#locksorkeysgame

Once finished, he begins his steps towards the keys. They’re clumsy and painful, causing him to fall into the arm of the couch before he even leaves the living room. He manages to get to the keys, and with a trembling hand, he plucks them from the wall.

He feels nauseous.

Is he really doing this?

He could turn back at any moment, and Pseudo would never know. He wouldn’t question it, because Chase would still be in bed when he got home, and the keys would still be on the wall. He could turn back. He could be safe.

But instead he opens the door, against everything inside him. He can hear his inner “Pink voice” crying inside his head, “bad idea, bad idea, bad bad bad idea!”

But he is ignored, and Chase finds himself in the driver’s seat of the car.

It takes him a few minutes to muster the courage to start it, and then a few more just to remember how. His whole body shakes in cold and fear, and he feels like he could vomit at any given second. His nervousness cracks him down to his core, splitting through every cell and piece of tissue there is to have inside a human. Once the car rumbles to life, he adjusts the mirror, and sees Pseudo in the back seat.

“Fuck!!”

Chase whips around to look at him, but finds the car empty.

The relief, the fear, the sickness, the fighting Pink and Chase, God, he can’t take it. He can’t tell if what he saw was real or fake, if he’s just hallucinating or if Pseudo’s onto him and is just toying with him. But he’s come this far, and what he can’t take even more than the situation he’s in now, is staying another day here in Denmark. He wants to go home.

Chase puts the car in drive, and starts his terrifying journey.

. . .

If starting the car was difficult, driving should be its own category of horrendous.

He’s completely forgotten how. For the first ten or so minutes he either goes too fast or too slow. He almost drives off the side of the road into the wooded areas, (which he absolutely scratches the car), and at one point, he nearly crashes when trying to turn too fast on a curve. As time passes, the sun falls farther and farther beneath the trees, to which Chase panics when trying to find the switch for the headlights. He considers pulling over for a while just to cry about it all, but he gets the hang of most of it. He gets the hang of most of it, and he drives just fine for a while, despite having no idea where he’s going.

As Chase drives and drives, he starts seeing a house in the distance. Pseudo’s house.

Did he drive in a circle?

The roads don’t curve like that, do they?

Chase speeds up, terrified to be met with this fate so soon. He hopes he’s hallucinating again.

The same woods and lake and curves meet him again. He tries harder this time around to make sure he’s careful, taking different turns as not to end up in the same place. This cant be for nothing.

The same stretch of time seems to pass for Chase, though he can’t say for sure as Pseudo’s clock is stuck at 10:05. It all feels like the same terrifying drag to him either way.

Eventually, even with his precautions, he’s met with the house again.

He speeds up once more, gripping the steering wheel as tight as he can. He tries the same plan again, taking different roads or even going straight through the woods wherever the car can fit. At this point, he’d try anything to go home.

But once again, the house appears in his view.

Tears blur his vision as he tries again. He pleads to get free, more afraid of the punishment than anything at this point. If Pseudo isn’t on to his escape, then his lack of driving skills are going to be his downfall.

Again, the house appears, and again, he tries to drive.

He cries as he keeps the car going. It’s hard to see as it is, but he might need to pull over if his emotions keep getting the best of him like this.

The next time he gets back to he house, he sees Pseudo standing there, watching him. His hands are in his pockets and he doesn’t look upset, although Chase knows better than to assume. He knows he’s been caught, and that driving would be useless now. But he cant stop, this cant be for nothing.

He drives around again, and Pseudo stays put. Their dance continues, Chase driving, Pseudo waiting, until enough turns have happened that the puppet accepts his defeat. On the last drive, the car comes to a stop, but his tears don’t.

Pseudo approaches, opening the door and tilting his head at the doll. Chase has yet to stop crying.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” says Pseudo.

The puppet covers his face, smashing tears into his fingertips. He feels like Pink. Or maybe wants to be Pink. Pseudo is nicer to Pink.

“You know what happens now, don’t you, dolly?”

Chase feels sicker and sicker. He covers his mouth just in case.

“I asked you a question, Chase.”

The name names his skin crawl. Pseudo doesn’t call him that anymore, not unless he’s in serious trouble.

“Yes,” Chase whimpers. He wipes the tears from his eyes and looks up at his captor, hoping to reason with him. “Yes, I’m sorry. I don’t- I don’t know what I was thinking, I was just scared and-“

Pseudo puts a finger to his lips. “Hush. You know where you’re supposed to go. I’ll be in there later.”

“But-“

Pseudo smacks Chase on the mouth, and the puppet shuts up. He leans in close to his doll, making sure their eyes meet and the attention is captured.

