#shes so nice but her beady little eyes will stare into your soul quite literally

[webbelzebub]

spreading the good word of weird elf thing webby designs

[styx1an]

A Chat about Chat

A short fic about how Chat came to be a singular being, written by yours truly. By all means, this isn’t canon, it’s just my interpretation of things.

Word count: 1,863

Fandom: RTGame, Miitopia (NGL I’m a little displeased with how I wrote the ending, but oh well!)

You know, there is this odd sense of irony in knowing how terrified Chat was of Magical John when they aren’t even human nor a singular being in the first place. Wait, so you didn’t know? Of how they became such a being in the first place? (They chuckle.) Then I suppose that means I’ll have to tell you their story. Well then, shall we begin the tale of Chat? (You see the twinkle in their eyes. They must’ve been waiting a while to be able to do this.)

> You nod. You’ve been waiting a while to understand Chat’s origins. Tonight, like many others, belongs to the storyteller.

> You shake your head. No thanks, you think you’re too tired. Dawn shall rise anew soon, and you will not waste your time with tall tales.

(They nod, pleased with your decision.) Then I shall begin to relay their tale.

Our tale begins in the vast lands known as Twitch, a domain that belongs to another, a far crueler being whose tale is for another time. It is a place where one is free to express their opinions and whatnot (as long as it suits the many whims of its Amazonian overlords, of course), and many are versed in the easy to learn, but difficult to master art of gaming. Many such masters have gained a large following, and even if they do not possess such skill, more often than not their humor and charisma paves the way to fame.

One example of the latter would be RTGame, a man of sizable repute. Aside from the frankly ridiculous story of the origin of his moniker, he is also known for doing some… questionable things for the sake of entertainment. There are still tales of his quest in the bathtub along with Gilbert (yes, the very same Gilbert on the quest to defeat The Darker Lord Khadgar!), the night of the Painted Wall’s Communion, the birth of Mr. Compost- But my dear, we are here for one of his lesser-known exploits, one that would change the world as we know it.

> You lean closer to the campfire, watching the storyteller with a renewed interest. Where does the tale lead? Where does it end? You need to know.

> It’s getting even later. You think some rest will be needed before tomorrow’s travels begin. Perhaps the rest of the story can wait another time?

It was a dark and stormy night. The then-Dark Lord Von Karma had just been unleashed upon the land, and I Want Die set along the path of salvation with his fellow party members, Mr. Bean the Warrior, Goofy the Thief, and Mint the Horse. He was pleased with the ease with which they vanquished monsters and saved (literal) faces, but the lack of actual conversation within the party had begun to get to him. Mr. Bean had nothing to offer other than a simple “Bean!” every now and then, and Goofy terrified him with all the “hyuck!” and talks of absolving the world’s many sins. Mint is a horse and therefore cannot participate in a verbal conversation unless you happen to understand what her neighs meant. She also happens to be the most normal member of the party, strangely enough.

Either way, I Want Die longed for a proper conversation.

And God took notice.

It was inevitable. The fourth party member was always going to join, whether he wanted one or not. It shouldn’t be notable in any way whatsoever, yet here I am regaling this tale to you.

It is not how Chat had come to join the party that I wanted to explain, but rather how they came to be.

Do you remember the man I had called RTGame? I hope you had not thought of him as irrelevant to our tale, as he is the patron saint of I Want Die’s adventures. Surely you know of the vast armory that belongs to the party? The various delicacies fed to the team? All his work. Along with his followers’ contributions, of course.

Chat was what he called his followers, the ones who watched his various endeavors as he traveled across the land of Twitch. Oftentimes the crowd would conversate with him (hence their name), offering jokes and sardonic commentary whenever he did anything remotely comedic. Other times, RT would have to tell them off for being such a rowdy bunch- the usual group of thousands could never keep quiet for long.

It happened that Chat witnessed I Want Die’s pilgrimage along with RTGame. They all looked upon him with a jolly sense of humor (after all, their master is well-versed in the art of comedy), some wondering where his travels will bring him. The others who knew how it would all end kept silent at the behest of RTGame. Either way, every single one of them was enjoying the show he had put on for them. 

And came the time to summon the fourth member.

