Author's Note: Thank you for the lovely reviews! Amarantus, yours was beautifully worded – if only I could be half as poetic as you are! :) Marlowe's version of "Doctor Faustus" has been on my mind recently; I studied it at school last year. As for the Snow Queen allusion, that was a complete accident, but when I thought about it some more, I realised how fitting it was.
I'm still having a debate over whether to keep this as a twoshot or add a third chapter; if I go for the latter option, then I'll be tempted to do a fourth chapter, because what I have planned for the third chapter may be unpopular… Or the story could change completely and I won't have this dilemma. Anyway, for now, enjoy the second chapter!
i will tell you about selfish people. even when they know they will hurt you they walk into your life to taste you because you are the type of being they don't want to miss out on. you are too much shine to not be felt. so when they have gotten a good look at everything you have to offer. when they have taken your skin your hair and your secrets with them. when they realise how real this is. how much of a storm you are and it hits them.
that is when the cowardice sets in. that is when the person you thought they were is replaced by the sad reality of what they are. that is when they lose every fighting bone in their body…
Rupi Kaur, extract from "selfish"
Chapter Two: Escape
The redecorated Anti-Fairy Council building could have been constructed out of flames. The floor and steps were comprised of the same old holey worm-eaten planks, but from these the majestic marble columns extended, red turning to yellow turning to white. Inside, a domed roof made of stained glass detailed the anti-fairies' greatest achievements: spiders, paper cuts, pinkeye and crazy cow disease.
The heat was stifling. Wanda sat on the edge of her purple cushioned throne and peeled her t-shirt away; it was sticking to her sweaty skin and did nothing to alleviate her bad mood. Let's get this over with before we all expire.
Her polar opposite flopped down in the rickety black rocking chair on the other side of the oak desk, finishing off a sandwich she had been eating with her feet. The two Wandas were the only ones in the room, though the good fairy suspected the giant panel of glass along one wall was more than just a mirror.
Anti-Wanda licked the crumbs off her toes. "Whatcha got for us, Pinkie Pie?"
Wanda ignored the nickname and shuffled her papers. She began reading the list of questions to her imperfect doppelgänger. "Have you ever used magic to directly maim, injure, beat or kill another?"
"Hoo, boy." Anti-Wanda picked a scrap of lettuce from between her teeth. "One time, Ah put a spell on our TV tuh make it work again, but it fell over an' squished muh husband. Does that count?"
"No, because you weren't trying to hurt him. You were trying to fix the TV. The squishing was an indirect consequence."
Anti-Wanda blinked. "Sure, let's go wi' that. I ain't never hurt no-one."
"Good." The pink-haired one kept her gaze low. "Have you ever interfered with the course of true love?"
"Nope."
"Have you ever used magic to influence the outcome of a competition?"
"Yuh mean cheat?"
"Sort of."
"Then no way. No siree bob."
If this keeps going, I'll be out in time for lunch. "Have you kidnapped any human beings in the past year?"
Anti-Wanda's eyes darted from left to right. "So how's Timmy?"
"Hey, I'm supposed to ask you the questions."
"Sure, 'cause all us anti-fairies is evil an' all you fairies is good an' we's the only ones what needs proddin' an' pokin'. That's racist."
Wanda shoved her papers aside. "If you must know, we're not Timmy's godparents anymore."
"Aw, shucks! You guys had a great thing goin'! What happened?"
"I – I don't fully understand it." Wanda deflated; she hadn't been able to speak about it in detail to anyone. "Something went wrong. He changed. We couldn't do anything for him. We just had to leave and let him sort his own life out. He was so rude and … awful."
"Awful? But Timmy's a sweet little – oh, yuh talkin' 'bout that there clone."
"Clone? What clone?"
"The clone muh hubby sent while Timmy was bein' a fairy."
"Timmy, a fairy?" Wanda leaned forwards. "What are you talking about?"
"Oh, Ah better start from the beginnin'. Well, see here, Timmy showed up one day askin' 'bout this here rule that lets human kids become bona fide fairies, an' ol' Cozzie, he tells him tuh be a fairy for a week, an' he'll either stay that way forever or turn intuh some beast an' be his slave. Well, Ah think that's what he told him. An' that Timmy, that trooper, he gave it his best shot, but he can't do it, he jus' can't do it. So now he lives with us. He sure is grouchy, Ah gotta tell ya, but at least he's great with Foop."
Wanda's jaw fell onto the table.
Roughly three seconds later, Anti-Wanda stopped gawking, gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth. "Ah done said too much, ain't Ah?"