“Hush.”

He then unbuckles the seatbelt that ties Chase down, and takes the keys from the ignition.

“Put these back on your way in.”

The monster drops the keys in his puppet’s hand, and leaves him to follow his commands. But Chase is paralyzed.

He stares down at the keys in his hand, shaking like a leaf about to fall from a tree. He pictures the cellar, he pictures the garden, he pictures the car, the vague idea of children he forgets the names of. He pictures the stupidity of his decision, and how much easier his life would be had he just stayed in bed to sleep like he was told.

But there’s no point in picturing.

Chase stands up and shuts the door. With each step he takes he feels knives digging into his feet, roots trying to plant themselves in the ground to make him stay away from his punishment. He starts losing his breath from the panic, and while his hands go numb, he simultaneously crumbles to the ground. The keys find a home in the grass, and Chase’s mouth begins to salivate from the need to vomit.

He covers his mouth, trying to take deep breaths and prevent a mess. He can’t stop shaking, can’t stop crying, can’t stop thinking about what’s going to happen to him.

It takes him a few minutes to gather his strength again. Soon enough, he’s entering the house to place the keys back where he found them, and heading out the back door.

He wipes the tears from his eyes and looks at the cellar. Why, why, why did he have to be so stupid? Why can’t he just listen?

With trembling hands and closed eyes, he opens the doors for his consequences.

. . .

Pseudo takes a long time to come downstairs.

Chase isn’t sure if he’s just letting the tension build, or if his punishment is being locked in here for an unknown amount of time. God knows he’s spent long enough down here, weeks at a time, and every memory makes him more and more afraid of what’s to come. He tries not to focus on that part. Instead, he drags his hands against the wall for balance while he paces.

And paces, and paces, and paces

and paces and paces

and paces.

He paces until his feet ache from the weight of his bones. Until he has to cover his face and kneel on the ground, considering ending his life before Pseudo can come down to start the pain. But that thought leaves his mind as light drips heavy down the steps, and Chase becomes a lightening bolt to sit in the chair he’s supposed to.

His eyes lock on the drain below him. There are still stains on the concrete from his own blood, but more recently, from the man who was planted in the garden. Chase shivers as he pushes the thought from his mind.

Pseudo comes down the stairs with his eyes trained on the chair, pleased to see the seat taken. His stride is easy and comfortable, but there’s some kind of itch in his fingers that twitches as he gathers tools onto his little cart. He takes his time to think about his supplies, and what is or isn’t chosen. Chase steals a glance, but turns away when he sees a stun gun thud onto the surface.

“I don’t know why you do this to yourself,” says Pseudo, still focused on his task. “It’s like you enjoy being punished, I don’t know. Or maybe you’re just dumber than I thought.”

He places a few other tools on the cart, but Chase keeps himself blind to what’s there. Once finished, he rolls the cart closer to his prey, and stands in front of him to speak.

“Which one is it, Chase?”

The puppet frowns, shaking his head. “I-“

A hard smack to the face cuts him off. Chase goes reeling to the side of the chair, but is yanked back by his hair. The man cries out in pain, leaning as far into Pseudo’s grip as he can to avoid extra pain.

“If you speak again without permission, I’ll sew your mouth shut. Am I understood?”

Chase nods.

Satisfied, the monster lets go, and the puppet’s hands come up to soothe the pain in his cheek and scalp. The relief is short lived, however, as Pseudo grabs his wrists to strap them to the arms of the chair with thin metal wire. It digs trenches into his skin, so he tries not to squirm.

His ankles are met with the same restraints, and he clamps his jaw down as hard as he can to avoid pleading. His eyes unconsciously drift to the tool cart and he catches the sight of a Sjambok, which he can already feel the sting of. He closes his eyes and keeps his head down, but Pseudo doesn’t like that.

“Look up. Look at the cart.”

The puppet chews on his tongue and obeys. His eyes scan over what he sees, and the pit in his stomach doesn’t stop growing.

The Sjambok. The stun gun. Gardening scissors. Barded wire. Needle and thread. A small jar of table salt. Shards from the plate he broke. Whiskey. A nail-gun.

Chase’s breath picks up as he scans the cart. Tears sting his eyes, and he chews and chews into his tongue. His head swims with the anticipation and anxiety of it all, heart thumping like a bird’s inside his chest. Once he’s gathered the sight of what will be used, he turns back to his captor to see him staring like a stalking, hungry dog.

“What do you think, trouble- maker? Was it worth it?”

