Author's Note:

Freaky Fred, Barbara and the basics of their story belongs to John R. Dilworth and Cartoon Network. I added the details about the story and the character of Doctor Wicker. I drew the cover image.

Please read my previous story, "The Unfortunate Events of an Insane Love." You will understand it better.

Also, I am aware it is incredibly dramatic. That's the reason it makes me sick, but also the reason I love it. So please bear with me. Also, I LOVE feedback!

My Barbara's sweet, sleeping face,
Has now awoke with woken grace,
And oh! Sweet girl, have joy in place
Of sleep, for I've been... naughty.

I cannot say what beauty lies,
In those dried tears, in those sweet eyes,
And in your smooth head, which implies
That your lover has been... naughty.

I smile pleasantly at her. Confusion first passes through her expression... then she lifts her hand to her head. Her eyes widen as she grips her hairless skull, and looks down at her beautiful locks strewn across the floor. I begin to speak, but to my surprise, she lets out a terrible screech. Frankly, I'm too shocked by her reaction to say anything now—and the smile fades.

"Fred!" She leaps out of the chair and stares deeply into my confused green eyes. "Did you— is this—"

"You—you knew... this is... good..." I stumble like a fool over my words, for now I am very much taken aback.

"Good!" She exclaims, repeating me. Angry tears accumulate in her blue eyes again and drip over her hot red cheeks, retracing the salty paths from her last lament. "My parents were right!"

I don't know how to feel. She should be happy... I look away from her terrified, glaring eyes.

In all inquiry, what have I done?

Barbara covers her mouth and cries silently to herself, tightening her eyebrows frustratedly. I've hurt her, terribly, in some way...

"Barbara," I say in a trembling voice, and move towards her to embrace her once again. But as I do, she grabs my shirt in a burst of anger and shoves me away. Normally, I would have hardly budged, but shock has weakened my body somehow, and I stumble backwards.

"Get away, you freak!"

I realize now. My head is clear! This is both wonderful and horrible. I want to laugh or cry, but all I can do is stare at my sweet girl with shock and fear. I no longer see the locks of hair on the floor as a prize.

"Please?" I mumble. "I'm sorry..."

"I'm calling the hospital! You're sick and I hate you! How could you lie to me?" These outbursts are jammed into her frantic, angry speech with a few others. Harsh, stabbing words spill from her delicate mouth... At the same time, she thrashes my shoulders about and pounds on my helpless chest. This rage from Barbara, I have never seen. I let her slap my face and tug my collar until the seams rip. Barbara... I can't force myself to utter her beautiful name...

Finally, after screaming "I'm calling the hospital" one last time, she turns and rushes out the door—the bell rings loudly to mock me.

Overcome, I drop painfully to my knees. How could I have been so daft...? Am I really insane, as they say? Cutting hair had always brought happiness, not this... I can't quite collect these thoughts; my mind is scrambled. Now, it hits me hard like a knife in my ribs. I had just driven away the only thing I could have ever loved...

The shadows start to consume my mind again, so I sadly say goodbye to the brightness of night.

I can feel my hands tugging harshly at my own hair.

I can sense bitter tears rise from the blackest part of my heart and splatter themselves all over my wood floor.

My cheeks are stretched and my own horrible grin is laughing at me.

The air itself strangles me...

I hear people talking... telling me what a horrible mistake I made... how naughty you have been Fred... very naughty... very very naughty...

A harsh sunlight. My shop bell rings.

Men in uniform rip me from the cold comfort of the floor. They drive me away with them, in the back of a van. I scramble to the corner of this little mobile room, frightened and still flustered. I can't make out any speech that may have echoed through the thick air around me, but for the ever-insistent voices...

My mind has finally changed. Suddenly, hair seems delicious. To hell with this tragedy, I need more! More razor buzz, more soft crinkle of splitting locks, more sweet smell of perfume, more little morsels that cling to the static of my clothes... more, more, more...

And so you've learned as I have said,
The lamentations in my head,
Which had me wish that I'd been dead,
And not ever the least bit naughty.

But I must inform, as I've done above,
The tragedy of broken love
Can have affects much undreamed of
And persuade to yet be... naughty.

"My name is Doctor Wicker..."

Where am I? I see a brightly-lit room. No, it's not the lighting, I judge. It's the walls that are painted with an unnecessarily numerous number of layers—white.

I'm sitting. And there is a man sitting in front of me.

I'm restrained to the chair.

"My name is Doctor Wicker." I hear again. "Yours is Fred?"

I now focus on the man in front of me. His dark blue eyes are masked by spectacles.

"Yes," My voice is tight—I cough to clear my throat. Before I can ask what happened, the man says,

"Do you feel alright?"

I take into account my sickened stomach and throbbing head.

"No."

"What happened?"

At this moment, I remember exactly what happened. I want to cry out with regret and bitterness, but I don't. Instead, I lean forward as much as my restraints will let me and lower my head in despair.

"Please let me go," I say. I don't understand why he would tie me up.

"Fred," the doctor says. "You are back where you need to be. You remember this place?"

"No," I mumble, frustrated. He wasn't going to let me go.

"It's the home," I hear him say. His words are kind, but they couldn't have penetrated more painfully.

"Who are you?" I finally ask.

"Doctor Wicker."

"You're new?"

"Yes."

I decide to stay silent.

"Fred, please tell me what happened."

'You know what happened, doctor, don't take me for a fool. And don't you dare call me by my first name,' is what I think, but I am silent. My headache is still paining me; I wince.

And now, your hero is restrained
Inside a tomb of white, and pained,
Unable to leave, frankly afraid,
I suppose I've been somewhat naughty...

A story that's quite hard to tell,
But as the memory fades it's well,
To tell and tell and relive hell,
As to my dear, sweet love,
My own Barbara, and I was hers,
I have been naughty.