Title: Fearless

Rating: M for Language, Violence, Grotesquerie, and General Trippiness

Summary: A girl suffers trauma to her temporal lobe. The result: no fear. ~ Squint and turn the screen sideways for romantic subtext. 1000 words per drabble.

Disclaimer & Important Notes:

I don't own Freddy. I don't want to own Freddy. He's a bad, bad man. I do not own Elm street, either, though once I stole a sign.

None of the poems in this piece are mine. They are a collection of Mother Goose nursery rhymes, poems from children's books and stories, and songs passed down through generations of children and parents to acquaintances who were kind enough to let me use them.

Entry Three, Night Eight: Fear

Word Count: 456

.

.

.

.

Fear

Night 8

Ash rolled her eyes. "I'm pretty sure we tried this already," she offered helpfully.

"Shut the fuck up, you fucking bitch!" Freddy yelled, burying his blades in her eyes.

She blinked around the metal. "That's kind of uncomfortable," she said, annoyed. "Also: I'm getting really bored."

He jerked his hand away and she twitched her eyelids a couple times. "Feels itchy," she complained. "Why'd you have to do that? I told you, you already tried it."

"What's your fear?" he growled, stalking back and forth in front of her. She flexed her fingers and tested the tentacles that were binding her to the pipes. She guessed they were supposed to be scalding, but they only felt warm and uncomfortable. In fact, if she was remembering correctly, she'd probably fallen asleep on the aluminum-pipe futon in the basement.

Stupid, she thought. She was always sore after sleeping there.

"What is it?" he roared in her face. Spit flecked against her mouth and she grimaced.

"I don't have one," she repeated for the five hundredth time.

He paced. "Everyone has a fear," he snarled, and she wasn't sure if he was talking to her or to himself. "Something that sits in the roots of the soul. It's how I tear 'em up. Tear 'em out." He wheeled back to her, his eyes like blue flames in a gas stove. "Make them mine."

She eyed him mutely.

"Well?" he snapped. "What is it? Heights? Lions? Roaches? Rape?"

"No," she assured him. "Sorry."

"Why are you here?" he demanded. "I'm not calling you back! I'm not dragging you into my dreamworld, but you keep showing up!"

"It's only been three nights." She tried to affect a wounded tone.

"You're wasting my fucking time!" he roared.

"I really am sorry," she repeated sympathetically. "Can I get down now?"

He prowled toward her like a jungle cat, lean and furious. Hi eyes gleamed under the shadow of his fedora. They were embers set in the knotted flesh of his face. Without batting an eye, he swung his hand out and slashed her from right ribcage to left hip. Coils of intestines and innards slipped from the tears in her belly.

Ash sighed, then offered encouragingly, "It happens to everyone, I'm sure. Maybe you're just worn out. Wait a couple hours, pick a new playmate, and try again."

He glared at her. "This isn't performance anxiety, you bitch."

She sulked. "I'm just trying to be supportive."

He was back to pacing, stalking the length of the catwalk in front of her with such fury that the floors rattled. "What is it?" he demanded on his breath, obviously not intending her to answer. "Amputation? Drowning? Spiders?"

"You tried those too," she reminded him kindly.

Here's the little piggy,
See his snout,
Slit him open,
And guts fall out.

.

.

.

.