The man shakes his head. He feels pathetic and afraid. He only wishes he could go back in time to stop himself from being so stupid.

Pseudo nods in response.

“Good. I’ll tell you what though, doll. Once I use a tool, I’ll put it away. But everything will be used. Got it?”

Chase’s eyes glance to the stun gun. He nods his head, feeling sick all over again.

“Good. How about you pick first then? Since you like making stupid decisions so much.”

He rolls the cart closer to Chase so he can get a better view of it, and perhaps to point with his eyes what he wants. But Chase shakes his head, a hum of fear crawling up his throat against his will.

“Hey, come now. You want to make choices, so make one. Pick something.”

The man brings his head back up to meet Pseudo’s gaze. He pleads with his eyes, with his frown. He doesn’t want to. Don’t make me, please?

Pseudo tilts his head, waiting.

“Pick.”

Chase blinks tears from his eyes and turns back to his options. He points with his eyes, and says what he wants in his head, just in case Pseudo is listening.

Whiskey.

Pseudo points at the stun gun. “This?”

Chase shakes his head. No, no, whiskey. He moves forward slightly to stare harder at the bottle.

“This?”

The gardening scissors.

Chase shakes his head again, pleading, pleading, chewing on his tongue. Whiskey!

Pseudo lands on the whiskey, and Chase nods and relishes in his relief.

“Alright...”

Pseudo opens the bottle, and presents it to Chase’s mouth. “Drink.”

The puppet obeys, drinking swig after swig after swig, until its spilling over his mouth and down his chin. He starts coughing and spitting it up, but Pseudo keeps it trained on his lips. He begins to feel like he’s drowning in the alcohol before it’s pulled away, and Chase’s throat is left to burn like a hungry fire while he coughs out the poison.

“Catch your breath… it wasn’t that bad.”

It takes him a few minutes of back patting and condescending encouragements to finally settle down. He tries breathing through his mouth to calm the burning in his throat, but Pseudo takes it as an excuse to pour more poison into his body.

The same motions repeat, and the bottle is halfway gone by the time Pseudo pulls it away again. But the cap goes back on, and just as Pseudo promised, its put on the bottom shelf of the cart.

“That was an easy one… so I think I’ll pick next.”

He picks up the nail- gun, and places it to Chase’s shin.

The puppet sits up, and the wire that holds him down digs into his skin. With eyes wide and breath fast, he shakes his head, clamping down his jaw to keep himself from speaking up. His tongue endures more abuse from his teeth.

“Which leg pressed the gas?”

Chase shakes his head again, tears falling down his face as the fear takes over him. Please, please, no. He shrivels into himself like a raisin, and the wire once again digs deeper and deeper into his flesh.

“Which leg, dolly? Point with your eyes.”

The doll sobs a little harder, shaking his head.

“No? Maybe I’ll just hit both, then…”

His eyes shoot open to stare at his right leg, tears blurring his vision. At this Pseudo chuckles, tilting his head and keeping his eyes on the doll’s face.

“I’m just messing with you,” he smiles. “But it would’ve been very interesting had you pointed at your left.”

As soon as he finishes speaking, a nail goes shooting through Chase’s tibia. It digs down as deep as it can get, cracking the bone with the force.

He screams as loud as he can muster. His already burned throat doesn’t do well with the strain, but its even worse when another nail goes shooting through just below the first one. He can’t stop himself from crying about it.

The nail- gun drops into the bottom shelf, and Pseudo calls his puppet back to focus. He coos at him, tapping his face, until Chase gets the hint.

“It’s your turn, puppet.”

The doll looks at his leg. His pants are soaked with blood and alcohol, but he cant see the nails from this angle. Perhaps thats a good thing.

He turns back to the cart, and makes his choice.

Salt.

Pseudo points at the Sjambok. Chase shakes his head.

Pseudo points at the gardening scissors. Chase shakes his head, leaning closer to the salt.

He points at the stun gun. Chase loses his breath, and leans even closer.

Salt!

“Mh, I’m just not sure what you’re saying. I suppose I’ll pick..”

Pseudo picks up the glass shards, and starts shoving them one by one into Chase’s thigh. He uses the last one to give his doll’s cheek a little cut, and tosses it into the cart. The remaining shards stay planted in flesh like sprouting seeds. It hurts, but it feels like a break compared to what he just felt.

Next, Pseudo picks up the Sjambok, and stands up.

“Lean forward.”

Chase groans, shivering. He feels dizzier and dizzier, and the world feels harder to navigate. Is he getting drunk already?

“Don’t make me ask again, dolly. You don’t want this to hit your face, do you?”

