Kidnapping or Rescuing
Thursday, 30 July 1987
I sigh in relief as the lights in the house across the street finally flick off, plunging the home into darkness. After watching Number Four for the past few days, I feel fairly confident that I know the basic layout of the building—at the very least, I am familiar with where the blind spots are, which stairs creak, and where potential entrances into the building are. This mission is taking much longer than it should've, but this is more than a quick kill. My lips pull down in a scowl as I remember what I have witnessed over the past three days. The supposed ‘man of the house’—if one can call the obese land whale a man in any sense of the word—seems to have a predilection for beating the younger child in the home, as well as encouraging the older of the two children to do the same.
My shoulder jerks sharply, making a loud cracking noise not unlike the sound Jeff's shoulder made when it was dislocated while fighting L.J. last month. I should probably check in with Eyeless when I get back home, just in case. He'd kill me if I end up tearing something without knowing again.
I turn my eyes to where I know the waning moon to be, trying to make an estimate on how late it is, only to frown at the thick clouds blanketing the night sky. With an annoyed huff, I creep over the ground alongside Number Seven and peek over the windowsill into the living room. There, hanging on the wall near the doorway to the room, is an old cuckoo clock. A small light plugged into an outlet nearby illuminates the clock just enough for me to roughly guess at the time with relative accuracy — around ten-twenty-ish, ten-twenty-five. Shame. I need to wait a bit longer to approach Number Four if I want my nighttime excursion to remain undetected by the night owls living on this road. I slide down the plastic siding of Number Seven to wait, preferring the safety of the shadows to the harsh lighting of the street lamps lining the street. The police would definitely be notified if an unknown person was seen loitering around a neighborhood as clean as Privet Drive is, especially at night.
I take the time waiting for all of the lights on the street to go out to double check that I have everything I might need — my hatchets are in their holsters at my hips, a pocket knife clipped into the back pocket of my jeans, a pair of throwing knives are in my boots, a clean mechanic's cloth is in my other back pocket, my orange goggles are tight over my eyes, and my cloth mask is firmly over my nose and mouth. After confirming I have everything, I settle more comfortably on the ground under Number Seven's living room window to continue waiting.
Number Four of Privet Drive looks the same as the rest of the homes in the neighborhood, the only differences being the flowers growing in the front yard — white lilies — and the people inhabiting it. The aforementioned ‘man of the house’, his wife, their son, and their nephew. The man is large and clearly obese, with a bushy mustache that does little to differentiate him from a walrus. His wife is on the other end of the extreme size, being almost unnaturally thin. Her face and neck are abnormally long, giving her the appearance of a horse, or maybe a giraffe. Their son takes after his father in both size and mannerisms, resembling more a pig than a seven-year-old boy. The other boy appears to be around five, and is almost never seen. From what I am able to see, though, it's clear he's only biologically related to the woman, having the same cheekbones.
The younger child, while practically invisible to those outside of his residence, is by far the most active on the property. He doesn't go outside often, but when he does, he's kneeling in one of the various garden beds around Number Four, wearing dirty and oversized clothing that clearly do not belong to him, the torn fabric hanging from his bony frame. I've spotted him sneaking drinks from the hose or snagging a vegetable from the small plot growing them near the back fence when he thinks he's able to get away with it. I've watched through the windows as he sweeps and vacuums the floors, washed the dishes after every meal, dusted the furniture, and cooked in the damn kitchen, none of which I've seen him be allowed to eat.
I've caught the boy's cousin push the younger and seen the fat one get praised for it by his father, who turns around and beats the small waif of a child. I've seen the child get blamed for something the pig did, such as trampling the flowers or breaking a glass, and subsequently get whipped with his uncle's belt or whip, sometimes getting shoved into the cupboard under the stairs and only let out to use the bathroom or flat out denied food and water. The boy's aunt has done nothing to help her nephew, nor really hurt him, but she watches the abuse her husband dishes out with nothing but thinly veiled satisfaction.
Among these terrible acts of human nature — which I feel odd thinking considering my profession — I've noticed strange things happen around the boy. Sometimes something just out of reach will scoot that much closer, or something broken will repair itself, or a wilting flower will bloom as if it is the beginning of spring instead of the middle of summer, or potentially crippling or even fatal wounds will heal just enough to no longer be concerning. Everytime one of his relatives notices one of the various odd things that occur, they go off the rails. Or more accurately, the adults do. The pig masquerading as a human boy merely yells for its parents, calling the younger child ‘Freak’ and laughing or watching gleefully as its cousin is punished. Piggy's parents always rush to investigate, the walrus turning various shades of red and purple, and then proceed to beat their nephew until he's laying on the floor, bleeding from from the lashings given to him with his uncle's belt. The beatings are most likely worse when either of the adults catch him doing anything they deem ‘freaky’, but I've yet to see what the uncle does to the kid when that happens.
The kid is the main reason why this particular house is my target. The boy is special, abnormal even compared to the abnormalities of my… colleagues? Roommates? Compared to the Creepypasta. Either way, the boy has powers that no one else in the Mansion has. He'll be the perfect addition to the Boss's merry band of murderers.
I shake myself out of my musings and glance at the cuckoo clock on the wall in Number Seven's living room, relieved when it states that it's around eleven-fifty, eleven-fifty-five. I grin underneath my mask, shaking my limbs out as I stand up to remove any lingering stiffness — not that I would be able to really tell anyway — and silently make my way across the street. Everyone should be long since asleep by now, so I should be able to get inside without worrying about notifying anyone of my tresspassing… except for the kid. He had been locked in the boot cupboard earlier for spilling a pitcher of Kool-Aid while serving his relatives the dinner he had been forced to cook, never mind that Fatso 2.0 had very visibly tripped him. The child hadn't been fed, either.
