Death Hath not Visited, Death Hath not Seen
"Madmen know nothing. I fancy them characters of a fairytale."
You have the guts and courage of Robin Hood. Even if you do not. Because everyone, every one of us, have played pretend before right? Well, let's also pretend you have the beauty of Dorian Gray but with all the kindness of aforementioned Robin, even if that is unachievable and is nothing but a taunting dream. Let's say that your daily walk in the forest has taken a horrid turn and has left you wandering until you stumble upon the neighboring town. Let's just say that the wolves have left you alone because of your stunning beauty, let's say you have daringly and heroically stole from the dreaded rich of a humble village to provide for your needs of your short journey.
Now let's return our little pretend game to that neighboring town, with it's welcome fences and glittering trees. There is a wooden sign crudely stuck to the ground, the dirt around it bulging as if something was under it. It is painted with the word "Khapantreotoun," though there is a possibility you have read wrong. You pay little attention to it, nor do you spare the small, barely noticeable splatter of a dark red color of blooming flowers a extra look. You saunter light-hearted to the nearest inn to rest yourself from your somewhat tiring journey and are hospitably ushered in with cheerful smiles. You take a nice seat with a wooden table propped in the corner. A dangling spider looks at you from the other corner and you grimace slightly, marring your features but you quickly return to a more appealing look.
You turn to the window. The town is very colorful, with the swaying of lively green lights, until you notice they are leaves. You giggle a bit as a athletic-looking waitress runs gracefully besides you placing a silver platter on your table as she does the same with the man reading a newspaper on the table next to you.
After a hearty dinner, you then bid farewell to the gleeful fellows in the lower floor of the inn as you lightly but quickly proceed to the rickety stairs. The stairs hold up your light body and you make your way through the candle-lit hallways with their musty but warm rugs laid organized on wooden oak floor. You find your room, and your slightly rusting key (handed by the young waiter who seemed to have a lot in common with you) approves with it's soft click as the door opens. You step into a well-kept room, and luckily there are no dangling spiders. You smile at this thought. You busy yourself in this room, it is small but has many functions. There in the corner sits a sliding closet and a cozy bed seems to beckon you with wide-spread arms. You decide to read a book during your stay and a face way above you, so high you cannot see it, frowns because you are reading a book…while you are a character in a book. He finds this strange. It is odd, it is very new to him. You choose to please this outer force and replace the book on a stable shelf. He seems to be content with this. Below you, there is suddenly a scream. A loud shriek of extremely high volume. This time, it is you who is frowning. He seems amused, interested as to what will happen. You don't really like his attitude that much.
Carefully, you descend the creaking stairs as quick as you can. You catch a fleeting glimpse of the outside and you are suddenly thoroughly shocked. It is not the brightly-lit town you have seen. You take a quick turn to see the picket through the blurry window. As you press your face against the cold glass you read "Khapantreotoun" from the tiny picket, but this time, unlike the last, you notice that little splatter. It kind of…looks like... Hm…now what does it resemble? You can just hear, or even see the above face smirk at your naivety. So, he has known. You are quite mad at him for not informing you. Ahh, well, it is too late, you might as well see what is it that is happening down there. You sigh as you try to regain your former pace.
The above male is expecting a Prince Charming to arrive at the inn. Of course, it is quite obvious that the splatter was his seal. This little main character does not really meet your expectations of "brave and witty." She is rather a bit dim, like the teacher who prides himself intelligent though he is hiding under nothing but lies. He continues this novel, though it is getting quite dull. He is a bit saddened. He waves his legs back and fro as he tries to anticipate a unique twist, whacking his poor roommate a few times on the back. Oh my, was he licking a lollipop? Oops. Oh well.
You finally approach the bright glow of the lower inn and you are met with a disgusting scene. Before you have time to express your shock, or even have the author give details of your vision, everything stops. Why, you ask? It looks like the aforementioned male has decided that he wishes not to read anymore for the chills the illustration emits has started to seep into his brain through his eyes. The glaring, glowing red color and the fresh smell of small splatters of blood starts to invade his brain and his eyes seem to glow red along with the paint on the old book. Disassembled arms, amputated legs flash across his eyes like the 10 cents picture shows. He seems to be able to smell the waft of rust, so similar to blood coming from the dirty walls of the room though his brain thinks it blood. He stares at the closed book for a while, disturbed, and decides to get rid of the creepy thing. He admits he is quite superstitious. That is one of his weaknesses. He wouldn't wish the story's events on anyone, even the one he loathed. Though he actually hasn't hated anyone yet.
