Good evening pals and gals
9: Changes
Part II - Time to make some discoveries
1
Lincoln Loud the detective
Lincoln Loud sits at his oak dresser — using a black folding chair due to the cramped nature of his room — his legs sandwiched together to block a piss stream that dared to soak his denim jeans. He reflects on what had happened, trying to process how it could've transpired, and most importantly: why it did, if there was any reason at all. The episode, which had caused him a great deal of physical and mental pain, left wounds that stung from the inadequacy of available treatment. They're avid for healing. And the solution? He needs answers. A lot of them.
The screen of his laptop casting a pale light on the wooden highboy, he cycles through what had happened, taking a moment to consider any clues he can gather, his delicate fingers resting on the plethora of keys at the bottom of his laptop.
2
Luna Loud catches her brother
"Hey, what's wrong?"
That was a caring and considerate question, yet Lincoln still found it sour at heart.
His older sister, Luna Loud, stood a few feet in front of him. Donning her usual night attire, an oversized purple skull t-shirt, she sank a few inches below her younger brother. In fact, Lincoln had skyrocketed past his older sisters — except Luan, who happened to match her brother's height — and in an act of jealousy, they would shoot them nasty sidelong glances whenever they would walk by. Being the tallest had basically replaced the idea that being older gave you more privilege.
Luna had always considered herself a caring person. Though she was fully aware of her ups-and-downs, they barely weighed on her, and she did her best to straighten them out. Being a role model for her younger siblings was no easy task. They needed someone to look up to, and though there were always other people to influence them, that didn't suggest that she should slack off. Over the years, it had become quite clear that she instilled her sisters with good manners — or at least her own interpretation of them — and she was very proud of that.
Lincoln however, seemed to stand out from the rest. Growing up, he never saw his sisters as role models. His habits had developed independently, and he would choose to do whatever he thought was best. It was certainly a process, but he would eventually learn from his mistakes, abandoning a stained shell of himself — the very one that had marked his reputation, the very one that would make him such a douchebag.
Don't get me wrong, he did have his moments, but they were often swathed with selfishness and self-entitlement.
After all, he was just a twelve-year-old kid at the time.
The only people who had directly influenced him were his parents. Perhaps it was because he was a boy living with a bunch of other girls, and refused to pick up their way of thinking. She didn't know. But all she could fathom was that he had grown into a smart and caring young man.
Yet right at this second, he was caught at the threshold of the bathroom, his cheeks guttered with tears, his bare chest exposed for all to see. He looked like a train wreck. She had heard that he was sick the day before, and throughout the entire day, he had never left his room. Not even to eat. But now that he was finally out, she was worried, especially when you consider his broken appearance.
"Uh, hellooo? You oka—"
"Fine," Lincoln said, his voice dripping with doubt, his breath short and spent. He brought his hand to his mouth and wiped something from the corner of his lips. She didn't buy it. He was far from okay.
"Don't play that game with me. You're not fine. Just tell me what's up," she urged.
Lincoln drew a deep breath and said, "Nothing's up with me, unless you wanna look at the ceiling," before rushing past his sister. Through a dust of air that swept past her, his rank body odor strangled her nose, and she pinched it in disgust.
"Ew, have you been sweating bro?" she asked, her brow arched and her left foot back.
She could only stare as he kept quiet, shuddered a little, and turned right, heading for the stairs.
Lincoln Loud didn't understand. He probably would've told Luna what had happened, mainly because she was bound to find out anyway, but she was giving him strange inputs. The moment she caught him in the doorway, his joints fused together and his knees trembled. Something was jabbing at his heart, and it roused his low spirits. He needed to know what it was. That however, wasn't the only thing that needed closure.
Ew, have you been sweating bro?
It was at that exact moment he felt something, possibly a bug, run up his spine, and he cringed. It could've been a coincidence, but with everything that had been going on, it certainly didn't feel like one.
