"You're getting soft..."

"Perhaps. You shouldn't complain."

"I'm not complaining."

"Then stop questioning me. Eat."

The food was timidly played with a bit, but never brought to his mouth. His stomach must have shrunk over time, because what was in the plate seemed like so much to ingest now. A foreign feeling for him, it never happened to him back when he was with his family.

"I wish I... I wish I was back home..." the teen mumbled, setting the cutlery down.

"Why? Aren't you happy here?" the older man responded with a wide smile, his tone dripping with obvious sarcasm.

"Didn't you have enough?" he asked, without an ounce of anger in his voice. "Couldn't you just let me go? No one will know..."

"No one? Ah, didn't you say you would keep calling me out for my wrongdoings? This is by far the worst thing I have ever done to you, if I had to take a guess. What do you think?"

Bart could only agree. He went through every experience he'd had with the maniac. A machete through the heart and he would bleed to death in a few minutes. A bullet through the head, given Bob's skills, was sure to finish him off fast. Getting blown up in an instant, he wouldn't feel a thing. Even being burned alive in a coffin seemed like a better option now that he was down here. But he shook his head vehemently. If this was to be an honest conversation, as odd and unexpected as it might be, he would have to play along.

"Yeah, it is... But no, I won't. If you free me, I promise I won't rat you out."

The two exchanged a strange glance. It only lasted a second, but Bart hoped that during that short time, he managed to reach out to him. Bob was probably trying to detect the deception in his words, but there was none to be found. Bart even surprised himself by making a genuine promise, and he could tell it was heard. Whether it was believed by his detainer, that was a whole other matter.

"Well? Eat up."

"I'm just... Last time, I had a stomachache. Guess I'm not used to eating so much anymore."

"I do not care. You'd better finish this up before I force it down your throat."

There was no worst feeling for Bart than that of being shunned by the few people who could ever stand him in the long run. And his nightmares, when they didn't involve being mauled to death, were often about coming back home to a family that had forgotten him. But the rare times he had a happy dream, he would enjoy every second of it, even though he knew that nothing about it was real. He knew – he hoped that they loved him. He would cry in their arms, feel their presence and warmth against him. But this time, as he was hugging his mother tightly, a menacing shadow loomed nearby, making the hair at the back of his neck stand on end. He somehow forced himself to wake up before his dream turned awry, and, in his daze, he had the nasty feeling of being watched. He sat up on the bed to find Sideshow Bob sitting in his armchair.

"What the-"

Bob had been watching him sleep, who knew for how long, and barely even flinched when he noticed his captive was awake. Bart felt the usual danger rise in his chest. It was a wonder he hadn't heard him come down here - he could have done so much to him while he was unconscious, but after a frantic check-up, he made sure nothing was wrong with any part of his body.

"Don't be so easily startled," the intruder said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The teen eyed him suspiciously. He looked extremely tired, more than usual, with dark circles under his eyes that made him look like a ghoulish specter under the basement light. He would probably be very irritable too, so Bart would have to tip-toe even more carefully if he wanted to converse. But he found nothing to say. He was still tired himself, and a bit cold after being woken up so suddenly, so he grabbed his bed cover and wrapped himself snugly, both to protect himself from the cool basement air and, in a way, from any harm that might come his way.

"I never should have lent you that hand," Bob resumed bitterly.

Bart swallowed dryly and hesitated, wondering if he was really talking to him or just thinking out loud. "What? What hand?" he asked in a hoarse voice.

"All those years ago. I recall the little boy in the audience who looked troubled because his hero had fallen from grace. I never should have got you up on that stage."

That stage, on the Krusty show, when he was a child. Bart remembered every detail of exposing the silly-looking man with palmtree-shaped hair as the criminal mastermind he really was. Once he had realized the truth, nothing could have stopped him, in front of an audience, live on television. He had found a bravery he had lost since. Had he known, back then, how bad that man really was, bent on manipulating and hurting, perhaps he would have kept it to himself, then contacted the police later. Bob would never have known who was behind the foiling of his scheme. He wouldn't have been chased for years. Maybe someone else would have been the scapegoat. Because that was what Bart was. Everything was Bob's fault. Bart had done nothing wrong.

"You brought it upon yourself, Bob," he replied flatly.

The criminal didn't answer. He was fidgeting with the chain around his neck, and pulled out the small metal key from underneath his shirt. Bart's heart leaped at the sight of it as he foolishly imagined Bob giving up. The key was toyed with, turned around between the man's long spidery fingers, inspected with his sunken eyes. It represented so much to them both. A way in and a way out, victory and defeat, joy and despair. To see it being handled so absent-mindedly, just like him, Bart felt somehow insulted.

"Do you know why you're here?" the man asked slowly.

"...Because I ruined your life?" he croaked as he pulled the cover into a hood over his head and tightened it against his chest.

"Years in jail. You wouldn't know, but it changes you. It quickly gets lonely in... there. There isn't much source of entertainment, and the very few books available to inmates aren't exactly on par with my tastes."

"What do I care? I'm not gonna feel sorry for you, you deserved it."

Bob closed his eyes in irritation and resumed his speech. "I will spare you the details of what one has to go through when they first arrive in prison." He paused briefly, tucking the key back under his clothing. "I will most particularly spare you the horrors that are exacted upon whoever has harmed a child."

