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It’s pathetic. It’s truly, utterly pathetic, to think he was sinking this low.
But he might not have a choice.
Over the years, Cyber City’s treatment of Spamton has grown crueler and crueler, as good will becomes ever scarcer of a thing. What were his sources of both food and shelter have been cut off from him, as different businesses keep coming up with new ways to keep him out of their dumpsters. Whatever gullible fools he’d been able to trick into coughing up some cash were no longer fooled. Whatever places he hadn’t already been kicked out of yet had grown tired of his antics, and barred him from entry. Now, he was cold, alone, and with nowhere to go. Nothing he could use to feed himself, nowhere for him to sleep. No other place to seek solace in but sheer, utter misery.
He spends his days wandering about the darkened alleyways of this cruel city, desperately trying to distract himself from the dismal reality of his situation– until one day, he discovers a rather alluring flyer displayed on worn brick walls.
Got a stuffed friend that needs some TLC?
Maybe a cute doll that needs some spare parts?
If so, then I’m your pal! Accepting both toy repair requests and toy donations.
Call XXX-XXXX, or leave at this address (only a few blocks down!)
He rereads the words over and over again, till he’s lost in a trance.
Technically, he is a puppet. And he is in desperate need of some tender loving care. But he would never, ever recover from the blow to his dignity by doing this.
Still… It's cold outside. So, so very cold outside. And the deep hunger pangs constantly jabbing through his abdomen only provide so much of a distraction.
And so, he swallows his pride, and begins making his way to the address listed. Sure enough, it really is only a few blocks down. There’s a decorative hand-painted sign hung on the door advertising their toy repair business, pink with red cursive lettering and little hearts drawn. Already, he feels so… welcomed. So taken care of…
It's embarrassing, really. He should turn back now before he embarrasses himself even more… but he really, truly is desperate. His entire arm trembling, he raises his hand to give the door’s surface a few quick taps, then scrambles to position himself. If he’s going to be taken in, he has to make whoever’s behind that door think that he’s just an ordinary puppet. His body grows limp, and his breathing turns shallow– but his heart is pounding out of his chest, and he hopes and prays that whoever’s there doesn’t notice. With an agonizingly slow motion, the door creaks open… and you’re set before him, an expression of sheer, utter pity spreading across your face.
“Oh my goodness!”
Your voice is a coo of emotion, though he can’t put a finger on the exact kind. Is it compassionate? Is it concerned? He’s unsure, but it sounds so gentle, so nurturing. You kneel down in front of him, raising your hands to his face as if to assess the damage.
“Oh, dear goodness, look at you!” you coo, gently tracing your fingers across his face… and oh, god, that simple gesture in and of itself is sending shockwaves through his entire body. It’s been ages since someone touched him like this, ages since someone used a voice around him that wasn’t laced with visceral hatred or utter disgust– he hopes and prays you can’t feel his skin shuddering beneath your fingertips. You look into his wavering eyes with such adoration, such care, and immediately his concerns about his own ego are utterly deflated. He’s already convinced that this is the best decision he could’ve ever made– and his heart only soars even higher as you continue heaping praise on him.
“You’re quite a handsome little lad!” you exclaim, giving his hair a gentle tousle. “You look like you’ve seen better days, though… don’t worry, I’ll patch you right up.”
You wrap your hands underneath his shoulders… only to find that he’s a bit difficult to carry, what with how heavy he is. You instead opt to cradle your arms around him, one arm supporting underneath his arms, the other supporting his legs. With a quick sweep upward, he’s being held against your chest, your motions gentle as you carry him inside. The warm air from inside your home wraps around him, making him feel so safe and secure. His body is cocooned in warm light, ears taking in the background noise of a television set in the living room. His eyes wander about his surroundings, taking note of the soft, cushiony furniture and the dozens upon dozens of stuffed animals that decorate it.
“Wow, you’re really warm,” you note. “Interesting!”
Though he’s maintaining the same inanimate demeanor, his heart is pounding at the thought of you catching onto him.
You push aside heaps of fabric and other crafting material on a large table in your living room, making a space to gently sit him upright. You look at him with a certain curiosity, one that feels so utterly whimsical.
“Hm, you didn’t have any contact information with you, so I’m not sure if you’re a donation or not…” you ponder. “I’ll post some pictures on a few websites and see if anyone claims you, but…”
You then place a gentle hand on his shoulder, looking down upon him with such loving eyes.
