Work Text:
Spamton stared up at the drab, grey wall, arms at his sides.
He’d been working on setting up a shop in the dump, creating a little space for himself against the cinder blocks, hidden among the trash to keep it hidden from less understanding darkners. In the past week, he’d finally gotten it set up enough to open up shop, placing ads (little more than squiggles as his magic seemed to be on the fritz, but they were still eye catching) in the trash zone drop-off area to attract customers.
Unfortunately, so far his clientele had been a grand total of zero.
Sure, he struggled to bring in customers before, but they at least pity browsed. But he hadn’t even gotten that so far, not even from that trashcan darkner he always saw scurrying around the dump.
He needed to spruce the place up. Make it more friendly to customers instead of a drab little place with little more than a desk and a ratty chair. And he had the perfect idea in mind.
That’s how he ended up with a few cans of pilfered paint and a brush, staring up at the back wall. His desk had been scooted out of the way, his chair set aside nearby to climb on and reach the higher parts of the wall. Now it was just a matter of painting his mural, his reminder of everything out of reach that he wanted, needed. His heaven.
He dragged the can of blue paint to his side and tried to pry it open, but his stubby plastic digits couldn’t get under the metal seal. Grumbling, he scampered over to his desk, rustling around in the drawers until he found a rusty screwdriver. It would do the job. Wedging the flat end under the lid, he pressed down and popped the lid open. Bright blue paint stared back at him.
Dipping the brush in to get the bristles thoroughly saturated, Spamton started at the bottom, running the brush across in long, smooth strokes. He couldn't remember the last time he’d painted. It had been a long time since he’d had the spare time to indulge. Sure, he had time to do a doodle or a sketch here or there, but the time it took to paint was more involved. And in the last several months, he hadn’t been in the mindset to do any of that. Not with everything falling apart around him. Now, he wished he’d tried anyway. There was something relaxing about painting, soothing, almost.
But as he reached a point where he held his hand above his head, running the brush back and forth in sweeping arcs, his arm began to quiver, first with a slight tremor, but quickly turning to proper shaking. An ache started in his wrist, traveling up his arm and down into his fingers. He ground his teeth together, struggling to keep going, until a glitch buzzed through his body, his hand locking up, making him drop the brush. It smacked against the ground, spattering blue paint.
“[%@#$]!” he swore, taking his wrist in one hand and bending over to grab the brush with the other. He tried to grab it, but his hand shook, pain receding to numbness. Damn it, why couldn’t he do this?
Finally, he managed to close his fist around the handle, an improper grip, but it was all he could manage. He reached up to continue painting, his strokes uneven and messy. The pressure wasn’t right. But he had to finish this. He had to. It was just a part of business. He had to keep working through the pain. He always had.
But this type of pain was different. Before, it was just exhaustion and soreness, the after-effects of long, extra hours just to do enough to make rent. This was different. He hadn’t spent all day on his feet. Maybe he was a little tired, but that’s just the way things were when he had to catch shut-eye when he could. He should be fine. He should be able to do this! So why couldn’t he?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why—
He stumbled forward, catching himself against the wall as another glitch rippled through his body. Stronger and longer this time, leaving him quivering worse than before. As it passed and he came back to reality, he realized he had leaned into the wet paint and hastily pulled away. But the damage was done. A big, splotchy hand print ruined the perfect, smooth, blue backdrop.
Letting out a frustrated cry, he hurled the paint brush at the wall, letting it clatter to the ground, and sat back, staring at his ruined, incomplete masterpiece.
How was he supposed to complete the mural if he couldn’t even hold a brush long enough to finish it? How was he supposed to get anything done with this god forsaken body?
Breathing heavily, he stood back up and lunged at the wall, running his fingers over the blue paint and leaving streaks.
“STUPID! [#%@!]ING!! [[paint.net]]!!!”
He spun around to kick the paint bucket. It didn’t budge. He kicked it again. It didn’t make him feel any better. He dipped his hand in and scooped up a handful of paint, hurling it at the wall. The splatters oozed down the cinder blocks, dripping down into the already painted area. With a grumble, he ran his hands over it to spread the drips out. Then he repeated the process again and again, until the bucket was half empty. Only then did he start to come to his senses, breathing heavily.
To his surprise, the majority of the wall was covered in bright blue. Not cleanly, mind you, with streaks crisscrossing the scene. But at least he’d managed to get something done. And for a moment, he almost felt sweet relief.
But then he looked down at his hands, completely covered in blue paint. He wiggled his fingers. They didn’t move right, joints gummed up by the drying paint oozing between them. More paint was splattered on his clothes, little blue splotches all over, the ends of his sleeves soaked.
No no no, what was he thinking? Now there was paint all over his blazer! How was he supposed to get this cleaned off? He didn’t have anything to clean it with and nowhere he could take it. Why? Why? Why? He brought his hands to his face, inadvertently getting more paint on his cheeks and in his hair. But he didn’t notice, too busy spiraling over his clothes.
As he dragged his hands down his face, his head snapped to the offending paint can. With a bitcrushed shout, he picked it up and hurled it at the wall, where it smashed against the cinderblocks then went rolling across the ground, spilling the remaining paint.
Only after standing in the midst of his destruction, heaving for breath, did the consequences set in. He looked at his stained hands and stained clothes, then to the stained floor and unfinished mural on the wall. It had taken ages to find that paint, and now he’d just wasted a bunch of it before he was even done. And why? Why?
He stared down at the paint spill slowly spreading across the floor, sneering at it like it had insulted him. He didn’t have an answer.
And as he slumped to the ground and stewed in the mess he the paint had created, his horrible puppet body still trembled.