As per usual, RTGame withdrew into his workshop, closing the curtains around him so no curious onlooker could see inside. But that did not stop Chat from yelling their predictions and demands.

“EDGEWORTH” one cried.

Another begged for a certain “End Mii!”

“CHAT CALM DOWN!”

“!uptime”

“69420toesucker just subscribed for 5 months!”

“TURG”

RTGame smiled at them. He wasn’t surprised at all at their reactions, rather it was something he had hoped would happen.

“Alright then Chat,” he said, “here they are!”

His pale, thin hands reached out to open the curtains-

And unveiled a faceless, empty husk of a being. 

Under any other circumstances, Chat would’ve rioted, demanded justice against the irony of sending a faceless doll to retrieve the faces of others. But they had no time.

Almost in an instant, the skies darkened. Clouds swirled up above with vibrant shades of violet, cobalt, magenta. Bright blue lightning strikes a tree and dissolves it into dust. Somewhere distant, something roars. The air feels thick- something magical, something electric is positively buzzing. Magic truly is in the air.

And thunder strikes once again. 

The crowd is gone.

Silence fell. All that is left is the master and the doll, no longer an empty husk.

> You look up to the storyteller, their eyes reflecting the blazing flames. You have a feeling that you know how this ends, but you’d rather have them confirm it first.

> You’re sleepy. As tempting as it is to continue listening to their story, you must admit that the very idea of slumber is even more tantalizing.

RTGame had managed to do exactly what he wanted. Chat’s consciousness, placed inside of a single, physical being. A puppet controlled by a hivemind would not be very easy to control, yes. But the idea intrigued him. And wouldn’t it be better than having a large gaggle of people constantly behind him, watching his every move? It could help I Want Die on his journey too.

So it is settled. It happened that one of the members of his temple had just crafted a rather nice puppet, in case RT needed one. And he did come to use it. It does look a little plain, as both body and head are painted in the same shade of bright white. However, the face was not white like how it was in the beginning, but a disturbingly pitch-black space. No, that’s not the right word.

Rather, it was like a void had formed. That’s also not the right phrase to describe it either, as there were drops of ichor dripping down onto the ground, dissolving the once green grass. But I digress. 

Chat broke the silence that had fallen between them, wailing as a cacophony of noises and emotions spilled out. Despite what RT had done to them, they were still determined to voice their opinions. Quite in character, really. 

“RT WHAT”

“NO NO NO”

“!uptime”

“I'M ON TV!!!”

“bazingabanana just gifted 5 subs!”

“that’s kinda meta”

As their voices grew louder, ichor kept pouring out of the void. As expected, RT thought to himself. He still needs to act fast. So with a quick snap, he fastened a wooden mask the temple-goer made; the same shade of white, a pair of beady black eyes almost as dark and soulless as the void, bright purple ears. 

The yelling and complaining didn’t stop of course. Still, as their voices were muffled by the mask, it was an arguably better experience than the previous ear-splitting wails. And it was less deadly too. Ichor had stopped dripping down onto the grass, which meant that the constant sizzling would finally stop.

Now, one last thing.

RT stared into Chat’s eyes.

This in itself wouldn’t have been quite a remarkable action had it been anyone else, but it’s Chat that we are talking about. The very sensation of doing something as simple as gazing into a hivemind’s many souls wasn’t anything ordinary, either.

It felt like you had just plunged one of your hands into ice-cold water in the middle of winter and not only are you freezing, you’re scared and you don’t know whether you’d come out in one piece.

They all stared back. Thousands and thousands looked upon RT, all different yet whispering the same things, each claiming to be an individual yet virtually nothing distinctive belongs to them. A true hivemind. It’s exactly what he wanted, but he wondered if perhaps other troubles would arise.

He let himself go from their gazes. It asks too much of him.

“Alright then, Chat. Ready?”

A gaggle of voices reply, sounding their agreements.

“OK then!”

--

I Want Die finally opened the inn door, after convincing himself that he’d like this new friend. That this one would be neither an anime villain, a comedy star or a horse. Someone with actual rational thoughts and words to speak.

In front of the door stood a short figure, clad in a purple mage’s robes. Their pitch-black eyes looked at I Want Die, and a chorus of voices came from their permanent smile:

“Hi, I’m Chat!”

