Author's Note: I watched "Wishology" recently and thought it was a pretty good TV movie. However, I was disappointed by the portrayal of the Darkness and what it was like inside the Darkness. I was expecting an obsessive friendship and the near-adoration of Timmy Turner, similar to W-i-s-s-l-e-r's picture "Love my darkness" on DeviantArt. (Check it out – it's awesome). Instead, all we got was a simulation of boring old Dimmsdale.
So, inspired by W-i-s-s-l-e-r and by the awesome FFN author candlelight, my challenge is essentially to rewrite "The Final Ending" and make it a little darker (pun not intended). That doesn't mean there will be swearing or violence or carnal relations or anything like that. I'm just trying to tell a creepy tale. I hope you like it!
This Little Light of Mine
Chapter One: After the Sacrifice
Timmy Turner floats in absolute nothingness.
By coming here, he's saved the lives of his friends and family. But twisting his head around, surveying what he's got himself into, it's going to take a lot of work to convince himself that he did the right thing. It doesn't matter if he closes his eyes or keeps them open; the view is the same. A swathe of impenetrable darkness. There is no landscape to speak of, no trees or fields, no houses or skyscrapers. There are no friendly faces looking out for him, or even unfriendly faces scowling and plotting. There is no floor to ground him – all directions are open, and whichever way he moves, he will be lost forever.
He waits for a voice. A reassurance, a threat – he'll take anything. Instead, there is silence. "Hello?" he calls. Too loud! He claps his hand over his mouth. He has disturbed the peace. The Eliminators will come for him!
But nothing happens. No knight in shining armour arrives on a noble steed. No dungeon master pounces on him with a thumbscrew. He is the only living soul around.
Why can't something just happen already? Why can't the Darkness just eat his flesh or drink his blood or break his bones or whatever and get it over and done with? This waiting, this not-knowing, is torture.
Drifting nowhere in particular, the world seems to have slowed to a snail's pace, as has his train of thought. The implications of his decision to fly into the monster's mouth crawl across his mind one by one.
Man, it's dark in here.
And lonely.
I guess this is all there is.
No Dimmsdale.
No Chester.
No A.J.
No Mark.
No Trixie.
He curls into a ball, hugging his legs. He's suddenly realised how cold it is. The lingering chill prickles at his skin, like a villain hunting him down.
No Vicky.
No Mr Crocker.
No Dark Laser.
No Mom.
No Dad.
The air is thin. He gasps for oxygen. The sound is swallowed up and goes unheard. No rescuer is coming for him. He knows that now.
No Jorgen.
No Poof.
No Cosmo!
No Wanda!
Just me, all alone in the Darkness, waiting for whatever the heck it wants to do to me…
It's then that the tears escape. They burn his cheeks, hot with fear. They drip from his chin and vanish into cloudy blackness. It's not right. He's the Chosen One. He's not supposed to burst into tears in the face of danger. He's supposed to be a hero, slaying the dragon, defeating the Bad Guy, coming home to cheering crowds and parades and a shower of rose petals. But when he's suspended in seemingly never-ending murkiness, he doesn't feel very brave. More like a caged dog about to be put to sleep.
He's pretty sure he knows what the Darkness wants. If he's the true Chosen One, then he's the only person in the world who can destroy the Darkness once and for all. Unless the Darkness destroys him first.
He weeps and weeps. Everything about him – his memories, his senses, his wishes – melts into insignificance, except for one fact. He's going to die here. He doesn't know how, but he will die here.
If only he had a chance to say goodbye properly.
"Why are you crying?"
The booming voice spooks Timmy out of his sobbing state. "Who – who's there?" he asks.
"It's only me. The Darkness." The sound is coming from everywhere, omnipresent, echoing through the gloom. "Tell me what's bothering you."
The ten-year-old boy snorts. "Where do I start?" He scrapes the moisture off his face. "I've been attacked by giant robots, I've dragged everyone I love into danger, and now you're going to k-k-k-kill me." He folds his arms. "Excuse me for not being a ray of sunshine."