3
Lincoln Loud makes a discovery
Maybe he can... feel emotion? There's no way though. That sounds absolutely surreal.
Yet that was the idea that crossed Lincoln's mind.
"So... if I can feel emotion, I should get some sort of signal from it. So, for disgust or whatever that was... I'll cringe? Or it'll send a chill up my spine?" Rising from his chair, he reaches for the circular window positioned up the wall, standing on the crowns of his toes, and pitches it open. A gust of cool air plays with his puffy hair — white-haired noodles dance wildly in the breeze — and he returns to the wooden highboy. "We'll see about that. Some bug has got to fly in here at some point," he claims vaguely.
He plops down onto his seat, and returns his focus to the keyboard. Opening an incognito window, he begins to search. The keys thump against their base as Lincoln taps them — the clatter of mechanical rain filling the room — and he types out the words, 'spider bite symptoms.'
Given the absurdness of the situation, he wasn't expecting to find an exact answer, and though it would've been nice to put a leash on the beast inside him, which had been clawing at his insides for an explanation, anything would do. It was perhaps with some sort of unease that he still felt nauseous, and his innards continued to stir nervously, his stomach left with nothing to bring up. The flittering beat of his heart teases him, and his head droops in response, his throat feeling pronounced and frozen.
"So it wasn't just a normal bite.." Lincoln thinks, contradicting the solacing words he had mumbled before passing out. That definitely aged like milk. He looks down at his hand, which rests atop the laptop's keyboard, examining the scar of the spider-bite. It looked normal, but something didn't sit right with him. "Yup, definitely not."
The following minutes were followed by rigorous searching, Lincoln digging deep into the cryptic fields of the internet. Upon finding a collection of plausible websites, Lincoln tries to gather any details he could find, only to be met with disappointment. Nothing is even remotely similar to what he had been experiencing — there was barely any correlation; if there was, at all.
Symptoms and Signs:
Pain and swelling
Cramping
Sweating
This is not what he is looking for.
It's all useless.
"Nothing here is telling me anything! I've been experiencing much weirder things!" Lincoln seethes. His voice squeezes through narrowed lips, compressing it to the tone of a hissing snake. "Maybe I should look for that spider, specifically."
Unfortunately for him, the information wasn't clean in his mind, and he couldn't remember certain things.
"Uh, hopefully I took notes on the genetically-enhanced ones."
Lincoln reaches for his backpack, which had been carelessly discarded on the floor the day before. He unzips it and shuffles through his belongings, searching for the notes he had taken during the field trip. He pulls out a black accordion folder, and searches through the pleated folds—the last place he remembers leaving them. He finds a few disgruntled papers, which were jagged and ripped on the sides, likely because he tore them from the circular spine of his notebook. He takes a brief moment to scan them, looking for any clues that could help him, but to no avail, nothing comes through.
"Ugh! Nothing is helping me!" Lincoln exasperates, tossing the notes on his bed. "Are there any other clues? Think Lincoln, think!"
His hands placed on each temple, his fingers oriented in finger-guns, he tries to unveil the memories.
...
'Ah!'
He had flinched after its fangs had pierced his soft flesh.
It had been none other than a spider...and ironically, he was in a place full of them.
Bumping the spider with his other hand, it had fallen to the ground, twirling like a feather in the wind, but wildly. The creepy-crawly had appeared to be already injured after its landing — it struggled to crawl with its legs. Lincoln had then stepped on it with his shoe, squashing the spider, it's crushed body sticking to the shoe's outsole...
...
That's it! That very spider could still be stuck to the bottom of his shoe, and he could identify it by examining its corpse.
Luckily, he wouldn't have to venture far to collect his shoes, as he never took them off, even during his sleep... gross. He bends over and sticks his finger into the back of his shoe, allowing his foot to smoothly slide out. The rough texture of his socks burns his skin like sandpaper. With his foot now exposed, the rancid smell of rotten cheese — or accumulated sweat — singes his eyebrows, and he cocks his head back, revolted. Disgusting.
