I have to say, I was quite surprised to see people were actually reading this. Thanks for all the reviews! I appreciate it greatly.
The warm breeze brought with it the choking smell of smoke, and immediately his eyes opened, scanning his surroundings for the source of the flame. Frantically he twisted and writhed, escape on the brain, and soon realized his movements were all but fruitless. Layers of duct tape restrained him to the hard surface of a table, propped up so that he could view the fire from the window. The silver tape chafed against his skin, rubbing it raw, adding to his discomfort.
Discomfort quickly turned to gut wrenching despair as the realization set in that, the pyre that grew with every moment, its flames licking the bright blue sky, casting embers into the air like black snow, came from his home.
Everything he worked for was burning to the ground. Every painting, every sculpture. His clarinet.
"No, no, no..." The man murmured, salty tears blurring his vision. He was helpless; left to observe his world fall away before him, with no voice to cry out for aid.
The screeching of sirens blared outside on the road below, just out of his line of view. He couldn't see them, but he could make out their faint voices, shouting over the sounds, calling out for him, though he was nowhere to be found. They'd most likely assume he was dead, an indistinguishable pile of ash in the wreckage.
He looked around, vaguely recognizing the room. It was SpongeBob's bedroom; the only space that hadn't been altered to look like his house.
His house that crumbled just a short distance away. Squidward could hear their yelling now, louder than before, as chunks of stone crashed to the sandy ground below. A heavy thud rocked the earth, and he shook under his restraints, the table threatening to topple just like his home.
Squidward wept then, conceding there was nothing left that he could do. His body felt weak, riddled with aches and pains. Eyes glanced down at his arms and legs, covered with ugly bruises that discolored his pale flesh.
As the chaos raged on outside, he sank against the table top, sighing through the tears and closed his eyes.
The lock clicked and the bedroom door slowly opened, the boy's pet gliding across the floor, mewling at his owner. His neighbor laughed, that high-pitched, annoying sound that grated on his nerves, now sent fear through him. He felt it deep in his bones, poisoning his marrow with every negative emotion that roiled within him.
A flick against his nose, a playful gesture in any other situation, caused him to recoil. The boy tsked.
"Now, now; don't be like that," SpongeBob admonished him, shaking his head. The boy stared down at his snail. "You'd think he'd be a little more friendly after all that I've done! All the work I put into this house...Squidward, you're going to have to work on that attitude."
"After all that you've done? SpongeBob, what good have you done? You lunatic, tying me to a table, remodeling your home to look like mine. Did you light the fire, too? I bet you did," he couldn't suppress his anger, even as he realized what a disadvantage he was in. He couldn't help it.
The boy's smile was waning, lip quivering as he stared at his captive. Yellow fingers curled tightly into his small palm, and he forced them to remain there. To refuse his anger to get the better of him. Instead of reaching out and harming the man before him, he dragged a chair over from the corner and placed it in front of the table. Clearing his throat, he sat down.
"I understand how you might feel...peeved," Something in the boy's voice sounded different. Was it deeper? Squidward thought, and then nodded slightly. He sounded far less childish than usual. "But you have to understand, Squidward, I did this for you. Do you know how many times I had to beg Mr. Krabs for a raise just to be able to purchase some of this stuff?" He shuddered. "I did awful things. For you," He repeated, emphasizing the words. Digging them in.
"I worked so long to get here, and if it weren't for Patrick, well, I wouldn't have the luxury of seeing you this way. Who'd have thought that idiot would think of something so obvious, yet so brilliant?" Squidward's eyes widened at the insult the boy directed at his supposed best friend. His perception was unraveling, slowly, and he didn't like at all what was being revealed.
The boy's leg bounced, and Squidward watched as he picked at the hem of his shirt, which for the first time, was untucked. Wrinkled. Dark blotches were dispersed randomly on the fabric, and he tried not to think of what they might be. He focused on his slim chances of escaping, mustering all his dry wit and charm, and formulating a plot in his mind that he hoped was feasible.
How hard could getting someone deranged to release you, and sit back in guilt over what they'd done while you run for the hills be?
Very, he thought to himself. Very, very hard.
Squidward wasn't sure what the boy was capable of, and he didn't want to test his limits. The younger man, however, wanted to test his.