This is my first foray out of anime and into JTHM, so please forgive me if this sucks beyond belief. Obviously I don't own Johnny the Homicidal Maniac, because if I did that would mean I was Jhonen Vasquez, and since I'm not even CLOSE to his level of godliness, the story isn't mine. There is some language at the end, and some violence here and there... but the main thing to stress about is some sexuality stuff.
Dedications: First, Nariel, my original inspiration. I know it's been a while, but I still love you regardless of time passed. Second, my friend from HOSPITALSAREFUN, or Corri. you are my latest muse, and of course the one who introduced me to JTHM in the first place. This one's for both of you. Now, on with da' fun!
One time. One agonizing time, and everything went to Hell. One time, a long time ago.
Actually, there might have been other times; there might have been a hundred times before or after. But it was only this time he remembered, only this time that haunted him to his very core.
She was beautiful. She had long dark hair and porcelain skin, and wore thick but tasteful eyeliner and lipstick the color of a wilting red rose. Simply beautiful.
He had to have her. It wasn't a decision, it was a genuine need, a requirement for his continued existence. He wanted to touch that porcelain skin, to see if it was as smooth as the material after which it was named. He wanted to run his fingers through her hair, to revel in its scent and texture. He wanted her.
He waited, and he watched. For years, it seemed, he waited for her, waited for her to come to him openly and without reservation. But she wanted nothing to do with him.
What else could he do? Having her was completely necessary for him. He had to have her—so how else could he?
He watched her walking down the street one day, after so long waiting. He watched her walking, watched the gentle creasing and movement in the fabric of her clothing. He followed her, walked far enough behind her so she wouldn't see, but close enough to follow accurately. Soon she stopped and turned into a small, dark street.
He had to. It was his one and only chance. She was necessary, after all.
She walked slowly, each leg moving lazily and without compulsion for excellence. He watched her in absolute awe of her beauty. Then, seizing his moment, he flew forward as though on winged shoes and wrapped his arms tightly around her waist, hoisting her into the air like a heavy sack.
She kicked and screamed, writhing like some contemptible snake in his arms. He used one hand to keep her silent, whispering for her not to scream. And like that, carrying her bodily in one arm, he took her home with him. Home so he could experience her beauty at leisure.
They reached his home, and she was over his shoulder, unconscious. He had held her face too long and too hard, and she had passed out from suffocation. But no matter, now he could examine all he wanted, get acquainted with her, before they really started bonding.
Once safe inside his large house, he quickly whisked himself and the girl away into the confines of his bedroom. Hopefully no one came knocking.
He laid her on his bed and stared at her—the golden hair, the peaceful expression on her porcelain face, the way her blue shirt clung to her gentle curves. It was all so breathtaking just to look at her, but what if…?
His hand reached out tentatively, almost reluctant to sully her beauty with his filth, but he had to. His fingers caressed her face, his palms massaged her arms, stomach, and legs. He almost resisted the final urges, but in the end his needs won out and he touched her breasts as well, felt them through the silky material of her blouse. So round and full, yet small and oh so delicate… Such beauty made him want to weep. His hands began again to wander, down lower to the folds of her skirt. He wanted to feel her beautiful innocent, touch it with his fingers, show her the love he knew she needed so much, even if she would have turned him away. Just as he began to explore her outermost folds, her eyes fluttered open and she groaned.
"Where am I?" she murmured, sitting up on the bed and holding her head. Then she spotted him, and she started to scream. He leaped on top of her at once, covering her mouth with his thin hand, muffling her cries.
"Shut up, shut up, don't make too much noise or they'll find you!" Didn't she understand? Didn't she see that they would get caught if she wasn't quiet?
She was crying, and whispering to him. "Please, please, just let me go, I won't tell, I promise, I won't tell anyone, I won't tell the police I'll just go home, please oh please oh please oh—"
He pressed his palm to her lips again and she quieted except for her sobbing. "You have to be quiet, okay? They can't find you here, I'll get into trouble. And if they find you… you won't be going home. Now just let me in, I only want to look at you…"
Though she still cried she stopped struggling. He lifted her skirt and started exploring again. So strange to find she wasn't made like him, yet all the more intriguing for it. He slid his long fingers beneath the last barrier of cotton and entered into her, searching for anything he could find that might be the key to her beauty. Nothing.
"Are you gonna…" she whispered, the tears streaming ceaselessly down her face. He looked up and eyed her quizzically.
"Am I gonna what?"
"Take… take my…"
He was utterly confused. "Huh?"
"Are you gonna rape me?" she screamed, choking on her own tears. "Coz if you are then just do it already! Stop torturing me and let me go home!"
He leaped back and shrieked at her. "No! I would never do that to—" Then he stopped screaming and looked at her. She was so prepared for it, like that was all she wanted in the world because then she would get to go home. He stepped closer again and looked down at her face. She looked at him through puffy eyes and tears.
