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At times like this, he wishes the damn thing would actually just go ahead and hurt him.
Cucurucho stands in front of his home, blankly smiling as it flips some sort of slab of raw meat. Maybe beef. But that would be the best case scenario, and Cellbit has not had any of those anytime recently. It’s been worse case scenarios all the way down.
Like now. Because she’s outside his house, with a grill that shouldn’t be portable. And while she may not be looking in his direction, he knows she’s only here to taunt him. Cucurucho has made it her mission to make his life a living hell ever since he broke that rule.
But she won’t just get it over with. Won’t just slice him open with the chainsaw again, like he knows she wants to. He knows she must be itching to do it. Wanting to find out if she can move it further along his spine this time, expecting to see how he screams.
Cucurucho flips another slab of meat, and is apparently dissatisfied with this one. They flip it off the grill, straight onto the ground. The mass of slightly charred meat sits right by the entrance to Cellbit’s house. It makes him want to claw that smile of theirs to pieces, more than usual. They’re littering. They peeled him open with a chainsaw, put him back together effortlessly, and drove him down into a pit of spikes three days ago. And now they’re littering.
It makes him sick. The waiting. The hiding behind the playfulness, the silly hats, the bubbles. It’d be a laughable strategy to gain trust, but Cellbit has had no opportunities to laugh. Because of course, it’s worked. Felps believed it, and they took him. Probably killed him. Chopped him up into meat and brought what’s left of him to cook in front of Cellbit’s house.
But if he said that, no one would really believe him. Sure, maybe some would listen to the theory. Consider it, at least. But no one would take it as seriously as it needs to be taken. They’d still take the burgers. Just like with the tunnel. He knows what they thought of that.
Yes, of course, we know Cucurucho is dangerous, Cellbit! Yes, how very scary it was that you were chased with a chainsaw. Our sympathies!
They don’t understand, though. They don’t believe him when he says that there is nothing that creature wants more than to watch them suffer. Watch him suffer, at least. If it was just an innocent observer of the island, it would not be here. At his house, for the sixth time this week.
If Cucurucho turned around from its perfectly flipped burgers right now, and ripped out his heart from his chest, at least people would maybe believe him. Would believe that this thing is fucking dangerous. And since the damn thing can do that without causing pain somehow, maybe it would almost be fucking worth it.
Or maybe not. The pain of the stalagmites is not what has been waking him up in a cold sweat. He has recently discovered something new about experiencing extreme violence that does not cause pain. Courtesy of one fucking bear.
See, pain takes away a certain clarity in your senses. Without it, his brain was able to easily and completely catalogue exactly what Cucurucho did to him. And replay it, over and over. The feeling of movement where there should be no movement, of being nothing more than an obstacle to a tool made to cut down trees. To be nothing more than inanimate in how much he could fight back against it. If he had to reconstruct the vivid feeling of having his heart removed every night as well, Richas’s full night of sleep would be in danger.
He hates waking his son up with his screaming.
So maybe he doesn’t want Cucurucho to actually kill him again. Or to do that weird fake thing he does, where he shreds him to pieces without pain and then puts him back together. He just wants proof that this thing is as bad as he knows it is. Even if the scars all over his body tell the tale of a simple spike pit, he wants people to believe the rest of it has happened too. Believe the chainsaw scars that should be there, but aren’t.
Cucurucho has stopped grilling, now. The burger meat has mysteriously all disappeared, along with the grill. But the beast still stands there in Cellbit’s yard, like an omen of death. He has to confront it, of course. Not with questions. Those are never useful. All he has left after that is threats, and maybe that will spur him on to do something.
Again, not that he wants something to happen to him. Just that if Forever or Pac or Mike hear him screaming, they’re close enough that they can come out and look. And then they can see the actions of the sick freak that hides behind a little smile and stole Felps away.
As if it can tell he’s staring at it with violent intent, Cucurucho turns to face him. Its two button eyes are as dark as ever, and it’s smile wide. Of course, it’s happy to see him. It loves seeing its little playthings. Cellbit presses his nails hard into the fabric of his gloves with hands balled into fists.
“Good morning,” says the devil.
Cellbit does not say anything. He continues to stare. What if this time, he could kill it? What if something was different, and now was his chance? The pipe dream springs to his mind, and he mentally maps out all the different ways he would pull this bear to pieces.