He makes a quick grunt and points towards the door. Nutty, which seems to be the name of the candy-licking roommate of this book-loving boy, nods slightly. The door refuses to open without protest for it squeaks horribly before opening wide. The stairs are creaking as his weight slightly forces onto the surface of the old wood. He runs his hands over the railing and it is rough, not polished and smooth like ones described in classic books. There are cracks in the wooden material and he can feel them through his hands. His fingernail scratches at one and some brown paint peels off. His mouth slightly opens and he silently forbids himself from damaging it more.
He lands on the second floor (he was previously on the third) and gently touches a hunched over male over the head, feeling and fiddling with his curly strands until he turns quickly in the dark, barely illuminated by a leftover candle burning daringly before it's last minutes.
This man, whose name is Lumpy if you must know, laughs a awkward laugh and states,
"Sniffles." He then properly questions his late-night prowling.
It appears that this male is called Sniffles for he seems to acknowledge the name with no rejection but a nod. He prods Lumpy lightly by the waist and asks for the location of the trash bin.
"Gone. Tomorrow."
"Mm, okay," Sniffles replies, with a tone that has a bit of gratification tucked in there for the small piece of information.
He gives him a quick "Good night," and quickly proceeds through the door and stairs, reminding himself not to touch and scratch the surface of the fragile railing. As he steps onto the last step, his hand is cut by leftover glass as he balances himself after a brief tumble.
He looks at the miniscule injury as nothing, wiping it off on his white (but now grey) shirt. He rubs it all over his face, arms, and legs while checking for further harm. Pleased to see nothing has happened other than the small coarse scratch, Sniffles drops down the book with a slam on the table and heads toward the door once again.
"Shower, Nutty."
Another nod. A piercing silence follows it, so silent that it pounds on the ears, as if there was really a sound.
"Nutty, shower...?" His eyebrows curve a bit, his eyes tinged with a bit of confusion.
A sigh can be heard.
"Nutty, go shower!"
There is a small sound of shuffling across the ground, though it stops as the other male pushes him towards the restroom quickly, the balls of their feet scraping against dirt. Sniffles slams the door and with a quick nod of satisfaction rolls into his bed, now free of a Nutty. Leaning over agilely, he reaches the book and it's neighbor, the candle. A bruise-like colored stain mars the cover of the book, and it has leaked onto the brittle pages of the old book. Oddly, it appears a light blue on a certain page, the contents page, but is colored normally on the others, as if someone had used up their dark-red paint. He…is somewhat curious as to what will happen in the end. He flips to back. Someone seems to be rendered…blind. Their eyes are rolling on the ground, next to a pair of arms that seem to belong to another person crouched pitifully next to the eye-less being. There is one leaning on a chair with no legs, something tied behind them and a piece of bone can be seen sticking out of their flesh. It is quite cruel and revolting really, and Sniffles finds it disgusting. A shrieking damsel seems to be holding a sharp projectile, the ill-looking girl besides her is clutching another chair with blood splattered all over her face, and her skin about to peel as her fingernails dig more into her frail hand. A male seemed to be knocked over on the ground, a brick stained with his blood and his hands grasping onto what seemed to be a small candy bar, a small candy bar inside another's stomach. It is a grotesque picture of pure red except there are no blooming flowers because a green-clothed male has them next to his mouth, his neck bruised. A clown dressed in flashy purple has his mouth open as if grasping for breath…even though he cannot with something blurred in the back, next to his spine. Each scan Sniffles makes gives him another victim to see, each with a desperate situation equal to another's. One dressed as a ant is sitting helplessly on a over-glorified throne with lemons by his raw feet. One is laid on a clothed bed, seemingly suffering from frostbite. It is horrid. This book seems to be so filled bloody scenes…as if devoted only to the terror of flying blood…and the blood stain on top contributes to this, it's strange blue like a sprouting plant. Except sprouting is truly the wrong word to be used…for no one is living happily in this book…not the Prince Charming, no, he is on the ground, not the dim damsel, no, she is crouching shocked, not the amusing Jester, no, he has been stabbed through the chest. And no, not him either, though how he will be gone…it is unknown. Which makes it all the more interesting, doesn't it?
Months later, but not that far, there sits a smudged being. He is writing something, no, not with his blood, but with a pen. A pen of red. You cannot see much of the second page, but it's first is clear…though no date is existent. There is a sound of scribbling. It could be silence, really, but no one really knows.