…
Foop had been intolerable all day. Bring me my ba-ba, you gargoyle! Change my nappy, you freak! Glue together this intricate model of Fairy World so I can instantly obliterate it, you abomination! Timmy made sure not to react to the name-calling; it was no worse than the way Vicky constantly referred to him as a "twerp". At least, that was what he told himself.
By the time Anti-Wanda breezed into the kitchen (which, with its chrome fittings and island, was the most modern part of the castle), the drudge had bags under his eyes and aching leg muscles. He was standing on a stool and bent over the sink, scrubbing Foop's bowl clean of mush while the baby watched from afar. A tower of plates wobbled on the side.
"Good afternoon, mother," said Foop, bobbing about above the island.
"AH DIDN'T SAY NOTHIN'!" Anti-Wanda barked. She paused and cleared her throat. "Ah mean, hi, darlin'." She hugged her son. "Didja have fun with Timmy?"
"Oh, yes, it was splendid, mother," the infant simpered. "I do enjoy Timmy's company. He's so obedient and conscientious and THINK FAST!"
Timmy only just dodged Foop's zap. The sparks hit the pile of plates. They all toppled over and smashed into pieces.
"You clumsy oaf!" Foop snarled.
"Now, honey, it ain't nice tuh zap people." She poofed up a dustpan and brush, which Timmy took to sweep up the shards. He had just collected every last shred of earthenware when a clang rang out from afar. The drawbridge had fallen and was letting someone in. A whistled tune pierced the air.
"I'm home, dear," Anti-Cosmo announced.
The hair stood up on the back of Timmy's neck. He abandoned the things formerly known as plates and ducked behind the island just as his new least favourite person entered.
"How is everybody on this fine day?"
"AH DIDN'T SAY NOTHIN'!" his wife screeched again. "Ah mean, we's good. Yuh work good?"
"We were remarkably productive." Timmy dared to peer round and caught the leader dumping his briefcase on a counter. "We have a choice of three plans to take over the world, all of them foolproof."
"Ooh, is that going to be our Saturday Fun-Time?" Foop asked, practically bouncing off the walls.
"Indeed it is." He and his son held hands and spun in a circle together. "I'm in a good mood, boy. There's a storm in the air, the world will soon be ours, and your mother has revealed nothing about Timothy to the meddling fairies. Yes, things are going swimmingly."
Anti-Wanda tugged at her collar. "Ah didn't wanna say it, but…"
The man let go of Foop and regarded his wife.
"It ain't goin' swimmin'ly. It's goin' drownin'ly."
Anti-Cosmo's left eye, the one not covered by the monocle, started twitching. "What do you mean, woman?"
"Ah mean…" She appealed to Foop, who merely shrugged.
Her husband grabbed the front of her t-shirt. "Answer me!"
She swallowed. "Ah may've sorta kinda told 'em everythin'," she whispered quickly.
The suspense was killing everyone.
The smack echoed across the castle, as did the thump when Anti-Wanda hit the cold stone floor.
"This is why I never take you anywhere! You're not fit to leave the house! You're not fit to LIVE! If it were up to me, I'd have married ANYONE else! Anti-Cupid, Anti-Juandissimo – even Anti-Binky would be preferable to this TRAMP!" He bore down on his injured wife, who whimpered and held up her hands in surrender. "At least THEY don't make promises they can't keep! At least THEY don't tell you they're going to do something and then do the opposite! You're an IMBECILE! You're a WASTE OF SPACE! You're a-" Anti-Cosmo's rant was interrupted when he spied the dustpan on the floor. "What have we here?" he asked, much more quietly.
"He broke the plates, Father," Foop burst in, darting behind the island and lifting Timmy into view. "I could have fixed them with my ba-ba, but I left them there to preserve the evidence."
"Perfect," his father muttered. Then he patted Foop on the head. "You did the right thing by not doing anything."
The square-shaped infant dropped Timmy and nodded, probably relieved to know he was still in favour.
Anti-Wanda crawled onto her knees. "Ah don't think that's exactly what happened-" she chipped in.
"Why should I trust anything you say anymore?" her partner cut her off. He looked at Timmy, then Anti-Wanda, then Timmy again, then Anti-Wanda again, before finally snatching a clump of Timmy's hair. "I'll deal with you first."
ANTI-POOF!
They were in the master bedroom again. Anti-Cosmo let go; Timmy rubbed his head and blinked away the dizziness. He watched the elegant brute pacing the width of the room, talking to himself.