I slink along the side of Number Four, where I remember being a window just above the kitchen sink. Not my preferred method of entry, but on the off-chance that anyone is still awake, I am less likely to be noticed from this angle than if I picked the lock on the front door, and the sliding glass back door doesn't have a lock I can pick. Hence my decision to go through the window like Spiderman.
The window itself is unlocked and opens quite easily without so much as a squeak in resistance, letting the bone-rattling snores filling the house spill out into the night. One might think the owners are asking to be a target for some B&E. I bite back a snicker at the thought, my neck cracking in a way that sounds like it should be painful as I try to get a decent grip on the windowsill. Once I have a good hold on it, I heft myself up and through the window — 'why is it so small?'
I mentally swear as my hatchets get caught under the lip of the sill, the dull thud and scrape of the wooden handles dragging along the siding if the house echoing loudly in the sleepy silence of Number Four. I freeze, eyes darting around the kitchen and through the doorway to look at the stairs as I listen closely for any movenent upstairs. The loud snoring doesn't even stutter, let alone pause. Instead, it seems to be even louder than before, if that's even possible.
After waiting another couple of minutes to make sure that none of the inhabitants woke up, I continue to slide through the window, being more careful now to maneuver the hatchets out of the way. Unfortunately, my luck runs out as I'm pulling my legs through the window. My left arm — the one holding my weight, since my right arm is keeping the handles of my hatchets out if the way of anything else they might catch on — spams and buckles, sending me crashing to the wooden floor like a toppled game of Jenga with a very loud thunk. In another point against my oh-so-amazing entry, the lace of one of my boots snags on the faucet, so my lower half is partially suspended in air, my left leg bent at an awkward angle. My head and shoulders are on the floor, my neck in an uncomfortable position that would probably be painful.
I lay there for a few long moments as I wait for any sign of someone having woken up before I figure it's safe enough to try and get up. I twist and wiggle my foot until the shoelace finally unhooks from the faucet and let's gravity finish pulling me down to the floor. I stare at the ceiling irritably for a moment before standing up and shaking out my limbs again. I slide the window closed before stepping carefully over the hardwood flooring in an attempt to minimize any unnecessary noise and pausing by the cupboard under the stairs, silently debating whether or not I should let the kid out now. If I let him out now, he could be further traumatized by the killing of his relatives, no matter how abusive and neglectful they are. But if I wait and let him out after murdering the other inhabitants, he'll probably have a full-blown panic attack at the sight of a blood-soaked stranger.
Fuck. This is why I'm never left with the important decisions.
…
Should probably let the kid choose, actually, shouldn't I?
I nod to myself at that thought. After all, it's his mental health that would be at risk. I kneel down and unlock the cupboard — 'I'm so taking my time with Fatty 1.0' — and let the door swing open with a near-silent creak of the hinges. Inside the cupboard is somehow much darker than the rest of the house, to the point I can't even see the silhouette of the child I know is in here, but ui guess that's to be expected, considering the light from the street lamps can't reach the small room. I reach out carefully, waving my hand around near ceiling for a string… I know places like these have a light in here somewhere… Aha!
With a sharp snick, the bare light bulb flicks on, flooding the small space with light that spills out into the hallway and blinds both myself and the kid. We both wince and hiss at the sudden brightness, though he does so with noticeably less cursing. Once my eyes grow used to the light, I'm able to see the child clearly for the first time, up close.
The first thing I notice about him are his eerie electric green eyes. Currently squinted against the light, they look at me warily, flicking from my mouth guard-styled mask and goggles to my weapons hanging at my sides to the relatively nondescript clothing before glancing at the open door then meet my brown eyes again. I shift a little to the side out of the doorway so he has more space to leave, so he's no longer completely trapped in the cage his relatives had put him in. As he continues scrutinizing me, I scan him for any injuries that might require medical attention that I should be worried about, and dear gods below, does he have injuries, both fresh and old.
For one, the clothing that hangs off of him only accentuates his small body. Where his shirt hangs low or is torn, I can count his ribs without even having to look for them, so he's severely malnourished. He clearly hasn't been allowed a shower or bath in at least a few days, as his black hair hair is tangled and greasy, and his tanned skin is coated in a layer of dirt, dust, and grime from his repeated list of chores everyday and the thrice-damned cupboard. I can spot pale scars of wounds long healed and the red raised skin of the more recent ones. Swollen skin around his wrist brings me to believe that it's at the very least sprained, if not actually broken, and blood from the earlier lashings dry on the tiny mattress and the walls and the floor of the room and the back of the kid's shirt. The shirt's gonna have to be cut off of him if Eyeless is to heal them.
The most prominent scar that I can find is a lightning bolt scar no longer than an inch and a half, above his left eyebrow and partially hidden by his knotted bangs. It seems to be in the process of healing, around maybe a week or two old, as it's covered in a layer of new skin, red and raw as if infected. The shape itself is far too perfect to be the result of an accident, looking as if someone had taken a freshly sharpened blade to his forehead and carved it into his skin. It was clearly wasn't made with normal human means, however; the amount of dark energy I can feel radiating from it is enough to easily disprove that.
…
Slender's gonna like him, I think.
The boy — eyes no longer squinted but still narrowed in suspicion — tilts his head, though he doesn't try to speak. Actually, now that I look back on it, I don't think I've ever heard the kid talk.
With that thought at the forefront of my mind, I decide to ask, “C-c-c-can you talk, kiiiiid?” My neck snaps sharply to the side, the sound loud in the quiet building. The boy stares at me for a few seconds before shrugging. I nod; that checks with this family. I should clarify, though, to get the scope of his vocal ability, so I don't freak out or make a big deal out of any noise he might make. “Arrrrrre — aconite — are you m-m-mute?” I ask instead. He shakes his head quickly in the negative. Okay. “C-c-c-can you mmmmmake noise?” This time he nods, albeit hesitantly. “Oooookay. I ha-ave a qu-quest-question for youuuuu.” I pause to try and figure out how to word said question. The child's eyes never stray from far from me, and never for long — I'm a stranger in his residence, clearly carrying several deadly weapons; he'd have to be a complete fucking retard to take his eyes off me. “Do-do you waaaaant to s-st-stay in herrrreeee?”