Diverting his attention back to the shoe, he gets it into his hands, turns it over, and inspects it from a distance, the glow of his laptop screen peeking through the corner of his eye. It projects a gallery of spiders, and it sheds a dim light on his face. He had searched up, 'photos of spiders,' and clicked on the 'images' option. Now, there were no web addresses. Just images — creepy, spine-chilling close-ups.
"I'll just need to find the best match," he thinks, "then I can google the symptoms for a bite from that spider; hopefully I can find some type of correlation between the two."
His eyes circle the spider's mangled body, and, scanning the images online, looks for the best match he can find. The disturbing images make him shiver and cringe, each one flowing down the screen in a steady stream as the tip of his index finger guides the scroll wheel downwards. He was never comfortable seeing the creepy-crawlies which lurked the poorly maintained sections of houses, such as the attic, or the space under your bed. After a few seconds of scrolling, an image catches his eye. He had already glanced at it, but did a double take, scrolling upwards.
Shoe in his left hand, his computer mouse swaddled with his smooth skin, Lincoln puts two and two together: it's the same spider, the very one that had bit him.
"Bingo," he smiles. He squints at the screen, trying to read the caption. "Noble false widow?" It takes him a second to process the information. "So, does that spider make you stronger or something?" He searches for the symptoms, in hopes of drawing a conclusion, but he's met with nothing but the usual symptoms. "Okay, so what the hell's wrong with me? What is happening to me?"
With one last effort, he starts to search up information on the Genetics Laboratory of Detroit, which should be the key to the answers. Beforehand, he had considered this the last resort. What if the spider was super valuable? What if he owed millions of dollars? In that case, could he be arrested? He didn't want to find out. His heartbeat raging, nervous blood coursing through his veins, he enters the information into the search bar.
Genetics Laboratory of Detroit spisrfsefdrg
Wait...the hell does 'spisrfsefdrg' mean?
Confusion had slapped him in the face. Something must've been wrong with his keyboard. He takes a glance downwards, pulling his hands away from the keyboard unsteadily. Stuck to the tips of his fingers were his laptop's typewriter keys, shaking in rhythm with his trembling fingers.
4
Something is wrong with me
The time — it had been no more than quarter to seven — but the Loud House had erupted like it usually would on a Friday night. Lincoln Loud could hear the commotion through the walls, he could feel every time an eye was batted towards his door, he could distinguish every voice he heard...and it was unsettling. And it was also at that moment he knew: something was wrong with him.
His mouth swelled with the essence of stomach acid. The taste was sour, and he puckered in disgust, calling slimy congregations of saliva to the tip of his tongue.
Now where was he again?
Oh, right.
He needed to understand what was going on. Those feelings, or the unworldly sensations, were... interesting, to say the least. He didn't understand what was happening, and it wasn't easy to be berated with questions he couldn't answer.
"What?! I thought you were sick! How'd you do that?"
"Is something bothering you? Please tell us why you did it!"
Those were only a few of the questions his parents had asked him. He sighed, hanging his head, without an answer on his lips.
"Lincoln, seriously? Did you actually have to do that?"
"What? Weren't you sick like yesterday? You never left your room."
And those were only a few of the questions his sisters had asked him. Once again he sighed, hanging his head, without an answer on his lips.
Lincoln cringed at the words he had given his parents. They made no sense at all. 'I'm sorry mom and dad, I really don't have a good explanation right now,' he had said, looking for any way to avert his parents' questions. He only wanted to take the punishment. Nothing else. 'My only guess is that I was just so weak when I was feeling sick and wasn't expecting to feel better already, so I'm pretty sure I was just putting too much effort into everything.' His skin popped out in freckle-sized dots. Goosebumps. That proposal was so stupid. He just knew it.
His father had sheepishly replied, 'I see.'
Maybe he felt bad for his son. Maybe he was embarrassed. Maybe he wanted the punishment to be brief. Lincoln didn't know.
