It was a typical Saturday night, and Johnny found himself in much his usual state - resigned to the lamentable routine of solitude he had taken up since his demoralising failure at maintaining a romance interest (or at least one that wouldn't (literally) die by his hand).
He had unsuccessfully attempted on numerous occasions to break through the monotony in various ways: he'd taken out his paints again for the first time in several months and waited longingly for inspiration to come to him; he'd persisted to finally renovate the tunnel leading to Squee's cellar enabling him to make several perilous midnight excursions to the unfortunate toddler's bedroom, believing himself to be bringing joy into the life of the mistreated child by telling him overly detailed bedtime stories (some autobiographical) - this gave him a sense of self-worth, and for a time he believed himself to be compensating for the trail death and destruction he had left in his wake; He'd marched into the Newsagents down the street where the notorious local paedophile worked, dragged him out onto the steps and impaled him on the painfully jagged, rusty railings whilst all the while singing Cindy Lauper's "girl's just wanna have fun".
And yet his attempts had remained fruitless; he'd simply found himself slipping back into his usual routine of random homicide, cherry flavoured brainfreezies, repetitive Happy Noodle Boy comics and senseless journal entries with appalling grammar.
His writing had become darker and yet lacking in direction or any sort of relevance as he began drawing inspiration from his grotesque surroundings: the peeling wall paper on the stained walls; the grimy windows which were scarcely transparent anymore; the loose nails in the dirt encrusted floorboards which scraped the souls of his feet drawing blood whenever he dared to venture through the house barefoot (though this was highly infrequent, as you'll have undoubtedly noticed he rarely appears to change his clothes from the waist downwards...).
He thought to himself as he gnawed on the end of his pen, I need to get out of here. I need a reason to leave the house. He knew there was only one reason he would ever be persuaded by - and he knew it could have disastrous consequences.
"She broke your heart, didn't she. I can feel it," came the sneering voice of Mr. Eff.
"Fuck you, Eff. Just shut up," retorted Johnny, though his voice didn't match the confidence of his remark, it shook slightly as he fought back the tears.
Psycho Dough Boy mused, "He has a point, Nny. You know, if the pain's too much..."
"I will not kill myself! I've been both ways and neither heaven nor hell will provide me with any answers. It won't stop the torment."
"See what this bitch has done to you! Aw, Nny, I hate to see you this way. That bitch must be dealt with."
"No! I can't - won't. It wouldn't make things any better. At least this way I can see her sometimes."
"So you've digressed to mere stalking? You pathetic excuse for a human being!"
"QUIET! Shut up, just stop." Johnny could feel his eyes burning with tears as he struggled not to allow them to fall down his face.
Devi had recently mustered the courage to venture out into the open again, owing to the numerous threats made towards her by her boss should she fail to return to work again. And it was this reason alone that had resulted in her current situation; stood behind the counter of Dragon Books trying desperately to refrain from aggression as an old lady attempted to haggle with her over the price of a trashy romance novel:
"I'm sorry, M'am, but it's not up to me to decide the prices of these things - it says so on the back, and I'm not in charge around here, so either pay the extra fifteen cents or check it out of the library."
"Really young lady! I'm going to be talking with the manager about your manners!"
Devi reverted back to her usual monotone which she had grown accustomed to using at work, "Next!"
The old woman, defeated, stormed off.
As Devi's gaze remained downward, a hoarse voice spoke, "If she's bothering you, I can disembowel her... if you like..."
Recognising the voice in a moment of horrifying realisation, Devi's gaze shot upwards to meet the eyes of the reason she had isolated herself for so long. "N-n-nny..."
Johnny managed a faint smile, "I, er... wanted to speak to you in person... things don't appear to be going so well..."
"You tried to fuckin' kill me, you wanker!"
"I figured that may have put you off a bit... I guess I could have thought up more romantic ways for us to spend our time together."