I mentally facepalm. That was such a fucking no-brainer question, dear gods. Of course he doesn't want to stay, and it's so vague that it can be taken in a variety of ways. Ugh. Next time Boss needs someone to carry out a impromptu rescue mission, I'm nominating either Eyeless or Masky or even Hoodie. They are definitely more prepared with dealing with traumatized kids, and Hoodie would probably get along will with a fellow mute.
The boy tilts his head, as if confused, which… understandable. Depending on how he interpreted my words, I had either just asked him if he wants to stay in the boot cupboard or if he wants to stay in an abusive home without any reasons or clarifications on my part. My leg twitches, causing me to lose my balance and topple backwards, landing on my ass. The handles of my hatchets hit the floor with a thunk, which in turn causes the boy to startle violently. I raise my hands as if in surrender, which I realize only after I have them up that it's stupid. I again wait and listen for any sounds that might indicate someone upstairs being awake, and only speak once I'm sure that everyone else is asleep — aside from the two of us downstairs, obviously.
“I'mmmmm gonna kill — kalmia — kill your f-f-f-family,” I whisper, unable to keep my giddiness out of my voice as I push myself back into a crouch to make it easier to stand. The kid's ethereal eyes widen, though whether the glint in them is from fear or happiness, I can't tell for sure. It could be either or, what with his situation being what it is. “S-so? G-g-g-gonna stay in here or staaaaand outside?” I lean forward a bit on the balls of my feet, wobbling a bit as I lower my voice conspiratorially. “I'm gonna-gonna w-wa-warn ya: it's gonna be b-b-b-bloody.”
His eyes narrow once more as I lean back on my heels, and I still can't quite figure out what those emotions are that hide among the electric currents of his eyes. The most logical one would be fear, but again, it can be literally anything, and I doubt it to actually be fear. This kid isn't normal by any definition of the word, after all. After everything he's been dealt at his relatives’ hands, fear for their safety is probably the furthest thing from his mind.
“So?” I repeat, practically vibrating with excitement and eagerness. “W-wanna stay or — oakmoss — or do you wanna g-g-go?”
He tilts his head the other way, this time in clear contemplation. He appears to be weighing his options, though I don't really understand why it would be such a big decision. Do you want to stay in the house while your family is brutally murdered or not; it's rather simple, really. After a moment of deliberation, he starts to warily inch closer to the open door of the cupboard, his nearly glowing eyes never leaving my dull brown ones. I readily shift out of the way, allowing him to leave the damned cupboard — 'totally going to make a certain walrus’ death painful for this' — and watch as the kid immediately books it into the kitchen with barely a backwards glance at me as soon as he has his feet under him.
For a brief moment, I'm confused as to why he's going into the kitchen rather than heading straight out the front door. Then the two brain cells floating around in my skull collide, and this time I don't keep my facepalm only mental. My hand slaps on my goggles and slides down to fall back to my side. The child hasn't properly eaten in a long while, if ever — he's literally starving. I push myself to my feet and trail after him, shaking my head in exasperation at my own stupidity even as I purposefully make my footsteps a bit louder than usual to let the boy know where I am.
In the kitchen, the kid is sitting crisscrossed on the countertop, a loaf of bread and a package of sliced lunch meat next to him. I lean against the doorframe and cross my arms over my chest as he opens the lunch meat and pulls out a handful of slices, which he puts between two slices of bread and promptly takes a huge bite. His cheeks puff out like that of a chipmunk's as he chews, his eyes locked on me.
While he eats his fill of meat and bread, I glance at the digital clock on the microwave above the stove top — twelve-oh-three. Huh. Feels like it's been longer. I turn my dark eyes back to the boy and blink, a bit surprised. There's only a bite or two left of his sandwich, and he's in the process of making another one with twice as much meat as the first. When he looks up from making his second sandwich and catches me watching him, I can finally see a hint of fear in his electric eyes, and I can tell the exact reason why, too — not because I can hurt him, though that is probably only in the backseat. No, he's afraid I'm going to take his food away from him.
…
I think I hate the inhabitants of Number Four more than I hate my father.
...
Should I give them a cookie or something?
...
Nah.
My neck cracks loudly, making the child break our impromptu staring contest to instead stare at the stairs as he freezes, genuine fear staining his face. The snores don't falter in the slightest, making me wonder as the kid warily shoves the last bite of his first sandwich in his mouth: just what drugs are those animals taking to sleep so soundly and where the hell can I get my hands on them? I would get paid a pretty penny if I were to start selling them to the other ‘Pastas.
“D-do you haaaaave an an-ans-answer?” I ask him once it seems like he's able to breathe between bites, tilting my head to the side and ignoring the creaking of my joints and bones. The kid waits until after he's swallowed his most recent bite before he gives me his reply: a single nod of confirmation. “St-ay or go?” He raises a single finger in response to my question before taking a large bite of his second sandwich. Kid wants to stay inside — and possibly watch — while I slaughter his relatives? Huh. Okay. Fair enough, I guess. He has a fuckton of traumatic baggage, and what better way to deal with it than to destroy the cause of it? Then again, I'm not a shrink, so what do I know? “A-al-alright, kid. G-g-g-gonna stay dooooown here, or h-help me f-f-f-fine — foxglove — find which rooms th-the an-ani-animals sleep in?”