“If you don’t belong to anyone else, I… would really like to keep you all to myself. You’re too much of a handsome little fella to get left lying around like that!”
So, you would want to keep him… maybe he does have a chance after all. He feels relief… then immediate regret for what he’s actually doing. He’s tricking you, tricking you into letting him into your place of solace and solitude. It’s the lowest someone could sink, even if he doesn’t have any other choice. Even if he doesn’t have any other choice…
“God, I’m so sorry, I don’t know why I always talk to myself like this…” you sigh. “Oh well, at least you can’t judge me. …Right?”
He could judge you, if he wanted to. But he won’t. He doesn’t want to judge you whatsoever. Especially when your words are like heaven’s sweetest ambrosia, melting their way into his ears.
No, what is he saying? You’re only treating him like this because you think he’s just a puppet. If you knew just how truly depraved he was, you’d be disgusted.
“I’ll take some before and after pictures first,” you announce. “That way I can kinda toot my own horn and whatnot, haha! Sorry if that’s conceited of me…”
You whip out your phone, snapping a few quick pictures of him. He can’t say he’s particularly enthusiastic about this, but he knows he doesn’t have a choice. Seemingly satisfied, you place your phone back in its rightful place, snug inside your pocket.
“First things first, you need a good washing up,” you note. “I don’t know what sort of stuff you’ve been through before coming here, but… to be blunt, it’s not pretty.”
You suddenly clasp your hand around your mouth, looking towards him in shock.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” you apologize frantically. “Oh my god, that’s so rude of me to say! Look, it’s not your fault or anything! I promise! It’s just… I don’t think whoever had you last took good enough care of you.”
Yeah, that was an understatement.
You scoop him back up into your arms, carrying him into your bathroom. Even your bathroom has such a welcoming vibe to it, with hand painted decorations and warm blue walls. You set him atop the washing machine… and he’s admittedly taken aback by the fact that you’re undressing him.
“Man, these definitely need a trip in the wash,” you remark, undoing his jacket and lifting the sleeves off his arms. Even though he knows this is just routine for you, it still feels so… oddly intimate. Oh, who is he kidding? Of course it does. When he’s been starved of attention for this goddamn long, of course he’s feeling like this…
But god, is it pathetic.
“Hm, your clothes have a lot of holes in them…” you remark. “I’ll see what I can do to fix them up later.”
You reach your hands up to his face, removing his glasses. Immediately, he shuts his eyes tight, so as to prevent you from seeing how they’ve been wandering around this whole time… he hopes you haven’t already taken notice.
“Hm, I think you look cooler with the glasses on, but you’ve got a really cute face.”
Oh god, his cheeks are just growing even more red. Is this really how people might see him? Not as a burden, but… something precious? Something worth swooning over?
God… the only time he’s ever been worth swooning over is when he’s pretending to be an inanimate object. How pathetic is that?
With careful motions, you begin lifting his turtleneck over his head, his bare skin shuddering at the cold air around him. He nearly starts squirming once you remove his pants, and once he realizes exactly how exposed he is beneath you… it’s doing things to his head that he can’t quite describe, and they’re only intensified once you wrap your arms around him to set him in what he assumes to be the bathtub. Still keeping his eyes firmly shut, he listens in on the sounds of you fiddling around with the washing machine. It feels… oddly comforting. Nostalgic, even. It has been such a long time that he’s been inside someone else’s home… or any home, really. The washing machine begins its cycle, and he can hear your footsteps steadily approaching him… he’s utterly flabbergasted when you begin running your hands up and down his body, seemingly trying to get a good feel of his skin.
“Hm… since your skin’s made of silicone, I don’t want to put you in the washer,” you say to yourself. “But since it looks like you have moving parts, I don’t want to submerge them… I’ll be right back, I got a plan.”
You make your way over to the bathroom door, shutting it gently behind him… and his eyes flutter open, taking a good look at his surroundings. The walls of the bathtub surrounding him make him feel so awfully small, yet still so protected… It's a truly surreal feeling. He can’t help but feel like he’s invading someone else’s private property, yet at the same time, it undoubtedly feels like home.
What is he talking about? He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t stay here, as much as he wishes he could. And now that he’s actually gotten a chance to think about it, coming here in the first place was really, really fucking stupid. He would make a run for it, but you just had to go put his clothes in the wash. How dare you, trying to take care of him. Curse the consequences of his own actions.
