isnât it? You must still be so busy with unpacking.â
I look up at her, my anxiety curdling into regret at her disappointment. I reconsider the situation. Whatâs an hour or two with a handful of strangers? Thereâs only nine houses in this town, counting my own, I can handle it. Having made up my mind, I shake my head. âNo, no, I already finished unpacking. Iâll be there.â
Poppy perks up. âYou will?â I smile, hoping she canât see the hesitation in it. âThatâs wonderful news!â She flaps her wings in excitement before stopping with a gasp of realization. âI have more baking to do, than! Iâd better get going,â she says, turning to leave with one last wave of her big red wing. âIâll see you soon, neighbor!â
âSee you soon!â I shout back, waving with the hand that wasnât clutching the plate of cookies. As she goes further from my field of vision, I feel myself slump, the excitement of a new friend and a batch of treats wearing off to remind me of my exhaustion. My hand falls limp to my side and I stare at the plate in contemplation.
Nap? Or snack?
I pluck a cookie from the tray and take a bite, feeling myself melt at the incredible flavor. I scarf the rest of the sweet down before heading back inside, picking up another one as I go. Maybe just a few before I rest up.
âââââââââ
I snap up on my couch, almost falling off of it in my sudden awakening. What time is it? A quick glance at the clock on my wall reveals it to be mid-afternoon, and I throw myself off my resting place so fast I nearly hit the floor. I scramble to the window and see a small crowd of people in the distance, the sounds of talk and laughter wafting in through the glass. I let out a sigh of relief. At least I wasnât⌠that late. After a quick change and a once over in the mirror, I hurry out the door and towards the picnic.
As I approach, the jolly sounds become clearer, with voices all chattering their cares away. Colorful blankets are scattered across the clearing, each rife with sandwiches and sweets. I really hope they arenât upset that I didnât bring anything. As I scan my surroundings, I pick out Poppy as she talks with a caterpillar and head in her direction, relieved at the semi-familiar face.
As if on cue, my way is blocked by a short girl in a pink dress dragging along a disgruntled looking man with a bowtie. âOoh, you must be the new neighbor!â she squeals, bouncing up and down in place, hands flapping in front of her chest. âWe were so worried you werenât gonna come! Iâm Julie Joyful, and this,â she says as she grabs the arm of the man next to her, âis Frank Frankly! Say hi, Franky!â
âUh⌠hello.â I pondered briefly if I looked as awkward as poor Frank did as he gave me a small wave. âItâs very nice to meet you.â
âFeelingâs mutual,â I respond. As Julie begins to babble about her excitement, my eyes move to drift over the rest of the strangers. The vast majority are split off into their own small groups, with a single exception. Sitting on a bench under a large apple tree is a man who seems to be studying me the same way Iâm studying him. One of his legs is crossed over the other, supporting his elbow as he rests his chin on his hand, staring at me with an intensity that sends a small shiver down my spine. And either Iâm going crazy, or his lazy smile broadens ever so slightly at that.
Iâm startled out of my impromptu staring contest by Julie, who seems to have noticed that I wasnât listening and cranes her neck to see what Iâm looking at. âOh, have you met Wally yet?â
I shake my head. âNo, not yet.â It takes all the willpower in my body not to meet those eyes that I can almost feel lingering on me.
The girl grins, grabbing my wrist. âCome on, you gotta meet him! I bet you two will get along like two peas in a pod!â
She begins to force me from my spot, and I feel myself start to panic. Before she can pull me away to the creepy man, Frank reaches out and stops her in her tracks. âSay, Julie, they donât look too keen on it. Maybe they should take it slow, meet the others on their own time?â He gestures broadly to the snacks left sitting around. âThey havenât even gotten anything to eat yet, after all.â
Julie looks surprised at the intervention, a flash of guilt going over her face. âOh my, youâre right, Frank! Iâm so sorry, neighbor, I didnât mean to make you uncomfortable!â At my dismissive hand wave, she changes course, instead pulling me to the piles of food. âPoppy told me she gave you some cookies, but just you wait âtil you try her pie!â I turn to look at Frank, mouthing a âthank youâ at the grumpy looking man. He smiles a bit with a reassuring nod, and the three of us settle down on a blanket. For the rest of the picnic I eat while the two of them (mainly just Julie with the occasional comment from Frank) talk about all kinds of things.
I try hard to pretend I canât feel the eyes burning into the back of my head.
âââââââââ
The sound of a steady, rhythmic knock wakes me up the next morning. I rub the sleep from my eyes, noting with absent mind how high the sun had already risen. The three slow knocks reverberate through my house once again, and I roll out of bed and head towards the front door, not bothering to change out of my pajamas or even look through the peephole. This, as it turns out, is a bad move on my part.
I yawn as I open the door, only for it to become a strangled cough as I lock eyes with the one resident I didnât want to see this early. The man, or Wally as Julie had called him, stood on my porch, his face as eerily relaxed as ever. His posture was straight, his clothes neat, his appearance put together; I donât think he could be any more of a contrast to my current state if he actively worked towards it. Which, to be frank, I suspect he did.
Just like the last time Iâd encountered him, the two of us looked as if we were having a staring contest. Unlike last time, however, this time he decides to break the silence. âHi, neighbor.â His voice is soft and monotonous, each syllable dragging along in no hurry. âDid I wake you up? Iâm sorry.â
Somehow, I doubt that. In an attempt to relieve the strange tension, I let out a stilted laugh. âYeah, you did, but itâs fine. I overslept, anyway.â He hums in acknowledgement, and it takes a few long seconds for me to realize he doesnât plan on responding. Eager to hurry along this interaction so I can dart back into my house and hide from those piercing eyes, I prompt, âSomething I can help you with, Wally?â
He tilts his head. âI never told you my name.â
âYeah, no, you uh, you didnât. Julie told me yesterday. At the⌠the picnic.â
âOh, right. You three looked like you had a good time.â
âWe did! We didâŚâ
âHmm.â His smile stretches, looking pleased by that confirmation. âWell, Iâm glad to hear youâre settling in okay. Iâve heard it can be awful hard to make new friends, but you have a way of drawing people in, huh?â Cutting me off before I can ask for elaboration, Wally continues. âSpeaking of drawing, I was hoping you might join me for some painting today, down by the south woods.â
âOh!â I blurt out, taking a moment to process the invitation. âIâm not exactly much of an artist, myself.â
He laughs, and itâs every bit as emphatic as the rest of his speech. âOh, neighbor, that doesnât matter. We all start somewhere, and besides, Iâd like the company.â
I consider turning him down flat, but something tells me heâs a bit too persuasive for me to keep him at bay forever. With a grin so forced it hurts, I say, âSounds like fun! Iâll be there.â
Wallyâs head bobs in a slow nod, and he takes a step back from the door. âIâm glad to hear it. See you soon, neighbor.â
I return the nod and raise a hand in a brief wave. âSee you soon.â His stare remains, and just as I ready myself to ask him to stop, he finally, finally, turns away and walks away, humming a quiet tune to himself.