The doll succumbs and does as he’s told. Once he’s in position, Pseudo waits to watch his puppet just breathe. His chest rises and falls fervently in his lap, just barely grazing the glass. After enough tension builds to make Chase whimper, he strikes his back hard.

A large slice of blood erupts from the source, and the doll screams into his knees. Another three strikes are given, and the Sjambok is tossed to the floor.

Chase sobs like a child. He can’t get enough air in his lungs, and the tears seem to be never ending. Everything already aches, and there’s still so much to do. He feels dizzy and faint, unsure if its the blood loss or the alcohol, or both. But before he can get his bearings again, the wounds on his back sting bad enough for him to wail all over again.

Salt, salt, salt, like trails of snow, poured into his open wounds. Pseudo holds the back of his neck to keep him in place.

“Stop!” Chase weeps, squirming and crying like it’ll do something useful. “Please, please, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry!! Please stop!”

Pseudo clicks his tongue three times, finishing the last row and putting the salt away.

“You just can’t get enough of this, can you, sweetheart?”

Chase sits up once free, writhing in pain. He sways as the alcohol takes over the remaining of his control, and the pain takes its place close behind. He can’t press his back to the chair, but cant lean forward, either. Everything hurts. He’s too dizzy, he feels drunk already. His wrists ache and look as red as his crying face does.

Pseudo plucks the needle and thread from the cart.

“Quiet, dolly, or this will hurt a lot more than you’d like it to.”

“Nonono, please, please!” he weeps. “I wont do it again, I won’t ever do it again, I’ll do everything you say, I’m s— ah!!”

Pseudo smacks Chase on the mouth hard enough to shove his back into the chair.

“Enough. You’re being awfully stupid..”

The needle comes up from his bottom lip first, snaking its way to the top lip. Row after row, sob after sob, every sound that comes out of Chase’s mouth becomes muffled. Blood drips down his chin to follow the paths that the alcohol took beforehand. The salty tears sting the cut on his cheek, and whatever wound from the stitches that they can get into.

The gardening scissors cut the remaining thread, and both tools are tossed to the bottom of the cart. At least his fingers wont have the same fate as Richie’s.

The next tool that’s chosen is barbed wire. Pseudo uses it to wrap around Chase’s torso and arms, making sure to roll up any clothing so the razors meet his skin instead of fabric. Then, the stun gun finds his hand.

Chase’s head swims. He shakes his head, his cries becoming weaker but more afraid by the second. He’d take anything over the stun gun. Even the nail- gun. The sensory hell that comes from electricity is simply too much for him to take right now.

“Readyyyy?” Pseudo sings. “You’re almost done.”

But Chase isn’t, nor will he ever be, ready for the stun gun. He shakes his head again, a pathetic sob bubbling up from his throat. He sinks deeper into the chair, regretting everything he’s done within the last two days. He wants to wake up in the attic with the sun on his face and be confused about what’s happening again. He wants to be hypnotized and treated like a doll, to be coddled and loved and doted upon for whatever fucked up reason Pseudo has for doing it. He wants to be Pink, he wants to be Pink, he wants to be Pink.

Pseudo aims at Chase’s shoulder, and shoots.

His entire body tenses up from the electricity. What little control he had before has now left him, and he is left to scream and endure for 10 seconds.

15.

20.

Chase opens his eyes to see Pseudo standing over him. He can’t breathe, he cant see, the world swims and twists in his eyes. The room spins and there are fire ants crawling across his entire body, with burrows dug deep into his flesh. He looks down at himself, seeing bugs crawling all across his skin.

“Mmm- mmmm!!!”

Chase writhes and hollers like his life depends on it. There are bugs on his skin!! He can feel them burrowing into his flesh, into his shin, his wrists, his torso, his mouth, his thigh!!!!! They’re everywhere!!!

He screams and screams and screams as they take over his whole body, making a home inside every space they can. Pseudo grabs hold of his doll’s face, forcing his eye contact and attention.

“Settle down,” he commands. “You’re alright. Deep breaths, Pink. Deep breaths.”

He keeps squirming and fighting, keeps sobbing and sinking deeper into the chair as the bugs eat him up like candy. But Pseudo comes soothing, and kind, and Chase feels heavier and heavier until the whole world feels too far away to focus. But Pseudo is there, and Pseudo is helpful. Pseudo gets the bugs away.

“You’re okay, Pink. Listen to me now, deep breaths. You’re all done.”

All done? All done?

Pink shivers. He remembers what he did, how stupid and dangerous that was. He can’t believe he’d do such a thing, especially when an angel like Pseudo is here to take care of him. What’s wrong with him?

