Me: This is set during the Smurf cartoon episode, Now You Smurf 'Em, Now You Don't. Smurfs Belong to Peyo.
Grouchy had been looking for Vanity everywhere. The smurf had pilfered one of his bed sheets and attached it to a wooden frame to use as an art canvas, and smurf it if Grouchy was going to let anyone get away with painting self-portraits on his personal belongings, no matter how "smurf-fabulous" they turned out.
Eventually he ended up in front of Greedy's mushroom house. Painter had seen Vanity take the picture inside, something about a get well present for Greedy, seeing as the gluttonous smurf had overeaten, again. Grouchy sniffed in disdain as he walked into the mushroom. It was squat and bulging around the middle, just like its owner. He cursed under his breath when he saw the interior of the house, empty except for a few pieces of large, repugnant furniture.
No Vanity, shoot. His eyes darted from side to side. No Greedy that he could see, either. That was definitely suspicious, as the smurf was supposed to have been sick in bed with a stomachache. Actually, he supposed this was better; he could take his sheet back and leave without any opposition. Not that he'd ever be able to use it again, but it was the principle of the thing.
He found the painting lying on the hard wood floor by Greedy's bed, under one of the house's many food cabinets. That was... strange. Vanity would never let anyone treat his likeness with such negligence. He hefted the picture over his shoulder. Never mind that. It wasn't Grouchy's policy to get involved with problems that weren't his, anyway.
Suddenly, an unnatural burst of red light flashed to Grouchy's right. He looked all around the room, before his gaze finally settled on the bed, where a large, shiny stone sat. Grouchy pondered it, noting its unusual shape and coloring. Obviously, this wasn't a regular rock from the forest, if it glowed red.
He set the painting on the ground and bent down to study it. It looked like some sort of crystal. He peered into it and his breath caught in his throat.
Grouchy was staring at himself. At the same time, it wasn't, couldn't be him. It just wasn't logical. His reflective counterpart waved at him cheerfully. Instinctively, he waved back. Astounded, Grouchy watched as he—no, he corrected himself, his doppelgänger smiled and laughed.
The reflection chatted happily with a large group of smurfs, joking and teasing with friends whose possible existence the real Grouchy had never even bothered to consider.
Both Grouchys blushed when a Fake Smurfette popped up and tucked herself neatly under Fake Grouchy's arm, giving him a huge, beaming smile. Fake Grouchy gave his Smurfettefriend an affectionate kiss on the cheek.
The real Grouchy stared on in horror. Oh smurf, this wasn't the future, was it? It wasn't impossible. Smurfs had brought stranger items into the village before, and they were usually magical. But no, he had a feeling in his gut, a sixth sense, which told him that wasn't what the stone did, thank smurfness.
But for some reason, he found it hard to look away. Little by little, as he watched, his disgust, which he had automatically dredged up and thrown haphazardly at the joyful scene, lightened, and gradually evaporated. At the same time, something began to tug at his heart with increasing ferocity, a heart that had never managed to be quite as big and full as the other smurfs'.
He took a shaky breath and fell down on his knees, staring at the ground. Feelings that he'd thought he'd killed and buried years ago flooded through him. It just wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that he had to be like this. He hadn't asked to be born miserable. And yet, for absolutely no reason, he had. He'd been condemned to watch others enjoy the life that he wanted, that he deserved. His mouth filled with bile. And they didn't appreciate it. Not like he would have. He knew he was better than them in that respect. And yet they got not only their own blissful, perfect existence, but his too.
Impulsively, he lifted his head up and reached out for the orb. He knew, somehow, that if he could just touch it, hold it, he could steal back what had ought to have been his in the first place and that others took for granted. He rose slightly off the floor and caught a glimpse of the scene in the orb again, that beautiful, wonderful picture that he could only hate in theory, and stopped. His hands quivered as they hovered inches from everything he had ever wanted, and they wouldn't move forward.
He wasn't an idiot. He knew the blasted rock probably had something to do with Vanity and Greedy's disappearance. But it was more than that. He couldn't bring himself to do it. It wasn't right. What he saw, he couldn't live like that. He couldn't accept living without hate. He needed hatred like he needed air in his lungs, though he'd give anything to get rid of it. He was trapped, and wasn't strong enough to break the lock on his cage. He liked being twisted and warped and depressed too much.
He sighed, the sound deep, heavy, and sorrowful. With strength built up from years of managing enormous loads of envy and loathing with a grace that no one would ever recognize, he retracted his hands, pushed himself up, and hoisted the painting off the floor. He didn't really care about it anymore, but he might as well finish what he'd come in here to do. Maybe he'd even hunt down and beat up Vanity later, just for kicks. No need for anything to change because of a half-formed sickly sweet vision.
He knew that he should probably tell Papa about the orb. Vanity and Greedy were probably in danger and in need of help because of it. Once again, he wasn't bothered. He chuckled wryly, imagining what the other smurfs and Papa would say if they knew about his general apathy toward other's wellbeing. When he couldn't be heartless enough to hate, it was rather easy not to give a smurf.
That's why he figured, like so many things in his life, the incident didn't matter, not really. Someone else would figure it out eventually. These things always seemed to work out for the smurfs in the end, though he'd be smurfed if he knew how or why.
He paused at the door for a moment before continuing out into the village. Anyways, he reasoned, it wasn't his policy to get involved with problems that weren't his, and anything to do with sugared dreams and false promises definitely fell under someone else's jurisdiction.
Me: Well, the end. R&R.