And I Want Die wondered if he had forgotten to cross off ‘hivemind’ off his list of potential party members.

Chat’s introduction ends here, of course. But not their tale. The journey was far from over in fact. The party had yet to meet the Royal Court, witnessed the court’s love affair, or get kidnapped by the Dark Lord Von Karma. Even the party wasn’t complete, as it was only the first party I Want Die would encounter in his tale of redemption.

And it’s not the only story either. You haven’t heard of Magical John’s past life, or how Cupcake isn’t as pure as she seems. Gilbert’s fear of the kitchen. How Jefferson came to be, and Obama’s past life with Mr. Bean.

But I’m afraid I must stop here, for it is late already, is it not? Our journey must continue tomorrow. Let us rest. Goodnight, may the stars shine for you. (They head off into their tent, leaving you alone with the flickering embers of a dying fire.)

> You bid the storyteller goodnight. Perhaps they’ll tell you another one of their stories, underneath the moonlight once more.

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Azula’s New Groove (Part 1)

Summary: Literally The Emperor's New Groove except it's Azula and her serving girl. 

As any good story does, this one begins with a koala-sheep, a talking koala-sheep crying in the rain. A vividly silver-blue flash of lightning brightens the jungle, reminding the koala-sheep of what she has lost. Because this particular koala-sheep can not only talk, but also bend lightning. The koala-sheep knows this but has forgotten such in her overwhelming mental distress. Such turmoil is the product of a rather massive ego taking a blow twice its size.

Thunder rumbles, echoing through the trees as rain soaks the wool of the koala-sheep. The camera pans in on the pathetic creature and then it quickly pans out because, have you seen a wet koala!? Those things are horrifying. What is more horrifying is a koala that is also a sheep.

For the sake of a good story, the camera pans back in. The koala-sheep continues to weep to herself as the downpour intensifies. Beneath the jungle’s canopy and with such a heavy curtain of rain, the koala-sheep resides in the semi-dark upon a miniature island--a small hill surrounded by floodwater.

She looks up at the camera, but does not see it. She is alone. Completely and totally isolated beneath a fluttering curtain of spanish moss and dangling ivies.

But this is not where our story beings, dear readers. The story begins in a much more opulent setting. There is a montage here, but our main character isn’t much of a dancer and, despite her graceful firebending, she had tripped during its filming so the montage was cut.  

And so we begin with two old women. Lo looks up at Azula. Azula who is a human being and not a very emotionally tormented koala-sheep. “Fire Lord Azula, it is time to choose your husband.”

“Every Fire Lord needs a harem.” Li adds.

Azula glowers down from her seat. As nice as a harem sounds, her options are limited to Kei Lo, Jet, Chan, Sokka, and Zuko. Azula narrows her eyes at Zuko. “Is this the line for the bathroom?” he asks.

“No.” Lo answers.

“It is the line…” Li adds.

“To be your sister’s husband.” They finish together.

Zuko’s face scrunches in disgust. “These poor men.” He shows himself out.

Azula climbs down from her perch to inspect the miscreants more closely. “I don’t like your face.” She says of Kei Lo. “You are a fuckboi, too much testosterone, and let me guess, you’ve got a good sense of humor.” She points at Jet, Chan, and Sokka in turn. She turns back to Lo and Li, “is this really all you have for me?” She doesn’t see TyLee in this group of suitors.

“Well, we could have done better.” Lo admits.

“But there was a doilie convention in the capital.” Li continues.

“We just had to attend.” Lo confesses and holds up a small, oblong  doilie made of red lace.

“It will be perfect for our sacrificial alter.” Li adds.

“Your what?” Azula quirks a brow, suddenly rather intrigued.

“Our coffee table.” They say in unison.

“Red lace goes nice with polished cherrywood.” Li points out.

“And it will go wonderfully with our ritual dagg--our ruby encrusted teacups.” Lo flashes a toothless smile.

While they ramble on and on, trying to keep their occult practices a secret, it is best to show you readers our other main character. One of the several people involved in dismantling the Fire Lord’s life as she had known it.

