I meant to have this up yesterday; sorry about that!
Anway, before you start this one I'd like you to know something. There's a plot point in this particular one-shot that is eerily similar to a different story on here. If the author of that story reads this, I'd like them to know that I'm really, really, really sorry about this. I honestly didn't mean to copy your plot. I actually started writing this one sometime in November, but never got around to finishing it until recently. I know this looks like plagiarism, but you'll have to trust that it's not. Great minds think alike, I suppose. :)
This one-shot starts off dark, gets darker, and then . . . well, read and find out. But don't say I didn't warn you; this one's a bit creepy, even for me. :P
Disclaimer: I do believe I've said it enough times that I don't need to post these things, but they're sort of fun to write. Unless I run out of ideas, of course. So, uh, don't own, don't profit, don't sue! :D
14. Memory (Prompt 009)
"Fine!" Screeches a blue-skinned woman with a towering hairstyle. "Leave! See if I care, you worthless cheater!" Her fists curl into balls, which begin to shake in her rage.
The man opposite her growls. "I cannot believe you! I go out for one night—not even a full day—and when I come home, and you automatically assume I cheated on you. You are such a fool!"
"Oh, so I'm the fool? Do you really think that I can't tell when my husband's been sleeping with another woman?" The woman screams, dark fire beginning to blossom on the tips of her hair from her fury. "Do you honestly expect me to believe you're innocent when I found this in your wallet?" She pulls out a small piece of paper and unfolds it carefully, as if it is an atomic bomb.
Printed on the paper in small, delicate handwriting are the words 'call me!' in swirly cerulean lettering, and a tiny smiley face beside a phone number.
The infuriated woman's anger begins to subside enough that her sorrow overtakes it, causing her bottom lip to quiver slightly and her eyes to shimmer. "I thought . . . I thought you loved me."
The man returns her pitifully sad look with one of unbendable steel. "I never loved you. We're only married because of our counterparts, you ludicrous woman."
She's about to respond with a biting comment when a tiny blue-skinned boy flies cautiously in, eyes wide. "Mumsy, Daddy, what are you two doing?" He keeps his tone even, trying to hide his flip-flopping insides.
Both parents turn to their youngest son with slight frowns.
His mother speaks first. "Mummy and Daddy were just talking about grown-up things, darling. Go see if you can find Anti-Schnozmo, okay?"
"What sort of grown-up things?" The five-year-old asks, ignoring her request. His green eyes search his mother's, his seemingly innocent demeanour making her bite her bottom lip.
"Things that little anti-fairies don't need to know until they're older." She says sternly, trying not to let the tiny droplets forming behind her eyes fall. "Go find your brother, Anti-Cosmo. Now." Her tone leaves no room for argument.
Anti-Cosmo blinks a few times, but finally nods and twirls his little wand to anti-poof himself away. Not far away, though. Just into the next room, to be exact. He may not be the most rule-abiding child, but then again, what anti-fairy wants rule-abiding offspring?
Anti-Mama Cosma's voice carries through the wall to her son's pricked ears. " . . . So you just decide to run off, sleep with another woman, come back, and pretend that nothing ever happened? Is that really what you're trying to do?"
"No," Anti-Cosmo's father says, tone oddly apathetic. "I came back to tell you that I'm leaving."
Anti-Cosmo can hear a soft inhale, presumably from his mother. Personally, he feels shocked as well. A mixture of emotions rise up: anger, sadness, shock, and along with it a painful ache that starts somewhere in his chest and spreads, leaving his whole body numb.
Dad's leaving.
The words just don't compute. No, nada, ix-nay, no.
"You're . . . leaving me? What about the boys?" The stunned words bring Anti-Cosmo out of his stupor. She sounds desperate, something Anti-Cosmo has never heard from her. He may not exactly like his mother, per se, but he does hold a certain amount of respect for her. She's a tough woman, a persuasive woman, someone who can worm her way out of anything and convince the unconvincable.
"You'll figure it out," comes his father's gruff reply.
How can he not feel anything? Anti-Cosmo wonders, squeezing his mint-coloured eyes shut. How can he just abandon us?
The young genius knows this is wrong. This is low, very, very low, even for an anti-fairy. Anti-Cosmo can feel the numbness fading, the red-hot rush of fury rising to the bubbling surface. His eyes begin to darken, their usual playful mischievousness turning darker and darker. For the first time—but definitely not the last—true anger courses through his veins, his heartbeat a sadistic drum, blood pounding in his ears to the beat. He closes his eyes, letting the rage consume him.
His fists clench, and a low, primitive growl escapes his throat. The dark wand clenched in his hand glows ominously, the soft blue light illuminating Anti-Cosmo's twisted features.
Finally, when he has controlled the fury, stored it into the temporary little container, he opens his eyes. His dark, blood-red eyes. The irises show no trace of green, as if the abnormal colour had never existed in the first place.
He can hear his parents arguing, but the words are indistinct; meaningless chatter.
The young mastermind grips his wand tightly, and floats slowly into the room. His parents don't notice, too wrapped up in their feud to care about anything other than each other.