The bathroom door knob slowly turns, and he shuts his eyes once more, hearing you approach him. You set something down in front of him, underneath the faucet.
“I think a good ol’ fashioned sponge bath will do the trick,” you remark, turning the tap on and filling whatever vessel you obtained with water. A few moments of awkward silence pass as the water level slowly rises, Spamton’s thought process drowned out by the sounds of the tap flowing.
“Hey, you know who I just realized you kinda look like?” you remark. “The Big Shot Autos guy! What was his name? Oh right, Spamton!”
His heart stops dead in its tracks.
Oh god.
Someone remembers him.
“Man, I used to love those silly little commercials,” you reminisce. “They used to play all the time. It got kinda annoying, honestly!”
Someone remembers him. Someone remembers him.
And they remember him fondly.
“But man, I wonder what happened to that guy. He just kinda… disappeared. I heard he’s been living on the streets recently… God, that poor guy.”
His heart shatters into pieces.
He can’t take it anymore. Can’t take your love, your care, your compassion, and now, your complete and utter sympathy. Not just for him as a puppet, but for him as a person.
Someone remembers him. Someone used to love him. Someone’s worried about him…
It’s too much, it’s all too much. Though he’s trying his damnedest to keep his composure, tears pour from his eyes and stream down his cheeks. He’s begging you won’t notice. He’s praying you won’t notice. He’s pleading to whatever audience is there that you won’t notice…
And suddenly, the tap water shuts off.
“You… are you crying…?”
Your hands reach towards his face, running a finger down his cheek. Sure enough, it catches one of his tears, and your fingers begin to tremble.
“Oh god.”
Your entire arm is sent into tremors, as you press a hand against his bare chest.
“You… you have a heartbeat.”
You rip your hand away, stumbling backwards on the floor.
“Oh god. Oh my god. Are… are you… alive…?”
His eyes snap open, looking towards you with sheer, utter guilt.
And then it all comes crumbling down on him.
He curls himself into a ball, letting out tortured sob after tortured sob. He’s made a mistake. He’s made a mistake. He’s made such a massive mistake. This was such a stupid fucking idea, and he knows that, and he knows that he’s curled up naked in the bottom of your bathtub, sobbing his pathetic little eyes out, and it sickens him even more, and he just can’t stop crying and can’t stop feeling so agonized and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts so much.
“I’M SORRY! I’M SORRY!” he pleads in a choked voice, desperately trying to get the words out through his hyperventilating. “I DON’T KNOW WHY I DID THIS, I DON’T KNOW WHY I CAME HERE, I DIDN’T HAVE ANYWHERE ELSE TO GO, AND I’M SORRY, AND I… I… OH GOD, I…”
You should hate him. You should kick him out. Tell him he’s pathetic, tell him he’s just a pile of garbage, tell him he’s a creep who invaded your home and is now trying to gain your sympathy by having a miserable little temper tantrum in your bathtub.
But… you don’t.
You… you put your hand on his back. And… you reassure him.
“Honey, please don’t apologize…” you beg. “You’re fine, I promise, no one’s mad at you. I promise…”
Oh god. What is happening? Why don’t you hate him?
What the fuck is going on?
“JUST… JUST…” he pleads. “JUST GIVE MY [Discount Clothing 4.99] BACK, AND I’LL BE ON MY WAY. I PROMISE…”
You look on at him with skepticism. Disbelief.
“Um… what are you talking about?” you question.
What?
He’s… confused.
He’s utterly confused.
“Honey, you just said you don’t have anywhere else to go,” you sigh. “I’m not just gonna let you go like that!”
“...WHAT DO YOU MEAN…?”
“I want you to stay here tonight. That’s what I mean.”
“...YOU… YOU DO???”
He’s so lost. He’s so completely, utterly lost. Why do you want him to stay? Why are you being so nice to him? Why are you being so nice to him?
“It’s really cold out there,” you remark. “I couldn’t bear to think of you having to spend the night in the cold like that. Besides, your clothes are in the wash anyway, so you’d have to stay regardless, right?”
“I… I COULD WEAR THEM WHILE THEY’RE STILL [Wet and Wild].”
You look at him with frustration, but a gentle sort of frustration. Not angry, just… perplexed.
“So you want me to just leave you out in the cold, with wet clothes on, and nowhere else to go?” you question. “Honey, that doesn’t make any sense.”