Her name is Yoiko, some time ago she had been the servant specifically designated to hold up a bowl of cherries for the Fire Lord. That is still her job but she has been furloughed because the Fire Lord has found out that cherries aren’t supposed to make your mouth burn and your throat close up. She has yet to decide on another fruit to replace the cherries that she is allergic too. Mangos are too large and grapes are cliche.

Newly unemployed, Yoiko finds her way back to the Fire Nation palace. She clears her throat, “Excuse me. I'm here to see Fire Lord Azula. You see, this morning I received an order to…”

The guard cuts him off. “She’s waiting in her throne room. Up six flights of stairs, make three lefts, and then take another flight of stairs down one floor, grab a knife from the kitchen, hand it to Lo and Li, and…”

“I’m not here for the ritual. And I know how to get to the throne room.”

“Right, yes.” The guard replies with an awkward cough.

As Yokio passes she nearly trips over a cabbage.

“My cabbages!” He declares.

Yoiko, deciding to earn herself some virtue points so that she may look holier than thou, picks up the cabbage and hands it to the man with a kind, “here you go.” Though it might just be that she is actually a genuinely nice person.

“Thank you.” The cabbage merchant says.

“You're welcome.” Yoiko smiles. She has to smile before she speaks with Azula and finds herself unable to smile for the next week or so. “Are you okay?” She asks the merchant. “What happened?” Yoiko expects to hear a story about how the merchant had thrown off Azula’s groove. Heaven knows, she has run into quite some trouble for accidentally interrupting Azula’s very rigid daily routines.  

Instead the man says, “I ran into the Avatar.” He shudders. “Evil, evil little arrow headed, ‘pacifist’, monk. And that lemur…” he shudders with a deeper chill coursing through him. “It’s beady little eyes, they stare into your soul. And have you heard its chitters, they’re like the screams of a thousand cabbages.”

Yoiko blinks, she has never heard a cabbage scream. “Well I’m going to see the Fire Lord, not the Avatar.”

“Don’t look into its eyes!”

“I’ve looked into her eyes before.” Yoiko shrugs. “Several times. Most of the time they’re all judgemental and…”

“No! Not the Fire Lord’s! The lemur’s!”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Do you need help collecting the rest of your cabbages? I have a few minutes before I need to speak with the Fire Lord.” Yoiko offers.

Azula finds her never ending supply of kindness rather appalling. She does not see this small act of kindness, but she senses it. She senses it and it chills her to the core. But nothing is more chilling than our next character.

“And what brings you to the palace?” Zhao asks.

“Well, your highness, I mean...wait, what is your title?” Asks the peasant.

Zhao scowls. A scowl that Azula has long since grown to resent. She looks upon it as she enters the throne room, her throne room. It is a hideous scowl that nearly draw attention away from his obnoxiously groomed sideburns and his collection of wrinkles. Admiral Zhao potantly reminds Azula that man is descended from monkeys. What is more is that the man looks like a corpse. He has the pallor and droopy eyes of one. Next to him stands former Fire Lord Ozai. He had lost to Aang during Sozin’s comet while Azula had won her Agni Kai. Fully anticipating to beat a twelve year old marshmallow of a boy, Ozai had handed his daughter his former title. Decidedly, if he couldn’t manage to beat a twelve year old, he is not fit to run the Fire Nation. So Azula had kept the title for herself and her father could do nothing about it save for snarl at her and remind her that the Avatar will come to dethrone her shortly and put Zuko on the throne. What Ozai is unaware of is that Zuzu does not want the throne, he has a musical career to think about  and she has already made a deal with the Avatar to keep him from being a pest.

Azula has noticed that her father, brimming with resentment, has suddenly grown  rather fond of Zhao. Zhao who goes through right hand men like Zuko goes through hyperfixations. Azula imagines that Ozai will be tossed aside by the time Zuko finishes his mumble rap obsession.

Azula looks from Zhao to the peasant that he is currently quarreling with.  

“But I need food and shelter, I have six children!”

This is the kind of dispute that is usually brought to Azula so that she may dismiss the needy man. Instead, Zhao steals what should have been her line, “you should have thought of that before you became peasants!” He adds a devilish chuckle for good measure before dismissing the man.

“Peasants are tiresome.” Azula remarks, “it’s a shame you don’t have someone else to deal with them, right?”