"They said bringing down my enemies would make life easier. Well, it hasn't. I've been lumbered with some blundering imp who causes trouble whatever he does. I should have changed the terms of the agreement. Failure could have brought … death. Yes, that would have been an infinitely better prevention technique. More permanent. No risk of his blasted loved ones coming here seeking to reclaim him. Very much against Da Rules, yes, but that's never stopped me before."
He halted. He focused on Timmy, who instinctively took a step back. Who wouldn't, when the person approaching them had been contemplating murder a few seconds earlier?
"What did you do to yourself?" Anti-Cosmo sighed. "You had such promise, Timothy. Had you committed your energies to something other than foiling my schemes, you could have been a great man." His hands stroked Timmy's neck, tickling him slightly, rising and coming to a rest at his cheeks. "Such are the joys of hindsight. What are we going to do with you now, eh?" He ran a thumb along the overbite.
There was no reason to assume it, but the notion flooded Timmy's brain nonetheless: He's going to pull my teeth out!
He wriggled free, eyes flying between his captor and the exit.
"Timothy?" Anti-Cosmo's hands hung on to the empty space, and then dropped to his side. "Don't you trust me?"
It was strange. From the way the monster's eyes were moistening, Timmy could swear he was on the verge of tears.
It had been a complex plan, getting a godchild to completely surrender his old way of life, and there was so much that could have gone wrong. The mastermind clearly hadn't expected to succeed. Evil never wins against good. This time, however, it had. No-one could have anticipated it. No-one had a back-up plan detailing what to do should this event arise. No-one would ever read to children the fairy tale in which the wicked stepmother was the one to live happily ever after – because such a fairy tale could not exist.
Or, rather, if it did, there would inevitably be a sequel in which the heroine reclaimed her rightful destiny. That was the trouble with success: it was never completely accepted by one's peers. Today, for instance, Anti-Wanda's loose lips had threatened the peace, threatened to spark a war between the boy's original parents and his new guardians.
When evil was triumphant, what happened next? If Anti-Cosmo wanted to cling on to his victory, rather than relinquishing it once more to his counterparts, where did he go from here?
"Come back." He beckoned the lad with his fingers. "Come closer."
Timmy looked him up and down. There was bound to be another trick up his sleeve.
"I don't bite, Timothy," he insisted. "I want to try something. An experiment, as it were."
If Timmy still had a beating heart, it would be fluttering like the wings of a caged bird. He was certain he didn't want to take part in this experiment. But if he refused, there would be a penalty waiting for him, and it would be more painful than the task originally proposed. Being grounded was always worse than not doing the dishes.
He crept up. Slowly. Too slowly.
The blue demon swooped in and kissed him.
There was no trace of the lust that had possessed the anti-fairy last night. There was no grunting and moaning, no forcing of bodies together, no sense of urgency. It was just Anti-Cosmo gently sucking Timmy's lips. It was just Anti-Cosmo wrapping his azure arms around Timmy's ochre body. It was just an action. There was nothing behind it.
Their mouths parted. Their eyes met. "Fascinating," Anti-Cosmo breathed.
Fascinating? Timmy frowned. What did that word even mean? And why was there a deep wash of pink on his gaoler's cheeks? Was he – was he blushing?
The elder one chuckled. "It's all very confusing, isn't it?"
Colour flashed in Timmy's peripheral vision. He turned his head.
Three birds, one green, one pink and one purple, were perched outside on the branch of a withered black tree. The purple one held a piece of paper in its beak.
Timmy's grin reached his ears.
Cosmo! Wanda! Poof!
They'd got his message!
They were here!
He ran to the window and flung it open.
"Timothy! What is the meaning of this?"
His saviours ducked inside, morphing into their true forms, standing firm as a barrier between abuser and victim.
Wanda was the first to speak. "All right, Anti-Cosmo. You've had your fun, but it's over now. GIVE US BACK OUR GODSON!" she screeched, seizing him by the lapels of his jacket.
Anti-Cosmo simply smiled and prised her fingers away. "I think you'll find he's mine now. We have a contract. He signed up for the Eternity Scheme knowing exactly what he was agreeing to. There's no way out."
"What about that window?" Cosmo pointed.
"I meant there's no way out of the contract, you nincompoop!" He shifted them aside and rested an arm around Timmy, ignoring Poof's low growl. "You three are powerless. For is it not against Da Rules to forcefully steal a godchild from another magical creature?"
"He's not your godchild," Wanda corrected him. "Godchildren are meant to be loved and cheered up. That's not what we've seen." She took the letter from Poof and waved it at him. "You've made him feel 'dirty and small'. You've made him miserable."