The boy once more looks contemplative, giving my question more thought than what is expected of an elementary schooler. After deliberating with himself for a few moments, he shoves the rest of his second sandwich in his mouth like a chipmunk and hops down from the counter, leaving the loaf of bread and package of lunch meat open behind him. He pads past me into the hallway, stopping just in front of the cupboard he had been locked in just a few minutes prior. He glances back at me and waves me over, so I uncross my arms and move from the doorframe to stand next to him with an amused twitch if my lips at the cheekiness of the brat.
Once he's satisfied, he points at the door of the cupboard, where a piece of lined notebook paper is taped haphazardly to the inside of the door, the writing clearly visible in the light of the bare light bulb. Scrawled in a childish hand with a green crayon are the words Boy's Room. The word Boy's is scratched out with a red crayon, and the name Harry is written above it in the same handwriting as the green crayon. Harry's Room.
I narrow my eyes at the paper, adding another mentally tally against the family this kid lives with, because what the actual fuck? “Is th-that your naaaaame?” I ask, voice coming out a bit softer than I expected it to. “Harry?” He nods simply. “You d-d-don't look like aaaaaa Harry,” I muse aloud, tearing my eyes from the paper to the child. He tilts his own head in silent confusion as he continues chewing the giant bite he'd shoved in his mouth a few moments ago. “Yo-you look mmm-mmmmore like a-a-a Bell-Bellinor. Means ‘a be-beau-beautiful and daaaaaark per-person’ in French.” One of the joys of the Mansion's library: it has books on everything.
The boy's otherworldly eyes grow wide in bewilderment before he turns his head away, an embarrassed blush tinting his cheeks pink as he covers his mouth with a hand and swallows his mouthful of sandwich, probably hiding a smile if the way his facial features have turned up a bit. The action makes him appear somehow angelic despite what's about to occur in just a few minutes. “Yo-you like th-that name?” The newly dubbed Bellinor nods, glancing at me shyly. My answering smile is hidden by my mask as my wrist spasms. “Al-alright, then. Let'ssssss go, Bell-Bellinor.”
I hold out a hand for the kid to hold onto if he wishes, which he does after a long moment of hesitation. I reach into the cupboard and pull the string hanging from the ceiling, plunging both the cupboard and the hallway back into darkness. With a loose grip on Bellinor's much smaller hand so he can pull away at any moment if he so chooses, I lead him over to the carpeted staircase. There, he slides his hand from mine and steps in front of me, holding a hand up in the universal signal to wait. I raise a brow at him, which is unseen beneath my goggles and hood, as well as the darkness of the late hour — or is it early? He ignores me anyway in favor of stepping deliberately on the second stair with a pointed tilt of his head. 'Cheeky brat.' The snores, which hadn't so much as been interrupted by a sneeze, stutter for a moment before resuming once more. His point is clear: one wrong move and we're fucked.
I nod in agreement and theatrically bow, extending an arm as if he were a fair maiden I am escorting, letting him go upstairs ahead of me. I may be somewhat familiar with the creaking stairs from my past few days of recon, there is a good chance the my two brain cells missed something. I follow closely behind him, stepping exactly where he does and avoiding those he does. When we reach the top of the stairs, Bellinor tangles his fingers in the fabric of my hoodie sleeve with a brief side-eye and tugs gently. He points at two doors: the one at the very end of the hall on the right, and the first one on the left. Pointing at the first door he gestured at, Bellinor raises two fingers, indicating that two people are in that one. So that's the master bedroom. The other one must be the pig's, then. The other four doors are inconsequential to me.
I nod at him in silent thanks before creeping towards Mr. Pig's room. After all, it's not completely at fault for the way it behaves; not really. It's just the result of bad parenting. But it doesn't nullify the fact that it is a bully — not even a bully; the pig is an abuser in the making! Letting it grow up will only end up with other people being hurt — that could possibly lower the amount of potential victims for us ‘Pastas. Best to get him out of the way, in any case. I want to take my time with its parents and I don't want any witnesses.
I grasp the handle of the pig's bedroom door in my right hand and slip one of my hatchets into my left. I glance down at Bellinor briefly before I twist the handle and let door swing open with a quiet creak, the light from the pig's dinosaur night light leaking out into the upstairs hallway. Inside, the pig itself is laying on its side facing the wall, showcasing its size like it's on display at a museum. Honestly, what in the fuck nuggets are the feeding it?! It's practically a perfectly inflated bouncy ball! I genuinely wouldn't be surprised if it deflates like a balloon when I puncture it. With each heaving breath it takes, its body rises and falls, exhaling snores almost as loud as its father's. Is it hereditary, I wonder? It has to be; they both snore louder than tractors!
A poke in my side pulls from my incredulous thoughts, drawing my attention away from the pig and to the child standings just behind me. I tilt my head in silent question, to which Bellinor merely waves a hand in a clear sign to “Get on with it!” I chuckle in amusement — for a practical mute, he sure is bossy.
I adjust my grip on the handle of my weapon and glance around the bedroom floor, locating each and every thing that I could possibly trip over. 'Holy shit, I've missed this,' I muse to myself as I step carefully over the tripping hazards towards the bed. It's been at least a month since I've had a kill, so I want to savour this. Then again, I also have its parents waiting unknowingly for me in the other room, and I want as much time as possible with those two, so I think I'll kill the piglet quickly before I move over to the master bedroom.
With Bellinor taking my previous place in the doorway, I move to stand next to the bed, my boots barely making a sound on the carpeted floor. I look down at the living bouncy ball, just watching it breathe, contemplating how I should kill it. It's a toss up, really, between slitting its neck open and bashing its skull in. After a bit of deliberation, I twist to look at Bellinor, my spine cracking in a way that should've woken my victim up, but somehow doesn't. “H-h-hey, Bellinoooor?” I call, making the kid in question tilt his head in question. “Sh-should I sliiiiiice its throat or b-ba-bash its h-head — heather — open?”