“Absolutely correct!” Zhao agrees.

Azula clears her throat. “That would be me, Zhao. Your Fire Lord. The one who gets to call people peasants.”

Zhao cuts her a nervous glance. “Right, yes, your majesty.” But Azula has heard more than enough. “You see, it isn’t such a big deal, I was just trying to, ah, free up your busy schedule, so you can go out and have fun with your friends.”

Azula’s eyes narrow. “I like my busy schedule and this is fun for me. There is nothing funner than telling peasants that their needs mean nothing and that their gods can’t protect them from me.” She leaves out that she no longer has friends.

One of Azula’s servants emerges, “Yoiko is here to speak with you.”

“Lovely.” She smiles. This is the very peasant she has been hoping to terrorize. “And you can show yourself out, you are fired!” She holds her chin up and folds her arms over her chest. She has banished far too many people, so this time she will settle for only firing Zhao. Her eyes narrow further as she recalls that she had banished Lo. And further still when she recalls that Zhao is supposed to be dead. She squints at the man; yes he is supposed to be dead. That might explain why he looks like something ten years deceased.

Yes, she has made the right decision in firing him.

“But, princes--Fire Lord Azula, I have been more than loyal to the Fire Nation for decades…”

She thinks that it might have been a few centuries. She looks upon that appalling face, yes definitely centuries.

“I even destroyed the moon…”

“In other words, you have had your moment of glory, it is time to show yourself out.” She looks upon her throne. “You’re even sitting on my throne!”

“I was just keeping it warm for you!”

Azula scowls for nothing is worse than sitting upon a chair that radiates the warmth of someone else’s buttocks. She thinks that this warrants banishment but she is in a merciful mood. “Go on, get out, I’ve got peasant matters to deal with.”

Perhaps she would have banished him if she had known what was to come.

[classywastelandbread-blog]

Not As It Seems

My favorite of a set of projects I found in a bunch of old files. I don’t remember the exact prompt or assignment, but here’s the final product.

My name is Stephen King, like the writer but not. I was found in a cemetery, too young to survive on my own. The caretaker took me in and cared for me that night, feeding me warm milk. He liked Stephen King novels – I guess it’s almost ironic – and finding me reminded him of the cover of the book Pet Sematary and the name he gave me stuck. Kind soul that he was, he simply didn’t have the time for me. That is how I ended up at the shelter the first time.

I spent a lot of time at that shelter. The workers always said “back again, Stephen?” when the family returned me. It had always been for the same reason: I was too weird for them. The only good side was that it was here that I was inspired to create my own stories.

While everyone else played, I told myself stories about the seven other families that had adopted me, making fun of their other children or their asinine habits. I hated them because they treated me as a novelty and something to be owned. They touched me and grabbed me and pulled my hair and my ears and they rubbed their grimy, messy, disgusting hands all over me and squeezed me in their fat hands to their fat little chests and cheeks and cried when I struggled away from them until I was being used as their handkerchief and I had snot all over my body. I was glad to be away from them.

But every time I returned to the shelter, though I was sad that I had not yet found someone that would permanently adopt me, I told myself stories of the family I dreamed of and how I would know when I found them because they’d just be…well…right.

But my story, or the story I am about to tell you, doesn’t really start here. It starts years later with Jennifer and a woman who will forever be known as The Blob.

The Blob and I didn’t get along. I hated her putrid odor and her gluttony and roiling mounds of fat. She hated me for existing and taking food that would have been hers. I took up space and money that could have gone to more food. Nonetheless, she adopted me.

The reason she adopted me will always be a mystery. I heard that it could have been because she herself had lived in the old orphanage later replaced by my shelter but everyone could see that she had enough problems to deal with. Another rescue like me, no matter how scrawny and tiny, would be a burden on her. And I was. No matter what I tried, I saw the strain keeping me had put on her. It was my existence and her obvious reluctance that made us hate each other. Despite it all though, she was the only person that kept me for longer than six months without returning me to the shelter. She broke my personal record at a year and a half, during which time I was starved and forced to eat whatever sludge she deigned to put before me.

I should hate her, but it was through her actions that I met the beautiful Jennifer, a severely underappreciated secretary.

