Randomness 1 (I Bit The Bullet)

III/V/VI) Bingo Was His Name-O

[A/N] The title doesn't have anything to do with the story, but if you know, you know. BTW, before anyone asks, yes, I'm okay XD

The sculptor was hard at work. Everyone was telling him that the monster didn't exist. The monster wasn't real, it couldn't hurt him. Well, he'd show them. He'd show them all the fearsome beast, the anathema that had been chasing after him for so many months. It struck discord into his soul, and anger. Rage, so much rage. He could never forget the face of his foe. Not a single strand of gangly fur could leave his mind's eye.

And he was going to recreate it for everyone to see. Scraping and whittling away at chunks of clay to carve out the boils and the hooked teeth and the sharp horns. Refining it to make the fur look somehow fuzzy. It was a great work of art. A horrible one, a terrible one, a hideous one, but one not even remotely lacking talent. Yes. This would make them all understand just how much danger he was constantly in.

He'd thought more than once about moving to a different city. The monster wouldn't be able to follow him there. But now he was invested. He needed to prove to everyone that he wasn't crazy, that he was right. After six months of toil, he was finally contented with his work, and he went to bed. He was so proud of it, so happy with the effort he'd poured in, but seeing the visage of his enemy with such clarity also riled him up. It made him want to attack it with a chair.

But tomorrow, he thought, tomorrow I'll unveil it to everyone, and then they will know the suffering I've experienced at the hands of this demon.

And time passed. By now, everyone was aware of his little experiment, his efforts to show them what he was seeing. He'd long since stop showing up for any town events, any family events. He wouldn't join in their celebratory dinners, he wouldn't share in their mourning during any holidays of mourning. In fact, it made him rueful that they were gathering at all. How dare they gather together to comfort one another when they'd so rudely disregarded him? Even so, none could expect what happened when the morning came.

He yawned and rubbed his eyes, rousing from his slumber, and then almost instantaneously choked on his spit. The sculpture of the monster, which he'd left by the front entrance, was now positioned right above his bed. "ACK! What are you doing here?"

The monster grumbled. "I thought you wanted me here."

"How are you talking?! How ever are you drawing breath?! You're not real! Everyone always told me you never were! And though I caught glimpses of you, I certainly never saw you in such detail! Only in my greatest nightmares!"

"Your vitriol," growled the monster, "made me real. You were never in danger until you put yourself in danger. Your hatred and the cold, black liquid seeping out of your heart as you breathed life into me has infected me. I am a wretched, sad being who should never have been created. But your need for liberation and your subconscious desire to prove your superiority have become my lifeblood. Everyone in town has seen me, and they all merely grieve my existence, for they know I am an extension of you, and not what you once believed I was. I do not prove you the martyr, the victim of abandonment and disbelief. I prove you a selfish, misguided fool who has pushed everyone away in your desperation. And now, I shall be your unraveling. I shall be your downfall."

"This must be some kind of trick!" hissed the sculptor. "You were real all along! They were hiding you from me! They only pretended you weren't real! There is no way that any of this is my fault!" he ranted manically.

"Flee to the city, my pitiful creator," the monster pleaded, "and I shall not have to hurt you."

"I shall! I shall! Just give me a moment!"

But the sculptor lingered for weeks more, festering in his unrest, slamming the door on anyone who tried to check on him. They were all liars anyway. They were all conspirators out to destroy him.

And thus: The birth of a behemoth, the death of a sculptor. At least a spiritual death. And none came to rescue him, to comfort him. How could they, when the house was locked and the bridges were burnt?