His mother then chimed in, 'I say, I'm glad my little boy is okay. You really had us worried last night. If anything, we're just relieved you made a quick recovery. You know, me and your father took turns making sure you were okay. Speaking of that, how was your sleep? You slept for a good eighteen hours!'
Lincoln felt even worse. He was fine. It was nothing he couldn't handle. Why did they care so much? Did they not realize that he had just raised hell in the bathroom — not to mention their only bathroom? He didn't want to speak, but something had urged him too — his heart ballooned, filling itself with ice-cold water — and he guided his hand to his chest, rubbing and pressing his fingers deep into his tough core.
'Sorry, it's nothing,' he claimed, 'it actually didn't feel any different from all the other times I've slept. Everything seemed normal; it didn't really feel like I passed out for that long. However, I did feel a little more alert than usual when I woke up...'
Lincoln, are you stupid? he thought, a little bit more alert than usual? A bit of an underestimation, ya think?
His heart began to sink uncomfortably, as if the amount of water had been weighing it down. What was this weird feeling? Was he having a heart attack?
Nope, not even close.
...
But Present Lincoln knows what it is. He had recently come to a conclusion: he could sense emotion, after all. And that 'feeling,' that struck his heart was worry.
...
'Lincoln, you okay? You're ignoring us,' his mother said.
Her son's head spun left and right, before his eyes met the floor.
'Oh...' Lincoln said, confused. His heavy heart jerked, listed, and righted itself again. The impulse swelled. He wanted — needed — to stop it. 'I think I should go get ready for school.'
'Well I find your justification pretty interesting, kiddo. Maybe a bit unrealistic,' his father said with a kind of skepticism, 'what do you say we figure out the repercussions after school? You don't wanna risk being late for your morning class! Having seen the damage myself, which was... quite surprising, to say the least, it's a pretty big deal, so don't expect to get off the hook easily.'
'Okay,' is all he said.
He didn't care.
He just wanted this to be over.
He wanted to learn.
He wanted to understand.
At the time, they had been sitting on the couch, a foam-stuffed piece of junk, that sat smack in the middle of the living room. Lincoln got on his feet, took a few steps forward, before turning to face his parents, his blown-up heart bobbing and pitching.
'Uh, I think I'll go get my stuff ready for school.'
That was a lie.
He was going to research, and get answers — a lot of them.
5
Something is wrong with my brother
The time — it had been no more than half-past six, yet the Loud family had stirred awake, each member emerging from their room like a drunken sailor, hair dry and stubborn, breath foul and hot, clothes musty and dank. First came Luna, who was forced awake by the unrest, raging somewhere in the house — which later turned out to be the bathroom. Her sleep had ended abruptly, like a car driving top-speed, headed straight for a concrete wall, then reduced to nothing but a smoldering wreck. She stood in the hallway, moments after Lincoln had fled the scene.
Luan had followed briefly.
Nearly six feet tall with hazelnut hair that swayed at her shoulders, she wore flannel pajamas that swathed her arms and legs with yellow plaid. Luan was undoubtedly the prettiest among the sisters, and Luna often found herself comparing her to an early 80s Brooke Shields. That being said, she had joined Luna in the hallway, nudging her shoulder as she came to a stop. "Hey, why'd you get up so early?"
Luna's head spun around, and her eyes met Luan's chin. Damn, I'm short, she thought. She then tossed her head back, meeting Luan's gaze sharply. "I just uh, heard some ruckus. Came out here to check it out and Lincoln was out here stinkin' and without a shirt on, weird huh?"
Her sister put on her 'thinking face' — her lip curved inwards, forming a half-circle groove that pronounced her right cheek, her eyes drifting off.
"Well?"
Luan regarded her sister. "Eh, it was probably hot in his room, and he sweated the night out."
"Nah, I caught a whiff of his breath. It was smelling like he just puked his guts out."
