Go Insane
~ Hello. I'm back with another one-shot about my favourite siblings. I always get random ideas and sometimes I write them, sometimes I don't, but I just had to do this one. I've always thought that Buttercup is the type of character who would depend on her sisters, emotionally, and I think that she would just fall apart if she ever lost one of them, so I wanted to write that, see what it could turn into and it might be a little crazy but it's meant to be so that's okay, haha! I hope you enjoy it, and thank you thank you thank you for reading! ~
Summary - She lost her sister, and then she lost her mind. (Insane!Buttercup. Very dark. Character death. You've been warned.)
Disclaimer - I don't own the characters or anything involved with the fandom whatsoever.
Warning(s) - Heavy mention of character death. Suicidal references. Swearing. Rated T because it's not as bad as it seems and I'm paranoid. If you're not into dark!fics, this is not the place for you.
She found it funny that someone could be here one minute - without a bleeding care in the entire world - and then the next minute, that person is just over.
(Gone.)
(Dead.)
When she thought about it, she knew that she shouldn't have found that so damn hilarious. She shouldn't have found any part of it amusing in the slightest, but she did, she really did.
It was just so funny.
xoxo
"You're dead."
"This isn't possible."
"You died."
No matter how many innumerable times she breathed the words through her lips, she still saw it, it didn't change anything. She still saw her late sister, dolled up in the flesh she once paraded around in, wearing the smile that once broke a million hearts and cleansed them all the same, like some sort of ghost, and she saw it every day since Blossom had been buried six feet under. She believed in superstitions - she used to fight monsters and devils before bedtime for Christ's sake - but ghosts? Ghosts of her dead sibling? Now that just could not be existent, that wasn't supposed to be real.
She released a pained howl; animalistic and savage like a caged beast. "Blossom."
She tossed her pillow at the thing dressed up in her sister's skin. "Go away."
It was futile, she knew that all too well, but it was instinctive.
The ghost of her sister - whatever the fuck it was - never used its stolen lips for anything other than smiling. And Buttercup found that both tragic and hilarious. The thing wearing Blossom's fair complexion never spoke one word - and Buttercup would try to get her to talk, oh, she'd try, she'd scream in its face but all it would do was smile, smile, smile - it never haunted her like it was supposed to - because that's what ghosts are for, right?
As she rolled around on her carpeted green floor, Buttercup grinned a sanctimonious grin that she had thought she had lost. She watched with a craned neck as the ghost spun around the room - just like Blossom used to do whenever a really, really good song came on the radio - and Buttercup continued to toss herself around the floor more and more until all she could feel was the carpet fibres burning her skin and against her lips and she laughed against the floor because the ghost was still spinning and that was funny.
"This is crazy.." She sat up and crossed her legs and watched her sister spin and spin until it made her feel dizzy. "I'm not crazy."
Buttercup burst into hysterical laughter; the real kind of laughter, the howling that transpired whenever she was told a joke that was golden.
Oh, she wasn't crazy - sure, sure - she was the picture of sanity, talking to her deceased sister in a dim room, watching her spin and twirl like an undead ballerina, screaming -so loudly and with so much force that blood should have been seeping from her lips- whenever the ghost disappeared because she wanted it back - she needed it to stay so she could look at it - and sometimes it would take hours before she would see it again.
Her sister - the one who still greedily breathed - Bubbles - the one with blonde hair like a perfect little Barbie doll - said that she was crazy. She yelled it. She screamed it - "Crazy! You're insane, Buttercup! She's dead. Stop saying that you've seen her!" - she was so silly that it was funny. She was an idiot. She was sane.
"I'll show you crazy." Buttercup said as laughter spewed from between her pried lips, and she offered a glance at her sister's ghost - it was standing beside the open door, arms crossed over its T-shirt, eyes ablaze with familiarity and so much pink - and all the ghost did was give her a smile in return, one of those million-dollar smiles, teeth and all, just like she used to.
Then she blinked and the ghost was gone.
Buttercup stopped laughing.
What had been so funny?
xoxo
She could remember the feeling of the glass; how it shattered against her frail hand, how the small, broken blades cut deep into her paled skin and marred it up beautifully and filled her with a physical pain that she couldn't even comprehend because she was busy dealing with the emotional pain swimming in her bloodstream. Because she had just been told that her sister - her brave, strong Bloss - was no longer breathing and she would never see her again (Haha to them. She did see Bloss again. Every day.)