Pink whines as he’s set free from his restraints. As all the barbed wire is peeled from his body and the glass shards are plucked out one by one. He sighs, especially thankful, when he’s able to take a breath through his mouth as the thread is cut away. He has no choice but to lean into Pseudo when scooped up into his arms, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. He wants to be good now, and he’ll promise that once he’s allowed to speak again.

“You’re alright, Pink. I’ve got you back now, hm? You’re alright.”

Pink whines once more, feeling overwhelmed with the urge to fall asleep.

. . .

Oh, his head hurts.

Where is Pseudo?

Pink opens his eyes to find himself alone in his room. His body feels heavy and beaten, and everything hurts. Upon seeing the sun shine through the window, he is overcome with a wave of nausea so strong that he has to lean over his bed. When he tries to sit up, however, the pain in his back and ribs is enough to make him cry out. The nausea gets worse until he gags, covering his eyes and mouth and pretending Pseudo is there to coach him through it. Once it passes, he opens his eyes, half expecting to see Pseudo already there and waiting.

The puppet groans, observing his empty room. He wants to call out for Pseudo, but closes his mouth upon remembering he’s not supposed to speak. He wishes he could ask for some water, or a hug.

Instead he asks for attention by knocking on the wall. Everything in his body hurts, so standing up to make noise doesn’t feel like a safe option for him. He just hopes that Pseudo notices soon, whether that’s through annoyance or wanting to be by his puppet. He can’t take much longer without seeing his angel.

Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, says Pinks room.

Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock.

The knocks are eventually returned at the door, and Pink hears a key turn into the lock. The door opens, and Pink smiles dopey and adoring.

“Ps-“ he starts, before covering his mouth. He wants to say sorry, but then he’d have to say sorry for saying sorry, and then sorry for saying sorry for saying sorry. So he just clamps his jaw shut, and prays that Pseudo forgives him for his near mistake.

“My Pink,” Pseudo croons. The key is concealed inside his pocket, and he makes his way towards his doll. “Do you feel sick this morning?”

Pink nods, sighing and relaxing when Pseudo comes to sit beside him. As if that weren’t enough, Pseudo runs a hand through Pink’s hair, and the doll leans as far into his touch as possible. He wants moments like these to last forever.

“Poor thing… but you’ll be good now, won’t you? No more slip ups like yesterday.”

Pink’s face burns in embarrassment. He can’t believe what he did; the regret consumes him. He shakes his head, holding Pseudo’s hand and kissing his palm to show his devotion.

Pseudo smiles and runs his hand through Pink’s hair, and the puppet basks in the attention. He can’t get enough of it. He isn’t sure why he ever tried to leave in the first place. Stupid, stupid puppet.

“That’s precious.. but, I have to make sure you’re being honest, don’t I?”

Pink nods. That makes sense, and he’ll do anything to prove himself.

“Good. Because if you’re good..”

He runs a hand through Pink’s hair, and a thumb across his cheek bone. The puppet melts.

“Then I’ll bring you back home, and I’ll spoil you rotten.”

Pink smiles. This time, he blushes from contentment. From adoration.

“But if you’re bad, if you show me you want to escape again, I’ll make sure you end up alone. No one will take care of you.”

Pink frowns, afraid. He points at Pseudo, and shakes his head. Not even you?

“You’ll be alone, Pink. Out of your head,” he pets Pink’s hair again, “and all alone. Do you understand?”

Yes. Pink nods.

“Good. Then I should see you soon, dolly. Don’t fret about it when you get there, hm? Nothing to be afraid of if you’re a good puppet.”

Pink wants to ask where he’s going, but is left to wonder until it happens.

Bug eyes, bug eyes, bug eyes.

Pink stares ahead at the gentleman, fixed on his appearance. Big and strong, big and strong.

"Pseudo..?" Pink tugs on the sleeve of his caretaker. "Pseudo?"

"Hm?"

"I th- think I found someone."

Pseudo looks up to see where the toy points. The man ahead is oblivious, staring at two packages of fruit snacks and comparing the ingredient list. Eventually, he decides on the one labeled "Organic!" and places the other aside.

Pseudo turns back to Pink, a praising smile on his face. "Good job," he says, and gives his hand a squeeze.

The next 15 minutes are spent searching for the garden supplies. A helpful hand from Pink places items handed to him in the basket, eager to help with anything Pseudo may need.

And Pseudo needs chicken wire, for the tomatoes.

Duct tape, for.... the shovel. The shovel's handle likes to give splinters.

