One-shots [Reqs: 5]

Sticks and Stones

"Stop talking to yourself, it's weird."

"Oh, it's you."

"It's not that hard, you're just doing it wrong."

"Why are you here?"

"You're doing it wrong!"

"Stop that, you annoying bastard!"

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.

"Don't touch me."

"You're a fool."

"Stop being so creepy."

Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never-

"You again?"

"You mother fucker!"

"He's fucked up, y'know? In the head."

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but-

"Oh god, it's him again."

"He's so fucking weird."

"He's still here."

Sticks and stones-

"Sorry, I'm busy right now. Maybe later."

"I don't have time for this."

"I have better things to do."

 ̶S̶t̶i̶c̶k̶s̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶s̶t̶o̶n̶e̶s̶ ̶m̶a̶y̶ ̶b̶r̶e̶a̶k̶ ̶m̶y̶ ̶b̶o̶n̶e̶s̶,̶ ̶b̶u̶t̶ ̶w̶o̶r̶d̶s̶ ̶h̶u̶r̶t̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶m̶o̶s̶t

Sticks and stones, he said. They wouldn't hurt him with words. Like water on a duck, the insults didn't stick. They bounced off and slid away. It wouldn't faze him. He was strong. It didn't bother him. He could take it.

He wouldn't complain. If he did, no one would listen, and it would just make it look like he was talking to himself. He wasn't part of the group. He was just an extra number. The background character.

They all thought he was dumb. They'd take one look at his cracked skull, and immediately assume: "He's stupid. He's got brain damage, no doubt." But he didn't care. He'd heard it often enough.

Often, he was called a liar. "As if!" They weren't wrong, he was a liar. Just not in the way they thought. Oh, if only they could see all those little lies he told himself. He wasn't weak, he wasn't a freak, he wasn't stupid. He knew how to do things. He just couldn't do the things they wanted. He wasn't stupid, either. He just didn't know the things they did. He wasn't weak, he just knew what mercy was. He was not a freak, he was just different.

But it didn't matter, did it? No, he was still an outcast. He was still the dysfunctional guy, the creep. The outsider.

Sticks and stones, he'd told someone. They'd turned it into a sick joke. He'd been cornered and beaten with sticks and stones. And they laughed as he cried for mercy. A kick to the skull, and suddenly he was done. Just like that, a chunk of bone the size of a shoe snapped off. And Horror was done.

No, he didn't dust. But he wished he had. Sticks and stones, he chanted as he limped home. Sticks and stones, he thought as he hobbled past his gangmates. Sticks and stones, he mumbled as he locked his door and wrapped his bloody skull. Sticks and stones.

Sticks and...

Broken bones, pain, hateful words, and poisonous smiles filled his dreams. Toxic laughter, oily grins, and disgusting pops. Breaking, fixing, breaking, fixing, breaking, breaking, breaking, breaking-

He laughed when he woke up. He laughed and crawled out of bed, leaving the house. He didn't even glance at the kitchen as he passed. He stumbled into the dark streets, arms around himself as he giggled. Sticks and stones, he laughed. He laughed until he began to cry.

He found himself in an alleyway, alone with the sounds of his bare feet scraping the ground. He didn't notice, didn't care, that his feet were bleeding. Glass cracked beneath his feet as he shuffled forward. Cold air bit into his bones, gnawing on him in time with his hunger. He hadn't eaten in days. He just wasn't hungry.

No one noticed that he was gone. No one seemed to notice that there was more food than usual, that Horror was nowhere to be found for days on end. No one cared enough to notice. But they noticed when he came back. He was thinner than he'd been when they found him. The hole was wider than before, much wider, his feet were covered in dried blood, and he looked dead. Arms around himself, holding tightly because he knew no one else would hold him. 

Everything stopped when he appeared. Cross blinked a few times, his book forgotten in his lap. Error sat up, staring at him in bewilderment. Dust merely closed his eyes as Nightmare scanned Horror in confusion. Horror looked at them, gaze slowly moving from face to face. Why had he come back? They didn't need him, so why was he here?

They didn't need him, but he needed them. He silently tipped his head, eyelight flashing, and hugged himself tighter. His voice was a whisper when he spoke. "...Heya..." Nightmare seemed to realized something, and one by one, the realization passed to everyone else. Horror lowered his gaze, waiting for them to do something. Yell at him, curse him for coming back, demand to know why he'd brought such filth into their home. But it never came. So he left.

He felt their stares on his back as he turned around and hobbled back outside. He didn't go as far this time. No, he stayed in the au, silently roaming through the woods. He didn't care that his feet were bleeding again. Didn't notice that he'd been shaking the whole time. He walked, and walked, and walked until he reached a lake. And he sat down, hunched over with his aching feet in the water. It burned. He didn't feel it.

He stayed until a chill settled into his bones. His shaking grew worse. His soul was twisting horribly, demanding food, but he didn't feel it. Instead, he stared at the water, wiggling his toes to create ripples. Water lapped at the bank, quietly whispering in a language only nature knew.

The quiet buzzing of insects woke him up. When had he fallen asleep? Maybe he just zoned out. He didn't know. He swayed as a breeze brushed by, rattling the trees and dancing on the water. A few dead leaves fluttered down, delicate and broken as they gingerly tapped the lake's surface. It was cold.

He stood up after a moment, slipping away into a portal. The starry sky of Outertale filled his mind with content pain. Sitting on the edge, legs swinging, Horror sat and didn't move for three days. He wasn't even looking at the stars. He stared at nothing. He didn't notice when Ink showed up. The creator was shocked at the sight of Horror. He looked like a statue, sitting there with alarmingly pale and thin bones.

"Horror?" He looked over his shoulder at the guardian, startling him again with how he looked. He looked too much like Ink did without his paints. Another portal opened, the gang of bad guys stepping out with blank expressions. Ink slipped away shortly after, leaving them to deal with Horror.

He allowed himself to be lifted and pulled away from the edge, his body hanging limply in Nightmare's tendrils. He was placed on the couch with a plate of food. He put it aside and stood up to go to his room. Cross pushed him back down, giving him the plate again. Horror stared down at it blankly. He wasn't hungry, he tried to tell them.

His voice came out like sandpaper, tearing his throat and sending him into a fit of coughing. A cup of water was placed in his hands. He didn't drink it. A soft sound of frustration came from Nightmare. He seemed angry. Horror still didn't eat. He teleported to his room, a hollow throb pulsing through his body. He'd used magic he didn't have. He was so close to dying. The thought made him chuckle, the sound just a gust of wheezy air. He crawled into bed, and allowed himself to be drowned in a wave of black.