After I was forcefully evicted from the only home that had kept me for over six months, Jennifer found me. Beautiful, angelic Jennifer. She took me to the doctor, fed me, and gave me a place to stay. And though she meant well, she tried to return me to The Blob.

I don’t think you need to really guess how that went. She didn’t want me. Why would she? She had literally thrown me out not two hours ago and there I was back on her porch with Jennifer.  Something had gotten her into a frenzy and as she yelled at Jennifer, her mounds of fat rolled and jiggled.

“You can’t just leave him on the street to die!” Jennifer reasoned at last, desperation in her voice.

The Blob grunted. It was hard to tell what went through her head as she stared at us with her beady little eyes. “I’m not now, am I?” she had said in a very abrupt and suspicious change of attitude.  “He’s your problem now.”

The door was slammed in our faces and that was that. To Jennifer’s credit, she hadn’t seemed at all bothered by her new “problem” and had taken it all in stride. In fact, she had insisted on taking me back to her modest little apartment and fixing me somewhere warm to sleep.

In the morning I had expected to wake and find that it had all been a very pleasant dream and I was still stuck in The Blob’s house. But no. I had awoken to the smell of fresh coffee, clean linen, and most importantly, food.

Jennifer fed me eggs and some of her leftover steak from a few nights before we met while she got ready for work. When she left, I found her collection of books and began reading. She really had quite a lovely selection of books and I had set to reading them with gusto. All too soon she returned from work and I felt guilty for her to find her apartment in such disarray by my mess of books sprawled out in hideous clutter.

“Are you reading, silly?” she asked me as she straightened the mess I made and petted me along my back.

All the time, I admitted. I always have.

She smiled angelically down at me. “I bet you’re hungry,” she said as my stomach rumbled. “How about some dinner?” I followed her into the kitchen where she pulled out a worn take-out menu from the refrigerator. “I’m getting fat eating from here so often,” she confided to me as she dialed the number. “But they’re so nice and it’s cheap food.”

We fell into a rhythm. We ate breakfast together after waking up, eggs and chicken for me, oatmeal and coffee for her. She went go off to work for the dick of a boss that only thought of her as a nice piece of ass, not as an intelligent human being, and I sat in the living room in a pile of her books or told myself stories. When she came home from work, we cooked dinner or ordered out, then sat on the couch and watched TV. We usually watched whatever movies were on and occasionally treated ourselves to hilariously terrible sci-fi movies. It was during dinner and watching movies that we got to know each other.

I told her about how the caretaker found me in the cemetery and how no one wanted me because they found me too strange. My life had spilled from my mouth during the evenings while we talked and ate. She had listened, only shushing me if an interesting or important part of the movie was playing and we should pay attention to it.

In return she told me of her life, of her husband that had cheated on her with everything that moved since he found her “mind-numbingly boring”. She told me about how she had finally got the courage to divorce him and how he had tried to wring every penny from her as legally possible. Luckily her lawyer had been the better lawyer and he got nothing from her other than her self-confidence and a restraining order. She told me about her job as a severely underappreciated secretary and told me that everyone joked that it should be her actual job title because it was sadly true. Most of all she complained about her boss who treated her as his personal slave. She had been hit on and propositioned too many times and she was completely sick of it.

Just quit, I told her after a few weeks of living with her. You’re obviously very capable. You can do anything you put your mind to. People would be fighting to get you. Just quit.

The next day she did. When she returned home from work, her cheeks were rosy and her eyes glittered with palpable excitement. “Guess what, Stephen?” she said as soon as she saw me. Before I could react, she lifted me from my seat and hugged me tight, pressing my face into her chest. “I finally told that dick-face to go fuck himself. I actually got applause for it!”

I struggled with my surprise and my…ahem…very male response to my face’s position between her breasts. Wow…Jennifer…that’s great! I pushed myself away from her gently so that I could see her face, not the valley between the soft mounds of her chest. While I didn’t really want her to let go of me, I also didn’t really like being hugged. So what will you do now?

She ignored my struggles and kissed my head, high off the adrenaline of her success. “I can do whatever I want now! Come on, Stephen, let’s celebrate!” she dragged me into the kitchen where she showed me the bounty she collected before she came home. Filet mignon and seafood pasta, lamb chops, roasted potatoes, steamed broccoli, and a round of Italian tortes. It was a grand feast for two and we glutted ourselves on the abundance.