"I don't want to hurt you, I just…" He didn't know how to say it. He wanted her, he needed her, he needed to become a part of her. But was this the only way? Something so sick and twisted and vile? He eyed her skirt, remembering the feeling from when he was exploring her with his hands. It was inevitable, he was too far gone to deny himself such a thing.
He leaned close to her face and whispered, "Don't be afraid, I love you."
Such words, they were everything he'd meant to say! Everything he'd been thinking but could never put into words had just spilled from him! In his ecstasy he shed his cutoff trousers and rid her of all her clothing. He fingered her hair and caressed her skin. Then, before he could think of what he was doing, he entered. Such a feeling, such a wondrous feeling! His whole body lit afire as he did it again and again, not hearing her cries and pleas for mercy. All he had was the sensations and the moment, and they both enveloped him until all else melted away.
Soon all was finished. He crouched over her, frozen after the climax, and stared into her face. His momentary ecstasy soon withered and gave way to absolute horror.
She was no longer beautiful, no longer sweet and innocent. He had ruined her, dirtied her. He could never let her go like this. She would be dead the rest of her life, doomed to walk the streets of her life knowing she was impure. He couldn't take it. He leaped off her and replaced his pants. Everything had gone completely wrong.
She wasn't crying now, just staring at the ceiling and clenching her teeth. She was broken, shattered, and it was his fault. He couldn't stand the sight of her. He ran to the bathroom and vomited violently into the toilet, the cleaning fumes only heightening his illness. He crossed his arms over the bowl, laid his head on them, and cried. He sobbed loudly and vehemently, tears flowing down his cheeks and pooling on his arms.
"You sick bastard…"
He looked up. Who had spoken? It has been a male voice, but whose?
"End her misery…end your misery…end her misery…end your misery…"
It kept repeating, echoing around the tile walls, around and around in his head.
"I'm sorry!" he screeched into the room, standing and spinning, searching for the voice. "I know it was wrong, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"
"Disgusting wretch…end her misery…you're sick…end your misery…kill…kill…end it…kill…"
He ran from the room, escaping into the kitchen. He fished blindly through drawers for something, anything, to fix what he'd done.
"Can I go home now? Please?"
He spun. She was standing in the kitchen doorway, completely nude, and was staring at him through cold, blank eyes. His stomach churned again at the sight of her. He looked away, unable to hold her gaze, and his eyes fell upon what he was holding. It was a butcher knife, serrated and roughly the size of his arm. Suddenly everything was so clear, so obvious.
"End it…end it…kill…"
He met her eyes now, the perfect scene playing out in his head. He lifted the knife, and her reflection glinted in it. She looked at it for a moment, as though puzzled, then began to laugh a cold, heartless laugh that rang through his very bones.
"Do it," she said, holding her arms out and bearing her body for destruction. "Just kill me already."
"Kill her…kill her…end the cycle…break the chain…end it…end it…end it…"
He took one tentative step, then suddenly sprang forward, knife clenched in hand, and sunk it deep into her chest, shattering her breastplate and spraying the kitchen with blood. She fell to the floor, sputtering, clutching at the knife. He fell with her, kneeling on her stomach. With a giant heave he removed the knife from her chest, then plunged it in again, into her side. Over and over he stabbed her, in the chest, the face, the stomach, the breasts…everywhere that needed cleansing.
When he finally stopped she was unrecognizable, and he and everything nearby was drenched in thick, dark blood. He stared at his work and stood, backing away slowly.
"Oh god…what have I done?" He couldn't grasp it, couldn't bring himself to believe it.
Before he knew what was happening he was throwing her body into the lake, weighting it with anything heavy he could find at home or on the way. We watched her sink, the dirty water swallowing her mangled corpse without remorse or judgment. Tears forced their way down his still bloody cheeks.
He reached home and stood outside the door for a while, staring up at its utter grandeur. He didn't deserve such a house, such a life. He was a sick, twisted creature, unworthy of human contact. He ran away form the house, away from everything he knew. He finally stopped running when he tripped over an abandoned bike on the dirtiest street he'd ever seen. He stood, ready to run again, when saw a tiny, ramshackle old house across the street from him. He stared at it a few moments, then dashed inside, finding the door unlocked and the house empty. He locked the door tight and curled up into a ball in the corner to cry.
After nearly two hours of sobbing, he looked up and around at the room he hadn't inspected upon entering. It was nondescript, with dirty white walls and a rough wooden floor. There were only two windows, both at the front of the house and nailed shut with two-by-fours. He sat staring at these windows absently, the tears finally drying on his face but his heart still aching, then nearly jumped a foot in the air when something cold touched his shoulder.
He spun, jumping to his feet as he did. He looked around for what had touched him and spotted something that made his stomach turn. A long, white tentacle, like that of a squid, was protruding from the wall that had been behind him.
"Who are you?" he cried, backing away and pressing himself against the farthest wall from the alien arm. "What do you want with me?"