"That's strange."
"What do you mean, strange? He was sick, remember?"
"Oh ya."
"He closed the door behind him in the bathroom. Wanna check it out?"
"Uh, I guess."
The two sisters' voices rippled down the hall, ending in a far-flung echo, accompanying a steady melody that crept through the bathroom door — plink, plink, plink.
"Hey," Luna asked, "you hear that?"
"Hear what?"
"The dripping."
"The sink, maybe?"
"Okay Sherlock Holmes, let's just see what's going on in there."
As the water continued to trickle on the ground, Luan and Luna went to the bathroom and pushed the door open.
Plink-plink-plink-plink-plink.
Luan's eyes widened. "What the—"
An emerald bath towel, noticeably wet — she could tell by the dark patches along its cotton — was slumped against the sink handles. Luna and Luan lost focus, their mouths' agape like an open book — apart from the shower, almost everything had been broken — and as their eyes darted from one thing to another, they noticed the beads of water, which had been dripping from the end of the towel that suspended over the sink's edge, upgrading to fluid streams, embedding the bathroom tiles in fresh Adam's ale.
"...hell," Luan blurted, "get Lana."
Later, with Lana now at their side, she happily got to work.
They had shaken her awake, their hands firm around her shoulder, jerking her side to side, and her first response was, 'Whyyyy? I just wanna sleep!' before she smothered her face into her pillow, coarse blonde ponytails draping over either side of her mattress. 'Leave me alone.'
Luna sighed, "We have a plumbing issue, and we need your—"
Lana shot her head back, her lips twisted in an excited grin. "Really?"
Yep, that had done the trick.
From the bathroom, come a few doors down and you'd find Lana's room, which she shared with her twin sister Lola. Their relationship was a bit odd. Everything Lola was, Lana wasn't. She was the princess of pink, or per say, 'girly stuff.' Meanwhile, Lana was the princess of filth, muck, and dirt. She was quite literally the polar opposite of clean. Maybe the peculiarity that comes with having someone just like you ended up giving them a crazy drive to be unique — because seriously, they were so set in their ways, that they wouldn't opt for change even if it meant saving their life.
Lana had rushed down the hallway, her right hand clutching the handle of the red toolbox she always kept under her bed. She moved like a firetruck that bolted towards a raging fire. Wanna stand in front of her? She'll just shove you to the side. Not that a fire truck did that, but they had every right to blow red lights — those things are obstacles, and in this scenario, stupid kids are obstacles.
Anyhow, this was an emergency.
Now positioned on one knee, she rifled through her toolbox, and the clatter of her metal tools clashing lapped the whistle of the water pipes. Finally, she seemed to find something plausible and fumbled with it in the container, before pulling out a shit ton of gray, clay-like material. Epoxy putty.
From the doorway, Luan and Luna watched as Lana mounded it on top of the broken valve, stretching and mushing the edges out to clamp on the porcelain base.
"Dang, who the heck even did this? I thought I was coming here to find a loose pipe, maybe even a clog but this," she turned to face them, and Luan's eyes darted to the side with some kind of hesitation. "...is ridiculous. Now, who did this? I just gotta know."
Luna's lips parted, presumably to speak, but she hesitated. Her throat caught, her body frozen, she simply stood still. "Uh..."
Lana furrowed her brow, wagged her head and sighed, "I'll go shut the water off, it's only a temporary fix, don't touch it. But I want an answer when I'm back."
Luan and Luna's eyes met, and they stepped aside, allowing Lana to pass through. She brushed past them — water that gathered at the edges of her face dropped with each step, littering the floor with patterns of wet dots, and dark patches speckled her clothing. She was soaked. All thanks to that stupid jet of water, which literally came out of bumfuck nowhere. They expected the tap, maybe even the shower, to be left on — not the whole damn sink to erupt like a Mentos-filled coke bottle. Worried, they turned to Lana, who swept around the corner, and disappeared down the flight of stairs, before their eyes met again.