“IT… IT DOESN’T?”
“ No! Goodness, no! That would make me such a terrible person! Nobody deserves that!”
He deserves it. He deserves it so much.
Even though the words don’t leave his mouth, you’re still somehow able to pick up on them.
“Now, why do you think you’d deserve something like that?” you question.
“BECAUSE…”
“Because why? It’s okay, you can tell me. I’m not gonna judge you.”
“BECAUSE, IT’S JUST… IT’S WHAT EVERYONE ELSE HAS DONE.”
He realizes just how riddled with self pity this statement of his is, and he feels tempted to bash his head into the porcelain surrounding him.
“I’M… I’M SORRY, I SHOULDN’T SAY THINGS LIKE THAT, I-”
You pull him into a warm embrace, pressing his chest against yours.
“Hey, it’s okay. Let it all out. It’s okay…”
You cup a hand around his cheek, looking down at him in sheer adoration. Why are you looking at him like this? Can’t you see just how much harder you’re making all this?
“I’m so sorry you’ve had to go through any of this, Spamton,” you say with remorse. “…You are Spamton, right?”
“YES, [The Genuine Article]...”
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Spamton.”
You extend your hand out to him. Hesitantly, he takes a hold of it.
“This… is a bit unusual of a situation to be in, I’ll admit,” you continue. “But I want you to know I’m not upset at you whatsoever. And… I want to do whatever I can to help. Will you let me help you?”
He shouldn’t do this. He shouldn’t do this. He really, really shouldn’t do this.
But… he’s been so desperate, for so, so long.
“IF… IF IT’S REALLY ALRIGHT WITH YOU,” he agrees reluctantly. You show him a warm smile.
“Great! I’ll go find you some fresh clothes while you clean yourself up.”
With that, you turn yourself around and begin making your exit– but Spamton stops you dead in your tracks.
“WAIT!”
Carefully, you turn yourself around.
“What is it?” you prompt him.
“T-THANK YOU. YOU REALLY DON’T HAVE TO DO THIS, Y’KNOW…”
You just smile in response.
“I want to. It’s my pleasure.”
Before he can offer a rebuttal, you’re already out the door… and he’s left to ponder his own thoughts.
This… worked out better than he could’ve ever imagined. Far better, in fact. Too much better. He should leave now, even if you’re insisting that he shouldn’t. He’ll dry off his clothes as much as he can, and then leave while you’re not looking.
But… he doesn’t actually want to. This was secretly exactly what he was hoping for. Why, then, does it feel so selfish to claim it for himself? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to think about it, truthfully. He’s just grateful he finally has a place to stay, regardless of the circumstances that led him here. Regardless of how awful of a person he feels for claiming it.
He stares absentmindedly at the bucket of warm water before him, dipping a finger into it and watching as ripples appear on its surface. To be truthful, he has a little bit too much pride to take a sponge bath… but he’s worried you might get mad at him if he takes a shower without your permission. Carefully, he grabs the sponge from inside, applying some body wash he snatched from the side of the tub. It feels warm and soapy in his hand, reminding him of just how long it’s been since he’s properly bathed himself. Lathering it up with a few squeezes, he begins giving his upper torso a thorough scrubbing, watching in disgust as rippling streaks of dirt and grime run down his body. God, no wonder nobody’s given him the time of day, he looks utterly disgusting…
Tears prick in his eyes at this thought, and he tries desperately to shoo it away. He continues downward, coating his legs in a soapy film. There’s already far too much grime accumulating on the sponge’s surface that he has to dip it into the reservoir a second time, then a third, then a fourth. Eventually, his body is sufficiently clean… and then comes the part he was dreading, washing his hair. Carefully, he pours some of the water from inside atop his head, and oh god, the smell of grease is utterly overwhelming. He hurriedly throws some shampoo into his hair, scrubbing the strands like his life depends on it. It’s absolutely repulsive. He’s absolutely repulsive. No wonder everyone looks at him like he’s a piece of garbage. No wonder everyone hates him.
No wonder everyone hates him…
He bursts into tears once more, feeling so utterly repulsed by his own body, by his own presence in this world. He’s a burden to everyone who comes near him, but especially to himself. He finds himself curling into a little ball, sobbing depravedly into a puddle of his own filth. He knows he can’t help this sort of situation, he knows, but he still feels so guilty. So disgusted with every fiber of his being. He’s jolted out of his little pity party by the sound of knocking on the bathroom door.
