[A.N. Ok, so in answer to one of the last reviews to be inflicted upon me (nah, I love 'em really!), my apologies if Johnny seems out of character. But I'd have thought it was obvious that the term "my dear" was meant in a patronising tone (perhaps I should have explained that more clearly). And I'd really rather not explain what a wanker is… is it not a universally used insult? Sorry if it's not, I just kind of assumed people who spoke English under the age of like 60 would know what it meant…]
Johnny remained froze in his current position for some time. He stood before the infamous Sickness portrait, screws in hand. On Psycho Doughboy's instructions he had retrieved them from Devi's backpack which he'd discovered lying unguarded in her room. Even after his deliberation, he remained unsure as to whether or not he could bring himself to destroy she who had so irritatingly invaded his emotions.
Things are great right now. Just perfect. I don't need her to like me – or even tolerate me for that matter. She has to stay here. Why should I spoil that?
"To allow yourself to experience that something else. That special feeling – when someone else returns your own feelings." Psycho doughboy leered at him.
"What the hell. Why should I care? If I don't do this, I'll probably kill her anyway."
He took one of the tiny silver screws between his finger and thumb and thrust it through the canvas, twisting it round. There seemed to be no resistance from the painting. After he had secured the first, he repeated the process again. After a small amount of labour on his part, the deed was done. He waited expectantly as the sniggering behind him announced that he had succeeded in this minor task.
There was an initial silence, which seemed all the longer for the suspense Johnny experienced. His eyes were entirely fixed on the painting which had absorbed his complete attention. He was unsure whether his eyes were playing tricks on him – was she moving? Perhaps a trick of the light? Were her legs twitching? Was he imagining it edging forward? He blinked.
"Jeezus!" He leapt backwards. For it was suddenly a three dimensional object. Had it gradually got like that without him noticing? Or had he missed it as he blinked? It tumbled to the floor where it remained motionless. Johnny stood, poised and ready to retreat swiftly away if it should strike. Strike? It's a friggin' doll!
I am so much more than that.
Shit. "Are you- you're talking to me?"
Why so surprised?
"I guess I thought only Devi would hear you. Like only I hear the doughboys."
"We're the same being, my dear boy," replied D-boy from behind him.
This is going to be so much fun. Devi will be ours now.
Johnny heard the sickening cackles of Psycho Doughboy, though he was unsure whether or not they reverberated around the walls of the room or merely of his mind. He had to get out. Backing away towards the door he left the room to the scene of Psycho Doughboy stalking towards the fallen doll.
*Meanwhile… Somewhere in the depths of the
city's degraded community of subcultures…*
The deserted streets lay before her as she trudged through puddles, black boots producing faint splashing sounds and sending ripples through the still waters which saturated the roads. Tess was growing cold and increasingly aggravated as she swept through the murky waters, trench coat trailing behind her, giving her a bat-like appearance. She had to repeatedly remove her glasses and dry them systematically due to the excess of water building up on the lenses. She briefly mused to herself about the practicalities of some sort of miniature window wiper device to combat this frequently occurring problem.
This guy was almost adequate competition for Dillon as far as assholes went. She knew it had been unwise to grow so inpatient with him and yell being as he was her ride home, but it was just common courtesy to stop, or at least slow down, when visually impaired people sporting guide dogs crossed the roads. Inevitably she found herself being urged to evacuate the vehicle. Still, he could have at least stopped it completely before making his "request".
This less than amiable event was proceeded by a somewhat lousy evening largely involving talk of how he (who went by the name of Corey: how quaint) was possibly the only real Goth in the café (which incidentally was infested with the things); he had been a Nine Inch Nails fan since a negligible time after they'd formed; he bought his clothes from starving immigrants who owned small market stalls in the back alleys of the city – not those disgraceful Mall stores; he'd been the first to indulge in the idea of tinting his hair blue and spiking it.
Tess sighed heavily, rubbing her glasses fruitlessly with the damp sleeve of her coat and replacing them so that she could see where she was going. She pushed her short hair out of her eyes, running her fingers through it trying to separate the water-logged strands and meeting much resistance. Thank God she hadn't grown it long to fit in with Anne and the rest of her friends. She grew wary of those jerks constantly criticizing every detail of her appearance.
A sudden pressure applied to her right shoulder startled her. Tess whipped her head around and found herself face to face with a seemingly unfriendly face. The character in question bared a slight resemblance to Dillon; he possessed the same NIN t-shirt combined with a leather jacket; the same Mohawk hair style; the same permanent look of contempt plastered across his face. The main difference came from his age – he looked a good few years older than Dillon.
Still clasping his hand to her shoulder the man asked, "Do you have the time?" His voice was hoarse as though he was unused to using it.
"Sure… um…" she made to push her sleeve back to display her watch but was prevented by a sudden blow to her head – she hadn't a clue, nor a care, what with.
Tess awoke to the most unpleasant feeling of her skin grinding against concrete, creating painful friction burns, as her assaulter dragged her along the pavement (Ok… side walk). She was vaguely aware of a dull throbbing pain at the back of her head, and a dumb grunting, courtesy of the attacker. She felt like crap. Her vision was obscured by either the surrounding darkness or her inability to adjust her eyes owing to the blow to her head – she hated that she was unsure which.
She moaned out in pain.
*Grunt*
"Whadaya…"
"Shut the FUCK up!" Was the answer, through gritted teeth.
"Gerrof!" She squirmed with all the strength she could muster in her semi-conscious state.
Smack! He struck her across the face with the back of his hand. She fell limply to the floor, tears welling in the corners of her eyes.
Fuck! Not again! I'll never escape this one.
He yanked her to her feet roughly and slammed her against a nearby wall – she supposed they were now concealed in an alleyway. At this point, her eyes were firmly shut, unwilling to participate in the witnessing of whatever may lie ahead. Her ears – which possessed no such ability – registered various sounds of him fiddling around. Please let that be him trying to find my wallet. TAKE IT! Take it and leave me!
She remained still, pinned against the wall, awaiting the upcoming horrors with mortal dread. Yet nothing was happening. The racket echoing around her was distorted as though she were submerged under water, and she couldn't make any sense from the abstract sounds which reached her ears. She could hear struggling and screaming, though nothing made its way towards her or even came into contact with her as the assaulter's grip on her loosened and fell away. As the pressure on her arms ceased, she slid helplessly down the wall and made contact with the ground with a thud, losing her battle to maintain consciousness.
* * * * *
Johnny stared expressionlessly at the grotesque form which lay at his feet, as its life force ebbed away. Blood was splattered up the brick walls which enclosed the three of them. He extended a steel-toed foot and poked at it to ensure it was completely dead. No moans escaped it's wretched lips. He next turned his attention to the female who was now slumped against the wall, unconscious – probably out of shock.
He wasn't used to this "hero" thing, it was merely co-incidence: he had been experiencing a great deal of anxiety, and this shit-for-brains had bumped into him earlier in the street and uttered a derogatory comment under his breath. It just so happened that he'd followed him here to inflict the justice he felt necessary. This girl was lucky, he thought as he gazed at her, not entirely interested… although… she did look slightly farmilli-
"Fuck!" It's her!
He deliberated for a while, then, unsure as to where exactly he was going with this, he slid his boney arms underneath her mid-section and lifted her upwards, shifting one arm downwards to support her legs. Already regretting it, he set off back to the house.