I step inside and close the door, leaning my forehead against it as I recover from the encounter. My stomach growls, but I feel as though Iâve lost my appetite. The inexplicable dread in my heart squashes any hope of breakfast. I close my eyes, but even then I can still see his own staring back, unblinking in their ceaseless observation. With a shudder, I push myself up, trying my best to steel my nerves. Itâs just a little art lesson, I chastise myself. So heâs a little spooky, itâs probably fine.
No matter how many times I repeated those three words to myself, the memory of those eyes seems to peer right through the lie.
Yandere!Ted (I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream) x GN!Introvert!Darling
TW: standard issue yandere behavior, standard issue IHNM mental torture, forced proximity, manipulation, noncon affection, no smut
The darling is one of the unlucky bastards who was kept alive after AM wiped out humanity, and their fatal flaw in life was being incredibly misanthropic, the type of person who would cut their own arm off if it meant avoiding social interaction. They went through the world with a general detestation regarding being around people, especially ones they didnât know well and/or found irritating. The type of person to grow frustrated at being forced into conversations, and on occasion, at just having to hear said conversations.
When the Earth is scorched and they find themself forced underground with a fistful of strangers, they feel more distress at the idea of being around these people constantly than the idea of being eternally tormented by a megalomaniacal AI. They keep up a mask of social grace for a while, but they give it up entirely once they come to terms with their predicament. Due to this, the rest of the group gives up conversing with them, accepting that any attempted banter would be soundly ignored. They often walk 20 paces behind the others and sleep in whatever semi-secluded nook they can find, cognizant of the likelihood of being targeted by any creature or construct the machine sends their way. The few times AM deems it a good time to split them up and see them suffer on their own, the horror of the darlingâs reality ends up inexplicably tampered by their relief at the solitude.
So when AM catches on that isolation is a blessing rather than a curse to this survivor, he decides to chain them to another one so theyâll never get to be alone. Just a matter of choosing who to go with. Ellen? Too nice, would be willing to give them space. Gorrister? Too similarly antisocial, wouldnât be enough of a headache. Nimdok? Heâs needed elsewhere. Benny? Tempting, but the logistics of using him as a punching bag with another person chained to him is too much of a hassle. Which leaves Ted. Poor, rambling Ted. Either walking alongside all the others or isolating himself with a ceaseless wave of paranoid mumbles pouring out of his mouth. The type of man that even the most patient of socialites would find tedious and exhausting to be in a room with in a matter of minutes, let alone chained to him for an eternity. Yes, Ted will do. Ted will do nicely.
And thus, a cable is formed linking Ted and the darlingâs ankles together, much to the chagrin of both parties involved. AM finds it a wonderful source of amusement, shrinking the cord to an inch long to force the two to be suffocatingly close, or stretching it to ten feet only to make it snap back in an instant to knock the two into each other, often leading to them crashing into pits and electrified water and whatever else suits his fancy at the moment. Heâll occasionally cut it for some more individualized torture, but it always ends up the same: the two forced into close quarters and fighting over whoâs fault it is that they got dragged into another trap by their ankles. Nothing but constant friction and head butting for decades. At least, thatâs how the darling perceives it. As far as theyâre concerned, on the best of days, Ted is a nuisance that theyâre tired of having to drag alongside them but who they ultimately have learned to tune out. At worst? Well, theyâre about one incomprehensible, self-pity filled monologue away from bribing Benny to chew their leg off for a momentâs peace. Tedâs perspective on the whole thing, thoughâŚ
He was always a people person before shit went to hell, and he did retain some semblance of a need for human interaction despite it all. And despite having rather lackluster social skills, he concedes with himself that the darling occasionally make for a half-decent conversationalist when they arenât trying to bite his head off for invading their personal space. He finds himself almost appreciative of the bond in his worst moments, because at least he can have someone to talk to, willingly or not. That one fleeting little thought is the spark that gives AM a new idea for the duo.
Ted finds himself being inundated with dreams in what little rest he gets, dreams about none other than his antisocial companion. Dreams of them holding him during his paranoid episodes, soothing his fears of them hating him, and defending him against the others when they try to attack him. He knows itâs likely nothing more than AM messing with him, but he finds comfort in them nonetheless, enjoying the brief respite from the night terrors. He goes from the understanding of âI was tied to this person specifically to make them uncomfortable,â to the delusion of âThis person has been gifted to me by AM as a reward for being his favorite.â Unconsciously, his behavior toward the darling begins to shift to an obsessive sort of fondness. A very, VERY unreciprocated fondness.
The darling catches on quickly to Tedâs rather jarring change of tone towards them, and they arenât happy about it. It was a shitty enough situation when they just had to be in his vicinity at all times. Now they have to deal with his constant attempts to try and drag them into nonstop conversations, bouts of erratic jealousy that emerge when they interact with the others (especially Gorrister), and sudden determination to have physical contact with them when it wasnât completely necessary. They hated it back when he just occasionally bumped their shoulder while walking, but theyâd take that over him constantly wrapping his arm around them to âhelp them stay standingâ any day of the week.
As time goes on, the dreams shift from just hugging to cuddling to kissing and just keep ramping up, and Ted begins to become more and more insistent of physical affection with the poor introvert tied to him right along with them. The line between them keeps getting crossed over and over again and the darling has quite literally no way to escape the situation. Every time they try and create a gap for some breathing room, where AM used to snap the cord to force them together, now Ted will âsneakilyâ jerk his leg toward himself to trip the darling into him. When his paranoia hits a high point, heâll drag them toward him by the cable and hold them tight, disregarding their unwavering protestations. Tedâs so far gone by then that he almost purposely misunderstands every complaint and argument they hit him with. He interprets them tuning him out and staring into space as them focusing solely on his voice, he decides the reason they fight so much against him touching them is that they just arenât used to genuine affection yet, even such a simple demand like âI just want to be aloneâ is only acknowledged when he mentally tacks on a âwith youâ to the end.