“Hey… are you okay in there?” you question.
Oh god. Why did you have to ask him that? Why do you have to be so concerned for him? He doesn’t deserve it. He really, truly doesn’t deserve it…
“I… I’M FINE,” he responds with hesitation.
“Are you sure? If you need to talk, I’m here.”
“I’LL BE FINE! I PROMISE…”
“Well, alright… I’m just gonna leave some clothes for you, then.”
Carefully, you crack the door open, just enough to shimmy a set of clothes atop the washer. The door shuts behind you, and Spamton can feel his heart pounding out of his chest.
He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve this type of treatment. He’ll stay with you for the night, just to make you happy, and then he’ll leave. Without much caution, he dumps the remainder of the water from inside the bucket atop his head, giving his head a thorough and much needed rinse. Admittedly, he feels much better now that he’s fully clean, the warm water leaving goosebumps across his entire body. He hobbles his way out of the tub, grabbing a folded towel that you had placed next to it and rubbing his entire body dry. Then, he retrieves the clothing you left for him on the washer (along with his glasses). It’s a nice set of pajamas, with a black top and red flannel pants. Carefully, he shimmies his way into them, relishing in just how cozy they feel, along with how surprisingly well they fit him. When you’ve been wearing the same clothes for who knows how many years, god, does it make the difference.
Turning the bathroom doorknob in his hand, he tiptoes his way through the hallway, towards the living room. You’re in the kitchen, stirring around a rather large pot resting atop the stove… once you hear his footsteps, you turn around to greet him with a welcoming smile.
“There you are!” you coo. “I’ve got some stew here if you’re hungry. I definitely won’t be able to eat it all myself.”
“ARE… ARE YOU SURE?”
“Absolutely! Here, come sit down.”
He hobbles his way up a stool sitting beside the kitchen island. You ladle a rather large portion of stew into a bowl, setting it before him along with a spoon. He’s still hesitant about actually accepting it… but his hunger gets the best of him, and he dips his spoon into the bowl, retrieving a hunk of meat from inside. Mindful of its temperature, he sinks his teeth into it… and god, it’s absolutely amazing. It’s been so, so long since he’s had a good, home cooked meal like this… tears stream down his cheek once more, tears of gratitude, tears of thankfulness. You retrieve a bowl of stew for yourself, concern washing over your face once you turn to look at him.
“Is everything alright, dear?” you say with worry.
“Y-YEAH… I’M SORRY, IT’S JUST…”
He can barely get the words out before he starts sobbing again. God, he feels so utterly pathetic. He’s probably just doing this to manipulate you, to further take advantage of your kindness.
“I’M SORRY, I SHOULDN’T BE CRYING SO MUCH, I, I-”
You place a reassuring hand on his shoulder, looking at him with such gentle eyes.
“You sure do apologize a lot,” you note. “But you haven’t done anything wrong… it’s okay, dear. You’re perfectly fine, I promise.”
“T-THANK YOU… THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR EVERYTHING…”
“Of course, dear. It’s my pleasure.”
You retrieve a stool from next to him, seating yourself across the table.
“How’s the stew, by the way?” you prompt him. “I used a new recipe, I’m hoping it turned out okay.”
“IT’S GOOD…” he responds. “IT’S REALLY, REALLY GOOD. THANK YOU…”
“That’s good! I’m glad to hear.”
He takes care to pace himself, though he feels tempted to just dump the whole bowl down his gullet. Despite his best efforts, he finds himself absolutely devouring his meal, occasionally giving a few glances in your direction to make sure you’re not judging him. Thankfully, you seem much more occupied with your own portion… Soon enough, he’s scraped his bowl clean.
“So, Spamton…” you begin. “Tell me about yourself. I’m really curious about your story… that is, if you’re comfortable telling it, and all.”
“SEEMS LIKE YOU’RE ALREADY PRETTY [In the Know],” he replies. “I USED TO BE A [Big Shot], AND THEN [This Man Lost It All in One Night]. THAT’S ALL THERE REALLY IS TO IT…”
“If you don’t mind me asking… what exactly happened, to make you lose it all?”
Spamton’s heart trembles, as memories come pouring back.
“I… I GUESS I CAN TELL YOU.”
God, where does he even begin?