Scanning the page, Anti-Cosmo's face fell, but only temporarily. "Have I?" He nudged his prisoner forward. "Tell them, Timothy. Tell them how much you've missed them. Tell them how awful it is to live here."
Timmy opened his mouth. He went no further. His jaw snapped shut again.
That wretched contract!
Had his letter to his godparents mentioned the fact that he couldn't talk anymore? No, it had not. Which was just his luck.
The longer the silence, the more convincing the wrong message became. The longer the silence, the more Cosmo and Wanda's determined frowns softened into looks of concern. The longer the silence, the more they would believe him to be admitting the opposite of how he really felt.
"You can't be serious," said Wanda, confirming his suspicions. "You can't be happy with the way things have turned out." She held her wand with whitening knuckles. "You can't have grown to like him after he did this to you! You can't have enjoyed that – that kiss." The last word was hushed, like a shameful secret.
Timmy shook his head, raven locks flying. It wasn't enough. She wasn't convinced. He searched the room, his breath short. He could write it down. But he did that before. They wanted speech. He couldn't get that for them. He couldn't say the words they needed to hear.
He moulded himself as best as he could. He knitted his eyebrows together, gritted his teeth, clenched his fists to hide the clammy palms and hoped they could read his mind.
Wanda closed her eyes and hung her head.
Poof tugged at her saffron sleeve. "Poof, poof?"
She hugged her baby. "I'm sorry, sport. We've lost him."
Those words squeezed at Timmy's brain, eradicating every emotion except the guilt that was carved into him like a scar.
The Fairywinkle-Cosmas did not react when the mesh first swept over their heads. It took a couple of seconds before they blinked, did a double take and tried to expand the diamond-shaped holes to no avail.
They were enclosed in one of the fairies' few weaknesses: a butterfly net.
Anti-Cosmo lowered his wand and snapped his fingers. His son emerged from a puff of smoke.
"You clicked?"
"Foop, take these intruders to the dungeon and throw away the key."
"Yes, father."
As the baby heaved the bundle over his tiny shoulder and dragged the fairies away, Timmy spied their faces through the string, their heavy eyelids and downturned mouths. He spun around, unable to hold their confused gazes. A spasm rocked his body. He clutched his chest. His heart was breaking.
"Timothy…" Anti-Cosmo lingered. "I was considering giving this back to you."
He reached inside his jacket and revealed a long lilac ribbon, decorated with lemon-yellow musical notes. When he put his finger on one of the symbols, a familiar sound rang out. "Uh, my name is Timmy Turner, I'm ten years old… What? You want me to keep talking? Okay, uh, I live in Dimmsdale with my mom and dad…"
Timmy thought he'd never hear it again.
The kid stretched his eager hands out, grasping for the substance.
Anti-Cosmo flew just out of reach, dangling the band above his head like a grown-up teasing a baby with their car keys. "Of course, after observing how delightfully helpless you are without it, it might be more fun to withhold it for a little longer."
Timmy leapt up, swiping for the ribbon, missing, being laughed at. He finally caught one end and tugged it between his lips. He needed to swallow it. He needed to speak again. He needed to find Cosmo and Wanda and Poof and tell them the truth and put everything back to normal.
Anti-Cosmo snatched it back before he could say anything. Timmy retaliated, and both flew across the room, Anti-Cosmo zipping through the air trying to shake the child off, Timmy digging his feet into the ground and clinging on for dear life. It was a dangerous game of tug-and-war. But Timmy was strong, pulling his voice down, down, down towards him. He was winning. He was sure of it.
Until he ripped the vocal stream in half.
His face slammed into the floor. The sound of himself spouting facts about his life spluttered and started crackling, like a radio with poor signal.
If Timmy had been able to scream "NO!" at the top of his lungs, he would have done. Anti-Cosmo released the second half, and the boy tried to push the torn edges back together. But each attempt to reattach the two bands only succeeded in tearing the fabric into smaller and smaller shreds. With each clumsy fingering, each hole dug out with a cursed claw, the melodious sound broke apart until it was slowing down and lowering in pitch, close to death. He stopped fighting. He gave up. The fragments drifted to the ground, turned to dust at his feet, and melted into nothingness.
There was another long silence. Timmy was beginning to hate the silence.
"Farewell, sweet voice," Anti-Cosmo eventually sneered. "Poor Timothy. You're never going to make yourself heard again. Your fairies are never going to know how much you miss them. And, just as before," he continued, lowering himself to the kid's level, "you have only yourself to blame."