Anti-Cosmo stands there silently. A small toy soldier, awaiting his turn for battle. He may not like it, but it is his duty. His duty is sacred. He mustn't fail.
Quietly, he speaks. "Mother." Neither adult hears. "Father," he says just as quietly; just as controlled. Despite his obvious presence, he still receives no attention from his parents.
His steady gaze falters for a moment, a bubble of fury slipping through the cracks. "Mother! Father!" He shouts, and finally their glares turn to him, both in shock.
"What—" his father starts.
"You," he points at Anti-Papa Cosma with an intense stare; one not meant for young children. "You are not allowed to leave. You cannot leave. You cannot leave us here alone!" He yells, flapping his wings to lift himself higher so he can look his father in the eye. Dark maroon eyes bore into deep scarlet ones in a silent war.
"You will stay right here if I have to bloody freeze you and put you in a glass case!" Anti-Cosmo growls, the rage pounding in his ears. His eyes darken further, their colour turning almost black.
His father narrows his own eyes, because what right does this child have to tell him what he can and cannot do?
Simultaneously, as if acting out a play, they raise their wands, each pointing them threateningly at the other.
"Drop it," they say at the same time.
"No," says Anti-Cosmo, voice colder than ice. He waves his wand once, defiantly, just as Anti-Schnozmo appears.
The older brother's eyes widen, along with their mother's when they see what Anti-Cosmo has done. Anti-Cosmo himself crosses his arms over his chest, eyes red-black and narrowed, posture dangerous as he regards what was his father with utter contempt.
A small, dark object lays upside-down on the carpet, one tiny leg twitching. Its many eyes would look dull, if you could see them that is. The small thing is obviously dead.
Anti-Schnozmo breaks the silence. "You—you turned Dad into a fly?" His voice is filled with disbelief.
"Yes," the younger replies simply, not turning to face his brother. He can practically hear Anti-Schnozmo's jaw hanging open. "Close your mouth, you'll catch a fly." Pun completely intended, he thinks, smirking softly.
"Why?" Anti-Schnozmo bursts out, looking dumbfounded. "What reason could you possibly have to turn Dad into a freaking fly?" His voice wavers on the last word, the realization that he'll never see his father again setting in. "How could you? Do you even get what you just did?" He shrieks, throwing his hands out to the side.
Anti-Cosmo turns around, and his eyes growing lighter by a few shades. "He was going to—"
"Your father was just discussing . . . a sensitive subject . . . with your brother." Mrs. Cosma interjects quickly, obviously trying to control the emotions raging inside.
Anti-Cosmo, anger calming enough that he can think clearly, looks quizzically at his mother. What's she—oh, that's what she's doing. She's trying to spare Anti-Schonozmo's precious little feelings. Hmph. Well, I suppose I must play along, after all, I sort of just murdered my own father.
Bloody hell; he just murdered his father.
Realization sinks in, as well as guilt. What you've done cannot be undone, Anti-Cosmo, a voice in the back of his head whispers. "I—I think I need to go," he says, gesturing vaguely. Without waiting for a response, he vanishes in a cloud of night-black smoke.
He appears in his room just in time for all of the tears to spill over, and a small sob to catch in his throat. He just killed his own father in cold blood. Anti-Cosmo Cosma is a killer. Murderer. Slaughterer. A homicidal mess. Oh god, oh god, oh god. His father is dead. Stone cold dead, by his son's hand. He should've never let his anger control him, oh, how could be so stupid?
He slams his head against the back of wall, sinking down. You stupid, stupid anti-fairy! Anti-Cosmo squeezes his eyes shut, desperately hoping that this is all a dream, a nightmare. Please, just let it be a nightmare.
Suddenly, as if his words were a spell, the whole world goes black, and the pain vanishes, as if it had never existed.
With a groan, Anti-Cosmo opens his eyes to a blue room, three fairies, and a young boy. "Urgh, what have you done to me? I feel as if I've been trampled by a raging herd of elephants."
None of the others reply, mainly because their jaws are all hanging much too close to the ground to be healthy. It is only then that Anti-Cosmo notices he is connected to a ginormous, beeping machine with so many levers and buttons it would take millenia to flip and press them all. With a soft grunt Anti-Cosmo pulls a bulky helmet off of his head, glaring at the family.
"Does anyone mind snapping out of their idiotic stupor and telling me what in the name of Britain you've been doing?" Anti-Cosmo snaps, irritated. He fixes the fairies, the pink-haired one in particular, with a withering look.
Wanda blinks, shaking her head to clear it. "Uh, Timmy wanted to see what a typical anti-fairy's childhood was like . . ." She trails off uncertainly, and can't help but feel a small stab of pity for her husband's dark double.
"Although I am anything but typical, I feel the need to point out that unlike a regular young fairy, most anti-fairies do not come from the greatest of pasts." Anti-Cosmo says, raising an eyebrow. "Really, Wanda, I thought that out of all the idiots in this room, you would have known about that."
Wanda opens her mouth to reply, but Timmy just can't keep quiet any longer. "Dude, you murdered your own father?" He bursts out in disbelief.
"Timmy . . ." Wanda warns.
