AN: Perhaps one day I shall move all my previous one-shots in here. But I am lazy, and probably won't. Anyways, very few, if any, of the stories in this collection are about phobias.
What a stupid title, then.
Shut up or you'll be in a relationship with the Joker!
You wouldn't dare.
Watch me. Sorry. He's grouchy. Ah, well. Shall we get on with it?
Granny used to tell him that they'd hoped for a stillborn, and that his grandmother had been all for burying him in the compost heap. He isn't sure how much of that was true and how much of that was her insanity. He suspects most of it probably was true.
His classmates never wanted much to do with him-from the time he was a little boy they kept their distance. It was only later that they learned how fun he was to play with. Fun for them, anyway.
He has a vague memory of his first-grade teacher giving him a hug when he came in one recess, but he's not sure of its reality. In any case, that teacher moved halfway through the school year. Shame, that. She might have noticed his suicidal period in freshman year. Or perhaps not.
He still has nightmares about the things Granny used to tell him when he was a little boy, things designed to cut any fire out of him. 'Your mother never even held you, Jonathan. She didn't even want to look at you.'
"Jonathan?"
He blinks and wonders how he's been standing out here.
"Mm?"
"It's late and it's cold. Come in before you catch pneumonia."
"It doesn't work like…"
"In. Now."
Well. He can't argue with that.
Seventeen years of isolation have taken their toll, there's no doubt about that. The past fifteen years, though, have balanced out some of the damage.
"Jonathan." He hasn't moved. Whoops. "Come in, it's cold and it's late."
A small hand yanks his sleeve and he finally turns away from the little patio. It really is cold out here. Why didn't he notice that earlier?
He's heard the 'come in, it's late' line before, from other people, but they usually weren't concerned about his well-being. They usually just wanted him to come in and shut up already. Or, in the case of Granny, get cleaned up before he could bleed on her furniture.
"God, you're an icicle." He finds himself being squeezed. Once upon a time he'd have jumped out of his skin at that. Before, he was only squeezed to make him hold still for something painful. "You really need to dress for the weather."
"Mm."
She tugs him over to the couch and plasters up against his side. He sighs and leans back against the slightly-scratchy cushions. Those days are behind him now.
"Thanks, Kitty."
"For what?"
That's a good question. There's no way to word the answer.
"I don't know."
"You are a strange one, love." She says it fondly and he finds that he's still not immune to her nickname for him.
"I suppose."
"Devil's spawn! I should have agreed to have you buried out there!"
He shakes his head. She's dead now, she can't hurt him anymore. There's no reason to be afraid of her.
"Yeah, his ma's a whore and his dad ran off."
There's no reason to be afraid of them, either. If they're not dead, they're still stuck in that miserable, dying town where they belong.
"They won't miss me…maybe I can scar a few of them for life if they find me."
There is a reason to be afraid of himself. For all of Granny's punishments and his peers' games, he came the closest to taking his own life. The scar on his wrist is still visible despite its age.
Kitty jumps and tightens her arms around his ribs. That's right, she hasn't seen this yet. She doesn't know all of the little jump scares sprinkled throughout. This could be interesting.
"Scared yet?"
She nods. He represses a grin and makes himself comfortable, the ghostly voices from his past fading away into nothingness. Those days are over now.
THE END