i want! to sit! in a lap! and i want! to hold! a hand!!!!!
do they have to be attached
I love your need to make everything cute sounds creepy I love that
Well… It’s funny how you can make everything sound creepy/wrong but the things that you like
Make this creepy:
Skittles are very good
it depends where you put them
you challenged a god
Make this creepy:
Despacito Despacyeeto
An instrumental cover of a well-known song plays from another room. It starts slow, rhythm inconsistent, like a child struggling with a hand-played music box. It is the unmistakable tune of Despacito, played on an old circus organ. You open your eyes slowly and squint up at a single, flickering bulb. Your head aches. How did you get here?
The music throbs against the bathroom’s crumbling tile walls. You are standing in front of a ceramic sink, the bowl chipped and yellowed with age. You have no memory of this place. The music speeds up. Your hands are stained with something dark and rotting. A strange taste lingers in your mouth. How did you get here?
You lean towards the mirror. Your face is haggard, your eyes bloodshot.
Your reflection leans forward and whispers, “Despacito”
I NEED TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS NEXT
Your reflection points to something behind you, and winks. You turn. Putrid water, muddy with rust, circles a drain built into the floor. It takes you a moment to notice the old bone saw leaning against the wall. You pick it up, and its weight feels familiar. You straighten up, liking the heft of it in your grip.
Outside the music is fading. Calmly you exit the bathroom, still holding the saw, letting its dull edge bump gently against your thigh. An aged calliope organ stands before you, its tune slowing to a halt. You hum in displeasure. Before it can stop entirely, you kick the thing violently into the wall. It lets out a crescendo and splinters into pieces.
You hear frantic footsteps behind you. You turn to find yourself in a maintenance tunnel, a large thing made of discolored concrete. The crash of the calliope had ended with a few notes that now echo in your head, bringing to mind an old tune. As you move forward into the tunnel, following the footsteps, you try to drag up the music from the dregs of memory. You take wide, heavy steps, trying to match that half-remembered tempo. How did it go again?
As you descend into darkness, you swing out your arm and drag the saw against the tunnel wall, like a child bullying a stick against a fence. Sparks fly out from the sawteeth and the metal screeches like something in pain. You hum loudly, letting the tune buzz through your ears. It’s all coming back to you.
Panicked footsteps echo up ahead. You smile, bringing the saw up to rest on your shoulder. You have all the time in the world.
You stalk forward, singing softly under your breath.
Anxiety-prone-human 