My young accomplice blinks at the query before he raises two fingers. I hum and nod, turning to face the piggy again and hefting my hatchet in both hands. I shift in place and raise the weapon over my head before I bring it down hard on the sleeping lump's head, hearing a thunk as the blade connects with the bone beneath the flesh. I lift the hatchet and bring it down, again and again and again, until the snores cut out and the only noise coming from the bed is the squelch of the blade being removed from the mess of blood, bone, and brain matter. I look around the corpse, smiling in satisfaction under my mask at the blood painting the walls, staining the bedding, and dripping onto the carpet. My own clothing is, of course, splattered with the life force of the pig's blood. Kinda feel like the chick from Carrie.
I turn to face Bellinor once more, hatchet hanging at my side and blood staining my clothing. His unearthly green eyes are wide, seeming to reflect the night light's glow eerily like a cat. He tilts his head a bit to the side and takes a couple steps into the room before we both freeze, hearing the creak of the master bedroom door's hinges. I motion for Bellinor to get behind me, which he readily does just in time for light footsteps to hurry down the hallway. A moment later, the mother of the thing I just killed turns into the open doorway, wrapped in a pale pinky-purple bathrobe and wearing matching slippers.
It eyes dart from me to Bellinor to the remains of its crotch goblin before it screams in horror. After a moment of pure terror, it turns its eyes back to my accomplice. “What did you do, boy?!” The stickbug accuses, taking a step forward and completely ignoring my presence for the moment in favor of terrorizing its nephew. “What did you do to my Dudderkins?!”
… Excuse me? Pfft-
Bellinor blinks with wide eyes at the horse-like bug's accusation before shaking his head and pointing at me, throwing me under the bus. Then again, it’s obvious that his aunt needs a little push to figure it out. The bug turns its attention to me, apparently just now actually processing that I am a bloody, armed stranger in its son's bedroom. Its eyes widen in fear as it takes a shaky step backwards. “Who.. Who the bloody hell are you?” It asks, its voice wavering. “Why are you in my house?”
I tilt my head silently, readjusting my hold on the slippery handle of my hatchet. I look away from the stickbug to meet Bellinor's eyes. “W-wh-what should I do-do wiiiiith h-h-her, Bellinoooor?”
The kid hums — 'hey, he's not mute!' — and looks over his shoulder at the corpse on the bed before tilting his head at me and raising one finger. It takes me a moment to understand what he's trying to get at, but when I do I grin under my mask. “G-g-good th-think-thinking.”
“What are you talking about?” The horse-bug asks, voice shrill. “Boy! What is he going to do?” Bellinor turns his head to look at it and blinks innocently, looking for all the world a perfect little angel. This only serves to piss the bug off, as its face turns a delicate shade of pink. It only makes it a single step before it freezes and a dull thump echoes through the room.
I lean down and pick up the stickbug's head by its short sandy blonde hair, twisting it this way and that as its body finally gets with the program and collapses like a puppet with its strings cut. I hold up its head to show it its own body, taking much more pride in the act than I probably should, but oh well. After a few seconds, I unceremoniously drop the head on the bed next to its son, before humming in contemplation. I readjust the head's position, placing it where the pig's would've been if it wasn't currently a poor excuse for tomato sauce. I nod to myself before I turn to look at Bellinor again, who looks confused. “Wh-what?”
He points at his aunt's head and tilts his own. I furrow my brows, not understanding. He points at its head again before holding his own hands out towards the beheaded body, as if showing it something, or vice versa. “Oooooooooh,” I say as my two brain cells meet up again. “Wh-why did I-I-I-I hold up-up her h-hea-head?” He nods smartly. “The h-head sssssssstays-stays alive for th-three to sssix m-min-minutes after be-being sssssssss-separated from its b-bo-bod-body,” I explain to the curious child. “It fffffalls uncon-unconscious after ten sec-seconds with-without air.”
Bellinor nods, lips forming an ‘O’ shape of understanding. He looks at the head of his aunt for a long moment before reaching over and poking it, making it shift slightly on the stump of its neck. He giggles quietly before blinking, almost as if surprised by the sound, and that just makes me wish I had taken my time with the horse-bug. Then again, I still have its husband. It seems to be the main source of abuse, anyway, so I can take my anger and frustration out on it.
“C-c-come on,” I say quietly, holding out the hand not holding a hatchet towards him as my neck twitches. He happily takes the proffered hand and squeezes it tightly before tugging me out if the baby piggy's bedroom and towards the master bedroom. The door is still open, letting out continuous snores that seem to reverberate through my bones. How the hell is the beast still sleeping? It's not like its wife was quiet before it died. Maybe it was a screamer, and the walrus grow used to sleeping through it, since there's no way it could satisfy anyone. It's clearly compensating for something, and it's not its weight.
I push the master bedroom door open wider, barely hearing the creak over the snores seeking to echo off the relatively bare walls — only a two photographs are on the walls, barely made out in the faint light of the basic night light just inside the room. One is of the walrus and the horse-bug's wedding, and the other is of the piggy when it was newly born. The floor is still carpet and the walls are a nice, boring cream. There's a wardrobe next to the window along the right wall and a dresser against the left wall. Twin night stands of a pale wood bookend the matching bed frame, which has off-white bedding. On the bed, under the bedding, is the walrus. It's somehow bigger than it is in its wedding photos.
I slip my hand from Bellinor's and step closer to the lump on the bed, tilting my head in consideration. I know I want to take my time with it, but how? Maybe start small — work on the nails, go to the fingers, then the larger bones. Maybe some waxing; that shit hurts from what BEN tells me. Yeah, should start with that. I hum to myself as I slip my bloodied hatchet into its holster and turn around, leaving the master bedroom. I walk downstairs, back into the kitchen, and look around. Now if I was a perfectly despicable couple, where would I put the candles?
