check this post out for context :)!! but anyways— weird cryptid johan, who can't be killed for some reason, but enjoys seeing you endearingly try anyways.
You try to bury him alive.
Maybe the trick isn't to kill him, but to keep him contained. Not give him any chance to come back from the dead or regenerate his injuries. Locked away. In a dark, tight, crummy box like he deserves.
You wipe the sweat off your brow and greasy neck, grime mixing in with your body fluids and staining your shirt. At least the dirt mound is smaller now, an estimate of maybe 15 more shovels at least, and the bastard would finally leave you alone for a good while.
Maybe you should leave flowers, a nice little sentiment of peace.
Or maybe you should let a dog do it's business all over, you don't really care about what to do after. You're just glad you got the cement part over.
Having to combine all that cement mix, carry heavy buckets to pour all over his casket, and waiting for it to dry was back-breaking. But it was a necessary precaution no less; anything to ensure you never see those god-awful eyes stare at you again.
Hah, rest in peace you son of a bitch.
...or daughter, or something.
Come to think of it: was he— it— even a guy? or even had an existing gender at all? Gender is rather... more of human thing after all, creating a definition to categorise ourselves. To categorise other humans.
And that thing, obviously, is nowhere near to what can even be considered human. Seeming to switch out of skins as if it were merely switching out shirts for the day. Even morphing itself and contorting its face and body into the image of a dead relative of yours one time.
(It got it wrong. It copied the image from a family picture, but family pictures never contain faces of disappointment, do they? That's where it made a mistake, by copying that camera-ready smile and looking at you warmly.
and that's how you knew something was wrong.)
As confusing as it is by itself, another thing bothers you. See, it could easily copy anyone, at any given moment. Anyone. From a distant childhood friend to the everyday mailman.
Yet it leaves you stunned at times that it chooses a somewhat... "consistent" body, if you can call it that, when it comes it visit you. You'd expect it to come to you wearing your classmates face, or donning the look of an everyday mailman.
But... no. It actually, presents itself with this certain appearance for some reason.
It didn't resemble anyone from your past or of significance to you, so using this look leaves your tormentation out of the list (surprisingly); it doesn't look like your ideal type either, so definitely not seduction. You have no idea who this is.
Perhaps a collage of features the entity chose to mix and match, or is it an entirely copied form of an already existing person? If so, then why him? Who is he?
Blonde, tall, and pale; a crisp matching blazer and pants ensemble that never seemed to wrinkle.
Blue wretched eyes, you're absolutely sure you've already drove a pen into, or cut out with a knife, numerous times into a bloody squishy mess that leaves you crying after. But no matter what, those eyeballs always seems to come back as good as new the next time you see them again. Untouched in its place and doll-like, a bit too squeaky clean and a bit too perfect.
It makes your skin crawl.
Breathe... you're almost done.
You take a small break, lowering your self to sit on the muddy dirt ground, groaning when your backaches serve as a reminder of being hunched over all day; you toss the shovel aside and take in much needed breaths.
Something ice-cold and wet touches the back of your neck.
You jolt forward. shocked. disgusted. Quickly using your hand to cover your nape. Eyes shooting open and twisting around to whatever the hell just did that.
A singular bottle of water is held in front of you. You freeze.
He asks, gentle expression resting on his face, still holding out the cold bottle with his hand to you.
A hand without even a single trace of blood, dirt, or cement on it, not even a single speck hiding under the fingernails.
He's not 8 feet underground stuffed in a dark wooden box, with a sheet of cement weighing on top of it to prevent him from crawling out, and layers and layers of dirt ensuring to push him down with added pressure.
And he is smiling at you, whilst handing you a drink. In his neatly pressed clothes that look picked straight from the dry cleaners. And now everything you did, for the past 39 hours of sheer labor and desperation, is reduced to absolutely— nothing.
"I apologise for not telling you sooner to save you the trouble."
You don't need his comfort; the emotions he invokes in you will never come close to resembling comfort.
"But at the very least, it's not all for naught: you've found another useless method that doesn't quite do the job yet."
He’s still holding out the water for you, but it’s the way he extends his hand that makes you stare at the synthetically still limb in front of you, nothing about it human or natural—more akin to a statue covered by a thin layer of skin.
After lingering in a still state of suspended animation— his hand moves. The action so sudden, you flinch a bit. This elicits... something from him. You're not sure what reaction he's supposed to be portraying right now, was he supposed to be... chuckling? Or gasping in some weird way? The sound never making it past his throat as he just continues staring and making that noise. You don't like it.
He brings the bottle closer to your lips, wordlessly encouraging you to drink. A twitch in his fingers suggests he’s trying to recalibrate the functions of his human body, retrying to hold the bottle correctly; more naturally. More... gentle. Fluid.
He smiles again; it doesn’t make you feel good. The tug of his lips is a mimicry; you're sure he's borrowing someone else’s mouth right now, still trying to appear as "comforting".
"We'll just have to try again, won't we? I’m sure you’ll find plenty of ways to keep disappointing yourself."
