Title: Fearless
Rating: M for Language, Violence, Grotesquerie, and General Trippiness
Summary: A girl suffers trauma to her temporal lobe. The result: no fear. ~ Uh, I guess you don't have to squint for romance anymore. 1000 words per drabble.
Disclaimer & Important Notes: Don't own Freddy; don't own the rhymes. You know the drill.
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Fake
(Night 113)
Ash sat upright and rubbed her eyes, flexing her ankles in front of her and rolling her shoulders. Calc 4 was rough stuff, and she was tired and ready for bed. She looked up at her younger brother, sixteen years old and lanky, sprawled and dozing on the couch in the dim blue shadows of the night. Cody was either exhausted or eating all the time now, she thought fondly, and she closed her textbook quietly and rose. He'd sleep till morning, doubtless. She covered him with the afghan from the back of the couch, letting her hands linger over his forehead as she brushed a lock of his sandy hair back.
Gentle.
Thirst scratched at her throat. She went to the kitchen, past the table full of Cody's homework. His rumpled hooded Red Wings sweatshirt was flung over the back of the chair. The faucet dripped; she turned it on and let it run cold, then cupped the water in her palms and lifted it to her mouth. The light coming in through the windows was gray and blue with dusky rain. She stood at the sink and watched the droplets stream down the glass, reflecting lamplight and the nightsky. Something passed in the room behind her—she saw the shadow on the glass. She turned, void of fear, an inexplicable warmth growing in her belly.
But no, there was nothing there, and she wrestled with a vague feeling of disappointment.
Ash shivered and moved to the table. The red sweatshirt was legendary in the Kindwall household—she and Cody had been mock-squabbling over it for years. It was ratty and old, but it smelled like her brother and was warm. "Finders keepers," she murmured playfully, pulling it over her head to keep the cold out.
It seemed larger than usual, and rougher, but it was as warm as though it had just come from the dryer or had just been worn. When she smoothed it over her breasts, she was vaguely aware that it was different than she remembered. Thick bands of green crawled across the sweater. She ran her hands over her tummy, feeling the coarse threads, toying with the frayed hem. The thick, rough wool rubbed gently across her nipples even through the cotton of her tank top. The warmth in her belly spread further.
"Aaaaash," a voice purred. It echoed through the kitchen.
She licked her lips and looked up. It took her a moment to process the combination of that familiar, hoarse tone with the homelike environment around her. When she turned toward him, she was no longer standing in the kitchen but back in the factory, and he was lounging, backlit by red light, the fedora low on his brow. He wasn't wearing his sweater—just a white sleeveless shirt which hung loosely on his frame, tucked into the waist of the brown pants. His arms were just as knotted and gnarled as his face, but she could see the strength of the lean muscle beneath the twisted flesh. The glove shone in the faint light.
"So this is what little Ash Kindwall's dreamworld looks like," he rasped, moving toward her and trailing one blade delicately down the side of her throat. She trembled, and a vicious little grin—self-satisfied and gleeful—quirked the corners of his mouth. He leaned toward her and breathed in her ear, "You always come to me, little bitch. Invade my space. I thought I'd come to you this time, learn a little about what goes on inside your head. See that brother of yours, the way you take care of him. See you in your own home. What do you think?" She could feel his feral grin. "Do I scare you now?"
"You know you don't," she said, but her voice was hoarse and whispery.
"No," he agreed. "But I'm one step closer." His breath smelled like bonfires. "That sweater," he added slowly, his voice low and sinister, "Mmm—looks good on you."
"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."
Four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat—
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.
Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more—
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.
"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.
"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none—
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.
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This drabble is dedicated to Elf-Warrior-13 for the prompt, "Fake."
It is 666 words long, I kid you not. Which seems PERFECT for being the 113th night of Freddy-Fun!
Seriously, that whole 666 thing was a happy accident. I finish the drabble before I count, after all. This is probably one of my favorite installments because it brings us to a new setting and offers a little more sexual tension. I was hoping—and you can tell me if I was successful (yay!) or not (boo.)—that it would take readers a couple lines to realize that this was still a dream sequence and not real life. So really, the prompt inspired me to try to fake you out more than anything else (though I suppose Freddy is faking Ash out too, isn't he?).
LOTS of fun, perfect for Night 113! And it's all thanks to Elf-Warrior-13. ;) You rock, my friend!