Rope, to hang vegetables, perhaps.

Barbed wire. To keep the deer from getting all the good stuff.

Gardening scissors. They can cut through the toughest of branches and weeds.

Bleach, for....... for...

"For the tub," Pseudo tells the puppet, catching his thoughts wandering.

"The tub?"

"We'll have to clean the tub."

"Oh, i- it's already dirty?"

Pseudo shakes his head, another smile coming to his face. This time, it's more devious. Wicked.

"It's not dirty yet. You'll see."

"What abou-"

A finger comes to Pseudo's lips to hush, and Pink obeys the command. His lips are sealed until he is given permission to speak again.

"Let's get going."

Pseudo leads the puppet up to the cashiers. The man he chose is nowhere in sight, but Pink isn't worried. If Pseudo wants something, he gets it. He's very good at that. Good at everything.

Scan after scan, everything is placed in paper bags and eventually carried off to the car. Once more, the puppet is buckled in, secured, and the journey home begins. Except...

The woods never come. They're in a town, leading to something near suburban. Pink has so many questions, too many questions, bug eyes bug eyes bug eyes out the window. He turns to Pseudo, suppressing a whimper in his pathetic state of silence.

"Settle down," says Pseudo. "You're alright, don't worry."

The puppet frowns. His mind begins to race, and nervous fingers come to pull at pink hair.

"Hey, come now, hands in your lap."

The puppet places his hands in his lap, and pulls at pant legs instead.

"We're getting garden supplies, Pink. Remember who you picked out?"

The toy nods, yes, yes, he remembers. He did a good job, he remembers.

"Good. That's all we need now, okay? You're alright."

Pink sighs, closing his eyes. He wants to hold Pseudo's hand, wants to feel the warm embrace of his most precious friend in the world. Instead, he keeps his mouth closed, his hands in his lap, his mind from wandering. You're alright. You're alright.

The car ride continues. A silver minivan stays within view the entire time, until eventually pulling up to a small house in a small neighborhood. It's quiet here.

A few houses down the road, Pink watches ahead as the man he chose hops out of the van. When the trunk opens, almost the entire back is taken up by a big red wagon. Stuffed inside of that, a stroller.

The puppet scrunches his hands. He feels the faint vibration of pushing one against a sidewalk. The vague stickiness of the cup holders filled with crumbled crackers and sippy cups of juice. In the back of his mind, he hears a little voice, a little laugh, a little girl. He feels the sun against his face. They're at the zoo.

"Can you stay in the car?"

Pink is taken from his trance. He searches around, landing once more in Pseudo's gaze.

The puppet feels as though he could choke. The vibrations in his hands, the sun on his face, the sticky cup holder and little laughter is replaced with a painful kind of numbness. Warmth and light and heaviness fill his mind again, drowning the memory that found it's way to the surface.

Pink's eyes sting with tears. What happened, what did he remember? He doesn't remember, he doesn't remember, what did he remember?

A soft whine escapes the toy, and he leans back against the passenger seat.

"Listen, Pink. Can you stay in the car?"

Shaking hands, shaking breath. He doesn't remember the past, but he can understand the here and now. Pink nods.

"Good. I'll just be a few minutes..."

Sleepy eyes watch his caretaker exit the car. He finds it hard to stay awake, hard to breathe. He whines once more, sick, sick, sick, and shuts his eyes.

. . .

Soft clicks, soft hands. Pseudo runs his thumb over Pink's eyelashes, coaxing him awake.

"There you are, babydoll. Sleep well?"

Seeing his caretaker, the puppet smiles. He has no recollection of the past three and a half hours, save for a few glimpses of the store and a silver van. Or was it red? He remembers something red.

Pink opens his mouth to talk, but Pseudo gives him a warning look. Oh. That's right, he was hushed. The toy holds his breath and nods.

"Good. You needed it... Hop out."

Pink unbuckles himself and follows Pseudo to the backseat, presenting his arms for bags to be placed inside. Once that's taken care of, the trunk is opened.

Oh.

Pink remembers a little more now.

Someone big and strong lays bound and gagged. He struggles, sweat dripping down his forehead. He tries to scream behind... duct tape. But it's wrapped over his mouth, his jaw, around to the back of his head.

Rope keeps his hands and feet still. His skin is raw and red, he must have been fighting for a while. But Pseudo wanted it that way. He doesn't have to tie people up like that.

"Shhhh," Pseudo is gentle. Pink hopes the man is comforted by the simple gesture, but he won't stop squirming and screaming.

"Take the bags to the cellar," Pseudo orders. He doesn't look up from the man when he talks. Something hungry stirs in his eyes. His hands.