"Should we tell her?," Luna asked. "I don't wanna give lil' bro up."
Luan stared at her wholeheartedly, put on her 'thinking face' again, and she drifted off, biting her lower lip nervously. "I think—"
"What? Give up what, ay?"
Luan's heart jumped. Cranking her head to the side, she fixed her eyes on a certain someone — one with a sturdy set of brown hair. Lynn Loud Junior.
Damn it.
Her lips buckled in a smartass grin that screamed, got ya bastard, she cocked her head to the side, arms crossed. Lynn Loud, the most athletic and competitive in the house, always wanted in on any secrets — especially those her sisters kept. And though she did vow to keep them, and she did fulfill that promise... most of the time, secrets are meant to be kept, not shared.
She breathed a hearty laugh. "So, can I know what's up?"
Luna pitched her eyes side to side, switching from her older sister's bedroom — which used to be split until her eldest sister moved into an out of state apartment with her boyfriend — to her own room, which she shared with Luan. She then focused on Lynn, and smiled at her, tracing her lips into a 'u' with unsettling slowness.
"Nope."
Lynn dipped her head in a grin, then pursed her mouth disgustingly, a feral snarl at the tip of her tongue. She jerked her head left and right coolly, her silky ponytail sweeping the breeze behind her. But then she came to a halt, and the very same ponytail swayed side to side, wearing off the momentum.
"Fine, keep the cat in the bag," she said, and craned her face back up. "Now if you'll excuse me, I gotta answer the call of nature. Really badly."
Lynn went for the door, stopping in her tracks when she felt a hand flat on her stomach. "I'm gonna stop you right there."
She looked up.
It was Luan.
Her mood darkened. Why couldn't she use the bathroom? I mean, hey, there was no line. She shot her a daring look, her eyes tiny slits between tense lids. "And why's that, huh?"
Luan threw her a tense glare. "You really don't wanna know."
Lynn clenched her fists — not because she was looking for a fight, but because she was annoyed — and blew an angry huff. She turned to leave, smacking Luan in the face with her rough-smelling ponytail, and padded along the hallway. She really didn't feel like putting up a fight. It was only six thirty-three in the morning. She never got up that early — unless she had planned to go on a morning jog (or workout) the day before. But today? Hell no. She wanted to sleep.
It all wasn't too long ago.
She rustled in bed, flopping on her side to check on Lucy, her sister, who slept across from her — sound asleep. The sound of voices and screaming pipes pounded the walls, and it had woken her up. Great. What a waste of sleep. She swung her feet off the edge of her mattress and sat up, and her bed listed like a ship with unbalanced cargo. She looked at the alarm clock. It read, 6:30, in bold, red digits.
The only thing on her mind was annoyance... and that she needed to empty the tank.
And who's up this early, she thought, making all this damn noise in the hallway, ain't nobody got respect for others? She forced her feet to the floor, and skull-cracking pain jabbed her head. Oughta teach this idiot a lesson.
In the hallway, she found Luan and Luna talking nonsense, as Lana trudged down the stairs, soaking wet. They were talking about 'giving someone up,' so she wanted the details, and things carried on from there.
Then the cry of her bursting bladder returned.
She stopped dead, and spun around. The anger she once held was gone, and she resorted to pity.
"Hey Luan, c'mon," she cried, "I need to pee so bad."
"No-can-do buckaroo, I need the green light from—"
"Nobody use the bathroom upstairs!"
Everyone froze.
It was dad.
Heavy, racing footsteps shook the floor, and Lynn Loud Senior, a balding man in his late 40s, emerged from the L-shaped junction between the hall and stairway. Clearly distressed, he spotted a group of his daughters outside the bathroom door. Uh-oh.
He was getting ready to greet the day when Lincoln told him that he had 'accidentally' destroyed the bathroom.
Heading for the bathroom door, he stalled in the hallway. "Sorry girls, I'm coming to check the bathroom, mister came down stairs and fed me some pretty bad news."