"I saw what you did," the thing replied, though it hadn't physically spoken—it was like it was speaking directly into his head. "I watched all of it. And I can see how much it pains you."
"Well of course it pains me," he said, a lump forming in his throat, "I killed her."
"I know, I know…" the thing answered. "But I can fix it. I can take the pain away."
"I deserve this pain. I ruined her, I raped her, and I killed her. I don't deserve the comfort of Hell."
"But really, I can make it stop. I make it like this never happened."
"Can you bring her back? Can you reawaken her mutilated corpse and reverse what I've done?"
"I can fix you. You'll never feel this pain again. Just come closer to me, and I'll fix everything."
He stared at the tentacle for a few moments, unsure what to do. He knew what he'd done was wrong, but he also knew he couldn't live knowing what he'd done it and hadn't tried to fix it. He stepped slowly closer to the tentacle.
"Yes, yes…" it said, gesturing for him to come closer. "Come here…touch the wall. Press your fingers to the plaster, and everything will be new…"
He stretched out his arm and touched it, unsure how this could solve anything. Suddenly his skin tingled all over, and the blood that still covered most of him was sucked off him and into the wall. His eyes went wide and he tried to back away, but the wall had him stuck and he couldn't move.
"Ah…the blood…it fills me!"
He yanked his arm hard, trying to pry his hand from the wall, but it wouldn't budge. Then, without warning, the wall released a strong pulse of energy that thrust his body away and sent him flying across the room. He sat up, trying to ignore the pain in the back of his head, which he was sure was bleeding, and stared at the wall. The tentacle that had extended was gone, and the hard surface of the wall itself had morphed and was bubbling, eating the blood that it had sucked from his hand.
"What is happening? What are you doing?"
"The blood…the blood!"
He scrambled backwards on the floor before trying to stand and run, but the whole house was shaking now, and the door had slammed shut. He pulled the handle roughly, but it wouldn't budge.
"Why are you doing this?" he cried out, panic spreading throughout his body.
Then, without any reason for the epiphany, somewhere inside him he knew he was going to die. As he realized the knowledge to its fullest extent, he released the doorknob and slumped onto the floor amongst the shaking walls. He knew he would die here, in this horrible house, and he would deserve it. He stopped moving.
"Now, to fix your predicament…" the wall said. It sounded almost breathless, like it was incredibly tired after running a great distance.
"It doesn't matter," he answered. "I still don't deserve to live. Why don't you just kill me now, then bring the girl back."
"No, you deserve life, but only if I fix what you've done, and I can't fix it if you're dead. Now stay still."
Suddenly he was on his feet again, energy pulsing through his body and frying his insides. He felt like he was being broiled from the inside out, like his organs were heating and they were therefore heating the rest of him. Next he knew, he was slumped on the floor again, and he felt like his skin was steaming. Then everything went black.
Johnny awoke on the floor of his living room. He sat up, stretched, and looked around the room. So familiar, everything here—the roughly boarded windows, the dirty wood floor, the two painted Doughboy statues, the knives that littered the floor and tabletop, the wall covered in drying blood—so boring. He stood up and walked across the floor to one of the windows. He looked through a space between two boards and looked outside. It was completely dark, the stars glinting in the inky sky. Johnny turned and glanced at his digital clock—2 a.m. His stomach gurgled, and he looked at the door.
"Hungry!" he whispered to himself, as he turned the handle easily and walked out of the house. "I'll go to the 24/7 down the street…maybe they'll have something yummy."
He dashed down the dark avenue, playing in the shadows and nearly dancing across the asphalt. He felt so free—maybe it was the liberating darkness, perhaps the eternally enlightening night sky, he didn't know. All he knew was that he felt alive and free, and he loved the feeling and never wanted it to go.
He walked into the nearly empty mart and started browsing the aisles. He picked up a bag of chips, a packet of cookies, and went to the back of the store for a Freezee. He went to grab a cup and someone shoved him aside to get one first. Johnny stood stunned, incredulous at this man's self-congratulatory idea that he was better than any other 24/7 Mart customers.
Before he knew what he was doing, Johnny had dropped his snacks and shoved the man against the Freezee machine and was holding him there by the neck.
"You think you're better than me?" he shouted, his saliva dripping from his teeth and spraying ruthlessly into the man's face. "You think I don't matter as much as you? You know nothing, you selfish prick!" Then he grabbed a handful of unopened Freezee straws and shoved them, spooned-side first, down the man's throat and deep into his eye sockets. Blood poured from his eyes as the man nearly vomited in an effort to release his windpipe of the straws, but Johnny's grip was relentless, and he only let go when the man stopped squirming and fell to the floor in a pool of him own blood.
Johnny stared down at the man's dead body for a moment, then picked up his bloodied snacks and walked to the front counter to pay. Ignoring the cashier's wide-eyed stare, He simply held out some wrinkled dollar bills and said, "Get me a Cherry FizzWizz too."