"Leave them by the doors."

The puppet lingers. Bug eyes, bug eyes, bug eyes. The poor man in front of him doesn't understand what's happening, but Pink does. Pink knows.

He sends himself off before Pseudo can command again. Once at the cellar, he waits there. He's quiet there. The muffled screaming at the front of the house grows closer, and closer, until a thud makes everything silent.

Bug eyes. Pink stares at the cellar door. Bug eyes. Pseudo drags an unconscious body into his view.

The monster watches his puppet. He's lost again, poor thing.

"Still with me?"

Pink doesn't respond.

"Pink."

Click, there he is. Pink looks up at his friend.

"Do you want to keep helping me, dolly?"

. . .

He isn’t ready.

Step by step, the puppet descends into the cellar carrying the store bags. He walks behind his caretaker, watching as the unconscious man sways on Pseudo’s shoulder. He looks sleepy. Dead, almost. Part of Pink hopes he is, that maybe Pseudo hit his head hard enough to knock him out for good. That maybe he won’t have to watch another person sit in the same chair, by the same bloody drain, with the same ropes, over the same blood stains that decorate the floor beneath them. A sour taste fills his mouth thinking about it. Why doesn’t Pseudo want to play with me?

The sleepy, hopefully dead man is dumped into the chair. The ropes that bind his wrists and ankles are cut loose, with a brief examination of the skin underneath. He is then restrained, ankles to chair legs, wrists to chair arms. Duct tape is removed, sweat is wiped away. He is completely at Pseudo’s disposal now, and there is not a thing in the world that can stop it.

Pink wonders, as he places the bags by the side table, if he made the wrong choice.

He isn’t ready.

The puppet stands still, watching the slow and shallow breaths of the victim. Five minutes pass by before he feels the silence in the room. Before he feels something else watching, too.

Pseudo sits in a foldable chair, about five feet from the man.

He doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink.

The hair on the back of Pink’s neck begins to stand the more he looks at Pseudo. There’s something wrong with him. There’s something wrong about him.

There are too many eyes on his face. Not ones Pink can see, no, something he feels. It’s as if every cell and germ and living thing on his body has stopped to stare. As if the man in front of him is not a man at all. A bird to a cat. A mouse to an owl. A rotten body to a maggot. A human to Pseudo. Meat, skin, blood, human.

Bile threatens to rise in the puppet’s throat. He looks away, never more grateful than in this moment, to be seen as lesser than human.

. . .

Ten minutes pass before a noise is heard.

“Mmmf-“

The waiting is over, and everyone in the room sits up.

“W….. w- where am I? Who are you??”

Pseudo tilts his his head. His eyes brighten. “Which question would you like me to answer first?”

“I…”

The man’s eyes flicker back and fourth between his two captors. He struggles against his binds, already sweating again. Finally, he decides on a question. “Who are you?”

“Well, I’m Pseudo, and this is Pink.”

The puppet offers a small smile, but he isn’t sure the man is comforted by it.

Pseudo leans forward, “It’s nice to meet you, Pseudo and Pink.”

“…It….. i- its nice to meet you, Pseudo and Pink.”

The captor smiles, and stands up. “How polite!”

“Please, tell me why I’m here. I don’t- I don’t understand—“

At this, Pseudo smiles even wider. He walks to the small side table, gathering the different tools he’ll need. Knives. Matches. Barbed wire. Gardening scissors. The puppet looks away before he can recognize anything else.

“Speak, Pink. Tell ol’ Richie why he’s here.”

Richie’s face goes pale at the mention of his name he never said, and his eyes turn to Pink.

“I…”

The toy takes a deep breath. He can’t meet Richie’s eyes.

“You're.... you're here because I…. I picked you…”

“...Why???”

The man’s heartbeat spikes. Pseudo sighs at the beautiful sound, something only he can hear.

“Um, um…. b- because, um, because Ps- Pseudo um… he wanted s- someone big and… b- big and strong f- for the… for the….”

“For the??”

“….. For the garden.”

Richie is in disbelief. He doesn’t understand, he doesn’t get it, he isn’t ready. He barks out more questions, more pleas and fearful mentions of children and a spouse and how he was just buying groceries for them. More terrified eyes pleading Pink for answers, but before the puppet can say a word…

“Hush, Pink,” says Pseudo, and his mouth seals shut.

"Now...." the monster turns to Richie, holding a small knife. He looks collected, calm, but there's something feral behind his eyes. “The real fun begins.”

. . .