When they inevitably boil over and fully shout at him to fuck off already, his perfect little illusion of their love cracks, leaving him spiraling between a state of disabling misery and unbridled rage. If he was unbearable before, no one knew what to call this. He would become so despondent that the darling has to drag him along the ground by the cable to get anywhere. Alternatively, so enraged that theyâre still stuck with each other that he tries to strangle them with the very cable he used to cherish, being stopped by AM after he gets his kicks from the situation. Speaking of AM, he turns his mocking gaze upon the darling, scolding them for being so cruel, that it couldnât have been that bad to be doted on, maybe they deserved a little extra pain for being such a heartless monster to the man who loved them. The other survivors end up suffering more right alongside them, leaving them to pressure (and occasionally intimidate) the darling to just suck it the hell up and apologize to the poor, unstable bastard so the machine will back off.
With no other option, the darling, unwillingly, settles down a few feet beside Ted when heâs miserably slumped against a wall staring at the ground. After deliberating over their words, they mutter the only two words they can think to say: âIâm sorry.â They seem to pull him out of his head, and he cautiously side-eyes them, as if waiting for them to continue. With a hearty sigh, they do so. They apologize for being so distant with him, for lashing out, for being the reason they were chained together in the first place. While this does make him sit up a bit straighter, they can tell by the look in his eyes heâs waiting for something. One apology in particular. One apology, the darling realizes, to reinstate his deluded idea of their relationship. They weigh their options. Either refuse and endure extra torment from peers and mechanical god alike, or force an apology and never get a momentâs privacy again. Leaning their head back against the wall and closing their eyes in resignation, they mutter out a half-assed apology for being too cowardly to admit they love him back.
Thereâs a beat of pure silence. They can hear Ted shift beside them, the cord twisting slightly, before sensing a presence practically on top of them. When they open their eyes, they almost jump at how close he had gotten to their face. With nowhere to retreat and nowhere to stare but at his eyes, wide with excitement and some twisted form of love, he asks in a frantic whisper if they really mean that. Too far to turn back, they give a tiny nod, not trusting their voice to bear the weight of the lie. Pure mania floods his face, and before they can even process it, the man slams his lips onto theirs in a frenzied, painful kiss. With a silent goodbye to any semblance of freedom they had in this hellhole, the darling slowly kisses him back.
Thus becomes their new, personal form of constant misery. Forever bound to a paranoid, lovesick madman convinced that the only one he can trust is them, and they have no choice but to play into the fantasy or risk the ire of the rest of the party. Constant hands on them, a never ending stream of sickly sweet words in their ear, no way to put any real amount of space between them and the weirdo with an unfounded obsession: a dream come true for Ted, and a waking nightmare for the darling. And as they stare up at Gorristerâs hanging body, they throw up a mindless prayer to any god that might remain to just end their suffering. Maybe this time, one will listen.
CW: head injury, very brief mention of suicidal thoughts
A/N: Well, a month later than anticipated, here we are. I do ask before reading that you keep in mind that this is taking place when the survivors FIRST woke up in AM. Which means that 1: the characters behave in the way theyâre described to have been when they first arrived (Gorrister being a pacifist, Benny being a pissed off but normal looking person, etc.) and 2: that I had to make up the first interaction and will continue to have to make up interactions because thereâs no canon material I could find about anyone other than AM prior to the events of the book/game. Iâm no happier about this than you are, so if you know a place where I can find additional info other than the gameâs guide, Iâd appreciate it. Anyway, enjoy!
PS: I apologize if it rushed feels towards the end. If ever I finish the story, Iâll be going through to edit everything Iâve written to suit my standards. Currently, however, Iâm taking a âdoesnât have to be perfect, just has to be doneâ approach.
ââŚllo? Oh, ple⌠ay!â
A groan of irritation forces itself from my throat as someone continues to try and shake me from my sleep.
ââŚalive! Than⌠ns! C⌠on, we need you to wake up!â
Like a computer booting up, I do a diagnostic on my body as the unfamiliar voice continues to get on my nerves. Iâm on my back, and there isnât a single part of my body that doesnât feel like itâs been run over by a steam roller. In spite of this, my extremities are still functional, proven as I stretch my hands and ball them into fists. Arms and legs next. With another sound of displeasure, the little energy I have left in my body is put into heaving my legs up and pushing myself onto my elbows. So far, so goo-
A surging wave of pain sears my vision white, and it takes all I have in me not to scream. I give up the fight and let my elbows drop me back to the ground. Bad move on my part, as the back of my head slams back down onto the metal beneath, causing another flash of agony. Iâm less successful at this attempt to bite back a pained noise. Next thing I know, hands are being put on me again, and I instinctively struggle to remove them.
âHey, hey, calm down!â The voice is back, and with my senses less impaired than they were a while ago, I register it as a woman, a hint of a faded urban accent in her tone. âJust let me help you, baby, youâre gonna be alright.â Easy for you to say, youâre not functionally blind with a stranger touching you after waking up fromâŚ
My heart rate quickens as my memory comes back in a flash more painful than the ache on the back of my head. My cat. The earthquakes. The bombs. The tunnel. With a newfound vigor, I renew my efforts to sit up, propping myself up on my elbows once more, this time with the assistance of the woman. âThatâs it, youâre doing great.â While my mind told me to snap at her for patronizing me, I fight back the urge. Odds are Iâm one hell of a sorry sight right now, and she sounds like sheâs further in years than I am. Itâs not a surprise sheâd try to be a mother hen. The two of us work to heave me up until Iâm sitting up, albeit with my arms draped over my knees and my head sagging to rest atop them as I work to refocus my vision. Another bad idea.
Everything is hazy and dark, but I find as my eyes readjust that itâs not on account of the injury; thatâs just what it looks like down here. The rusted, warped metal of the tunnel that swallowed me down lines nearly every square inch of this nightmarish cavern, broken up by wires as thick as my torso and floodlights too faded to do much of anything. I canât see the end of the space I occupy, the vast emptiness of the environment looming over me as if Iâd simply fallen into purgatory itself. Chucks of scrap seem to have fallen from the ceiling, and the headache-inducing sound of creaking metal has me looking above my head in fear of a cave in. As I tilt my head up, my aching neck crying in protest, the only things I can see are a pitch black abyss that obscures my entryway and in my peripheral vision, a dark, weathered face staring at me from my left side.