“WELL… FIRST THINGS FIRST. I’LL ADMIT, I WAS GETTING A LITTLE HELP [Behind the Scenes]. [Someone Specil] CAME INTO MY LIFE, AND MAN, THEY HELPED ME PICK MYSELF UP BY THE [Silly Strings]! …AT FIRST, THAT IS.”
Static flashes briefly in his eyes.
“BUT… THAT MAN. HE WAS REALLY THE ONE IN CONTROL. HIS DEMANDS JUST KEPT GETTING [Bigger and Better than Ever!], AND… EVENTUALLY I REALIZED I DIDN’T WANT ANY PART IN IT. SO I TOLD HIM [I can’t take this kind of treatment anymore, Mike! I’m not some sort of puppet on a string for you to control! I’m my own person, goddamn it! And I can do this on my own! I quit!]”
He can’t start crying again. He can’t start crying again…
“I… I THOUGHT I COULD DO THINGS ON MY OWN. I THOUGHT I COULD [Call the Shots], USE MY [Insider Knowledge]. BUT… THAT MAN HAD [Connections], AND HE USED THEM TO [$!%#] ME OVER. SALES WENT DOWN THE [Drain, Drain]... SOON ENOUGH, I HAD NOTHING. [Right Back at Square One].”
He can’t take it anymore. Against his will, the tears stream from his cheeks.
“YOU HAVE… NO IDEA WHAT THAT DOES TO A MAN. I LOST EVERYTHING, ALL AT THE SAME TIME. AND I… I…”
He shouldn’t tell you what he’s going to say next. He really, truly shouldn’t. But god, he just wants to vent to someone. Wants to finally get this off his chest.
“I… didn’t want to live anymore,” he admits, his voice filled with newfound, heart-wrenching clarity. “And… I tried to take my own life.”
You impulsively reach over to rest your hands on his shoulders. The simple motion is enough to fill him with so, so much regret.
“God… I’m so sorry,” you whisper, tears forming in your eyes.
“It’s… it’s fine,” he responds. “I… I guess someone out there didn’t want me dead. Because after I tried, I just… woke up in this body.”
The brief moment of lucidity he had is washed over, as his brain desperately tries to cope with his circumstances. Cope with what he’s just said, cope with what he’s just done.
“WHAT KIND OF [Sick and Twisted] TRICK IS THAT?!” he shouts with madness. “I TRIED TO KILL MYSELF BECAUSE I FELT LIKE A GODDAMN PUPPET, AND SOMEONE MIRACULOUSLY BRINGS ME BACK IN A GODDAMN PUPPET BODY!! I DON’T EVEN GET TO [Die In Peace]!!! EHAEHAEHAEHAEHAEH– OH GOD…”
He curls into a ball on the floor, riddled with embarrassment from his own impulsive words. You jolt up from your seat, running over to him to scoop him into your arms.
“I SHOULDN’T BE TALKING ABOUT ANY OF THIS, I’M SORRY, I–”
“Spamton… it’s okay,” you assure him. “Let it all out. You’re safe here.”
Your hands caress the back of his head, snuggling him close to your chest.
“I’m glad you’re here, Spamton. I really am. And I’m glad that I met you.”
“ARE… ARE YOU SURE?”
“Positive. I… don’t really get to meet new people that often, especially not people as interesting as you.”
“THAT’S SURPRISING! I’D THINK YOU’D MEET ALL KINDS OF [Bizarre and Fascinating Creatures] WITH THIS WHOLE [Independently Owned and Operated Business] YOU’VE GOT HERE.”
“Ah, you mean the toy repair stuff? I… actually just started doing that,” you admit. “I wanted to meet new people, and all… you’re the first person I’ve actually met through this.”
“IN THAT CASE… I’M SORRY WE COULDN’T HAVE MET [Under Better Circumstances].”
“What are you talking about? I think you’re absolutely wonderful.”
“BUT… I TRICKED YOU. I TRICKED YOU INTO LETTING ME INTO YOUR [Cozy Vacation Homes Starting at $100,000], AND I’M SO, SO SORRY…
“Spamton, you were desperate. You must have been really, really desperate to do this. I can’t blame you for that. And besides…”
You rest a hand on his shoulder, staring deeply into his eyes.
“I already feel guilty enough that my plushies might actually be alive , and they have to see me being so embarrassing around them … I wouldn’t want to put you through that kind of treatment,” you explain. “Even if the way we met is kind of weird, I think it worked out perfectly. So don’t be so hard on yourself, dear. It’s gonna be alright.”
