The mental torment never seemed to cease. The voices, the images, what those voices and images caused Johnny to do.
He tried to escape his insanity, and bolted into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him. It creaked on its rusty hinges, and it shut with a bang. Johnny rested his forehead on the rugged wood door, and felt tears trickle down his cheeks and blood seep from his forehead; the door's surface had broken his skin. All he felt for himself was hatred. A serial killer did not deserve love.
Johnny slowly lifted his head from the door, and turned to face the vanity across the room. He could scarcely see his image reflected in the dirty, cracked glass. Pale skin, black hair, skinny build, striped clothes. Why must everyone taunt him when he set foot from his house? Why so, because of the way he looked?
Johnny turned from the door, and hesitantly moped toward the mirror on the vanity. Today he would see what caused people so much cold amusement, what they thought gave them the ability to treat him like a lesser non-human. At first, Johnny found himself staring at the backs of his hands, palms pressed against the moldy wood of the vanity. He slowly raised his head to face the glass reflection. He could see the way the inner corners of his eyebrows were slightly raised, indicating his confused exasperation. His hair needed brushed; it looked stragglier than usual. He'd kept it in that fashionably straggly way, and had the back and sides of his head shaved. Large blue eyes stared back at him, and Johnny noticed how much paler his skin seemed to be; the blood from his cut seemed tot be a brighter red. (See "multimedia" on side for a lovely picture! Look at it, NOW!)
Why did people laugh? He looked fine, not worthy of being bothered by anyone. Johnny felt comfortable like this, wearing his hair like it was, wearing his striped shirts, black shorts, and buckled knee-high boots.
The mirror suddenly looked colder, yet more inviting. Johnny stared into its depths, seeing not just his reflection, but a whole new dimension beyond the glass. An alternate universe where people weren't just sacks of blood and bones fueled by a brain. A place where there would be people that he would like.
His hand hit only glass when he tried to get there.
Vincent's POV
Vincent was working late tonight, and to rest his mind was watching the news channel on the box-sized antenna television. Apparently, there had been a decline in the homicide rate, and there had been no missing persons reported. This little city of WhiteClover, thought Vincent, is turning out to be quite violent.
He's recently moved to this city of WhiteClover to continue his prospering career as a psychotherapist. The people were rude and self-centered, the crime rate was high, and fake-Screamo-rock and roll took over the music scene. Perfect for a doctor specializing in his area.
Vincent's eyelids slowly dropped, and he fell asleep in the sofa of the waiting area.
A few weeks later, and Johnny's POV
No sleep, no uncertainties.
Ever since his frightening bout of slumber, Johnny had gone all out to avoid it. Caffeine was consumed as often as food and water. Stay awake, he told himself, just stay awake. This pattern, of course, was only clouding Johnny's mind more than it already was, and the humming song eventually became another part of the average day.
Sitting on the edge of his seldom used bed, he pondered over the voice. Fa, re, so, fa, la, la, fa, so, la, so, so. Over and over again, stuck in his head like the pop songs played on the radio.
Today the voice spoke in understandable words.
Yayo, yes you, ya-ay-oh...
Yayo? What the hell did "yayo" have to do with Nny's life? Yayo was cocaine, right? Since when did he associate himself with cocaine?
His disturbed thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a loud crash! that seemed to be coming from the kitchen. Johnny leaped from his bed, looked hurriedly around his bedroom. Seeing nothing was out of place, he scurried to the kitchen. Through the doorway that led to the kitchen, he could see broken glass, an overturned chair, and scattered stains of blood.
"What the hell?!" he said aloud; then he turned away from the mess in the kitchen and screamed over his shoulder, "Mr. Eff! Did you do this?! I assure you, you ARE going to clean the damned kitchen!"
No answer.
"Mr. Eff?" Johnny asked. No answer. And none from Nailbunny and Company.