Baring his fangs, the child pounced on the anti-fairy, flattening him on the bed.
Initially, Anti-Cosmo gasped at the intensity in the boy's glare. However, it turned into a guffaw. "Oh, Timothy! I didn't realise you were so eager!"
On hearing this, Timmy's eyes widened and he quickly moved away, but the anti-fairy was too strong for him, yanking him back, pressing him to his chest, rolling him over.
The second time was no less repulsive than the first.
…
The torches on either side of the door offered the only light in the dungeon. Cosmo and Wanda sat opposite each other, leaning against the wall, arms raised above their heads and held in place by shackles. Poof bounced up and down on the floor between them, attached to a ball and chain. It had been this way since late last night. Every part of their cell – the walls, the benches, even the toilet – was lined with comfortable-but-restrictive butterfly netting. Their wands dangled on a keyring in the corridor, tantalisingly out of reach.
"Hey, Wanda," Cosmo suddenly said. "There were two prisoners and one said to the other, 'What are you doing?' And the other one said, 'Oh, nothing much, just … hanging around!'"
He laughed at himself. It fizzled out when Wanda didn't respond.
He tried another joke. "What do you get when people wear chains on a catwalk? Shackle chic! Get it? Like shabby chic, but not…" He waited. She just stared back at him, not even smiling. "Man, tough crowd," the green-haired one remarked.
"Cosmo, I know you mean well, but for pity's sake, shut up."
The green-haired godfather stood up and leaned out as far as he could go, seeking to close the gap between him and his wife. "What's wrong, lamb chop?"
"What's right?" she spat. "We've been robbed."
"Of our money? When did that happen?"
"OF TIMMY! For crying out loud-" She slumped down, giving up. "We've been robbed of the best godson we've had in thousands of years. He's fallen under the spell of that – that savage family."
"And you're just going to sit there and accept it?"
"Are you?"
"No way! I'm getting out of here and getting Timmy back." He hovered, wings flapping wildly, and aimed for the door. The chains didn't budge. "Just – a – little – further-"
"If you want to escape, you'll need a real plan, dunderhead. One that doesn't rely on developing a sudden immunity to butterfly nets."
"Yeah, I haven't got that far." Cosmo stopped resisting. "But I do know that something's not right with Timmy. We haven't heard the whole story."
"He wouldn't tell us the whole story."
"Maybe he can't. I mean, didn't they add a new rule to the Eternity Scheme? 'If you don't do a good job, you can't talk', or something like that." He noticed how his wife stared into space. "Uh-oh, you've got that thinking face again."
She looked him in the eye and smiled. "Cosmo, you're right!"
"What? I was right about something?" He started hyperventilating.
"Of course he wouldn't be able to talk! No-one on the Eternity Scheme does! Why didn't I think of that? It's all been a big misunderstanding!" She waited for her husband to recover. "We have to get out."
As if answering her prayers, Anti-Wanda floated into view. "Who's in the mood fuh tongue o' dog pizza?" she asked, wielding a cloche.
"Nobody," her counterpart replied. "We're in the mood for freedom."
"No can do, Pinkie Pie. Boss's orders." At the mention of Anti-Cosmo, the blue bumpkin choked up; she swallowed and forced the phlegm down.
Cosmo noticed. "Are you okay?"
"Jus' dandy. Hunky-dory. Zip-a-dee-doo-dah. Why d'ya ask?" Her smile was too big. It didn't crinkle under her eyes.
"Do you love Anti-Cosmo?" the male prisoner asked.
Anti-Wanda shrugged. "Sure."
"Does he love you?"
"Uh…" She rubbed the back of her neck. "Well, he's handsome, ain't he?"
That didn't answer Cosmo's question.
"Look, Ah know he's diabolical an' all that, but he's still mah husband. Yuh don't see 'im after he comes home. Yuh don't – well – yuh don't see how soft he whips me when we's alone."
"He WHIPS you?" Wanda gasped.
"Ya wanna see?"
Ant-Wanda turned around and took her t-shirt off.
Her back was absolutely hideous. It was covered in ridged lines, some curved and others straight, some thick and others thin, some dark red and others black, all of them definitely not supposed to be there.
"Anti-Wanda," the correlative began (once she had found the words), "husbands don't do that to their wives."
"'Cept when the wife needs correctin'."
"Correcting?" Wanda repeated. "What other lies has he told you?"
"Don't listen to him," Cosmo added. "He's an evil son-of-a-taco!"
"Son-of-a-taco?" his wife queried.
"Is that not the phrase?"