I don't get far in my search when I hear a choked-off scream. I turn on my heel and immediately notice that Bellinor isn't with me. 'He must've stayed upstairs for some ungodly reason,' I think to myself as I run upstairs, uncaring of the house I'm making in my rush to reach my little accomplice. I burst into the master bedroom, my hatchets in my hands — 'when did that happen?' — and immediatley take stock of the situation.
The walrus is out of bed, face a shade of red, and mouth twisted in cruel amusement. One of its meaty hands are tight on Bellinor's neck, not really squeezing, but holding. Its other hand is…
'This son of a bitch better hope there isn't an afterlife.'
The being's other hand is in the process of removing Bellinor's pants, and based on the look in the kid's vibrant eyes, this isn't the first time the fucker molested this child. The thing looks up at my entry, face turning an odd shade of purple and eyes bulging in anger. “Now who the bloody hell are you?!” It bellows, as if I'm in the wrong here. 'Well, technically…'
I don't respond, too pissed off to even think of a reply. I simply throw one of my hatchets at it, the blade embedding in the being's hand — almost cuts it off, actually — forcing it to let go of Bellinor. The kid takes the opportunity to rush behind me, pale in a way I haven't seen him until now and shaking in genuine terror. No wonder he isn't afraid of me; he had been living with a monster worse than I could ever hope to be.
I glance behind me at Bellinor to visibly check on him. Despite his fear and the recent molestation, his eyes are hard, burning with anger and hatred. The glowing irises meet my dull ones and the child gives me a sharp nod even as he backs further away from the beast.
I turn back to the walrus and grip my remaining hatchet tightly. Unfortunately, my momentary distraction is enough for it to gather itself and charge at me, startling me. With the thrown hatchet still in its wrist, it swings its arms in an effort to hit me with the handle sticking out like a broken bone. I manage to dodge out of the way of the thing's wild flailing, but Bellinor isn't as lucky. He gets caught in the ribs by the handle, thrown down the hallway and skidding a but, tumbling head over tailbone before falling down the stairs. A pained yelp echoes through the house shortly after.
I jerk my head towards the hallway, eyes wide in worry. The brief moment my focus is away, the walrus throws its weight at me. I let out a yelp of my own at the sudden ball rolling towards me and jump out of the way, or try to. Its uninjured hand grabs my ankle, jerking me down to the floor. I land with a thud.
“Answer me!” The thing spits, not unlike a wild animal. “Who the bloody hell are you, you goddamned chav?!”
I grimace under my mask and kick at the walrus’ hand. “The n-n-n-name's T-To-Toby, you f-f-f-fucker!” I retort. I might not fully understand British slang, but I know enough to understand the meaning of that. “And I'mmmmm rich-richer than yo-you.” I slam the heel of my boot into the handle of the hatchet that's slipping from the thing's wrist. The force of my kick sends the blade completely through its wrist, severing the hand from the arm. The hand flops to the carpeted floor while the walrus screams in agony.
With it writhing on the floor and gripping the stump of its wrist, I push myself to my feet and heft my unused hatchet as if testing its weight. While the thing is still blinded by pain, I step behind it and adjust my grip on the handle before swinging. The blade slices open the back of its left ankle like a knife through hot butter. Blood sprays as the beast screams again, flesh and nerves and tendons splitting with ease. I yank my hatchet from its leg without care for any additional damage the action may cause to my victim before I do the same to the other ankle. With no way to run away, I can take a moment to think over my next move. First, I should check on Bellinor. He got tossed quite a bit, and he's fairly small, so I'm not very confident that no bones were broken.
I nod to myself and turn my back on the being currently bleeding from the few injuries on his body — I don't think it can bleed out from them, but I should hurry back, just in case. I want to make its death last for as long as I possibly can. I hurry down the hallway and look down the stairs. There, leaning against the wall at the foot of the stairs and breathing only a but shallowly, Bellinor rests with his head tilted back against the wall and eerie green eyes hidden behind his eyelids and long lashes.
I take the steps two at a time until I reach him and kneel down next to him, then cautiously raise a hand up to tap at the wall next to his head. His eyes slowly open, revealing that his eyes are slightly dazed and unfocused — probably concussed. I'll have Eyeless check properly when we get to the Mansion. “H-h-hey,” I quietly greet, moving my hand to push his bangs out of his eyes to get a proper look.
His lips curl in a small, wobbly smile before he closes his eyes again with a soft, almost silent, hum of content. “N-no, you g-g-g-gotta sssssssstay-stay awake,” I say, concerned. I tap his cheek a bit, trying to keep him awake. “Yo-you might haaaaave a con-concuss-concussion; you nee-need to stay away-awake.” He grumbles a bit before cracking his eyes open again, glaring balefully at me. I smile a bit despite knowing he can't see it. “H-h-how ‘bout I-I-I-I help yo-you — yarrow — you upstair-upstairs? You c-c-c-can watch me h-hurt the walrussss?” The boy's eyes light up with unholy excitement as he tilts his head in a small nod, his smile becoming a bit more steady, showing a bit more teeth. “O-o-o-okay.”
I slip my hatchet back into its holster before I lean over and slip my hands carefully under Bellinor's back and knees. Once I have a firm grip on him, I stand up, my neck cracking in a way that makes him flinch, and slowly but surely carry him up the stairs. When we reach the top of the stairs, Bellinor tenses, seeing the walrus still laying on the floor of the master bedroom, but when he sees his lack of hand and general mobility, a small, childish giggle escapes his chapped lips. I smile to myself as I enter the master bedroom, stepping over the beast, and set my accomplice on the large bed. I fluff the pillows and arrange the blankets, fully ignoring the thing still crying out in pain on the floor as I make my — friend? Kidnappee? You know what, he's my duckling — my duckling as comfortable as I can. Once the child is cozy and bundled up in the bedding of his abusers, I give him a soft pat on his head before I turn around and finally give the wiggling worm my attention.