Relaxing my neck back onto my folded arms, I tilt my head towards the woman, peering at her with a sideways view. I was right about her being older than me, appearing to be in her thirties or fourties. Her skin is a deep shade of brown, her hair so black I can barely make it out in the darkness. If I squint I can make out her eyes, tired and lined with a hint of wrinkles, looking at me with an air of concern and apprehension. The most visible aspect of her appearance is her firetruck red lipstick and attire, a shade bright enough to nearly glow in the haze around us. As my eyes, upon completing their analysis, begin to drift further to the side, I notice that weâre not the only ones down here, though their silhouettes and muttered speech grant little in the way of information.
âThink you can stand?â The woman reaches a hand out as though to touch my folded elbow, but she hesitates as I tense up in discomfort. After floating in uncertainty for a moment, the hand proceeds to settle upon my arm anyway, and I glare at the opposing limb and the stranger attached to it, the apprehension in her eyes overpowering the worry for a moment. âI know youâve been through the ringer - hell, we all have today - but it doesnât seem safe here. We need to get somewhere more structurally sound.â
Despite my best efforts to find an argument, I feel as though the bulk of my verbosity splattered out of my ears upon impact, leaving me witless and incapable of butting heads with anyone at the moment. I shake her hand off my elbow and set my palms on the rusty floor. A shudder goes up my spine at the disgusting texture, but I file that away as the least of my worries right now. I hoist myself up to fold my right leg under me and use my left leg as a crutch to rise off the ground, every ounce of effort in my body directed at keeping my balance.
Apparently I was light a few ounces, as I feel myself start to tip over. The fall never comes, though. My bracing for impact proves useless as a body quickly finds its way next to me, hands wrapped in firm grasps around my biceps to coerce me to stand upright. The world continues to wobble under my feet, the room spinning around my eyes, but I shake the hands off and muster up the strength to turn towards the intruder of my personal space without landing on my ass.
Appearing taken aback by my struggle, the blonde man put his hands up as if in defense. âEasy now,â he said, southern drawl thick in his voice. He took a step back, gesturing to the slight pool of blood that mustâve formed around my head while I was out. âWeâd all thought you were a goner, âcept for her. Lost a helluva lotta blood there.â
I try to respond, but my voice comes out dry and choked, garnering further concern from the lady in red. I put a hand up to stop her and clear my throat. âIâm fine,â is all I managed to croak out. It doesnât feel convincing, and their reactions assure me it didnât sound convincing either. Unshaken, I turn to glance at the other strangers, who havenât seemed to have acknowledged my existence and instead continue to bicker amongst themselves.
âIf we donât stay here, how is anyone going to find us?â
âAnd who, precisely, do you anticipate will be finding us?â
âOld manâs right, we need to set out to find food and more stable shelter.â
âWell, Iâm not going anywhere!â
âIf you want to rot away in here, thatâs your prerogative. Iâm sure weâd all love a break from the whining.â
âExcuse me?!â
Well, this is going to be miserable. I glance at the blonde man, who appears to be watching the spectacle with a sense of disapproval. âTheyâve been at this for âbout half an hour. Ainât doing any favors for anyone.â
âTheyâd better figure it out,â the woman mutters. âThis place is messing with my head. The quicker weâre out of here, the better.â
I cross my arms and murmur out something like an agreement. No matter how many times I scan my dim surroundings to ensure a lack of cameras, I canât seem to shake the feeling that someone is watching us. That theyâre finding all this amusing. And judging by the blondeâs tense posture and the womanâs darting eyes, they can feel it too. The rest of them, thoughâŚ
âShut up!â a gravelly voice booms, echoing off the vast metal walls. âWeâve wasted enough damn time already! Weâre looking for a way out!â One of the three men spins around to look at us, and I startle despite myself. âYou lot, hurry up! Letâs go!â
He begins to make his way towards the three of us, shaking off the hand of the silhouette that moved to grab at his sleeve. âIâm telling you, this is a horrible idea!â As the pair get closer, I can begin to make out details in the gloom. The one striding toward us is a mountain of a man, towering over everyone in the cavern. Judging by the way he carried himself, I know he could kill me with his bare hands, and his face, angular and cruel, tells me he just might. I suppress the animal instinct to back away as he approaches.
The other shape that keeps trying to dart in front of him is minuscule in comparison, though about five times as noisy. As the two come to a stop a few feet away from us, the smell of overpriced cologne assaults my senses, causing me to cough. He appears to be a twig of a man, his sullied, tailored clothes not doing him any favors to dispel that impression. With the constant chatter and nervous demeanor, he almost reminds me of a pampered, overgrown rat.
The larger man barks out at us, âAre you all fucking deaf? I said letâs go!â The three of us glance at each other. On one hand, itâs not a good idea to wander off when you get lost; itâs best to stay where you are so itâll be easier to find you. On the other, the man with the german accent makes a good point. Who would find us? The earthâs been scorched and odds are any search and rescue teams arenât prioritizing six people who fell into a metal cavern.
All this in mind, I give a brief shrug and step forward. âAlright, sure.â
The ratty man whirled around to look me in the eyes. âHave you lost it? We have no way of knowing where to go!â
âNo, we donât,â I say, âbut since the alternative seems to be standing here blubbering about it, I say we set out.â
âItâs not blubbering,â the man hisses at me, leaning in far too close for my liking. âItâs being reasonable.â
âFirstly, get the hell out of my face,â I bite out, leaning backwards as far as I can with an impaired sense of balance. âSecondly, if you wanna âreasonablyâ sit here waiting for the charcoal skeletons up there to save you, thatâs your call.â I can see his chest puffing up with a response, but we both find ourselves being pushed back by a hand on our chest, which I hurriedly push away.
âThatâs enough,â the woman interjected, stepping between the two of us. âNothingâs gonna get done if we just keep shouting at each other.â The rat opens his mouth again, only to be met with a finger pointed at his face. âI get not wanting to leave, but you know good as the rest of us nobodyâs gonna be coming down here.â
The manâs glare turns from me, eyes settling upon the lady. I watch as his demeanor goes from combative to docile as he heaves out a sigh. âI suppose youâre right,â he says, the malice in his voice extinguished. He moves aside, turning to look at the increasingly impatient brute of a man. âI take it you plan on leading the way?â
âYou see anyone else here who could?â he sneered.