Blossy Utonium, all high and mighty, self-righteous leader of the superpowered sisters of Townsville, had been hit by a truck.
A fucking vehicle killed her sister and left her splattered on the gravel.
Now that she thought about it, Buttercup found it pretty damn hilarious. Her seemingly indestructible sister who could withstand the worst of fears had been bested by a fucking truck. Was it an ice-cream truck? That would have made it funnier.
She remembered first seeing it on the evening news. Crimson blood, mixed with chemical X and death, coating the sidewalk outside of the kiddie park. Blossom had been in the middle of helping an elderly woman cross the road safely. The woman was on the pavement before the truck came barreling down. Blossom was still on the road.
Blossom had died because she was helping someone (reducing the risk of a life lost). Buttercup found that both ironic and funny.
So funny.
xoxo
It had been months since she had been inside of Blossom's bedroom - months since Blossom had been buried - and she found herself aching to walk inside the hallowed room, to be around the familiar pink-clad walls and carpet and the linen bed sheets and the Queen sized bed (she was a Queen, alright) and the closet filled with pink and black and bows that were far too big for her head.
And as she stepped into the desolate bedroom once owned by her sister, she felt knots sinking and gripping at her destroyed insides -twisting- and it hurt so much, and everything inside of her was shouting - screaming at her to run, run, run - but she didn't move a muscle, she didn't cave to the fear seeping into her bloodstream, because she refused to be afraid. Buttercup laughed in the face of fear (hahaha).
With weary eyes hiding underneath heavy eyelids, she took a short scan of the room, cold and deserted and vacant, and everything was gone. No Queen-esque bed. No bows. No pink. Nothing to remind anyone that Blossom Utonium had once breathed and slept in this room.
Dad did this, she told herself, dad gutted out her room because she's gone and he's accepted that because he's a bastard.
"Not funny," She muttered into the stale air as she bit at her fingernails. Funny, that. She never used to bite her nails.
Unable to contain herself for a moment longer, she held her hand into the air and pointed the gun outwards with confidence oozing out of every move she made. She could barely feel the gun against her burning skin. She would soon. Soon enough. She aimed the weapon around the room, not sure exactly what her target was at this time. (Where was the ghost when she needed it?) (She'd shoot the ghost, just to check if it was real, just to see if she was actually as sane as the next person and that Blossom was alive and could disappear on a whim and she wasn't crazy.)
Buttercup pushed a laugh against her splayed fingers.
"Blossom," She singsonged as she repositioned the gun and thrust it against her left temple. "You're not coming out now? What is this? You can prance about my bedroom but you're too scared to come in here?" Her tone was positively acidic and the ghost deserved it. Ghosts were so inconvenient sometimes.
"Blossom."
"Blossom!"
No ghost. No whatever-that-thing-was.
With a steady hand, she gently began to pull her finger back, ever so slowly, tugged at the trigger, and she wasn't thinking about anything except for her precious, beautiful sister. Blossom was the last thought she had before -
(BANG)
She felt the cool water run down her disheveled black hair and slip down the side of her face like tears.
And she laughed.
Blossom had always hated water-guns.
xoxo
The ghost - the thing that has her sister's epidermis and beam - was sitting on the top of Buttercup's bedside cabinet like the Queen that Blossom once was. Funny. Ghosts are supposed to fall through furniture on account of their non corporeal bodies (another thing that makes Buttercup believe that this is not a ghost - her sister is here and she's alive and she's perfectly safe and oh my God she's alive). The fact that the ghost looks just like Blossom should have been unsettling all along but instead it was comforting. Blossom was by far too beautiful to be gone. She had always been so prepossessing, so much so that even the angels would sin just to take a look at her. And Buttercup could have stared at the comforting sight sat atop her cabinet forever, but when she blinked, the ghost was no longer there and she wondered if she had imagined it.
It disappeared more often lately.
Buttercup took an immediate notice of this; where was it going? It was a fucking ghost. Where could it be needing to be?
She found it so so funny. At first she wanted this thing to leave her alone because it was just a constant reminder of her no-longer-breathing sister and now she felt crushed and enraged and asphyxiated because she couldn't see it anymore. All the ghost ever did was taunt her with that Blossom smile (broad, ebullient, buoyant, the smile that she used when she was really, really happy; whenever she was chasing hearts and floating on clouds and trailing rainbows because she was so so so elated) and she still missed it even with its fucking incessant toxic taunts.