"Not even close. But we're getting away from the point." She floated as close to Anti-Wanda as the shackles would allow. "You don't have to stay with a man who treats you that way."
"Aw, lookit Mrs High 'n' Mighty tryna do her bit! Well, it's too late, ya floozy!" She stamped her foot. "You's the one what did this to me! Yuh married that kind, gentle simpleton, so what do I got? A nasty old man who knows too much 'bout me an' how idiotic Ah am! Y'all ain't got no right tuh tell me how Anti-Cosmo's s'posed tuh treat me!" She burst into tears, clinging onto the bars in the door, her only stabilisers.
"Anti-Wanda, it's okay." Cosmo wanted to pat her on the back, but made do with patting the empty space between them. "We can help you. But only if you help us first."
"How?"
Cosmo took the letter from his pocket and thrust it in her direction.
"Yeah, no, Ah can't read."
"It's a letter Timmy sent us. That guy who looks like me but isn't me is out of control. He's getting to Timmy. He could be hurting him as much as he hurt you, or worse! You need to let us out and let Timmy go home with us."
"Ah don't know," Anti-Wanda sniffed. "Ah mean, they gots a contract. Yuh can't break 'em so easy. An' – an' yuh still don't understand! Ah can't fight Cozzie. Ah ain't got the strength no more."
"Do you want Timmy to go through what you did?"
"Nuh-uh, but-"
"Nuh-uh but nothing!" A vein throbbed on Cosmo's forehead. "Listen to me, woman-who-looks-like-my-wife-but-isn't-my-wife! If you know how we can get Timmy back, you'd better let us out of this dungeon and tell us what to do!"
The force of his determination broke the chains that once held him back.
Anti-Wanda gave a sideways glance at the staircase leading out of the dungeon. "Ah have an idea," she admitted. "Ah know a book what mah hubby uses sometimes. It might help y'all too if yuh can read it. But Ah gotta tell ya, a lotta stuff in there ain't purdy."
…
That morning, Anti-Cosmo had asked his slave to sweep the chimney … with a toilet plunger. So many ridiculous chores! The rascal was only demanding it to secure Timmy's failure, to have an excuse to get him back into bed, to satisfy his craving to do harm.
A clump of soot, knocked out of place by Timmy's poke, plummeted and exploded in the kid's hair. Anti-Cosmo sniggered. He had observed Timmy since they both woke up. There had been no chance for the boy to slip away, find the dungeon and have another go at explaining everything.
Timmy sighed, brushing the soot off his shoulders. Having so many silly tasks was just like being babysat by Vicky. Worse, even, because at least Vicky never actually used her weapons against him. There were many occasions when the teeth of the chainsaw came incredibly close to his face, but she always retreated before he could get hurt, the instruments remaining merely a taunt. By contrast, Anti-Cosmo knew how to wound with a gesture, a comment, even a look.
And at least Vicky never…
Timmy blinked back another round of tears. He'd been crying more since he left that cursed jigsaw unfinished than he had in his entire life. How long ago was that? It had been a week after Valentine's Day when he was disfigured, and then … he'd lost track. Every day was identical: the clouds were always the same shade of red, and the temperature always felt like just a few degrees above freezing.
Spring would be coming soon on Earth. The flowers would be budding, and Timmy would be missing it. Sure, he'd never cared that much about spring in the past. He'd probably have wanted to stay indoors and play video games rather than admire the blossoms, and his mom would probably have urged him to make the most of this beautiful day… He smiled to himself. Right now, he pined for the nagging. He pined for the choice, the choice between going out and having fun or staying in and having fun, rather than being confined to an endless timeline of toil punctuated by tears, of silence punctuated by sneers.
Timmy tried to recall the last occasion when he'd spoken to anyone (not counting the conversation in the tent that he would rather just forget). He knew he had to preserve the memories, but time and emotion were already distorting the words. Soon, they would distort the noise as well, until he would completely forget what he used to sound like.
He clambered onto a sort-of shelf behind the logs, starting to climb the chimney. A murky tunnel jutted out to the side. He could get lost in here. Maybe he could hide from Anti-Cosmo in here. Or maybe the evil genius would flush him out and spank him for shirking his duties.
Timmy flopped down on the shelf, overcome by another bout of despair. If he wasn't a cleaner, he was a punching bag. If he wasn't a punching bag, he was a toy. He certainly wasn't a person anymore. He knew that much.
His master poked his head up. "I don't hear sweeping!"
The worker squished the plunger onto Anti-Cosmo's head and sent him packing without fully understanding or controlling his anger.