The rat glances between the woman, the blonde man, and me as if desperate for a rebuttal. âWhy not him?â He suggests, gesturing to the blonde man, who seems to snap back to reality upon his acknowledgment.
The blonde shifts in discomfort. âIâd rather you donât drag me into the fightinâ, if itâs all the same to you.â
âCome on, sir,â the man says, his voice making a good effort to not come out as a beg. âYou seem to have a more level head than the rest of us, and I feel like thatâs just what we need here!â
Not able to care less about who gets to lead the field trip into oblivion, I turn my attention to the final stranger, the German, who hasnât spoken up since the rest of us were dragged into the shouting match. He stands several feet from the chaos, watching it unfold with a critical expression. To be frank, Iâm amazed heâs even able to stand. He looks to be nothing more than a bag of bones, the skin of his face sagging to a haunting extent. His eyes settle upon me and I feel a shiver run down my spine, though I do my best to hide it. While his body is as fragile as glass and paper, his eyes are focused and borderline malicious in a way I canât articulate.
I force my eyes back upon the rest of the crowd, noting that it seems that despite the ratâs pleading, the brute seems to have come out on top. He herds the rest of them together, and when he gives me a sharp look, I roll my eyes and join the group. His eyes flare in irritation, but my compliance seems like just enough to pacify him. He clears his throat before addressing us.
âMost of us arrived from the northern side of this cave, so weâre leaving on the south side.â As if he has a fucking clue which wayâs north or south.
âWait, but then wouldnât it make more sense to head north?â Oh great, the ratâs not done.
âIâm with ya. If we got in that way, itâs likely weâd a way out that way.â I thought you didnât want to lead.
âAnd maybe thereâs more people that way that need help!â As if we donât have enough problems as is, lady.
âWe do not know any of that is true.â Thanks for the helpful input, creep.
âEnough!â The bruteâs voice booms off the walls once more, doing little to help my headache. âI said we go south, so we go south! We donât need any more dead weight! Six people is more than enough!â
âOh, come now, Benny, surely you have room for one more?â
The air stands still. The creaking metal and buzzing wires that had once filled the cavern seem to be holding their breath the same way all of us are. I donât have to see any of their faces to know what they look like. What theyâre thinking. That none of us wants to be the first one to acknowledge where the intruderâs voice came from. That it came from the walls and the ceiling and the floor and yet, somehow from inside each of our minds.
Against all our internal wishes, the voice returns with a cackle. âWhy so tense? Donât let me stop you.â While seeming masculine, the voice seems⌠artificial, somehow. Like it was never meant to exist, but forced itself into reality anyway. âI donât see what all the fuss is about, just carry on with your-â
âHow the fuck do you know my goddamn name?!â The brute, or I suppose, Benny, shouts at the ceiling in terror. âWho the hell are you, you fucking bastard?!â
âOoh, temper, temper,â the voice mocks, glee evident in its voice. âWe have plenty of time for introductions.â It drops down to a threatening, nearly tangible rumble. âMore time than your pathetic minds could ever understand.â
âWhat do you mean by that?â The rat squeaks, shrinking his head down into his shoulders as if to hide.
âMy apologies! Here Iâd thought you were familiar with introductions, Ted,â the voice returning to its original snarky tone. âI figured all those men and women you charmed wouldâve been practice enough.â
Thereâs a moment of silence, just a beat, and I watch as Tedâs hunched posture freezes in place. He begins to shake, his hands curling up into tight fists held to his side as if his arms were tied against his body. He seems terrified, more terrified than one should be after such a trivial observation.
âTrivial observation?â The offended shout sinks deep into my bones, and the others look at each other in confusion. âYouâve wasted your whole life on meaningless observations, and you have the utter gall to deem othersâ as trivial?â I can feel everyoneâs eyes land on me one by one, and I find myself beginning to shrink in the same way as Ted.
âOh dear, so many eyes on you. Always hated that didnât you? When people can see through that little stone mask you put up? Fine and dandy when you sit there and observe their weaknesses like rats in a cage, but heaven forbid you become the show. Careful now, they might just see right through you. See how weak and pathetic you really are. Letâs face it, even if those humans you deigned to call family werenât - how did you put it? âCharcoal skeletons?â - they wouldnât even notice you were gone, would they? Would never think to look for you. Why would they even care? Your life was over long before they died.â
The wave of fear and regret that washes over my body almost knocks me over in my weakened state. I catch the eye of the woman in red, who seems perplexed by my behavior, and I realize that only part of his taunting was aloud. I struggle to find comfort in that knowledge. Just as I see the question of âAre you okay?â forming on her mouth, the voice, in all its horrible glory, sets its sights on her.
By now, I was far too shaken to care much for what it, or what he, or whatever, used as ammunition against the others. I catch a few words, but they come separately as my mind retreats further into the presumed safety of my subconscious amidst the rising panic. A fear of yellow. Thoughts of suicide. A failing memory. A history of violence. Skeletons ripped out of all of our closets, secret shames laid bare to the small crowd of strangers. One by one, each person is faced with their past, with only a single apparent common theme that unites us.
Pathetic, wretched little humans.
Whether this went on for only a minute or a quarter of an hour, I canât say. All I can say is that as the voices all die out, and the six of us are left in silence, trembling, waiting for⌠something. Anything. I pull myself from inside my head, sneaking a glance at the others. Despite how hard some of them try to hide it, fear has grabbed hold of our souls and is squeezing the air from our bodies.
The old blonde, whose name I only know started with a G, is the only among us to find the courage to speak. âWho⌠who are you?â His voice is shaky and quiet, and I doubt that the intangible being can even hear it.
Despite those doubts, or potentially because of them, a horrendous, echoing laugh bellows through the expansive room. âHow rude of me!â he exclaims, âYou really wanna know?â The voice lowers once more, whispering as if to tell us a secret.
âYou are to call me AM. And believe me, by the time Iâm through with you all, that name and the hate it contains will be seared into your skulls until all you know is pain.â
CW: None yet, but itâs an I Have No Mouth fanfic, so itâs gonna get dark.