“Wh-what to do, what to-to d-do…” I muse aloud, tappng my masked chin cartoonishly. I already have it mostly immobilized, though I doubt it'll be able to drag itself anywhere anyway, so that's not a problem. Oh, right. Time to fuck with the nerve endings. I hum to myself as I pat down my pockets, pouting as I remember that I didn't bring my lighter with me. Oh well. I tilt my head in thought at the fat tub of lard lying on the floor before I step over it and out the door, kicking it in the spine on my way out, and back into the hallway. I open the door directly across from the master bedroom, disgusted to find a bedroom filled wall to wall with broken toys and unused things, all clearly made for children. 'They have a whole ‘nother bedroom, and they still shove their nephew in the fucking boot cupboard?!'
I close the door, turn around, enter the master bedroom again, stomp on the walrus’ bleeding stump of a wrist — it wails like an infant — and leave the room once more. The next door I open is a linen closet filled with sheets, blankets, pillows, quilts, plastic sheets, and more. I wrinkle my nose and close the door before opening the door directly across from the closet, happy when I find the bathroom. I flick on the light and proceed to open the various cupboards and drawers until I find the cupboard containing rubbinig alcohol. I grab it and leave the bathroom, flicking the light off behind me out of habit — Slender doesn't like it when the lights are left on needlessly — and return to the master bedroom.
Bellinor is sitting on the bed, still snuggled in the mini nest of bedding that I had made around him. His eyes are half-lidded, clearly on the way to La-La Land despite the swearing and screaming from his uncle on the floor. I give the child a little wave, which makes him giggle again — he might be delirious; probably does have a concussion. I sit down next to the walrus and pull out the knife from its place hooked in my back pocket. Its nothing much, just a simple three-inch blade used for peeling potatoes. Now it's going to be used for peeling something else.
I hum to myself, the tune familiar to me though I can't remember the name of it for the life of me, as I pick up the beast's uninjured hand. Pale blue eyes look at me, dazed with pain, before they focus on the knife in my hand and the bottle of rubbing alcohol sitting next to me. It starts trying to squirm away, but with the amount of blood loss the being's dealing with,it doesn't get far. I continue humming as I put blade to flesh and start peeling away the walrus’ skin like nothing's out of the ordinary. Deaf to its screaming and begging, I continue to skin it alive, all the way down to the wrist, before I drop its hand uncaringly to the floor, making the thing bellow in agony as the newly exposed nerve endings come in contact with the harsh carpet fuzz.
While it continues to whine and cry like the child it had touched, I cut off a section of its pajama shirt and unscrew the cap of the rubbing alcohol, which I pour generously over the fabric before wrapping it tightly around the skinned hand. The liquid touches the nerves and the being lets out a sound that doesn't sound like it came from human vocal chords. I glance over at Bellinor, just to check on him, and sigh as I see him fast asleep — exactly what I told him not to do, but he's had a long night. I'm going to have Eyeless check him over when we get home, anyway. He should be fine for a bit longer.
I remove the soaked cloth after a few moments, though it takes a bit of pulling since the nerves are clinging to the fabric. The action makes the walrus scream again, its voice growing hoarse from all the screaming its doing. I set aside my blade and the cloth before grasping the dangling skin still attached to the being's previously uninjured hand, and start tugging, peeling the skin away much like a monkey would do to a banana. Whimpers and dog-like whimpers escape its lips, tears sliding down fat cheeks to pool in the folds of its triple chin. I sigh, growing tired of its noises, so I do something to shut it up: I take my knife and cut off a sizable chunk of the walrus’ hanging skin, then shove it into far enough into its mouth that it chokes on its own flesh.
With the thing finally quiet, I start humming again — 'that's what it is, Linkin Park's Crawling' — and pull at the bit of skin still connected to its wrist. Every now and then, I'll stop peeling its arm and pour more rubbing alcohol on the piece of fabric before wrapping it around the newly exposed nerves, which brings more and more tears to the being's eyes. I ignore its muffled babbling as I continue torturing it. It's only when I finish skinning its arm that I stop peeling the walrus, unceremoniously dropping the stripped arm onto the carpet. I tilt my head in thought, contemplating how to continue. Hmmm… decisions, decisions…
I stand up and kick the thing over onto its side, then onto its back, pressing the, backs of its ankles to the carpet in a way that makes it cry out around its mouthful of its own skin in pain. I simply continue humming as I examine the lump of fat jiggling on the floor like a plate of jello. Its definitely turning me off jello for the foreseeable future, because… no. Just. No.
I plop back down next to the being and begin the gross task of undoing its pants and tugging them down. After all, a rapist, no matter how far they got, deserves a certain punishment. It's with a mix of disgust and vindication that I put my knife to the walrus’ limp dick, and, with a single and quick slice, I cut the two-inch slug off. Not wanting to touch it longer than I have to, I shove it down its throat without removing the skin already in its mouth.
With that done, I happily ignore the soaked rag and instead pour the rubbing alcohol directly onto the gushing wound. The strangled screams echo off the walls, much to my pleasure, and I set the bottle down next to me once more. Now that its been sufficiently neutered, how can I continue the being's punishment? There's not much I can do that will hurt worse… Actually, I am stupid as fuck.
I stand up again and leave the master bedroom. Returning to the bathroom, I go through the cupboards and drawers before I find a small container of Q-tips in one of the drawers closer to the toilet. With the container of Q-tips in hand, I leave the bathroom and return to the master bedroom, sitting once more next to the walrus. I open the container and pull out a Q-tip, break it in half, and then stab the broken ends of the Q-tip into the fresh injury. I proceed to do this over and over again, sticking some into the bare nerve endings on its arm, too, just for a change of pace. I hum in contemplation before shrugging and stuffing some under the finger nails of the being's one attached hand — I've read that people use bamboo in official torture sessions, but Q-tips should be a good substitute.