Luna stepped aside. "Yeah, we discovered it for ourselves, we had Lana patch a few things up, right now she's downstairs closing off the water."
Come downstairs, and Lincoln was sitting on the couch, where his father had guided him. 'Stay put, I'm going to see what you did.' He nodded and swallowed thickly. He knew he was fucked. Peering downwards, he slapped his thighs playfully. My wallet better say its prayers tonight, he thought. And, staring into the blank face of the television that sat in front of him, he began to think.
How bad is my punishment gonna be?
"HOLY COW!"
His father's voice echoed through the house, and Lincoln felt his blood run cold — and his heart come to a stop.
Yep, it was probably going to be pretty bad.
6
Oh brother
"Well, looks like I'm going to have to replace my laptop anyway."
A dark shadow crosses his face, and he grits his teeth, ripping one more key from the skin of his fingertips. It was for the letter 'p.'
Ironic.
P for pain.
Getting up, Lincoln grips the seat of the foldable chair, and pulls it up. It meets the metal back, bringing the feet along with it. Now flat and tucked in, he slides it under his bed, leaving it for the next time he uses it — probably later today. The morning Sun had only just kissed the sky. Bright light had been filtering through Lincoln's dirty pane windows. There's plenty of time, he thought, after school.
Dread washes him over; he had to go to school.
Going to school is nothing more than a daily routine for students. Start, do well, and get the hell out; welcome yourself into the adult world. Lincoln had never thought much of school. Just go in and do well, it's only the future that matters, that's why you're here, he'd think. But like this... what if he destroys the school as he did the bathroom? Easy suspension, maybe even get expelled too. Say goodbye to your chances at college.
Backpack idle on his bed, window creaked open, he leans against the deep wood of his door, reflecting on the bizarre occurrences: a strangely detailed dream that felt like a fresh memory, weird muscle spasms, he can sense emotion... by his own idea, an uncontrollable level of strength, and the strange tenacity of his skin — and we still have not mentioned that he caused at least two hundreds of damage.
He slips his thumb into the pocket of his blue jeans. Poor wallet, he thinks, taking your money is basically taking water away from a person.
Worst of all, there's nothing plausible to help him. Maybe he'll just have to figure this out himself. Or... he could find help in Lisa, also known as 'the walking hunk of brain meat.'
Eh, he should probably wait though. He could still get in trouble for killing the spider.
"Lincoln, c'mon! You better get down here or you're taking the bus to school!"
Wait, what?
His eyes dart to the wooden highboy, craving the alarm clock — oh right, it's broken, you nimrod — then past the neat pile of split typewriter keys that sits next to his computer mouse, before settling on his laptop screen. The display timeout a short-fused bomb ready to send it off to sleep, he reads the bottom right corner of the screen.
It's already seven forty-five.
"Shit," he muttered.
With panicked haste, he grabs a shirt from the closet rod above his dresser (yep, his room is basically a converted closet) and yanks it over his head, covering his sunken chest with baby blue gingham. A short sleeved shirt with a thick button down collar, and a breast pocket to the right. Kind of goes well with his jeans, but either way it works; a shirt is a shirt. Now sliding his drawer open, he grabs a bottle of English Leather cologne, which Rusty had given him as a fifteenth birthday present, and sprays himself head to toe. The scent is way too strong though, and he chokes on it, his eyes practically bulging out of their sockets.
Coughing one last drizzle of saliva, he throws his backpack over his shoulder and heads for the door — not before freezing at the mouth of his room.
Something was wrong. Something was coming to attack him.
His mind enters autopilot, ready to act — he needs to turn around, his hand exactly at this position, his index and middle finger sandwiched together like a finger puppet, but spaced out an eensy-weensy bit, and, boom! The problem will be solved.
He whisks around, and snatches a wasp directly from the air.
"Got you, you little bastard... well, that's one more thing to add to the list."