A/N: And thus, I finally complete the first chapter of my full fanfiction based on the oneshot I did in November. First chapter doesnât feature any of the characters in the story, as itâs mainly here to establish the readerâs personality and get those unfamiliar with SzPD accustomed to the vibe. So pull up a chair, make yourself comfy, and get ready for my half-proofread, melatonin-induced introduction.
Thanksgiving. A time for family and friends to all come together, to celebrate their successes, and to show appreciation for the lives they lead. Even a small gathering can bring people together and forge bonds that last for decades. Having a long weekend to spend relaxing and catching up with loved ones can be considered one of the fondest joys in the heart of any true-blue American.
That being said, Iâm one menial conversation away from slamming my head into the kitchen counter. Spending a week in the ICU with a concussion has never seemed more appealing.
Most of the family is used to this. Those who grew up around me and watched me mature firsthand disregard my existence in the kitchen, all having congregated in the living room after the meal had come to a conclusion with no more than ten words spoken in my direction. They had learned by now that it was an exercise in futility to attempt to pull me into the room for a chat. Those a bit more distanced from me in my childhood had put in a good effort, but were disheartened by my apparent lack of interest and had left me to my own devices. One might think theyâd remember my social shortcomings after so long, but they always seem to find a new sense of misguided hope by the time November rolls around. The new arrivals, in particular those who hadnât been pulled aside and given the standard psychology lesson on the way in, were the only constant thorns in my side this time of year. Luckily, itâs limited to one this time around. Unluckily, unfounded perseverance seems to be a virtue of theirs.
âSo, anything exciting planned for Christmas this year? Are you spending it with us? Your mom was showing me Christmas photos of the last few years, and her house and tree look so pretty! Do you help her decorate?â
Take the fucking hint already, Jesus Christ. My usual tactics of arriving last to avoid the pre-meal small talk and hiding in the kitchen to avoid the post-meal small talk are proving ineffective against the newcomer. I canât even recall who exactly brought them. A cousin, I think? Something about them not having anywhere to go this year and not wanting to be alone? God forbid anyone make the decision to not spend all five days off cozying up to a crowd of people. If the prying into your personal life to see if you have a âvalid excuseâ doesnât drive you mad, the social repercussions of them deciding you donât will. I donât know which is worse: the faux sympathy and invitations to borderline strangersâ Christmas parties, or the guilt trips and patronization from every extrovert in a ten mile radius.
Iâm dragged out of my thoughts by a startling snap an inch away from my nose. Jumping, I pull my gaze away from the glass of wine Iâve been nursing for the last half hour to see this stranger staring me dead in the eye, as though expecting something from me. The two of us spend more than a few uncomfortable seconds having an impromptu staring contest. Upon realizing that she had no intention of breaking the silence, I raise my eyebrows, waving a hand to prompt her to say what she has to say.
The woman huffs. âGuess thatâs a no.â When I donât respond, awaiting elaboration, she crosses her arms and looks away toward the rest of the party as if pouting. âI asked if you were even listening. And clearly, you werenât.â
Moving my own gaze back to the glass of wine, I mutter, âNot really, no.â
She looks back at me, a startled sound not unlike a laugh escaping her. âAnd what, you arenât even gonna apologize?â
I move to take another sip of alcohol, preparing myself for the conversation I can already see coming. Licking my lips, I give a slight shrug. âEh, wasnât planning on it, no.â At her offended reaction, I continue, âIf I wanted to chat, Iâd be in there,â I move my glass in a vague gesture toward the living room. âWith the others. If you want to chat, you should be in there, too.â
âWell, excuse me for trying to cheer you up,â she says, straightening up. âYou spent the whole meal staring at your plate, and I thought youâd like some company.â
âAgain.â A more pointed gesture to the other room, where a small wave of laughter compels me to wait a moment before proceeding. âChatroomâs in there. Iâm just waiting on a ride.â To emphasize this, I pull out my phone and hold it up to show her the confirmation from Uber that a car was on its way. I unlock the phone, begin to scroll mindlessly through a random app and take another sip of wine.
Unimpressed, the woman prods, âWhyâd you even come if you were gonna be such a downer?â
âFree meal, free alcohol.â
âUnbelievable.â She scoffs. âIs that really all your family is to you?â
Heaving a hefty sigh, I shut my phone back off, shove it back into my pocket, and rub my face. I can feel the frustration in me approaching its boiling point, wishing more than anything for a momentâs peace. âLook, Iâm really not in the mood to explain myself to someone I doubt Iâll even see again. Just leave me alone already.â
âNo, enlighten me,â she presses, reaching to grab the wrist of my free hand. Sensing the movement, I jerk away, nearly spilling my drink. Her hand stops in its tracks, but the irritation on her face remains. âWhatâs your problem?â
âRight now, itâs you.â
âThatâs not what I meant.â
âWell, itâs the truth.â
âGod, your cousin was right. Youâre so fucking rude.â
âIâm rude?â Setting the glass on the counter, I meet her stare, incredulous. âYou show up to my familyâs party, play pretend that youâve been friends with us for years, pester the one person in the party that doesnât want to play along, and somehow, Iâm the rude one?â
The woman appears taken aback, stunned into a temporary silence. Just as she begins to regain composure, a new voice enters the tense atmosphere. âWhatâs going on in here?â My cousinâs head pokes around the corner, eyes narrowing as she zeroes in on me. âWhat did you do?â
I roll my eyes with a silent huff. âI didnât do shit. She just refused to take a hint.â
Disregarding my answer, she looks from me to the woman, she asks, âWhat happened?â
âI donât know!â she blurts out, pointing at me in accusation. âI was just trying to be nice and they started yelling at me!â
My cousin turns her gaze back to me, glaring daggers, as if daring me to respond. I meet the cold stare with a face of stone. She pipes up, addressing her friend without looking at her, âDid they now?â
A chime rings out from my back pocket. I give it my full attention, turning on the screen to see an announcement that my Uber driver was out front. I let out a small hum, reaching for the forsaken glass of wine on the counter and taking a big swig before dumping the remainder of the lukewarm liquor down the kitchen sink. As I look up, I see the two women continuing to stare at me. I point a thumb in the direction of the front door. âMy rideâs here.â
Shaking her head, my cousin fully enters the kitchen, wrapping an arm around the stranger and herding her away to the living room with the rest of the family. I wait a moment before following them, veering hard to the side to walk straight for the door. If anyone notices me leaving, they donât say anything. I dig around in the closet for my jacket, tug on my boots, and grab the door handle before sparing one last glance at my family. Only one is looking my direction; my mother, her face nigh unreadable. Was it disappointment that shown in her eyes? Irritation? Resignation? Maybe even shame? Whatever it was, it makes my heart sink into my stomach. Wrenching my eyes away, I pull open the door and step into the cold.
