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“Would it kill you to be nicer to people? ”
Shrimpo hated his guts.
Sure, he hated everything, but something about Glisten ignited something different, something deep, something rotting.
It festered, spreading through his veins like a plague. The hate settled in his fingers, it swelled and twisted in his stomach, it slammed around in his head. It made his body boil and his ears ring.
“I'm sure you're aware of how you are,”
He hated the way he talked. It was like fingernails on a chalkboard, grating and annoying.
“And I'm sure you know how most of the other toons think of you,”
He despised the way he acted too. He acted like he was so much better and he needed that attention.
It was forced, scripted, acted, and perfected.
The way he talked.
The way he looked.
Just the way he sat pissed Shrimpo off
“I mean, even the kindest toons are going to get sick of you. Do you ever think about changing?”
He didn't want to change.
He never changed.
He couldn't change.
It was something deeper than just hatred. Something was different with his brain, something didn't connect right.
He couldn't feel for the other toons. He couldn't feel bad, or happy, or upset for them.
He was angry, he was impulsive.
“Or are you just always going to be like that?”
He took a step forward.
But Glisten didn't move, didn't react.
Shrimpo tried to avoid getting violent with toons…simply because that would cause him too much trouble.
But no one was around right now.
That was weird. Glisten always had an audience.
But he took another step forward.
“Do you know what I'm talking about?”
Glisten tilted his head with a stupid fucking smirk.
Shrimpo could feel his fingers move on their own accord, clench and tense.
His body controlled itself, any refusal he had was a meek suggestion.
“Are you always going to be a bad person?”
His fist connected to the mirror with a piercing shatter.
Glisten didn't even scream.
Shrimpo’s hands were covered in ichor but he couldn't tell if it was from the glass cutting him or from Glisten’s broken face.
His hands throbbed but his head throbbed harder.
His body jumped and shuddered with the need to keep pounding. It was like the personification of all the things rotten with him layed just under his skin, moving his body for him with no other motive than to tear that mirror apart.
It was a sick, morbid display.
The more he pounded the glass into dust, the more his hands ached from the shards embedded in his knuckles, the better he felt.
The longer he tore apart that limp body the clearer his head was.
And then it was loud again.
A droning hum.
He wasn't on top of Glisten, there was no pain, or ichor. He hadn't killed anyone.
He was in his bed, laying there groggily with a thin layer of slick sweat coating him and the sheets. His heart thudded against his rib cage.
He felt nauseous, weak.
Shrimpo hated dreams.
He hated his dreams.
He hoped that Astro didn't decide to check on him that night. He hated Astro, he hated the questions.
He forced himself to sit up. Every muscle in his body was tense, ready to move, to fight. He flinched at every small sound.
He despised his dreams, actually.
He wouldn’t go so far as to call them nightmares, not like what happened with Boxten, but he couldn’t figure out a better word. He’d wake up sick, and sometimes he wished he might throw up whatever was wrong with him.
He’d purge and rip whatever had gone wrong with him. It would unlatch from his guts, and he'd pull it out until he was at least kind of normal.
Of course, he’d never be truly normal, but maybe he’d get somewhere close so he wouldn’t feel so…gross.
His dreams just reminded him of what he was. He was created to be a bad person, but he’d hate it if people actually pointed it out to him.
His eyes drifted to the several posters of him as he pulled himself to his feet. He wasn’t allowed to have a mirror in his room anymore because he’d always end up smashing them (and that little reminder of his dream made him nauseous all over again). His infocards were the next best thing. They worked as a subtle reminder of what he was too.
Shrimpo hated it.
Some days it felt like he wasn’t alive, at least in an emotional sense. The only reason he got so upset about the nightmares was because of the way it reflected himself and not because he dreamt of killing somebody.
He knew he was selfish, he never felt for the other toons, and he wasn’t empathetic.
He hated that.
He huffed and forced himself together. When he walked out of his room, no toons cared to acknowledge him and he couldn’t tell why he hated that.
He passed by Glisten on his way to the kitchen, who was leaning against a wall. Glisten didn’t acknowledge him either but just the sight of him made Shrimpo’s skin crawl.
What if one day Shrimpo actually did it?
Sure, they were just dreams but he must have had them for a reason. What if one day he got mad enough? What if no one else was around…would he actu-
“SHRIMPO!”
Shrimpo turned and saw Finn staring back at him from the couch with the dorkiest grin ever.
That stupid fishbowl.
Finn hopped over the arm of the couch and made a b-line for Shrimpo who just growled. Finn never seemed to care, and to Shrimpo, Finn was…bearable.
When sea puns weren’t involved.
“Hey there buddy,” Finn paused, “You shore look down, what's not floating your boat?”
“I HATE YOU AND YOUR JOKES!”
“Aw! You’re krilling me, man!” Finn chuckled, “I know you love my jokes, they’re so-fish-ticated!”
Finn threw an arm around Shrimpo’s shoulder, and he didn’t fight it as much as he should have. Finn kept his mind off other things…which was a selfish reason to keep him around.
Shrimpo was a terrible person.
But he wasn't ever going to change.
He couldn’t if he wanted to anyway.