I thought I could try and write a HTF-fic and well, this is the outcome. For those who don't know me, I am Megaphone. Kills. You. and my English can be pretty weird sometimes and I like to write the word indeed (Don't ask. Just don't.). Not my native language, so I have to look some words up.
About the story: First HTF-fic. Flippy is the main character and I have no idea if I should add pairings. Like, seriously. This story is LOOSELY based on Alice in Wonderland.
If I wrote something that makes no sense concerning Flippy's personality, please tell me so. Believe it or not, I neither have PTSD nor a split personality.
The HTF-characters are humans in this.
I am not sure how the plot will progress and I am writing some other stories as well, so expect slow updates...
And with that said: Enjoy the story and tell me what you think of it so far and if I should continue ;)
Blame it on the Bootlaces
Even though he lives all by himself, he has the biggest house in the whole town. Even though he doesn't really need one, he has a jeep. Even though nobody wants to talk to him, he has a telephone. Even though he doesn't like watching TV, he has a giant one in his living room. Even though he doesn't care about the way he looks, he has a mirror in his bath- and his bedroom. Even though he doesn't eat fast food, he sometimes goes to a diner and orders French fries.
He is a contradiction on two legs, covered in pale skin with a shock of green hair on top of his head, partly hidden underneath a (in his opinion) nice hat. And despite the things his therapist says, he is completely aware of all that. That doesn't mean that he does anything against it, because, he doesn't really mind and...well, he can't. It's simple like that.
One would say that it could be easy to change those things with the help of therapist, but he knows that it is just not possible for him. He is a special case.
A nut case.
And one that puts even Nutty to shame.
Sun rays come crawling through his window. They hit the dull white ceiling of his room, making the color gleam in the pale morning light. From there it travels down the walls, chasing off the shadows of the night, as the fireball also known as the sun raises higher and higher in the sky.
A young man who seems to be in his twenties lies in the bed in the middle of the room, snoring slightly and wrapping the blankets a little tighter around himself every once in a while. An alarm clock sits proudly on a little nightstand, and it rings in the most obnoxious way one can think off, yet the man remains unaffected. Soon, the clock finally gives up and the noise dies down, which goes unnoticed by him.
Somewhere along the travel of the sun, the light falls onto his body and at an instant, the dreams of rainbows and nice fluffy things are shattered and his eyelids fly open, revealing two dark orbs. It's not like the sun hurts his eyes, no; he can't even see it since he has his back facing the window; he just knows that the sun has risen and he always wakes up then. Always. So today's no exception.
A yawn leaves chapped lips and he stretches his arms in a futile attempt to get rid of his tiredness. Ah, home sweet home. It felt good to sleep in his own room again. The reason why he has spent his last nights in a cell has to do with a long story, including amongst other things two thieves, an enraged homeowner and cookies, which had eventually led to a visit in the hospital for the thieves and a nice little trip to the local prison for him.
He pushes himself off the mattress and heads straight for the wardrobe. He rips the clothing closet's doors open and blindly takes out his cloths for this day. Half-asleep, he changes into his usual attire, all the while staring blankly at the opposite wall.
Routinely, he ties a loose knot into his bootlaces that would probably come undone in near future and gets up to take a look at himself in the mirror, without giving a real damn about his appearance.
As he watches his reflection, he randomly notices that he's been wearing the same kind of outfit for over four years now.
It's like the uniform he'd worn as a soldier, just without the sickening blood stains. He wears it as a reminder.
'Oh well.' He shrugs and is about to turn away when he suddenly hears a voice. No, scratch that; it's not a real voice, more like a snarl. He bit his lip to keep back the flood of very colorful curses that shouldn't be mentioned here.
"Hey me, how's it going?"
Not again.
He's been hearing this voice-slash-snarl now for the past five years, and not only is it getting annoying, but even though he'd never admit it, he is scared of it. Not to mention that it is the undeniable proof that he is, indeed, insane.
He knows that keeping quite won't do a thing, so he bravely faces the mirror again and is met with, who would suspect it, an image of himself. For anyone who would happen to see this would think 'Oh. So what?'
But for him, this isn't just a reflection. It's his worst nightmare that has been haunting him countless of nights already.
"F-fine..." he answers the image grins in return, showing off two rows of sharp teeth. "Really?" mocks the reflection. "Then why are you stuttering? Are you nervous?"
"No!" the man replies hastily.
"Are you sure? I think you are nervous." While he himself furrows his eyebrows, the image in the mirror strangely starts laughing, which it shouldn't be doing. "What do you want from me?" the real one finally questions.
"Oh, I just wanted to talk to you." With those words, the grotesque grin melts and is replaced by a supposedly innocent and disinterested expression.
The man isn't fooled by this. "Since when do you talk so casually? And to me, nonetheless."
Cue the returning of the grin. In all those years that they know each other, they only had few 'conversations' and none of them ended pleasant. None. Memories arise, memories he swore to forget, so he quickly averts his attention back at the mirror.