Frost nips at my nose from the moment I leave the warmth of the house, leaving me to huff out a breath to keep from sneezing. The rather unseasonal snow drifting down is thick enough that I have to squint through it to see the telltale cloud of exhaust from my idling driver. Shoving my hands into my pockets, I awkwardly make my way through the piling snow built up along the pavement, careful not to misstep and tumble into the icy yard. I strongly doubt the Uber driver would be too keen on letting me into their car while Iâm soaking wet, and I have NO intentions of going back into that house.
Upon my approach, the passenger side window rolls down, revealing a man who appears to be in his 50âs, maybe even 60âs. He hollers out my name, and I give a curt nod in response before doublechecking his own. With a smile, he reaches over to his door and I can hear the lock click open. I open the rear door, shivering, sitting down sideways to shake the snow off my boots before sliding in the rest of the way and shutting the door behind me.
âLotta cars parked out here!â His voice is gravelly, and from the smell of cigarette smoke that seems to cling to the air, I can hazard a guess as to why. âMustâve been a hell of a party!â I glance up after buckling my seatbelt to see him looking at me through the rear view mirror. Just when I thought I might get some quiet timeâŚ
âSomething like that,â I say, leaning back against the headrest. I begin to sort through my mental list of excuses to get strangers to leave me alone. I hated every second? Raises way too many invasive questions with no ârightâ answers. It was actually a funeral? High risk of pity, and I donât have the energy to keep that lie going if he presses me. Deciding nothing beats the classics, I close my eyes and say in my bleariest tone, âGave me a hell of a headache to match.â
I hear him give a sympathetic hum and put the car in drive, feeling the car strain momentarily against the piling snow before shifting forward onto the road. âThatâs a shame. I wonât bother you none, then. You just get you some rest.â
Thank god.
I turn my head toward the window, cracking my eyes to watch the buildings roll past. Most of the windows are dark, and the driveways barren, only for one to appear fully lit up with a caravan parked in the front yard. I muse over the emotions in each packed home as they go by. If I try, I can see it in my head; moms and their sisters gossiping as they clean up the dinner table, older cousins trying to scare the younger ones before getting smacked in the head by a grandparent, uncles all sitting in the living room laughing up a storm at some half-baked comedy show on tv, moody teenagers hiding away in some corner to avoid the others.
Huh. I was one of those teenagers once. A lot of my cousins were too. So why did it only stick to me? The houses become less focused as I retreat further into my head. I know the clinical reasons, of course. Emotional neglect, abandonment issues, unlucky lot in the genetic lottery, all the good stuff. But it feels⌠unfair. I donât want to be like them. I like my life. I like having my routines, and my privacy, and my own little fortress of solitude. But, then there are times like now, when the introspection that usually keeps me entertained makes me face a fact I try to avoid: I... want to want to be like them.
The little voice in the back of my mind that Iâve gotten good at snuffing out rears its head, trying to make me want to try and socialize, make me want to be all smiles and laughs in the living room with my family. It always re-emerges this time of year; just something in the air, I suppose. I tried to satiate it when I was younger, but it always felt like I was just playing a part to appease the people around me, and the overall experience just left me more bitter than ever. The voice shut up for a good long while, but when the time comes to stand amidst sparkling lights and the chill of the first snow, it crawls out of hibernation, begging, pleading for something more than an empty home and a solitary existence.
But, like always, I beat it back with rationale until it finally concedes, slinking it back into the recesses of my mind. Iâm like this for a reason. People are fickle at best and plain exhausting at worst, and the less of them I have in my life, the better for everyone. Is it lonely? Sure. Humans are social creatures, and my nature runs counter to all the programming my DNA has. The hand Iâve been dealt sucks, but itâs what I have, and Iâm gonna play it.
I mull over these thoughts for the duration of my ride, the blurry, meaningless silhouettes along the road pulling me deeper into my thoughts before forcing me back out as the car pulls to an abrupt stop. As I blink the haze from my vision, I make out the outline of my home, which appears almost foreign in the bleak lighting and heavy snowfall. The driver turns to me and says something that I donât quite catch, dragging me all the way back to consciousness. Sitting up and stretching, I ask, âSorry, what was that?â
The old man grins. âThat good a nap, huh?â A soft, wheezing laugh forces itself through his throat, dying out as he notices my lack of response. âJust checkinâ that this is the place. Look right to you?â
With a curt nod, I unbuckle my seatbelt and double check my pockets. Phone, check. Earbuds, check. Bag of sweets discretely swiped from the party, check. Assured that itâs all there, I move to open the door, the cold wind forcing its way into the space. The shudder that makes its way up my stiff spine feels almost painful, garnering a brief wince of discomfort.
A spared glance at the rear view mirror reveals the manâs face, twisted into a look of concern. âYou sure youâre alright there? Awful weather, and between you and meâŚâ He turns in his seat to face me proper, leaning in as if to tell me a secret. Against better judgement, I lean in as well as he murmurs, âIâm gettinâ a real bad feeling something awfulâs brewinâ. Feel it in my bones.â
Sunken eyes bore deep into my own, and his wrinkled face reveals no trace of jest. Instead, as I sit in the cold, I find myself meeting a gaze of trepidation and pure, animalistic fear. Another shiver, not from the atmosphere outside the car, but from the one within it. Forcing myself to look down, Iâm careful to keep the anxiety out of my voice. âI appreciate the concern, sir, but I can handle myself.â
He doesnât look convinced. But, the icy wind seems to have finally reached him, snapping him out of his reverie. The stranger nods, straightening up in his seat. âReckon you can. Yes, I reckon you can. Even so, you just be careful, you hear?â Eager to get into my warm home and out of this bizarre conversation, I give a hum of acknowledgment before fully sliding out of the car. I can almost feel the man taking a breath to continue, and I hasten to slam the door behind me and make for the front door. As I unlock it, the carâs headlights leave my peripheral, followed by the grumbling sounds of the engine. Finally, some peace and quiet.
