-Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. Stephen Hillenburg and evil Nickelodeon/Viacom do.
-Warnings: This is my first attempt at a SpongeBob SquarePants fic. Constructive criticism is appreciated.
-Spoilers: Maybe slight "Christmas Who?" spoilers . . .
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Wooden Clarinet
Another day, another migraine.
That's what I usually say. Those are my usual thoughts, ever since I remember. And though I can recall my constant aching and complaining about the world, I don't know its origins. I can't even remember the day I started being like this. I can't remember a single thing before the headaches started; before the pain started.
One thing I do remember, though, I've never had a friend. I've never had someone whom I could be with and just . . . be. I remember everyone avoiding me all the time; whether it was for my pessimism, my looks or my interests. No one ever stuck with me for more than two minutes. No one cared about me.
I grew up all alone and got a job at that greasy restaurant—probably my only "outside" or "social" life, for that matter— and started living an empty, monotonous life, one that would be slowly filled only with the help of my art. But not filled at all. Not at all . . .
SpongeBob. That idiot. He's always bright and optimistic as if the world had a huge grin on it. He's so naïve; so stupid. What with his annoying laughter and the pointless, childish "adventures" he always gets into. I don't know why I had to end up being his and his stupid friend's neighbor, out of all citizens in Bikini Bottom. Why me? And why did Mr. Krabs have to give him a job at the same place I work at? WHY? I guess I'm meant to always get the worst things . . .
They don't know, no one knows how hard I try. I actually try to be vain; I actually try to raise my self-esteem by means that often have to hurt someone, when I don't really mean to harm anybody. Really.
Nevertheless, and in spite of every single thing that has occurred in my miserable life, I have dreams. And though the majority of them have died, have faded, I'm not planning on giving up on the rest soon. It would be giving up on everything. But no one helps, do they? No one can really see me. No one cares about me . . .
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Squidward got into his bed, pulling up the covers to protect himself from the post-Christmas cold weather. He rested his head on the pillow, sighing in relief at the end of another day—another migraine. He turned to the left and stared at his metal clarinet, Clary.
"Goodnight, Clary," Squidward's nasal voice broke the silence. He covered Clary with the sheets and then turned right, where a beautiful wood-carved clarinet lay. He smiled sadly and reached for it, pushing the button on its side and drifting into awe as three tiny wooden Squidwards danced at the rhythm of the lovely music played by themselves. He grinned.
"Sleep tight, Ciara." Squidward kissed the clarinet goodnight and covered it, positioning himself comfortable, preparing for sleep.
No one cares about me . . .
. . . or . . .
He took another quick glance at Ciara—who almost seemed to smile at him—then sighed, closing his eyes—
. . . damn you, SpongeBob.
—and fell asleep.