Down the Rabbit Hole

by Satu-D-2

One day old, Piccolo can already define what madness is. It's the voice of his father, the endless, seething hate, the laughter that haunts him. It's the image of a spiky-haired boy who he doesn't yet know but already hates. What Piccolo doesn't yet know is that there are many ways of being mad. Based on the Pint-Sized Prompts run by the lovely u/Atojiso. March: March Madness

1. Flickering

March 1st: Flickering - 100 words - A dim room. A singular, flickering light. Maniacal laughter comes from the shadows.

Thank you to the ever wonderful and magical DeeJayMil for her help in both my title and my summary. Dee, you are marvellous and supportive and just generally fantastic. Thank you xoxox

I am also not keeping to the word counts. Is hard enough without that XD

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"Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

The silence of the room broke as a vase shattered against the door. A child was curled up in the far corner. Small green hands clasped over long pointed ears. His voice had been cracked and broken, desperate and furious. The word demon was emblazoned in red on his purple surcoat.

Laughter surrounded him. Vicious cackling that grated and hurt his sensitive ears. It seemed to be burrowing in and bouncing around the inside of his skull. He had no idea that this laughter was originating from inside his own mind.

Yes, my son, embrace the rage.

"Fuck off!"

One hand reached, groped, and caught hold of a small end table. With considerable force he flung it towards the door, where he thought the laughter was coming from, and it shattered into splinters.

"Leave me alone!"

The voice didn't stop. The laughter didn't stop. Tears of helplessness burned in his eyes and he lashed out until the small room around him was in ruins, splintered and shattered, deep claw marks from his four long nails marking the solid wood. Eventually he cried himself to sleep, curled up and clutching at his shoulders.

Within his mind the influence of his father continued to exert itself, inserting memories and an instinctive hatred of a small tailed boy with spiky hair, the boy who had, somehow, through luck or fate or skill, murdered the former Demon King. And as he slept, his body twitching and his face pulled in grimaces of pain and anger, the evil of his father sunk deeper, claws of fire into his very soul. He was helpless. Despite hatching only a day ago, he was already being bombarded from every angle with this message of hate and violence.

He never had a chance.