Disclaimer: I don't own JTHM or IFS. Get used to it.
Okeedoo, here we go. For some reason, I haven't written a JTHM fic in a while. This is just one of those latenight, off the top of my head ramblings fueled by sleep deprivation. This is my version of what happens to Devi in the 7th comic just before and then after the phone call from Nny. My era of fluffy Devi/Nny has ended. This is the first step in the beginning of a better era. If there's OOCness, bite me. Enjoy! I hope you like it.
Please don't flame. I'm not going to listen, so don't waste your time. Reviews, however, are much appreciated!
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Devi moved her brush furiously over the canvas, the strokes large and angry. Dark. Red. Horrible. Unmoving. Uninteresting. Horrendous.
She angrily pushed the canvas from the easel and let out a scream of frustration, sinking slowly to her knees. She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, leaving a streak of crimson paint on her face. She really didn't care. She stared at the painting on the canvas that lay beside her on the floor in disgust.
The image that stared up at her was a horrible, twisted face of a man with sickly yellow skin and bottomless, dead black sockets where there should have been eyes. Blood escaped from the man's head in various places, but she had gotten so furious as she painted, that it was horribly exaggerated. But that wasn't what had made her so angry at the painting. It was that it reminded her of a man she knew.
It wasn't even so much that she hated Nny. It was just the fact that he was impossible to avoid in her thoughts, and when she was able to sleep, in her dreams. Yes, she did hate him. But it went deeper than that. It was a mixture of hate and regret. Regret that everything had fallen apart. Regret that they hadn't gotten more time together.
She had a sudden urge to go to his house and kick his skinny ass in once more. And maybe tell him how she felt….
That was insane. She could spare herself no feelings of attraction for him. She quickly fought the feelings off and stood up. Maybe she would go and kick his ass. Anything to release some of this frustration. She slowly journeyed outside and got into her car.
Pulling up in front of Nny's house, she found it quite a bit harder than she had expected to get out and pound the shit out of him. Or even to go near the house. She got out of her car for a moment and stood in the middle of the road as it started to rain. She stared at the house in the center of the small expanse of loose soil. She pondered going up and knocking and popping him one in the jaw, but instead she got back into her car and drove home.
Throwing her jacket down on the floor, Devi walked back into the room where her easel stood waiting. She sighed and picked the slightly dented canvas up from the floor and placed it back on the easel. Perhaps she could find some way to keep it from being a complete waste of time.
Suddenly, before she could even begin her efforts, the phone rang. She poked her head out of the room and stared at the phone sitting on the coffee able. She leaned against the doorframe and glared at the plastic device. And then finally she glided over to it and picked it up.
"Hello?" she asked, placing a hand on the back of her head.
"--click-- hello, Devi."
It was Johnny. Devi knew. She babbled something along the lines of asking if it was. He didn't answer. Or rather, the recording didn't. Instead, it said something about only playing once, and then started off rambling.
Devi listened to the recording ramble for a few minutes, getting more and more disgusted as he spoke of things that were, in her point of view, nothing but a clever line of bullshit expressed in pretty words. She could feel herself growing angrier and angrier.
"Hey! Hey! Shut up! Shut that thing off! Pick up the phone, Nny, you little shit!" she snarled into the sudden silence. The anger and frustration, as well as a strange feeling of disappointment, were bubbling in her stomach. She started to talk without even comprehending the things she was saying. Her words turned into screams. And then she was screaming desperately, ranting her head off at him.
"I don't hear you saying anything! What's wrong? Not full of fucked up wisdom today? Speak, speak you fuck!" she finished, spoken (well, screamed) in blind red fury, slamming the phone down and stomping out of the room, still fuming. She picked up her paintbrush once more, only to slam it into the wall with a crack.
She had just insulted the great Johnny. Suppose he came here and stabbed her? Well, that would be just fine. Actually, Devi welcomed the challenge.
'How dare he?' she thought to herself. How dare he call her and give her a pile of shit rather than an apology when she had been doing nothing but awaiting one . She couldn't deny that somewhere inside, she had really been hoping for a reason to stop hating him. She had wanted an excuse to love someone. He had made it worse. But the fact that she never knew what was going to happen kept her engrossed somehow. She never knew what fucked up thing he was going to do next.
Devi hated herself for thinking things like that. The anger, the frustration, they were there, boiling inside.
She had to face it. She was never getting out of this. He was going to keep her hiding in this place until the day she died. He said he was sorry, acted as though he was, but he wasn't. He was just playing a sick little game with her. Seeing how mad he could drive her before she completely came unglued. He was nothing but a sick, twisted little glitch in the system of reality, and yet she….loved him?
Devi gave herself a sharp slap across the face and bit down hard into the flesh of her arm.
If this was his game, she wasn't going to give him a chance to play it. It was over now.
Devi walked out of the room and into the kitchen, staring out the window. Slowly, she made her way over the cutlery drawer. She rolled it open and drew out a small knife. She could see her own reflection in the blade, her face grim and eyes sunken in. She didn't think she could withstand much more of this. She wasn't going to live anymore held up by false hope of something better. She was going to win this game.
Devi dragged the blade slowly across her left wrist. It took quite a bit of pressure because of the dull blade, but eventually the metal was able to gouge a nice trench in the pale, grayish white flesh. Satisfied, Devi moved on to the right wrist. When she had a good trough in each wrist and both were leaking a considerable amount of blood, she set the knife down on the counter, a contented smile on her face. She walked out of the room and returned to her painting, smearing her wrist over the still unfinished painting on her easel and sitting down on the floor. Despite the biting, stinging pain in her wrists, Devi was content.
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Yeah, I'm aware that was poorly written and didn't really make any sense. Gasp. Arg. Don't flame or something bad will happen to your refrigerator.