“Good morning,” they say again. As if Cellbit simply had not heard the first one. It tilts its head expectantly.
“I hate you. Don’t you have something better to do than stand here and torment me?” He snarls out in response. Now that he’s started, he can’t stop. The words pour out of him like he’s spitting up blood, stepping closer to Cucurucho. “You won’t fool me like you did with Felps, I know what’s beneath that mask of yours! You’re a fucking monster, and one day everyone will know it. I’ll make damn sure of it.”
He’s only a foot away from it now as it stares placidly. And then it moves a hand towards its side.
Every muscle in Cellbit’s body tenses in fear. He sharply inhales, like he knows he’ll need the breath to scream. That was too much, he’s pushed the line here, it’s finally fed up. The chainsaw’s roar pounds with his blood in the back of his mind. It’s over, it’s over. He’s dead.
A puff of air causes him to open his screwed-shut eyes. A small bubble pops itself against his nose.
The damn thing is blowing bubbles again. It smiles at him. It always does. More bubbles drift off into the air, and Cellbit squashes the childish urge to try and pop all of them. He doesn’t want to give it the idea that he’s playing along.
“Get away from my house,” Cellbit says. His voice shakes, and he wishes it was only from rage.
“No.”
It blows more bubbles.
“Just leave. Get out. Was taking Felps not enough?”
“No. No. No. No.”
Cellbit stares incredulously. “It wasn’t enough? Or are you trying to deny taking him? Because I saw you, we all saw you. You took him. He’s gone.”
“I don’t know,” chirps Cucurucho. It spins around now, bubbles blowing everywhere. When it notices him staring, it jumps from one foot to the other. Like it was trying to be cute, or something.
“Stop saying bullshit. I know you’re fucking lying. But whatever. Sure. You won’t admit it. Why are you even here right now, then?” Cellbit runs a hand through his hair, shoving it out of his face.
Cucurucho puts the bubbles away, shuffling around to retrieve the small black book and pen he uses to write. He takes his time with whatever he’s writing, deliberating before every pen stroke. Cellbit shifts uncomfortably where he stands. He hates waiting for this, as if he cares what this bear has to say. He has to, though. In case it’s something important.
After truly an excruciating amount of time, Cucurucho shuts the book and puts the pen back. He holds it out for him to take, and Cellbit snatches it out of his hands. The first few pages are empty, so he begins to flip through. Did Cucurucho write in the middle of a perfectly good book for some reason?
He’s trying to puzzle this out when there is a sudden loud roar. A revved engine, the chattering of blades and belts. Cellbit drops the book and falls backwards onto the ground in his attempt to get away, barely catching himself. He continues to scramble back, looking up for the approaching beast. If it attacks him now, it’d have to slice downwards. This time it will hit his shoulder first, tear open his clavicle and go downwards. It’ll show him his heart, ripped to shreds. He can see it now, see those pale white paws wrapped around the still-beating thing as he can do nothing but watch. Maybe it will bite into it too, unhinge its awful smile and puncture the muscle with sharp fangs.
He should shut his eyes for this, really. It was the sight that stuck with him last time. If he shuts his eyes for the entirety of this one, maybe his nightmares will just be the feeling of the utter desecration of how his organs are supposed to be arranged, not the sight.
It hasn’t attacked him yet.
Cucurucho is no longer there at all.
Cellbit sits alone in the Favela dirt, back pressed up against the side of the hill. The book is still where he dropped it, by the house, and Cucurucho has left.
“It’s just fucking playing with me.” He pushes himself to his feet. He can’t let it have the satisfaction of him cowering there in fear any longer than necessary. Every second it’s mind games work on him is just another hour that he’ll spend solving this damn puzzle. It thinks it’s winning, that this will stop him in his quest. Cucurucho thinks that just because it has power over him it can control him. But it can’t. He will not stop.
Cellbit grabs the journal from the ground again, tearing through the pages to get to the message again. In case it’s important, he has to check. And then he will go inside his office, and get to work.
Because if he’s working, he’s not thinking about all of this. Or if he is, it’s productive. It’s making something of it.
He finds the page fairly easily now that he’s not taking too much care. In shiny glittery blue pen, Cucurucho has written a single predictable sentence.
I HOPE YOU ENJOY THE ISLAND.
Cellbit swallows the urge to scream and heads to his office. He’ll burn the book while he’s down there.