“ARE YOU SURE…? ARE YOU REALLY NOT MAD AT ME?”
“I’m not. I absolutely promise.”
You give him a quick pat on the back, standing yourself upright. He follows suit, seating himself at the table.
“Oh yeah, did you want seconds?” you ask him, retrieving his empty bowl.
“ONLY IF IT’S ALRIGHT WITH YOU,” he responds.
“Of course it is!”
You grab your ladle, fetching him another healthy portion and sliding the replenished bowl over to him. He digs in, albeit with a bit more restraint.
“You know, I’ve actually been looking for a roommate for awhile,” you explain. “And… even though we just met, I think you’d be perfect. Would that be okay with you?”
He’s rendered utterly speechless.
You… you’d really be willing to give him a place to live? No, he can’t accept your offer. Even if you’re not mad at him, you should be mad at him. And because you should be mad at him, he should remove himself from your presence as soon as possible.
“I… I CAN’T,” he admits. “I ALREADY FEEL SO GUILTY…”
“Please?” you plead. “I know you’re mad at yourself, but… I really, truly enjoy your company. And it would be an honor to have you here.”
Though he still feels so utterly disgusted with himself, he can feel a smile creeping up his face.
“T-THANK YOU!” he cries out. “THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU–”
“Hey, it’s okay, calm down,” you chuckle. “Thank you for keeping me company.”
Thank you for keeping me company.
Maybe you’re not just being nice to him. Maybe you really, truly do care about him. Maybe you really have interest in him as a person.
The thought fills him with such indescribable glee.
“OF COURSE!! I’LL BE [The Very Best] COMPANY YOU COULD EVER ASK FOR! THE [Cream De La Cream]! I’LL DO ALL THE CHORES, AND HELP ADVERTISE YOUR [Award Winning Business], AND! AND!! AND!!!”
You can’t help but giggle at his giddy ramblings.
“Ha, I like your enthusiasm!”
Seeing him shift to this newfound excitement… it really, truly warms your heart.
“SO! I’VE GIVEN YOU MY [Tragic Life Story], NOW I WANNA KNOW [All About You]!!!” he shouts with excitement. “[What’s Your Favorite Color?] [What Are Your Hobbies?] [What’s Your Ideal Day Look Like?] I WANNA HEAR IT!!!”
“Oh, man…” you sigh lightheartedly. “Where do I even begin? Well… first of all, I like plushies. That much is obvious. Loved them ever since I was a kid. Hell, if I really wanted to, I could just talk about my plushies for hours… but I won’t bore you with that kind of thing.”
“BORING? NONSENSE!!! IF IT [Means the World and Back] TO YOU, YOU SHOULD [Talk, Talk, Talk] ABOUT IT!!”
“Are you sure…? Because I will talk for hours. This is your final warning.”
“I’VE GOT [All the Time in the World], DEAR! TALK AWAY!”
“Well, in that case… guess I gotta give you the grand tour.”
You get up from your seat, walking over to the couch in the living room that’s been piled high with dozens of cuddly friends. Carefully, you retrieve one from atop: it’s a pink and white stuffed Tasque, with buttons for eyes. There are several spots that look as though they’ve been sewn and resewn on repeatedly.
“This is Valentine,” you explain. “She’s a plushie I’ve had ever since I was a kid, and, well… she’s seen better days, I’ll admit. See all those stitches? Those are from when I was just learning how to fix plushies… but I keep them on there, since they kinda add character, in my opinion.”
“THEY CERTAINLY DO!” Spamton concurs. “SHE’S… REALLY CUTE. COULD I… [Please Hold] HER, IF THAT’S ALRIGHT?”
“Of course!”
You hand off your stuffed friend to him. He takes it eagerly into his hands, examining its body with curious eyes. You retrieve another plushie from the pile, this time a small yellow Maus that strikingly has no tail.
“This is Cheese. He’s the first plushie I ever made by myself… as you can probably tell, I sewed him by hand. His tail fell off one day, and I can’t seem to find it… so I just let him go without one.”
“CHEESE, THAT’S A CUTE NAME…” Spamton notes.
“I’m glad you think so!”
You place Cheese back into the pile, retrieving yet another plushie. You continue on for what feels like hours explaining each one to Spamton, who looks completely and utterly enraptured by every single one. Each one has its own unique story to tell, and a special sentimentality to you… eventually, you’re both interrupted by the sound of beeping coming from the bathroom.