"So you don't want to use my carefully-selected tools?" the man called. "Fine, do it by hand! Enjoy the backbreaking labour!" He snickered.
Timmy scraped at the sides of the chimney, searching for slots to hook his fingers and toes into. If he was doomed to fail, he wasn't about to stick around for the aftermath. But all the soot uncovered was smooth, unhelpful brick. He gritted his teeth and sped up. He could not go through that torture again, no matter what.
A pink spider dropped onto his nose. "Psst. Timmy. It's us," she whispered.
He stopped. His hope was sparked once more.
"We're sorry we didn't believe you last night. If we'd known about why you couldn't talk, we wouldn't have forced an answer out of you."
"Yeah," piped up a green fly trapped in a web and guarded by a smaller purple spider. "But it's okay. We're here now, and we've got a spell to save you."
"We'll need to wait until Anti-Cosmo's distracted," said the spider.
Timmy nodded.
As if by magic, a Southern accent rung out, "Cozzie! Y'all ain't gonna believe this! Some punk's tryna block them roads with stuffed animals!"
"Good grief! Leave it to me, crumpet. I'll sort it out faster than you can say, 'Machiavelli'!"
"Ya what now?"
"Oh, I'll explain it all to you later. I don't have time now."
The door slammed. Timmy slipped out through the fireplace. The spiders and the fly followed him and turned back into fairies. With a flick of Cosmo's wrist, the door was covered in planks, locking out everyone except Timmy and his rescuers.
Wanda produced three daggers out of thin air. "Here's the plan, sport. First, you need to take one of these knives and stab Cosmo in the heart."
Timmy looked at his godmother as if she'd grown a second head.
"Just hear me out. When you slide it out of his chest, make sure the blood falls onto your feet – both feet. Then you need to stab me in the same place, but this time, it has to spill onto your head. Finally, slice open Poof's tongue with the third blade, get the blood in your mouth and make sure you swallow. You'll turn back into a human being, you'll have your voice again, and everything will go back to normal."
Timmy shook his head and tried to give the weapons back. This was crazy! He wasn't going to kill his godparents and mutilate Poof and soak up their vital fluids! He wasn't so desperate to leave this place that he would murder two-thirds of his fairy family!
And yet Wanda would not take the daggers from him. "Please, Timmy, it's the only way. I know it's gruesome, but we have to try. And if you're worried about killing us, don't be. Fairies are notoriously fast healers. Now let's do this before that man gets back."
"Me first!" Cosmo butted in, plonking himself on the bed and yanking his shirt open without being asked, as if this was something to be excited about.
Timmy took a deep breath, closed his eyes and lunged.
"OW!"
On hearing the cry, the godson pulled back instantly, dropping the blade. A macabre fountain spurted from Cosmo's chest, caking Timmy's waiting feet in a disturbingly warm crimson liquid.
In almost no time, the flow was stemmed.
"I guess it's my turn now," said Wanda, nudging Cosmo aside and lifting her t-shirt up.
The task was still no easier. Timmy still refused to regard the carnage he was creating. At least Wanda was kinder to him by biting her tongue and not crying out. She also did most of the work by aiming her sanguine jets at his head, splashing and soaking his knotted hair.
The boy had no idea how he appeared to his godparents, but when he felt the blood trickling down his back, he knew it would not be a pleasant sight.
The third stage would be the hardest of all. Poof had been watching with wide eyes and giggling to himself, obviously not comprehending the severity of what was happening.
Timmy pulled the baby's tongue out. I'm sorry, brother.
He made a small nick at the tip.
A second passed while Poof registered the action, and then he started to wail, squirting red gore in Timmy's face. Storm clouds gathered on the ceiling; lightning struck the desk and thunder rumbled across the room. Bad things always happened whenever Poof cried.
Timmy caught a couple of drops in his mouth and gulped them down. He grabbed his neck. His throat was on fire. It was getting worse, burning, burning, burning. He screamed.
He screamed!
I'm screaming!
Cosmo covered his mouth. "It's great to hear that it worked, pal, but you might want to keep it down. Heh, and they say I'm the moron!"
There were three sharp knocks on the door. "Timothy! Are you all right? What are you doing in there? Open this door at once or I'll open it for you!" More knocking.
"He's back!" Wanda thrust her staff in Timmy's direction. "Quick, make a wish!"
"I-I-I wish we were in Dimmsdale!" he spluttered.
When Anti-Cosmo blasted the door apart and entered his bedroom, he found blood on the mattress, lightning-singed furniture and used knives abandoned on the floor – and his Timothy was nowhere to be seen.