Everyone in the room can hear the slight inhale Anti-Cosmo takes before he replies. "I did, may I ask your point?" He says, voice colder than an Arctic blizzard. How did he even get here? Fairy magic isn't strong enough to summon him, unless the foolish child wished for it. Even if they did get him here, how did they get him to cooperate? He sighs in exasperation.
"Just that you sort of killed your own dad and don't seem to feel anything about it. Right now, I mean." Timmy says, still too in shock to censor his words.
Anti-Cosmo's eyes flame. "You really think I feel nothing over the fact that I . . . that I murdered my own father in cold blood? Are you honestly that idiotic?" He shakes his head slowly, shoving the emotions down, down, down.
"Well, I—uh—I just thought," The young boy stutters, scratching the back of his head in embarrassment.
"Obviously you didn't," Anti-Cosmo mutters.
"But you killed your own father, I just can't get over that." Timmy says finally.
The anti-fairy nods toward his counterpart. "So did your godfather, but I don't see you questioning him as if he's a criminal." He says, and the aforementioned fairy glares down at the floor, cheeks turning a light pink. He hates the subject of his father.
"That was an accident! Cosmo didn't even know what he was doing!" Timmy snaps defensively.
"You could argue that what I did was also an accident. I was only five years old at the time, you know, and had very little control over my outbursts," Anti-Cosmo sighs, tired of this. He thought he had finished it all, buried it deep enough. Apparently not.
Wanda cuts into their conversation, noticing that Anti-Cosmo has curled his fingers into balls, and can hear his tone darken with each word. "Timmy, change the subject."
Timmy opens his mouth to protest, but Wanda shoots him a warning look. "Fine." But, because Timmy seems to have an uncanny knack for making bad things worse, the next thing out of his mouth is, "Does Anti-Wanda know?" And just like that, he's back on a sore subject, to say the least.
Anti-Cosmo's face twists into a scowl, eyes darkening just like they did millenia ago. Allowing a small growl to escape his throat is the most thing he can do without losing his control completely, so he twirls his wand and disappears in a thick cloud of black smoke bearing the word fury! in navy lettering barely visible against the dark background.
He's transported himself home, into his and Anti-Wanda's room, to be exact. He's done. Just done. What happened that day was an accident, and is to be treated as such. He wouldn't undo what he did if he could, but that's beside the point. There's nothing that can be done about it.
As he sits on the edge of the bed fuming, Anti-Wanda floats in, tipping her head to the side. "Anti-Cozzie? Whatcha doin'?" He glances up at her voice, hiding his frown.
"Nothing, dear."
Anti-Wanda may not be the brightest of spouses, but even she can tell when something's wrong with her husband. So she goes to sit on the bed beside Anti-Cosmo, resting her head on his shoulder, and with a small smile, he takes her hand.
He clears his throat, feeling slightly awkward. "Do you remember when I told you about my father?" He starts.
"Mhmm," she mumbles, closing her eyes.
He takes a slight inhale, shoulder shifting slightly beneath Anti-Wanda's head. "Well . . . what I told you may have led you to believe something that wasn't exactly the truth."
"Mhmm," she says again, her soft blue hair brushing against his neck.
"What I meant to say was that I sort of, uh," he trips over his words, trying to avoid saying it outright. "Ikindofturnedmyfatherintoade adfly," he mumbles quickly, hoping that she isn't able to make out any of the words.
At this, she lifts her head slightly. "You what?" Her voice isn't accusatory, just calm, asking for clarification.
"I turned my father into a fly—a dead one." He sighs, giving her hand a small squeeze. It strikes him as odd that he doesn't feel any guilt over this; no, instead he only feels guilt over the fact that he feels nothing. Does that count? He is feeling guilt for the death, indirectly, but still. That must count for something, right?
Anti-Wanda can hear the drop in his tone, the slight slouch that almost never occurs in his impeccable posture, so she shifts herself into his lap and wraps both arms around his middle, nuzzling her head into the crook of his neck. She can feel the soft, satisfied hum that stirs in his throat as he puts his arms around her to hold her place.
A smile tugs at the corners of Anti-Cosmo's lips; what did he ever do to deserve all of this? A wife, a son, the respect and command of thousands of anti-fairies, the list could probably go on.
So maybe things haven't turned out so badly after all. The past can't be forgotten, but he's learned from his mistakes. He knows when cruelty may be needed, and when it's better to stand back, let the world take care of it. Anti-Cosmo might not be perfect by any means, but really, who is?
Besides, perfection is overrated.
This one-shot breaks my previous record for one-shots with a total of 2821 words. Hm, not bad. Yeah, I think there might have been a few OOC moments, but I'm going to pin it on Anti-Cosmo being a five-year-old. Man, have I ever told you how much I love comforting!Anti-Wanda?
I love trying to guess exactly what happened when the antis were young. I've got a couple theories as to why Anti-Cosmo and Anti-Scnozmo hate each other (because Cosmo and Scnozmo seem to get along quite well, in my opinion), but this is just the first of many.
Care to leave a review? They're always sure to put a smile on my face, regardless of the content. :)