He swears the Darkness is laughing at him. "You've got a lot of chutzpah for one so young." A concentrated mass of shadow whacks him in the arm, like a friendly punch from a high-school jock. "I like it."
"You do?" Timmy rubs his (slightly sore) arm.
"Of course. You're a remarkable child, Timmy Turner. Kind, witty, cute as a button … I'd very much like to befriend you."
"Really?" So many questions. "You don't want to destroy me?"
"Absolutely not!" The atmosphere seems to ripple with indignation. "Whatever made you think that? Was it the voice? It was the voice, wasn't it? Well, I can always change it. You should have just said."
The Darkness clears its throat – wait, can darkness have a throat? "Testing, testing," it tries again. "Yes, this is preferable; it's feminine, it's high-pitched but not too high-pitched, and best of all, it's English!"
"It wasn't just the voice," Timmy interjects. "You're kind of big and scary-looking. And what's with the robots yelling, 'Eliminate Timmy Turner'?"
A sigh billows the empty space. "I didn't know what I wanted back then," the Darkness explains. "I assumed the Chosen One would be yet another muscular warrior sent to commit me to oblivion, just like all the others. When I sent those robots after you, I was acting out of fear – no, dread – no, self-preservation."
Timmy is quiet. The Darkness continues. "And then I found you, and instead of firing a missile, you sent a brilliant burning light into me. It seared my innards, true, worse than any weapon of mass destruction that had come before it. But once I'd retreated and recovered, I was left with the most beautiful feeling." The Darkness wraps itself around the boy's tiny body, encasing him in a soft cocoon. "I don't know if it's possible to adequately describe it. It was like someone saw my dirty soul and was scrubbing it clean. I was lighter, more carefree than I had been for aeons. Then I experienced an epiphany: 'This is what friends do for each other. They make each other better.' So, no, I don't want to destroy you, Timmy Turner. I need you to be my friend."
The story concluded, Timmy begins to quiver in the Darkness's grip. Is it true? Is this creature really so lonely it wanted to kidnap him? Or is it a tall tale, a plot to lull him into a false sense of security and strike when he least expects it? He gulps. "But I don't know if I-"
"Hush," the smoky entity stops him, placing an almost-skeletal finger to his lips. "I'm sure this must be more than you can comprehend. You need to rest."
He's hit with a sensation of being dragged upstream, fighting against the river's strong current. He can perceive neither his surroundings nor the direction of travel. His eyes think he is standing still, while the rest of his body knows he is moving. The conflict makes him slightly queasy.
After a long period of time, he's released from the cocoon and floating free once more. The sickness in his stomach subsides.
"There's somewhere I want you to be. You'll need to find the hole to get in," the Darkness tells him.
"How? It's pitch black."
"Use your light."
Timmy pats his shirt. Was he carrying a flashlight? Did he have it during the battle on Fridgidarium? That was so long ago, it could have been in another lifetime.
"No, use your inner light."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Haven't you looked at yourself?"
He glances down. Evidently not. He's wearing the same grey robes from when he was taken. He knows this because he can see them. They carry a faint white glow, reminding Timmy of the t-shirts in all those commercials for detergent. "Cool," he breathes.
He stretches his arms out and kicks his legs, propelling himself through the haze until he reaches a dark grey barrier blocking his path. His glow emphasises the tiny bubbles and ridges, like a wall covered in crumbling plaster. The surface radiates a balmy heat – at least, it is balmy compared to the surrounding wintry conditions. He pads at the material –
"GAH!"
The whole world shakes.
"Whoa!" Timmy swings his arms and steadies himself before he flies away. "Are you all right?"
The Darkness groans. "Please be careful, Timmy Turner. This is a very sensitive area."
"Gotcha."
The light he emanates grows and grows. A little higher up, a sooty black ring, just big enough for his head, is illuminated. "Hey, I think I found the hole." He's not too keen on going in, though. What's waiting for him? Thousands of eerie posters and dolls with his face on them, just like Tootie's bedroom? A display of chainsaws and axes ready to be used, just like Vicky's bedroom? Whatever's there, if he plays along with the Darkness's wishes now, maybe he'll have more time to think of a plan. And then he might stand a better chance of escape.