He heard more noises in the kitchen, unknown knockings and rumblings. (Keep 'em hidden, Nny! No one suspects it's you, ya crazy mon! -TheGaGaPrince)
"The hell-"
Johnny cautiously shuffled across the kitchen tiles, wet crimson in sharp contrast against cold marble white. Broken glass soon came into play, and he hopped about the tiles as not to have to pull the shards out of the soles of his knee-high, buckled leather boots. The window, Nny observed, had been broken into by someone outside his house. Who would want to pay him a visit at this late hour or 4 o'clock in the morning?
Perhaps a family member of one of his victims, one as mentally unstable as himself, wanted to extract revenge for this loss. Perfect timing, Johnny was weaponless. But the man was intelligent and knew anatomy, and could jerk shoulders clean out of their sockets with just a turn of the joint. He decided to make his presence known to the possible intruder.
"Whoever's lurking in MY fucking house, is going to have their arms pulled off and stuck into their eye sockets, and then I'll-"
A rustling was heard from a cabinet a few feet to his left. The intruder must be in the knife cabinet; Johnny heard metallic clinking and someone bumping against the wood. Muffled words were barely audible, but still present. Sounded like someone was cursing the cabinet. Well. at least Johnny felt more prepared...
But the sudden outward motion of the cabinet door, and the body falling out still sent a jolt of surprise through his skinny body.
The person tumbled onto the floor and the scattered glass on it. It jerked its head off the surface, and huffily surveyed the surrounding area. Johnny could now tell the trespasser was a woman. Her hair-a curly, messy ocean of differing shades of yellow and blond-covered her face as she stared at her knees.
"Dammit, fucking glass cut up my knees..."
Her voice, just like the voice that sang about cocaine... Just as deep, just as sweet, just like thick honey...
The stranger's head snapped up to stare, frustrated, at Johnny's face.
"Eh? Why are you staring at me?"
Johnny was rather taken aback. "Why was I staring at you?" He stressed each italicized word.
"Of course. I live here, you know." The lady arrogantly flipped her hair with a quick movement of her head, and more of her hair was tossed from her face.
Johnny was, to put it simply, pissed. He attempted to stay at least a tiny bit calm, "No, this is my house. I've lived here, um, five years I believe. Give or take a year, I suppose. You, on the other hand, have been hiding in my cabinet since yesterday, at the most. Madam, I kindly ask you to leave."
"No."
To keep it simple, this pissed Johnny off even more. "BITCH, GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE BEFORE I SHOVE A KNIFE UP YOUR-"
With a casual flick of her hand, she quieted Johnny's obscene ranting. "Boy, you've yet to understand this predicament," she growled. "I've been here since before you wound up in this dump."
"Why is it that I've only heard you for about three weeks?' Johnny's early angry ranting was becoming less furious, and more curious. (Hee hee, I rhymed!)
"Maybe I'm shy. Or maybe I just don't like you."
Johnny didn't like this lady, if she could be referred to something formal like that. Add to the fact she'd stumped him with her retorting. No one did that to him. No one could do that to him. And yet here she was, playing with her ugly hair, and now she was giggling at his facial expression; a blend of befuddlement and annoyance.
"Go on, lovely," she sneered at him, a sadistic smile playing on her red-painted lips. "Weren't you saying something?"
He needed to say something to her, anything to stop her grinning.
"I'd like to know where you came from, my fair lady. And why you've been stuck in that cabinet this whole time. It's full of knives, you know."
This time, a smile formed on Johnny's lips, and the stranger scowled. "You're a little bastard, you know that?"
The smile on Johnny's face only grew wider. He'd got her this time! "Thanks for the lovely compliment. I think you're a bitch."
"Shut up! Do you still want to know why I've been stuck in this shit-hole of a house?"
"Go on, then. Tell me a story!"
She paused, and straightened her posture.
"Do you still remember the first person you ever murdered?"
Ah, an abrupt ending to a chapter. I hope all of your intestines are oozing with suspence! -TheGaGaPrince