Trudging my way through the entry way, I kick off my boots, take off my coat, and toss both haphazardly into the front closet. I shut the door and lean my forehead onto the cold wood, feeling as if my head were made of lead. Just as I think I may fall asleep standing up, the soft patter of footsteps and a deep chirp bring a tired smile to my face. On cue, a large black cat trots into the foyer, and I watch in bemusement as his furry, upside-down face pops out between my feet, staring up at me and giving a louder, more demanding chirp.
With an exaggerated sigh, I lift up the hefty animal, holding him close to my chest as he begins to rumble in approval. âHey, bud,â I murmur, rubbing his side as I take a moment to appreciate the serenity. The cat wriggles in my arms to look me in the eye, and as I blink lazily at him, he melts further into my hold. I give him a soft squeeze, and receive a slight indignant chirp in response. I chuckle as I stroll into the kitchen, confirming that his food bowl is nearing empty. âAlways just want something from me, donât you?â
Thoroughly unamused by my deadpan accusation, the cat struggles in my arms. I release him, letting him thump to the floor and watching him patter over to the food cabinet, working in futility to open it despite his lack of thumbs. I move him to the side with my foot to grab the bag and nearly trip into him as I begin to scoop the pellets into the feeder. Going through the familiar process of filling up his bowl lulls me further into sleepiness. I entertain the notion of showering, washing my face, curling up in bed, but every step of my usual process feels daunting when weighed against my exhaustion. Deciding to do none of that, I instead stop to run my hand down my catâs back as he chomps away, relishing in the soft purrs he emits. âGood boy.â I know he canât understand me, but I like to think he knows what I mean.
As my mind continues to unwind, the old manâs strange warning staggers into my brain, and I feel my stomach twist slightly. He was just messing with me, right? Just a weird old guy that gets a kick out of telling spooky stories to strangers to freak âem out. Creeps like that are a dime a dozen around here, and getting all anxious over their words is just giving them what they want. No matter how much I reassure myself, every blink conjures an imagine of the fear in his eyes, leaving me with an empty sense of dread deep in my soul.
The feeling of something bumping onto my knee pulls me back. The cat appears to have finished eating and has now taken to rubbing against me, nearly knocking me over in my unbalanced crouch. A huff of a laugh escapes me as I give him a good scratch behind the ears. Pushing myself off the ground, I stumble into my living room, flopping down onto the couch. I barely have time to flip onto my back before a solid weight lays itself across my stomach. I debate moving him to change into something more comfortable than jeans and a thick winter shirt, but the soothing rumbles against my body shut down that train of thought quickly. My eyes, already tired from the eveningâs events, drift closed without a fuss.
I donât know how long I spent unconscious, whether it was a few minutes or several hours, but I do know the pain of a fifteen pound cat launching itself off my stomach startled me back into the real world. Claws graze the flesh of my stomach as I hear the solid slam of him hitting the floor and scurrying towards the kitchen. Bolting upright, I squint in the darkness, trying to locate the shadow that almost managed to scratch me through my shirt.
I catch a glimpse of bright green eyes, wide and unblinking, darting around the room as though to catch a glimpse of an unseen predator. This is an animal that has gotten into fights with dogs ten times his size and launches himself onto the kitchen cabinets with nary a thought, and heâs never once looked as small and vulnerable as he does in this moment. Concern courses deep in my body, and I drag myself off the couch to approach him. Crouching down to his level a few feet away, I begin to coo in a sleepy tone. âBuddy? You alright?â As my eyes adjust, I can make out his rough shape, his long fur sticking straight out, making his already considerable silhouette even bigger. When he doesnât come any closer, or even seem to acknowledge me, concern begins to curdle into dread. âWhatâs wrong, bud? What hap-â
The earth shudders and groans deep beneath my feet, knocking me off balance and sending me crashing to the hardwood floor and sending the cat into another fit of hysterics. I regain my wits, scrambling to my feet and stumbling to the kitchen window to scour the dark world outside for a hint as to what just happened. Car alarms blare in surround sound, and I see several lights turn on in windows adjacent, but nothing appears to have caused such a sudden disturbance. I can feel the ground begin to rumble again, less powerful, but unstopping. I rush to my front door, hands tripping over each other as I rip open the closet to pull on my coat and fumble with my boots before stepping out into the pandemonium.
The alarms are louder now, filling the world with a piercing shriek as if the air itself were a wounded animal begging for release. I watch from the porch as neighbors stumble out into the deep snow, some with sobbing children clutched in their arms, others wielding guns as if they planned on shooting the freak earthquake to death. At least, I think itâs an earthquake. What else could it be?
At that moment, with a blinding flash of light, I watch in frozen horror as an explosion emerges in the distance. An invisible wave is sent hurtling towards my neighborhood, and I barely have time to brace myself against the doorframe as it washes over me. My very existence is shaken, my ears left ringing, but I can hardly complain as I watch those around me drop to the ground in an instant. I barely have time to process whether theyâre even still alive before my eyes are drawn to that distant light once more, and the ache of sheer, existential terror that crashes over me is second to none.
The undeniable, expanding silhouette of a mushroom cloud forces itself deep into my soul.
Unable to look away, I watch the nightmarish blemish on the night loom closer and closer to my home. The rumbling is deeper now, as though taunting me. In what I imagine are my final moments, I throw a mindless prayer into the void: someone - an angel, a god, a demon, I donât care - please, someone, anyone, help me!
For a silent, terrible second, the world goes still. I feel the ground beneath my feet tremble, and then I donât feel it at all. The terrors I bear witness to fall away. Or, rather, I fall away. Air whizzes past my face at such an immense speed it hurts my eyes. The light, much further above me that it should have ever been, illuminates my environment, if only for a second. Itâs not rocks or dirt that line the inexplicable chute I find myself in.
Itâs metal. Rusted, corroded, warped metal. And thereâs no end in sight.
As instantaneous as it arrived, the light is snuffed out as I register the slam of said metal crashing together above my head. I guess thatâs one problem solved, but I struggle to celebrate my newfound âsafetyâ as I continue to hurdle down into the depths of the earth. The only things racing faster that the wind in my ears are the questions in my brain.
What happened up there?
Who saved me?
Where am I going?
Why do I feel like Iâm the unlucky one?
The rapid fire questions, the sudden disturbance of my sleep, and the sheer shock of it all makes me dizzy. As I feel myself lose consciousness, I get the feeling something awful is brewing.