"Aren't I allowed to talk to you? I mean, technically, I AM you."
"But I do not wish to talk to you."
It comes out as a whisper, something that shouldn't be heard, but neither of them can say something without the other one noticing.
"Why not? Tell me, what have I done?"
And finally, the man is fed up. "You still have to ask? You really have to ask?" His voice trembles slightly, and he isn't sure whether it's because of the fright or the rage coursing through him.
The reflection puts on a fake shocked expression, letting out a shriek that is just as false. "No need to get rude, young man!" Then it starts laughing again and in his ears, it's one of the sickest and most disgusting sounds he's ever heard.
Yet he doesn't cover his ears or turn away, though he really wants to.
As the laughter dies down to an occasional snicker, he avoids the gaze of the greenish yellow eyes of his opponent. "Since I feel like being nice today..." he snorted at that "...I will tell you why I am talking to you."
That should be interesting.
"Let me out." demands the image in a voice that leaves no room for argument, and it sends shivers down his spine. But he knows that he can't let it take control.
"Look what mess you got us into last time!" he tries to reason "Those guys were in a coma for weeks! I can't let that happen again!"
A contemplating expression takes over the reflections features. "Yeah, that thing...Next time I'll do better. Next time, they won't survive." It licks its lips as if savoring the taste of blood.
The threat makes the green-haired man take a step back and he swallows, making the mistake of looking directly into the eyes of his mirror image.
I can't let it happen, I can't let it happen
"Just let me have some fun, won't you...Flippy?" The voice is tempting.
Not again.
And with that, the image in the mirror returns to normal.
Flippy had been eighteen when he had joined the army, the reason why is already long forgotten.
He doesn't remember everything in detail, but he does still remember the screams.
The blood.
The fire.
The pain.
The fright.
It's still vividly all in his mind, though he blocks it out as good as he can. Yet sometimes, he can't keep the memories at bay and horrible things happen.
He isn't sure whatever came first. The PTSD or the split personality? Did one thing cause the other? Not even his therapist can say for sure. Fact is that this other side of him exists.
And it is evil.
Most of the time, he is able to force him back, to keep him from coming to the surface. But in weak moments, in the few moments he remembers, Evil takes over.
And Evil has only one purpose, one that he carries out quite well, during the war and even these days.
Kill.
It's simple like that.
To sort out his thoughts, Flippy practically runs outside and into the woods. These conversations always leave him restless and agitated, causing a mess in his head.
The occasional walkers on the street who are not discouraged by the fog and the chilly morning breeze scurry out of his way and Flippy can feel their stares burning into his back.
He quickens his pace and tries to ignore them. They have heard what had happened to the two who had snuck into his house at night. And he knows what they now think of him.
After a few minutes, he's already deep in the forest, he leans against a tree for support and he rests to catch his breath.
A quick look at his boots tells him that the knot has, indeed, come undone. He bends down to fix it, but then decides against it and simply continues walking. He has far more grave problems than undone bootlaces.
At least he thinks that.
Until he stumbles.
Flippy is too caught up in his mind to regain his balance in time and the next thing he knows it that he falls forward. His hands look for something to hold on, his fingertips brush the earthy walls of the hole.
And while he falls down, he asks himself what the hell just happened and blames it all on the laces.
The journey down doesn't take very long and isn't that unpleasant, however, it is ended quite abruptly when his face is met with cold, hard stone.
Ouch.
That hurt.
A dull ache spreads through his head from his forehead to the furthest corner and with satisfaction he remembers that Evil should feel the pain as well.
A few seconds pass and his overloaded brain realizes something.
He has fallen down a hole in the forest. A deep hole. There isn't supposed to be stone; at least not evenly stone. This one almost feels like...marble. Like a floor.
He jumps to his feet, picking up his hat (that had fallen off) in the process, and takes in his environment. This could be a trap for all he knows. He brushes some strands of green colored hair out of his eyes to see better.
From what he can make out in the dim light, he's inside a circular room, which is already strange, considering that he is underground. The ground to his feet isis indeed marmoreal, the walls are normal earth, with a few roots sticking out. A little table stands in the middle of the room with a key and a bottle on top of it, just a few feet away from him, a mirror with a golden frame is there too and at the far end, there is a small door, too small for any human to go through.
Out of curiosity and to check for possible injuries, Flippy strolled over to the mirror first. Strangely, his right arm feels heavy, like it carries a weight, but despite better judgment, he doesn't look for the cause.
He is standing in front of the glass and his black eyes search for bruises. Yet something different catches his attention. It is tied around his right wrist, like a silver bracelet, but to his horror, he realizes that it's a handcuff.
Immediately, he sealed his eyes shut, and he waits for Evil to come out.
He waits.
And waits.
Nothing happens.
"Evil?" he calls out nervously. No response.
Scared of what he might see, he allows his gaze to follows the chain attached to the handcuff and gasps.
Lying face-down on the ground, is replica of himself, the neon-green hair sticking in every direction.