She didn't need to hear Blossom's voice encompassing her; she didn't need to feel the warmth of Blossom's hug; she just needed to see her, see that smile and understand what it meant and find out if this was all just some trick of the mind or if that smile was real.
It had gotten to the point where she thought that this thing wasn't a ghost.
She was starting to think that her sister (meant to be an angel in the sky but maybe not) wasn't up there in the gates of Heaven; that she was alive and breathing and smiling.
It was so sad that it was funny.
(Hahahaha)
xoxo
Her family (what little she had left) said that her head was up in the clouds and that she'd be better off playing with the other cloud people.
She laughed so hard at that.
Crazy. Insane. Demented. Unhinged. They could call it whatever they pleased, Buttercup wasn't going to acknowledge something that she didn't (couldn't) believe. She refused to accept any of it. She knew that there was nothing right about seeing her sister's ghost everywhere she turned or for having moments where she believed that her sister (her sister whose blood had been wiped clean from the pavement outside of their house) was still alive, but belief didn't make her mentally ill. Hope didn't label her as insane. She wasn't crazy and she would fight to make people understand that and stop trying to commit her to a place where she would be surrounded by the real crazies.
John Utonium was secretly an evil criminal mastermind.
(He really wasn't, but she had begun thinking this recently)
He wanted to lock her up in an asylum until she was better. Buttercup began to believe that this had been his plan all along; create a perfect little girl to see if reality would drive her up and down the walls and then he'd lock her up and toss the key into a chasm and wave bye-bye. Buttercup was convinced that he had been driving the truck that killed Blossom months before. He was as evil as they came. It was all his master plan.
(Of course, she had taken things a little too far with this notion, but it all made perfect sense inside her head)
And Bubbly-blue-eyes? No better than her father. She turned out to be the perfect little girl after all (no crazy inside of those eyes). She was probably evil too. Everyone was evil at the end of the day. Buttercup had learned not to put trust in anyone, not when life was so cruel that it would take Blossom Utonium out of it; the world was cruel and everyone was evil; that was all she dared believe now.
She just wanted her ghost-sister and no one else.
And she was still searching for ghost-Blossom even when they locked her behind bars with the other cloud people and laughed goodbye to the key.
xoxo
The sheath-like straight jacket was just as unyielding as she had imagined when she had first laid damaged green eyes on it, caging her limbs and compressing the torn bones beneath her marred skin, but she stopped feeling it after a while. She stopped feeling everything but the constant spasm of her empty heart thudding against the walls of her ribcage - almost as if it were trying to escape because Buttercup didn't need it anymore.
And when the sun rose after her first night in the asylum and Buttercup's eyes rolled open; she sensed it. Sensed her beautiful ghostly sister. As her face turned to the right side, she saw the thing sat beside her, its back pressed against the cushioned white walls, its smile bloody and wide, it's familiar pink eyes trained to the wall opposite them. Buttercup's heart leapt in her throat and pounded in her ears - because it was back, her sister was here.
Now that she had returned - the magnetic ghost dressed in her sister's skin and smile was back - she stole the chance to memorize everything about it before it left her again - oh, but if it ever left her alone again she would tear it apart limb from limb and fix it back up again - and she studied every nook and cranny of its stolen face; the wise pink eyes framed by long lashes that made her orbs look ebullient and cartoonish and big; the straight nose that matched with her even straighter chin and jaw; the red, bloody red lips painted with cheap make-up and never stopped smiling because she was clearly so happy - she was back with her Buttercup and they could be together forever and Blossom would never leave again and everything would be perfect in both of their worlds and she could fix Buttercup or she could at least try.
"You need to stop doing that smiling thing, Bloss," Buttercup mumbled as she looked away. "Someone might think that you're happy to see me." (She was surprised to see that her sharp tongue was still attached even after everything)
There was no response from the figment - as always - she just smiled even wider and showcased the white teeth that Blossom always took such good care of. Buttercup stared at it again, a bittersweet smile of her own gracing her crooked, chapped lips.
Buttercup hadn't seen it in weeks, and now, when she's locked up in a mental institution, all alone, she saw her again.
Isn't that funny?
~ This is probably the darkest thing I've ever written and it was actually rather fun (in a weird way) so I hope that you liked reading it just as much as I liked writing it. Thank you for taking the time to read! ~
Review, please?
Allison