Pink forgets a lot of things. He has trouble remembering important details in life, dates, times, people, places, even things that have happened in the last five minutes. It’s not something he’s proud of, but, he can’t help it.

The one thing he wishes he could forget was this afternoon. Those three horrible hours spent in the basement, burned into his brain. Why must his memory fail him even now?

Broken finger bones lay dead on the ground. Thick globs of blood drip from Richie’s hands where the digits once where. The gardening scissors lay just as bloody on the side table, with bits of meat still stuck in the blade. The walls are decorated in spattered red and bits of brain, when Pseudo got a little too excited in hitting Richie’s head with a hammer. Vomit covers the poor man’s lap, but that’s no matter anymore.

Now that Richie is dead, Pink has been curled up in the corner of the room with eyes closed. Blood is displayed like a blanket across his clothes, dried up in his hair and beneath his fingernails. He hasn’t stopped shaking since the first hour passed. He isn’t confident that it’ll ever stop. He’ll have to get used to that.

Pseudo has been quiet, absorbed in the poor thing he’s called his newest victim. With his head in pieces, an unrecognizable face, the monster pays attention to a more appealing part of the body. Its heart.

He places a hand on the man’s chest, feeling the emptiness inside. It’s not the same as a beating heart, but it will have to do this time.

Nimble fingers curl against skin, dragging thin lines along their paths. Deeper and deeper they sink, eventually twisting themselves to peel back the protective layers to reveal bone. Flesh tears and squelches beneath his hands, blood pouring out of the man like he’s still alive. Soon Pseudo’s hands meet the ribs, and one by one, they are snapped and broken and removed.

His breath shakes. No matter how many times he’s done this, no matter how many times he will do this, the human heart stays endlessly beautiful.

Veins and arteries with clotted blood are carefully cut away. It’s still warm, in Pseudo’s cold hands, the heart is still warm.

He can’t help but devour.

Teeth sink into ventricles with ease. Atria and valves are like candy to pop in his mouth. Heart strings are hard to chew, but he eats them all the same. The SA and AV nodes are no longer producing vital electricity, but he can still enjoy the ghost of it. Each moment of consumption is hypnosis, leaving Pseudo a puppet to his own alien instincts.

But before he knows it, its gone. No more? There isn’t any more?

Hands dig inside the empty chest cavity, pulling out chunks of lung next. He eats, and eats, and eats, and eats.

Pink dares not to move.

It’s something primal. Something deep inside his body that demands a stillness he’s never executed before. Something that reminds him of just how wrong Pseudo looked just hours before, and makes his blood run cold at the thought of just how wrong he’d look now. So he keeps his eyes closed, and listens to the tearing and chewing of flesh like its God’s word.

. . .

He isn’t sure when, but eventually the noises stop. Eventually the puppet is left in a room with a dead man, and predator with a full belly.

He wonders where Pseudo stands. He feels like he’s being watched, studied.

He dares open an eye, finding Pseudo standing above him.

Blood. Blood. Blood.

It covers his face, his mouth, his hands. It somehow drips from his hair and is soaked so completely into his clothes and shoes that the fabric has no other choice but to cling to the skin that wears it. It’s as if Pseudo weren’t just wearing blood, but the blood was part of his own flesh and body.

The monster reaches out a red hand. He hasn’t the energy to croak out a command, so the silence must be understood.

Careful, afraid, obedient- Pink reaches out the same, and hand in unlovable hand, they walk together to the bright and somber upstairs cottage.

Pink is lead to the bathroom, where he first is taken care of. There, Pseudo is gentle. Pseudo is kind.

There is a glazed look in his eyes as he gives his puppet a good rinse off and a bath. Soft clicks and whistles are the only noises that come from him, as well as soft kisses on the doll’s clean hair and hands. All the blood is washed and scrubbed from nails and skin- but the tub displays the same red memory that the cellar walls will forever hold.

When the bath is over, an image of the attic is placed inside the doll’s head. Nothing else enters his mind, nothing is said. A silent relayed command. The doll wanders upstairs, leaving Pseudo to clean up alone.

. . .

He sleeps the rest of the evening, and well into the next morning. The hypnosis from yesterday has worn off, but Chase is more lost than he ever has been. At breakfast time, he doesn’t make a fuss to be dressed and fed and loved upon. He doesn’t want to make decisions again. He doesn’t want to think anymore. Last time it only ended in carnage.

He can’t stop thinking about it while he helps Pseudo wash the dishes. Sad sad eyes watch the running water, and a sad sad mouth stays plastered in a frown.

“Speak, Pink,” Pseudo finally gives him permission to talk. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”