This fic will be on the subject of Johnny's past as I see it. I'm not sure how long it'll end up
being, but I've got at least a few chapters worth of ideas, so check back. If you can't wait to read
something else, please check out my other JtHM/IFS fic, 'Static'. Thank you! Tell me if you like
this!
Johnny hummed to himself as he worked on the mural in his basement. It was of a
shadowy, spindly, hunched figure on a dark night on a hilltop. It looked like a very horrific
version of Johnny himself. Johnny ran out of music in his mind, but continued humming. Why
chance it?
He realized how sad it was that he was desperately trying to stop something that was so
inevitably happening that it was terrifying. But Johnny wanted to prevent any internal
conversations at all costs. Who knew what he might start talking about with himself this time?
He tried to suppress the urge to scream at the fact that he felt that he was losing control of his
mind. What do you call it when a man is drunk and he feels this way? The DTs. When he's on
drugs? A bad trip. When he's never had a drink or a smoke in his life? Insanity.
'That's right, Johnny.'
Oh, no.
'Actually, not quite right. But close! You are not going to get rid of us. We're too deeply
rooted. So don't even think about shaking us off. Too late.'
Johnny stared at the painting on the wall. It was all dark shades of greys, greens, browns,
purples, blacks. Something was missing. What was it. . .?
'Johnny, you can't block us out. You need us.'
"I need you for nothing," muttered Johnny. He just wanted to work. He *needed* to
work. Had to finish this. It was a sickness in him and he needed to get it out. If he just didn't turn
around it'd all be okay. Just don't turn around. . .
Johnny turned and faced the two Styrofoam horrors. He had painted them only a few days
ago, but he already felt it was the biggest mistake of his life. He had started finding it very
difficult to sleep lately, and his appetite had dwindled to nothing. He had always been skinny, but
now it was getting to the point of emaciation. The two Pillsbury Doughboy models grinned their
eternal grins. Though, imagined Johnny, it was not so hard to see them screaming in rage.
'Now why would we scream, Johnny? We're perfectly happy.'
Johnny frowned and turned back to the painting. His eyes drifted over it, and he tossed
aside his brush. He no longer felt like painting. He turned to leave, and shuddered as he walked
past the two Styrofoam models. They did not move.
'Perfectly happy.'
being, but I've got at least a few chapters worth of ideas, so check back. If you can't wait to read
something else, please check out my other JtHM/IFS fic, 'Static'. Thank you! Tell me if you like
this!
Johnny hummed to himself as he worked on the mural in his basement. It was of a
shadowy, spindly, hunched figure on a dark night on a hilltop. It looked like a very horrific
version of Johnny himself. Johnny ran out of music in his mind, but continued humming. Why
chance it?
He realized how sad it was that he was desperately trying to stop something that was so
inevitably happening that it was terrifying. But Johnny wanted to prevent any internal
conversations at all costs. Who knew what he might start talking about with himself this time?
He tried to suppress the urge to scream at the fact that he felt that he was losing control of his
mind. What do you call it when a man is drunk and he feels this way? The DTs. When he's on
drugs? A bad trip. When he's never had a drink or a smoke in his life? Insanity.
'That's right, Johnny.'
Oh, no.
'Actually, not quite right. But close! You are not going to get rid of us. We're too deeply
rooted. So don't even think about shaking us off. Too late.'
Johnny stared at the painting on the wall. It was all dark shades of greys, greens, browns,
purples, blacks. Something was missing. What was it. . .?
'Johnny, you can't block us out. You need us.'
"I need you for nothing," muttered Johnny. He just wanted to work. He *needed* to
work. Had to finish this. It was a sickness in him and he needed to get it out. If he just didn't turn
around it'd all be okay. Just don't turn around. . .
Johnny turned and faced the two Styrofoam horrors. He had painted them only a few days
ago, but he already felt it was the biggest mistake of his life. He had started finding it very
difficult to sleep lately, and his appetite had dwindled to nothing. He had always been skinny, but
now it was getting to the point of emaciation. The two Pillsbury Doughboy models grinned their
eternal grins. Though, imagined Johnny, it was not so hard to see them screaming in rage.
'Now why would we scream, Johnny? We're perfectly happy.'
Johnny frowned and turned back to the painting. His eyes drifted over it, and he tossed
aside his brush. He no longer felt like painting. He turned to leave, and shuddered as he walked
past the two Styrofoam models. They did not move.
'Perfectly happy.'