Bart's eyes widened at the carefully-spoken words. Everyone had heard the rumors about what went on in prison. But never in his life had he stopped to imagine what his mortal enemy had to live through for years. Not that it was supposed to matter to him. Yet, in spite of himself, Bart felt a tinge of pity for the man sitting across the room, the one that would inflict torture upon him with a wide grin on his face.

Bob looked away, his anger distorting his features, though for once it was not directed toward Bart. "Hell would have been better treatment," he grumbled through gritted teeth.

The young Simpson didn't know what to say. He didn't even know what to feel. He didn't feel any guilt, for sure, as the former Sideshow deserved whatever had happened to him for trying to kill him and other people so many times. But seeing him like this, in a sort of pathetic state, it nearly moved him. At the very least, he didn't want to ridicule him, nor was he afraid at that moment.

"So why am I here?" he asked tentatively after a moment of silence.

"I'm giving you a taste of that medicine. Where you sent me," he replied accusingly, without so much as a glance. "You don't know half of what I went through all these years. Just know you're getting off easy..."

That man had no idea, Bart thought. That sick man didn't know what it was like to have someone whose only wish was to kill him, out there, ready to act at any given moment. He wasn't going to let Bob guilt-trip him, he knew he had done nothing wrong, unlike him. But he listened. And now he wished he didn't understand his motives.

"I get it. I do get it," he pleaded with a shaky voice, trying his best to reach out to him. "You've put me through hell, too... Please, let me out, Bob... I won't tell. I promise I'll just say I ran away, just like everyone believes, but please... let me leave."

"Again?" he shouted angrily as he hit the armrests with clenched fists.

Bart pulled his meager protection in tighter as Bob left his seat and charged at him. The cover was pulled from over his head, revealing his spiky hair, allowing the cool air to hit his spine. The madman grabbed his neck firmly, making him look up at him. Bart's heartbeat was thumping in his ears. He was expecting a row as Bob's eyes reflected all the hate that was boiling inside of him, on the verge of release.

"Perhaps I should grant you your request of a quick, painless death," he spat. "Wouldn't it just solve everything, Bart ?"

The prisoner gulped with difficulty, his head maintained up in a distressing tight grip. He started sweating, his smaller hands were on Bob's clenched fingers in a plea to let go. But his tormentor didn't seem willing to respond positively at all.

"No... You don't deserve my pity," he added in a low growl.

Bart wanted to sustain his glare with his own. He wanted to spit right between his fiery eyes, to startle him and abuse him. But all he managed to do was lower his gaze in defeat. That was what he felt deep within him, as if a breaking point had been reached. In the corner of his eyes, he saw him raise a threatening arm. He winced, prepared for a blow, but he was only forcefully shoved back to lie onto the bed.

All feelings of sympathy he thought he felt toward Sideshow Bob were pushed away along with his body.

"What place is there in the world, for people like me?" he heard Bob mumble to himself as he walked away. "What chance are we given once the price is paid? None."

The young Simpson teen pulled the cover back over his entire body, covering the light, and any scary sight. All he wanted was the darkness. If only it would end.

Bob clenched the edge of his bathroom sink. This was the room where his possession had almost slipped away from him once, almost escaped him because he had been too kind to him. He was disgusted when he looked at himself in the mirror in front of him. He was getting older, and more tired. He had been having trouble falling asleep these days, and it showed on his once-handsome features. They had turned weary, messy, ugly.

He hated what he was seeing. He hated, in fact, everything.

He punched his gaunt reflection, shattering the mirror into large sharp pieces. He stared at his hand in shock, his own blood dripping from the couple of deep cuts in his knuckles. That boy was driving him mad. If he really hated everything, then everything had to end.

One swift thrust of the knife into the chest, driving it home where it belonged, and it would be over. Once the blood had been spilled and everything went dark.

"O happy dagger... This is thy sheath..." he muttered to his lucky knife, lying safely on the sink under the dangling pieces of reflection still up on the wall.

He blinked slowly, then his body was on autopilot. Before he knew it, he was standing in front of the door, that door keeping his special guest from all but him. He reached for his neck and grabbed the key resting against his chest. He unlocked the door slowly and quietly and pushed it open as carefully as he could. He walked down those stairs, as he had done so many times before, and ran his eyes along his basement – Bart. Bart was asleep in his bed.

He came to a stop right next to him, so close he could hear him breathe peacefully.

He had achieved what he had always wanted – to break Bart Simpson's spirit. He had heard him scream, he had heard him sob, he had heard him plead. The boy had stopped fighting altogether, now he endured whatever he threw at him, just like Bob had always dreamed. Perhaps that was his problem, in a way. The marks of his previous visits were still present, faintly visible, perhaps forever etched onto the teen's skin. He gazed upon his favorite scar, right above Bart's right eyebrow, and a smile tugged at his lips. But nothing was the same anymore. Nothing filled him with joy any longer. Not even tormenting that poor soul did anything for him now, no matter how much he deserved it.

He reached out toward the sleeping boy. His mind was a circling mess, alternating between what was right and the unreasonable. Poking his shoulder, he made sure the blond was in a deep slumber. It was a small miracle that he was sleeping so soundly here, given the circumstances. Bart had proven to be resilient, more than he could ever have imagined. His gaze turned to his neck, where a few days ago he had noticed faint marks, proof of both his bravery and his cowardice. An ambivalence worthy of him. But Bart was not allowed to go on his own terms. And Bob had a chance to end it all. He was left with a choice.

Towering over the sleeping figure, Bob wondered if he really was about to do the unthinkable.

He was.