Chapter Text
It had been a while since Chatterbox considered the world to be “unfair”. He hated that word now. Yet guiltily, in the misery of his youth, he muttered that belief frequently under his breath with each glimpse of a happier life on the wealthier streets of Los Santos.
Then he met Bobo; He became a clown. And the whole world became a game of chance. He found himself believing that idea more and more; utterly convinced with the thought that he’d simply been dealt an unlucky hand.
But if he had to play the game, then so did all those other motheryuckers.
Henceforth, the only way to turn chance back in his favor was to bluff through it, and… over time, he became so good at playing with unlucky decks that even those with winning hands folded.
And so the world wasn’t distinguished between “fair” or “unfair” in his eyes. It was defined by those willing to play.
Chatterbox and Giblets grew older, their lives shaped by this whole concept of “risk”. Sometimes Bobo dealt the cards, and they simply followed the rules of the game. Overtime, they learned their tricks; Their chips always close at hand.
He never considered the early memories he had in that house very pleasant ones, yet he also wouldn’t allow himself to sit in their discomfort. If not for Bobo… if not for the Funhouse… he would not be Chatterbox. There was acceptance in that.
Yet equally if not for harsh lights and metal bars, he would not be … so sharp . Unkind. Crazy? He wasn’t entirely sure himself. Reliving past horrors was salt.
He had tasted sugar.
She was sweet and kind. Soft . Everything he felt himself to be not. And yet they were one in the same. So similar that the game itself changed. Two players, both dealt unlucky hands, and unable to fold to the other. He tested her bluff, and she tested his. The game stretched on and on to the point where he discovered joy in simply playing an equal opponent.
This was “fair”. Never had the world felt so attainable than when she had rolled the dice. So for the first time in his yucking life, he slowly started betting those chips. Small moments. Kisses. Confessions. Each of them only increased the size of the pot and before he could pull back, he’d been all in.
Game over. A deck fully dealt. Chips cashed and dice rolled.
And she was gone.
And the world once again grew cold in his eyes. That relentless child, the one who never healed, pressed salt in the wounds with each creaking step of the Funhouse stairs. He bet it all and lost his footing.
Literally, Chatterbox thought as he awoke on the basement stairs.
Clutching his forehead, pain reverberated through his brain from the result of his clumsiness. Flashes of her swam before his vision as his soul refused to forget her in every space she’d occupied.
It had been a while , Chatterbox considered, since he’d believed it: “Yucking unfair!”
Like an addict, his hand reached for his phone. Her name was never too far in his message logs, yet never as close as he’d like. Not like it used to be. In a long list of clowns, his words remained unread… perhaps even undelivered. The mystery surrounding her presence sent shivers of sickness through his gut as the thought of her death crossed his consciousness every yucking time.
Twenty Days and yet it felt like a lifetime of loneliness. He understood now why she felt time pass by her so quickly, smiling at the sound of her “ happy one-year” echoing through his mind.
“ Chatty?”
He was losing it. He knew it wasn’t real and yet each time, his body couldn’t help jolting with anxiety. In his flashbacks she called out for him with concern laced in her tone. He chased empty shadows of the past and never found her. In his nightmares, his mind seemed to punish him for this. He imagined her hurt. Kidnapped. Broken.
Sleep was a nuisance he very rarely gave into. Dreams were no longer a luxury he seemed to afford. Therefore, alcohol became the sole benefactor toward an uneasy void he’d trade for rest. At least it offered some semblance of peace.
Even now, as he felt himself losing his mind to the echoes of fake voices, his legs carried him (almost unwillingly) up the stairs of the basement to look for her. He peered into the room, his mind traveling to the couch where his fingertips had brushed against her shoulder as he pulled a blanket around her sleeping figure.
Distantly Kirk's shouting grounded him back to the present. It both comforted and taunted him as he remembered his world existed without her. He’d be lying if the temptation to live solely in flashbacks wasn’t weighing on his broken heart.
“Yuck,” he muttered while cradling his bruised forehead in his gloved hand, “Ouch”
Though whether it was for the bump on his head, or the tear in his soul, he wasn’t sure.
It’s too much these days, he realized as his hands slid across the wooden walls of his childhood home. He always thought it would be the memories of Bobo that would haunt him here. Or the reminders of his brutal crimes.
But instead, it was her.
He passed the stairs leading up to their bedroom and could’ve sworn he saw a figure flying up.
“Was I fast?”
“Stop.”
His palms pressed into his closed eyelids until the pressure was a welcome pain against turmoiled memories.
“Yes!”
“Please,” he begged. Unsure of the strength, he moved past it and reached for one of the back doors leading out to the barn.
“Wait!” She called and his hand froze on the handle. He didn’t need to turn around to see the flashback: it played in his heart by memory.
“Hey,” he heard his voice mutter back with the gentle response of her most carefree laughter. It replayed in his head more than most like a subtle reminder of happiness washed through rough waves.
“Hiccups please,” he gasped, unwilling to allow himself to sit in his discomfort. Her honey would not turn bitter. He could not let this house claim her spirit too.
The game was up and yet he was still playing. Card after card. Deck by deck. It was like he wasn’t allowed to leave the table. Not until–
“Chatterbox?”
Kirk’s voice finally gave him respite from the torment of his mind. Turning around, flashbacks returned to a simple dull ache as he brushed the place he hit his forehead on the basement stairs.
“You okay, Bub?”
He groaned, shaking his head slightly, “No,” he admitted surprisingly.
Kirk was knowingly unsurprised. He took a step toward him.
“I tripped on the stairs,” Chatterbox clarified, his feet taking a step back, “Hit my head.”
His best friend blinked without a single change of emotion crossing his guarded features. It was something Kirk was arguably better at than himself: masking.
“Ya need a Doc, Chatty?”
The question felt loaded… maybe that was why Chatterbox did it…
“No.”