Slowly but surely, I run out of Q-tips to use. I pout and tap at my chin in thought before tilting my head at the thing now lying motionless on the floor. I stare intently, watching for any sign of it still being alive, and find that its chest is still. I reach over and press my fingers to its neck, humming when I feel no pulse. With the entire family dead — aside from my little duckling, of course — I stand up once again. I wipe my knife on the fabric of the thing's shirt before I flip it closed and clip it into my back pocket, then grab the hatchet that had cut off the being's hand. Pulling the mechanic's rag from my pocket, I wipe down the blade before I slip it back into its holster, then remove my other hatchet to clean it before replacing it once more.
Weapons clean, I shove the mechanic's rag back into my pocket and turn to look at my accomplice. Bellinor is still sleeping soundly in the nest I had made for him. He looks so tiny in the queen-sized bed. I reach step closer to the bed, tilting my head a bit in confusion. Previously, the only thing I could hear had been the walrus’ struggling. Now, with it dead, I can properly hear the kid's breathing — it sounds wet. Even I, who can't feel pain and knows jack-shit about medical stuff, knows that this is bad.
I lean over and carefully press my ear to Bellinor's chest. I swear. His previous flight down the hall and subsequent tumble down the stairs must've done more damage than I thought. 'Gods-fucking-dammit. This is why I'm not allowed to hang around kids by myself!' I mentally berate myself as I carefully scoop the child up into my arms, taking the blanket with him. I leave the bedroom, stepping over the body laying on the floor, and hurry down the hall. I take the stairs two at a time at first, but that jostles Bellinor, making him whimper a bit. I slow down and take the stairs one at a time. Upon making it to the first floor, I head into the living room and unlock the sliding glass back door. I check that he's all bundled up before I open the door and slip outside.
I walk through the backyard, narrowing my eyes at the fence blocking in the yard. It'll be difficult to climb it with the boy in my arms being both injured and asleep, but I'll manage. Somehow.
I glance around the yard, wondering how the hell I'm actually going to get the both of us over the white picket fence — which I know the kid in my arms painted himself — and nearly sag with relief when I see a ladder leaning against the side of the shed near the back of the yard. The only reason I don't is because I currently have an injured child in my arms.
I gently set him down on the ground under the sole tree in the backyard, leaning him against the trunk and double-checking that he's comfortable before I cross the yard to the shed. I grasp at the ladder and drag it over to the fence where I prop it against the painted wood. I shake it roughly to check if it's stable, nodding to myself in satisfaction when it moves only minimally before I return to Bellinor's side. Picking him up once more, I slowly and carefully climb the ladder, one hand holding the child while the other holds the rungs of the ladder. Once over the fence, I shift my hold on Bellinor so that I'm comfortably carrying him in both arms before I set out at a steady jog straight into the woods behind the line of cookie-cutter houses that make up Privet Drive.
Soon I'm running through the European beech trees and the black alder trees and the English oak trees, glancing down intermittently at the sleeping child in my arms to make sure he isn't being moved too much by my own movements. The spaced out woodland gradually shifts from that of Surrey, England to those that populate the Black Forest in Germany. Ash trees and maple trees and birch trees and pines pass by me, a bit closer in positioning than they had been in the United Kingdom. Due to this place being the Boss’ favorite spot to have the Mansion, I have no trouble weaving between the smaller gaps, though the added cargo in my arms does make it a bit difficult to twist as quickly as I usually can, so I slow down just enough to avoid risking further hurting Bellinor.
I hear the rustling, sniffing, and hungry grumbling of the Mansion's guard dog nearby, so I loose a sharp, short whistle, not slowing any further than I already have as I call the Rake over. Leaves, pine cones, and sticks crunch as the pale creature runs closer, its long, spindly limbs moving in tandem to keep it at my pace. Its bulging eyes turn towards me before they trail down to focus on my precious package, jaws falling open to reveal fangs dripping in drool. “N-no, Rake,” I sternly deny. “Yo-you c-c-c-can’t eat himmmmm.”
The being snorts in an animal-like way — which is odd,since it doesn't really have a nose in the first place — but obediently turns its eyes away from Bellinor and closes its mouth. “C-c-c-can you goooooo-go get Sl-Slender and let h-h-him know that I-I-I-I need Eyeless?”
The Rake tilts his head curiously before letting out a noise of confirmation… I think. Either way, it speeds up, limbs forcing its body to move faster until I can no longer see it, having disappeared into the forest ahead. With the knowledge that Eyeless will be waiting when we get to the Mansion, I allow myself to release a breath I didn't consciously know I was holding. After a few more moments of running, I can see the first glimpses of the Mansion up ahead, breaking through the fog that blankets the forest floor.
The outside looks dilapidated. It looks like a basic three-story manor, with the windows broken and boarded up. The walls are crumbling stone, pillars cracked and chipped, and the wooden porch doesn't look safe for a fallen leaf, let alone a human being. The chimney is falling in on itself, and the shingles on the roof are broken or straight up missing entirely. However, as an inhabitant of this place, I know that none if this is true.
I run up the porch steps without a second thought, just as the front door opens. I skid to a stop before I end up braining Bellinor on the doorframe and carefully turn to walk in, kicking the door closed behind me. The inside of the Mansion is much more functional than the outward appearance makes it seem, being fully furnished in the classic Victorian era style as well as being modernized enough to keep up with the current century. I ignore all of that though in favor of making a bee-line to the basement door, which is — coincidentally — under the staircase leading up to the second floor.
'Eyeless is going to kill me…'