“Oh, your clothes are done in the wash! I’ll go get them.”
You slip into the bathroom… and soon enough, Spamton hears a rather concerning noise from inside.
“Oh, no!” you exclaim. He runs down the hallway, curious as to what’s going on… to his shock, you’re holding a rather tattered pile of clothing in your hand.
“Your clothes got all torn up!” you sigh. “I’m so sorry…”
“HEY, IT’S ALRIGHT!” he responds. “[Accidents Happen]! DON’T BEAT YOURSELF UP OVER IT.”
“Tell you what, I have a better idea.”
You exit the bathroom, walking down the hallway and into your bedroom. Cautiously, he follows your lead. You dig through a wardrobe inside, retrieving an outfit for him. It’s a white dress shirt and black jacket, along with some black slacks.
“I know it’s not exactly what you had, but it’s pretty close.”
Are you… really okay with him wearing this? They look really, really nice. Still, if you insist…
“MAN, YOU ARE FAR TOO KIND TO AN [Old Sucker] LIKE ME!” he exclaims. “THANK YOU, I… REALLY APPRECIATE IT.”
“Of course! If you want, you can try them on now.”
He scampers his way into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him and scrambling out of his current clothes. Sure enough, his new outfit fits him perfectly, and he feels utterly stellar wearing it. Beaming with pride, he makes his exit, displaying himself to you.
“Wow, you look great!” you swoon with approval.
“YOU THINK SO?” he responds.
“I know so!”
He flashes you an award winning smile, feeling utterly on top of the world.
“SHOULD PROBABLY CHANGE OUT OF THESE, BEFORE THEY GET DIRTY,” he says to himself, slipping back into the bathroom. In record time, he pops back out again, wearing his pajamas.
“There’s some more plushies in my bedroom, if you wanna see them,” you explain. “I understand if you’re getting bored, though…”
“NOT AT ALL!” he replies excitedly. “I CAN TELL YOU’RE PASSIONATE, AND IN BUSINESS, YOU GOTTA HAVE PASSION!! LEAD THE WAY!”
“Alright, if you insist!”
You return to your bedroom, and begin the process all over again. The plushies that rest in your bedroom have even more significant meaning to you. A teddy bear who was your very first plushie, a crude plushie made from socks that a childhood friend made for you long ago, the most expensive plushie you have… though Spamton had never had interests in plushies before, you were making him feel just as passionate about them as you do. He was falling more and more in love with each one… and he finds himself especially enraptured by the sheer adoration you feel for them.
“It’s getting late…” you say to yourself. “We should probably be getting to bed, huh?”
“HM, YEAH, YOU’RE RIGHT ABOUT THAT…” Spamton concurs. He didn’t really realize how tired he actually was until you pointed it out.
“Only thing is that I only have one bed, so you’ll have to sleep on the couch… I’m so sorry, I didn’t think of that when I said you should move in with me! I hope you don’t mind…”
“NOT AT ALL! ANYTHING’S BETTER THAN SLEEPING IN A GARBAGE CAN…”
“Yeah, I’ll bet.”
You retrieve a quilted blanket from inside your closet, leading Spamton back into the living room. With one hand, you shove all the plushies on the couch to one side, laying the blanket down with another.
“Feel free to leave the TV on, if you want… It helps me fall asleep sometimes, personally,” you admit.
“I THOUGHT I WAS THE ONLY ONE!” Spamton replies, hobbling his way under the covers.
“Well, goodnight! Hope you sleep well! And…”
You place your hand gently on the couch, leaning over to look him in the eyes.
“Thank you, for deciding to stay. I’m really, really glad you did.”
There’s a delightful glimmer in his eyes.
“THANK YOU FOR HAVING ME.”
You feel a smile creeping up your cheeks, switching the light off in the living room and slipping your way down the hallway. Spamton lets out a sigh of relief, his senses drowned out by the television set.
God, it’s been so long since he felt this safe. So long since he felt this happy. He’d really, truly taken these things for granted when he had them, and now that he hasn’t had them for so long… It feels really, truly euphoric. For the first time in ages, he’s able to fall asleep without his entire body shivering in the cold. His mind is filled with peace and clarity, rather than grief and sorrow. He instinctively finds himself reaching over to one of your plushies, securing it gently in his arms.
His last thoughts before he dozes off are full of such gratitude and life, both things that he never thought he’d feel again.