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The house was all wrong. The house was wrong and he was wrong. He didn’t fit and the house knew. The house was wrong and he was wrong and it made his head hurt because, what, then, was right? It hurt his head and made all the noise get louder. He didn’t like thinking about the wrong house too much.
Sometimes, when the voices lowered too mumbles and whispers, he would wonder why he was still here. He didn’t fit and the house didn’t like him and everybody wanted Johnny to blow his brains out—besides Nail Bunny maybe—so why was he still here, in this dark, creaky, wrong house?
His mind was so cluttered in noise and screaming and lines that danced in his head their was no room for anything else, but sometimes, sometimes, that noise became static, and the screaming turned hoarse, and those damn lines straightened out, he sees it. Whether it’s real or not isn’t up for debate because every god damn time Johnny sees it he feels something warm in his chest and that makes him feel good. He’s not sure what he feels and maybe he doesn’t want to know. It might ruin it. He didn’t want it ruined. He didn’t want the screaming back; it hurt his head.
She’s really pretty, with black hair that looked really soft and fell just past her chin. She’s so god damn pale though that Nny begins thinking he probably got more sunlight. He chuckles. It’s a sad sound. He never remembered what she wore. Whenever he tried to it all looked weird and blurry, like someone took an eraser and tried getting rid of everything below her neck but did a piss poor job of it. She smells good. Like some sort of perfume that smelled… so familiar. It smelled really good. It smelled so damn far away though. She was kind. He could tell by the soft smile. And that’s usually when the voices broke through.
They screeched and banged against the sides of his skull and made him tear chucks of black hair out of his scalp. That kinda pissed him off. He had just started growing it back after getting back from Hell—or had he shaved his head in his sleep? Fuck, if he knew.
He fell to the floor clutching his head. Fuck, shit, fuck! If Johnny could open his eyes he would have grabbed his knives and slammed them into his cranium, because, damn, they were loud this time. This house is wrong. The voices are always loud.
Maybe he should kill himself. He didn’t fit. He was like a fat kid trapped in a vending machine and no one knew how the hell that kid got himself in there, but he already ate all the candy and now he’s just crying, because, fucking hell, fat kids do not belong in vending machines, and no one is even bothering looking at this sticky, gross kid, just going about their day. They didn’t care. His head hurt.
“I should…” He should die. Dying sounded nice. His voice hurt. He curled up in a ball. He thought he was crying. He probably was. The house is crooked and his head hurt. White noise was being played in his head and someone broke the fucking volume button on the TV. He wanted to gorge out their eyes. That wasn’t nice of them.
When Nny thought of the lady again, he... remembered a little more. Nny wasn't sure if he was remembering or just fucking losing it. Probably losing it. Someone still smeared everything around and his head started feeling real fuzzy, but he could almost swear she mouthed his name. And that’s where he stopped himself.
“No, no, no, no! This isn’t…” No. No! Why was she doing this?! She was so good. So, so good. She made him feel safe and fucking shit, was that what that feeling was?
“Right… Isn’t…” How could she mess this up?! Why, why, why?! Why would she say his name of all names! She fucking ruined it.
“Sto…p…” His head hurt. So. Much. He needed her to stop.
He grabbed his knife. The smiley face mocked him. He swung it up and his whole body swung around with it, like a puppet.
She ruined it.
She was so nice. So good. Maybe that’s why she ruined it. Good doesn’t stay. It withers away into the darkest, most fuckin’ grotesque thing that can be conjured. She let that happen. He let that happened. The house was wrong. It’s rotted to the core and it needs to be destroyed.
His lips cracked as they stretched into a smile. His teeth were crooked. The house was crooked. He was crooked.
The voices encouraged the knife. Yes, Yes, Nny, right through the heart. End it all. It hurts so much, just fucking end it already. Do it! Do it! Kill yourself! What are waiting for, fucktard?! It’s ruined. You let it ruin. Make it right. Kill yourself! Plow that fucker right through the heart!!
“Make it right… Yes.” Yes, that’s right. You screwed it up. Fix it.
He slammed the knife down towards himself. It hit its target. Huh. That hurts a whole fucking more than he thought it would. Johnny crumpled forward. The woman smiled. It hurt.
Blood pooled around him. Fuck, he could have used this to paint the wall. The thing was out. It didn’t need to be painted. He should paint it anyway. It looked nice red. It was all dried and dark right now. His insides hurt. Oh. His insides were pouring out. That’s why.
Nny saw from an outsiders perspective before he passed out from blood loss. The woman was carrying him, her hands holding him up by the underarms and she twirled him around. She wore a Kiss the Cook apron and flour was all over it. She was laughing and dancing and singing. It sounded pretty. His nose was covered in flour and he was smiling and he wasn’t crooked. He was smiling and warm and safe and that was nice. It drifted away, becoming blotted by black until it was nothing but. Little him and the caring woman slipped away. He didn’t want it to.
“Mo-…” His head hurt.