DATE
Silence. I can hear it today, one of the last days. It doesn't sound like it's usual. To some, though, it sounds like nothing. To some it sounds like their brain working. To some, it sounds like music they have in their head. To me, before I am fated to lose my brains and while I am still in the condition where I am able to understand and think, it sounds like a dropping of an object…,the echo of footsteps...,then a squeak, repeating, repeating, over and over…They are all dreadful sounds.
Reflected in our creaking mirror is a image of myself. The sorrow my reflection emits is overwhelming, though it is barely half the true melancholy in my real solid self. Though my beaten room helps give this scene it's gloomy mood, it is just a background effect. If removed, the pure sadness would not be gone….it would just simply exist as if nothing had been removed, taken away. Had it been just a plain, simple white world, with no greedy yearning and fanciful hopes and dreams…then maybe…this wouldn't have happened? Because then…maybe we would've adapted..? But it is our nature, to have such things. It would not have made us, ourselves. We…would've been dull…not unique. Though, life-is it possible for us to call it such now that it is malformed?-would have been easier, if we were able to laugh when we play in the sand, and not fear it become quicksand…and sweep us away.
I…wonder how it feels to be dim-witted. Truly, I am curious. Even if we are doomed horrible days…I am still honestly curious…even while I am writing this, days before our fated time in which I will no longer know how to write. I still have compliments of my lovely handwriting tucked away in a corner of my brain, as if taunting me of my coming inability to write, and this memory, it is something I cannot get rid of it…which teases me even more. This curse…it truly is the worse one, though I sometimes say we might have gotten one worse… But I know…I am really just trying to comfort myself, because how could it be any more horrible? I never was one to think the glass half empty…It always appeared half full. But I don't seem to think that right now.
Heavy dread seems to loom above us, and I respect anyone who is still able to keep this idea in their head. For we thought we were running the story, writing the tiny words…though it was the story, the horrid book, we were following, and we ended like how he ended. Sight-less, brain-less, limb-less, a curse of repetitive eternity of life, balancing upon the thin line we treaded on, between the gates of life and death. I can see the black iron…yet I can see the white pearls…but we can stay on neither side to rest…we are constantly balancing the thin line of grey, but we are no flexible clowns, we are just normal people…now just wanting a normal life.
A few days later, I will be a moose. A moose, with thin yellow antlers. And sometimes, I will be a human, a human-moose, with those same antlers. And Handy, he will be without hands-the irony, mocking us with it's nasty derision-and The Mole, he will be blind. Mime will speak no more, Cro-Marmot encased in cold ice. And I, I will be dumb. I will be like Algernon. Except I am not a white mouse, I am a moose. But he is dead, and I cannot be, so we are not completely similar. But who, really who at this time, will be picky of such details?
But I will keep comparing myself because it seems to make time go by faster…only for me to notice I will have no pleasure of doing this if I am reduced to a moose…a moose who cannot think. So I will do so when I still am capable of doing so.
I fancy myself also like Charlie, because when I look back at us, before we caught a glimpse of Khapantreotoun, we were naïve…but unlike Charlie, I now yearn for it…even though yearning has been revealed to be bad. But habits are hard to cut…nature is hard to change…and life is really hard to live.
Sniffles…he seemed so childish when I think back. He was stubborn, unable to accept the fact that this could not be changed and that it was his fault, yet today he is mature…and he understands the situation. He accepts it. We will just have to wait. Wait for years. Until…someone picks our book up. Until…it is 100 years. Then, we will be free. I do not know if I will revert back to myself, the one with the nice handwriting after the 100 years…But in 100 years…we will finally be able to rest.
Right now, I am already feeling a bit tired. And of course, this talk of rest is not helping, and I am feeling…rather strange. As if I am losing something. I am losing something bit by bit. My writing…seems to start to reflect this, it seems to have become quite messy. The iienk is supplatrred and I want to ressst…I htinnnk I realliiiy need it.
-Lumpy
A/N: I had a idea for a multi-fic so I decided to try at write it… Probably isn't that good because when I read it, it felt choppy. Tried to keep the character's dialogue short, limiting each time they speak to 3 words because that's how the show kind of works so it might be somewhat confusing I guess? Was really challenging trying to write their actions with little words, and at first I found it hard to progress through the story since I first limited myself to only speaking names or not speaking at all while conveying the story properly but couldn't pull it off. Lumpy's little journal entry with the comparison with Algernon and Charlie is from Flowers for Algernon, which is a short story I've been reading for school. My first impression of Charlie was that he was exactly like Lumpy and I found it really easy to get down Lumpy's character after I read it, which is probably why I chose to use that comparison.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own HTF.