Devi simply stared, her eyes bore into his. She hesitated, opened her mouth as though about to speak, then thought the better of it: don't make him angry, who knows what he's hiding in that trench coat.
Johnny's gaze darted downwards, he was afraid to ask her his next question - of the rejection he may have to face. He slowly raised his head (it was very heavy and he has a really skinny neck). "I- I'd like another chance,"
Devi looked sceptical,
"-to prove myself. I really like you, Devi. You're the only person I've met who I feel I connect with." He spoke rapidly. Devi was unsure whether this was out of embarrassment at his own sincerity or the result of one too many sugar-infested brainfreezies. "Do you think you could forget about that whole... knife... incident?"
Devi's eyes connected with Johnny's and she held his gaze for several seconds before answering, "O Johnny..." she sighed, "No. Not really."
[A.N. O come on - would you?]
Outside, the house seemed desolate and an eerie silence prevailed. Inside, the screams of desperation echoed through the lower levels of the house. The walls were smeared with grime, dried blood, and the occasional splatter of intestines and cartilage.
"DEAR GOD! HAVE MERCY AND LET ME DIE!"
"That fat-ass bastard won't answer you. Don't waste your cries of anguish on him."
"I'm sorry! I shouldn't have made those comments about your boots!" The young girl attempted a half-arsed apology, almost sounding sincere. "They-they're actually quite cool once you get used to them!" she added hastily.
"O but it's too late now. You were so quick to judge me by my appearance. And I am in no mood for mercy."
"I'm sorry! O God! I can't bear it! I was just trying to fit in with those cool guys. I wanted them to like me!"
"Well you are a fool, my dear. Those "cool" guys are now sprawled across the side-walk [see what I did there? Cause he's American, didn't say pavement! Yay me!] with their intestines on display. I'm sure you've failed to impress them."
The girl, who looked barely sixteen, was held firmly against the wall by chains - which fastened around her wrists so that her arms were raised above her head - and shackles around her ankles. Her mascara (which she had applied lavishly) had run down her face where she had cried. Our hero had repeatedly administered electrical shocks to her, at an exceedingly (though not quite deadly) high voltage, and slashed at her stomach with numerous oddly shaped knives.
"IT'S PEOPLE LIKE YOU WHO'VE BROUGHT IT TO THIS!" He roared, "You're constantly pushing me to the edge! You made me what I am today! And now Devi won't come anywhere near me!"
"H-who? Is, is that your girlfriend?"
"She would be. If I hadn't attacked her. I was confused. For the first time, I experienced a feeling which wasn't contempt, or irritation - it was love. So un-used to this sort of bliss was I, that I momentarily lost control, I became horribly confused and reacted in the only way you people had taught me: violently. And now I've lost her. She despises me. And you imbeciles are going to pay," he edged towards her menacingly, knife posed ready to strike her, "each and every one of you."
Her eyes widened in terror; her breathing became unsteady. Instinct told her to scream; to cry out in vain - however, her voice was choked by the horror she faced. Johnny reached out a spider-like hand and clasped a chunk of her once-blonde-now-greasy hair between his fingers. He jerked her head backwards and her skull thumped against the wall. Through her terror she was unable to feel the pain of her skull cracking. She was, however, fully aware of the blood encrusted silver blade he brought to her exposed neck. In one swift movement he ran it across her flesh. As her dull grey eyes became glazed over, blood spurted out at high pressure, soaking his t-shirt and face, but not concealing the psychotic grin now playing across it.
Dear Die-ary,
Rid the world of another infamous cheerleader today. I thought it would help suppress the feelings of rejection and loneliness. It didn't. I feel so empty. I walked around the streets aimlessly for some time afterwards. I felt like I was surrounded by a thick fog, blurring my vision and muffling any sounds that might break the silence which perused me. Nobody cares. I wasn't even approached by any jerks (though perhaps I would've been had I bothered to wipe the blood stains from my clothes).
It's so lonely on the outside. All I can think of is Devi, and how she's just out of my reach.