Timmy starts to push through the hole – and gets stuck. Maybe it's not big enough after all. He retreats and tries again. "Sorry," he says. He inches forward, scooting about within the opening, conscious of every kick, every arm placement, every head movement. "Sorry," he repeats. "Sorry, sorry, sorry." The Darkness isn't yelping in pain or anything, but he's aware of the need to be nice. He's aware of what the Darkness might do to him.
Timmy bursts through with a pop.
He finds himself in a large, cavernous room, and his glow spreads to reveal its peculiar shape. The walls curve round to form an irregular oval, wider at the top than at the bottom. It is fluffy and lumpy; the entire room could have been moulded from a storm cloud. The ceiling consists of two domes which meet in the middle and dip downward to a sharp point. The floor slopes into the centre like an upside-down hollowed-out cone, similar to a cocktail glass. It is warm and toasty, but also totally empty.
"What is this place?"
"This is my heart, Timmy Turner." Suddenly the unusual shape makes much more sense. "I'm going to keep you here, where you'll be safe. Nothing can penetrate my heart."
"Nothing? What about that hole in the wall?"
"Oh, that. Of course." The heart wobbles, as if the Darkness has two legs and is awkwardly hopping from one to the other. "Your light from the M.A.R.F. concert created that fissure. It struck me and forced me open. It was agony."
Timmy rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah, sorry about that. I just did what Kiss told me to do."
"No need to apologise, Timmy Turner! I told you, it was the best thing that ever happened to me. Well, until you came here yourself." It giggles. Two hands shoot up from the floor and grip his legs. "Come on, time for bed."
"Bed? But I'm not tired."
"You will be." The Darkness pulls him down, down, down, into the cone-shaped floor, nestling him at the very point. Tendrils of grey nebulae crawl over his body, sealing him in.
This wasn't part of the plan!
Panic squeezes Timmy's chest again, stealing his breath. He wriggles and jerks about. He needs to break free. Now. But he can't. The makeshift blanket hugs him tighter, a grip stronger than death. Desperate, he starts to chew, ignoring the Darkness's quiet "Ouch." The mysterious substance tastes horrible, like an old shoe. He spits it out. "Please, let me go," he begs.
"Why? You just got here. For over ten thousand years I have searched high and low for a companion, and now I finally have you here, pressed to my heart, I'm not letting you out of my clutches!" The walls glimmer with a wash of crimson. "We'll be together forever and ever and ever and ever-"
"NO!" Timmy screams. "You can't keep me here forever and ever and ever and ever! I have friends! I have a family – two families! I have a normal life that I was trying to live until you came along! I want to go home!"
"This is your home now."
"No, it's not! This is the heart of a big scary monster! I want my real home! I want Dimmsdale! I wish I was in Dimmsdale and far away from here! I wish I hadn't sacrificed myself to you! I wish someone would rescue me! COSMO! WANDA! HELP!"
A lump rushes down his throat. He gags and chokes, eyes watering. He finally remembers how to breathe, tries to call for help again – and nothing comes out. He has another go. His mouth is moving, but there's no sound. His pupils shrink in fear. What has the Darkness done to him?
"Oh, Timmy Turner. You poor innocent being." This time the voice seems to vibrate from within him. "I should have known. You're so adorable you're probably not used to rejection."
What is it talking about?
The light is fading. The walls are closing in. The spike on the ceiling threatens to pierce his chest.
"It's been a long day," the Darkness adds. "We'll talk more tomorrow. Sleep tight, Timmy Turner."
Dust flies into his face. He blinks rapidly, trying to get it out of his eyes. His vision blurs. He's weakening. So very tired…
Come on, don't give up. Fight it. Fight it…
But the Darkness is taking over him.
Must … not … sleep … swarm of lab mice … raining ducks … what?
Someone is smiling down on him as he fades away.