It was as we lay on the couch, stomachs ready to burst that Jennifer wrapped her arm around my shoulder and sighed contentedly. It was then as I snuggled into her side that I realized my depth of feeling for this woman, my beautiful savior.

Oh yes, I had a very male response to her appearance, but her kind heart had me head over heels. In the weeks I had stayed with her, I had fallen deeply in love with the lovely Jennifer. I loved her wavy blonde hair that fell perfectly around her pale face, her bright blue eyes that shone radiantly whenever she was happy.

As she ate her dessert, she watched me make my way through my own plate on the counter. “You look like you’re finally gaining more weight. You’re not as bony,” she said as she touched my ribs. Jennifer patted my back while I ate and when I looked up at her, she smiled. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time, Stephen.”

You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a while, Jennifer. I replied, licking my lips. I love you, I added impulsively, looking up into her beautiful face. I wanted her to know how absolutely sincere I was, how I would never cheat on her like her ex-husband, or take her for granted like her terrible ex-boss.

She smiled down at me. “Talkative tonight aren’t we?” she asked as she patted my head and ran her thumbs along my cheeks. “You’re so cute, aren’t you?” My heart fell as I tilted my head into the caress. She rubbed my head between her hands and scratched along my ears and back, bending to kiss my nose. That was the last straw, the one that broke the camel’s back. Everything I had denied, that I didn’t want to believe, came back with those words.

For the next few days, I distanced myself from her. I told myself that I knew the truth but slowly I stopped believing it. I began to lose touch with reality and I became distraught, depressed. Jennifer, worried for me, tried to ply me with food and promises of outings, toys, whatever I wanted. I wanted her, didn’t she understand? I wanted her love, to be the only one she loved, hers forever. It was all I wanted, all I ever wanted.

The tricky thing about lies is that it eventually comes back to bite you in the ass. My lies came back during those days as I tried to deny the truth. I told myself I knew who I was, that I was Stephen King, a storyteller and an orphan. I was a dreamer and someone who had finally found a home and someone to love. I told myself that I knew who I was but as the days dragged on, I began to slip further and further away from what I wanted to believe with all my heart and into the unforgiving truth of what I knew. I spent most of the time sleeping, too confused and overwhelmed by everything to even get out of bed. Then it happened. One night, as I slept in the warm nest of blankets and pillows that Jennifer had made for me, I detached completely. My fingers slipped from the ledge and I fell, the reality I had constructed around myself so very carefully unraveling in the awful truth of it.

The pain, the sheer emotional weight of it made me cry as reality changed me back. I forgot who Stephen King the storyteller and orphan was and settled into what he was.

And the real Stephen King wasn’t a storyteller or the man who loved Jennifer with all his heart.

Jennifer is worried about Stephen. Lately he seems…different. Granted, he’s not quite normal, but that’s what makes him so fun. Now he actually seems rather…normal. The personality change worries Jennifer. Maybe he’s sick? Could he be allergic to eggs or chicken? She had heard that it could happen.

“Stephen?” she calls as she enters her small apartment. Stephen doesn’t answer her call and he isn’t in the living room in the middle of a pile of books as he usually is. He isn’t on the couch either, staring zombie-like at the TV. “I have a surprise for you.” She cajoles, hoping he’d answer her.

Movement from the window startles her but it only takes a second for her to realize who it is. She smiles and walks over to the window. There in a sunbeam, Stephen sits in his new favorite spot (as opposed to his nest of her books). Golden eyes blink sleepily up at her and she smiles.

“Did I wake you darling?” she asks, kissing his little black nose. “Look, I have something for you.” He protests sleepily as she moves him, snapping the orange collar decorated with black cats around his neck. “Like it?” she coos, tapping the bell and new plaque. Stephen King only blinks lazily at her and with a sigh she scoops him up in her arms. “What’s wrong? I kind of miss the old you.”

Stephen King only yawns and stretches in her arms. She lets him, rubbing her nose in his chest until he pats her head with his paw in protest.

“How about making some dinner with me?” she asks instead, carrying him into the kitchen.

He agrees with a lazy meow.