…
POOF!
There was nothing special about this bedroom; it just had a wardrobe and a bed and a desk and a chest of drawers and a goldfish bowl. But to Timmy, it was the most wonderful sight in the world because it was his home.
The only tiny thing marring the special moment was the weird thudding in his ears. Then he realised the cause. His heart was beating again.
His hands and feet tingled as the blood began to flow through them once more. His skin flushed with its original tone. His fangs and claws slid away painlessly. The black tangled mess on his head fell to the floor and a shorter brown mane grew in its place. His fairies watched it all with happy faces, and he smiled back.
"How do you feel?" Wanda asked, somewhat unnecessarily.
"Amazing. I'm home again. I'm me again. I'm talking."
"You're naked," Cosmo added.
He glanced down. He grimaced. He was still splattered with blood and bathed in soot, and yes, he was naked. He hastily covered himself up, though the damage had been done. "I wish I was clean and dressed."
A second later, Timmy was surrounded by a glittery cloud of fairy dust. When it cleared, he was fresh as a daisy and wearing his familiar blue trousers and pink t-shirt and hat.
Outside the door, someone yelled, "I'm not going to bed! You can't make me!"
Timmy raised an eyebrow. It sounded a lot like … him. "Who's that?"
Wanda popped into her goldfish disguise. "Oh, boy. I'd forgotten the clone."
Cosmo and Poof joined her in the bowl. Timmy ducked under the bed. An almost-identical youngster was tossed inside by a furious father, who told him, "And maybe while you're dreaming, you'll lose that attitude problem!"
The door slammed. The second Timmy brushed off his clothes. "Well, I'm not tired." He picked up the bowl and shook it. "Cosmo! Wanda! Paddleball! Go!"
"Gah! Not paddleball!" Cosmo swam behind his wife, using her as a shield. "Anything but paddleball!"
"What's wrong with that?" the original Timmy asked, emerging from his hiding place.
"Wanda's the paddle and I'm the ball!"
"What?" Timmy approached the stunned copycat. "Playtime's over, buddy. I wish this clone was as far away from here as possible!"
In the blink of an eye, the lookalike was encased in a see-through space pod, which blasted through the ceiling before he could react.
"Have fun in Boudacia!" Cosmo yelled after it. "Give our regards to Princess Mandie!"
"Good riddance to bad rubbish." Wanda blinked at the sky and the stars that twinkled back at her. "Wow, how late is it? Maybe you should be in bed! Here, I'll get your jim-jams."
"Wait a minute, didn't you guys quit? Wouldn't you have to do that Fairy Idol thing to un-quit?"
"We'll talk to Jorgen in the morning and sort it all out," Wanda soothed. "You go to bed and get a good night's sleep." She lifted him into the air and effortlessly slid his pyjamas on.
"I don't think I can sleep," Timmy fretted, wrapping the blankets around him as if they could make a bulletproof vest. "What if Anti-Cosmo finds me and takes me away again? What if he's really mad that I got out and he – he-?" He shivered. He couldn't finish his question.
"Relax, sport. I've taken care of everything. I've put out a massive cloaking spell so he can't track us down."
"Who's this 'sport' you're talking to?" asked Cosmo, squinting and scouring the bedroom.
"Which apparently works too well," Wanda sighed. She raised her glowing wand.
POOF!
"Timmy!" Cosmo cried. "Where did you come from?"
The godson giggled. "Man, it's good to be home," he said. "And it's good that we're together again." He stared at the ceiling. "I can't believe you guys still wanted me back, after all the stupid stuff I did."
Wanda settled beside him. "Timmy, if we stopped being your godparents after every stupid thing you did, we wouldn't have made it to the first anniversary." She held him close. "You're part of the family, sweetie, and families don't leave each other behind."
Timmy returned the embrace and blinked back the tears – tears of happiness this time. Poof squeezed between them, burbling to himself.
"Yay, group hug!" Cosmo cheered, flying nearer to join in.
"Stay back!" Timmy yelped. He pushed his godfather away.
Cosmo hit the wall. He blinked. His bottom lip quivered. "What was that for?"
"Sorry, sorry. I'm just – I'm not used to – I mean – you're-" Their eyes were boring into him; he couldn't take it. "Goodnight," Timmy finished, rolling over and blocking them out. The conversation was over.
Before he drifted off, completely exhausted from the whirlwind events of the day, he caught Wanda whispering, "He just needs a little time." There was only a twinge of guilt left as he fell asleep.
