Author's Note: Looong chapter with a really long name. I love cats. It makes me sad to create an evil one sniff
Thankies to Androgynous Napkin fer teh Betaing.
Chapter 8- The Evil Flea-Infested Ball Of Static Trauma Sponge
Hello, Timmy.
A little boy, eyes wide and luminous in the darkness of his room, sat up. Two glowing green fires sat at the end of his bed.
I am not pleased, Timmy. You have refused to do what I have asked.
The boy shook his head frantically, arms clenched around a teddy bear.
Do not deny it, Timmy! I am your Trauma Sponge and I can read that itty bitty mind of yours.
Timothy tightened his hold on the stuffed bear and squeezed his eyes shut.
Shhh, shhh. It's alright, Timmy. The fires raised and a delicate paw slid forward into the moonlight. We know you like the new neighbour. We know you don't want to burn his house down but Timmy... he is dangerous to us. He attracts... other things. Do you remember what happened in that house before?
Unbidden, controlled memories surfaced, flaring their wings and testing their claws. The little boy whimpered, tears sliding down his pale cheeks as blood splattered once more and the screams echoed in his ears.
It gathers power, Tim-Tim. George was its test, Oliver its mockery and now... now Johnny is its final laugh. We can't let it win, Timmy. A soft, velvety tail curled around a tiny foot. Will you do it, Timmy? For me?
Eyes open, bloodshot, and his head reluctantly nodded.
Johnny was hearing voices.
Well, he wasn't precisely certain if the noises that hissed through his brain were really voices but they seemed to be saying... something. Every time he turned, however, there was nothing there.
Johnny paused in his painting, hand clenched around the paintbrush. He whipped around as fast as his training would allow him and glared at the empty space. All that sat behind were his many paintings, lined up to face him. After painting Nail Bunny and the visit of Danny, Johnny had descended into a frenzy. Painting after painting flowed from his fingers, drawing each brushstroke like lodestones, images flaring in his head like fire. Most had been of Danny, smiling and sad, angry and covered in blood. Two... two were different.
Both were of Pillsbury doughboys, each decorated differently. The first he had named Mr. Fuck with a black and white striped shirt proclaiming 'Z?'. Johnny had ruined his original painting design around the blank eyes but he thought the new, cracked look was better. Fuck's hat was inky black with howling ghouls rising from the brim. The second was PsychoDoughboy, living up to his name with spiral eyes that twisted in movement as you stared at them (an effect completely unintended) and a black shirt proclaiming 'FUCK' with gloves. D-boy's hat was mostly white with black skulls staring ahead.
To Johnny it seemed as though the two paintings were speaking to him, the hissing voices originating from the different canvases. No... no, that was ridiculous. Paintings couldn't talk. Maybe he had been poisoned by the water...
Then again, the results from the lab hadn't come back yet and every test he'd performed was inconclusive.
Johnny
He whipped around, eyes frantically searching the area behind him. Psychodoughboy's mad, painted eyes stared back at him, a mocking grin spreading its black lips. Argh, Johnny clutched his head, nails digging into his skull. What the hell am I hallucinating? Paintings don't talk, can't move. Paintings aren't alive... Still, Johnny looked over the room one last time before returning to his easel.
He froze.
The constant movements he had made over the course of the painting had splattered the black paint for the background all over the canvas. The painting was supposed to be of a serious Danny, brows lowered, mouth shut and tight. However, a smear of black ran through her eyes and dripped down to create dark tears. Vertical smudges on both cheeks almost hollowed them out in an odd coincidence. She looked... dead. And for some reason it made Johnny love her all the more.
Oliver walked. Oliver liked walking. Walking helped clear his head. This walk, however, wasn't clearing anything and that made Oliver mad. Lately, Oliver noticed, his head was even more fuzzy then he remembered. And, for some odd reason, it seemed to get worse whenever he went near Johnny's house. Oliver liked Johnny. Sure, he seemed a bit serious and... oooh, a squirrel.
Oliver walked. Blood splattered his combat boots and a fuzzy trophy was clenched in his left hand. He meandered his way through the small residential district and stopped to watch the children at the park. One of the kids was being picked on by three larger ones. The small one snivelled and sobbed, mucus running from his nose while the others laughed and pointed. Oliver flung a knife and walked some more. He listened with detached curiosity at the screams that followed him past the park.
What had he been thinking about? Oh, right, Johnny. Such a funny name. Oliver tried to move through the dark fog of his brain and recall if Johnny was short for anything. He didn't think so. Well, Johnny didn't seem like a John. Oliver found himself outside of Johnny's house. Which was on fire.
Huh.
