#weyebal

One day you just have to leave your hometown. One day you just have to find your own place, your own house, your own home – one day you just have to, that’s the unspoken law. And, just like any other law, disobeying it is severely punished – by the eyes of the onlookers and words of your friends.

Renting a house is an impressive fit for a college dropout. He’s lucky, really - and who cares if the home’s old, who cares if it’s falling apart? A house is a house, even if the roof is leaking. Even if the creaky cardboards feel like they’re about to give out, even if the carpet left here by the previous owners reeks of rot. It’s a house. A rather cheap one for being fully furnished, too.

Oh, but how it was furnished. Everything in the house had stains – even the wooden shelves, even the glass tables, even the walls themselves. At first he even tried to wash them out – tried to scrub away the filth, spending an impressive amount of money on gloves and detergents – but it never went away. And then he gave up, and then he just started adding to the mess.

He didn’t like the house from the very start. He didn’t like it, but it was the best available option at the time. And, of course, he was planning to move out of the house as soon as possible – but days turned to weeks, and weeks turned to months, and now he sat in the dirty kitchen, eyes glued to the screen of the laptop. He didn’t just dislike the house at this point, no – he hated it with a burning passion. And more than anything else he hated one god forsaken thing in it.

Tick-tock. The fucking clock.

It didn’t look bad, no, not at all – it was, in fact, the fanciest thing in the house. He even liked it at first. The stains on it almost looked organic, really – spots of whitish yellow on the dark wood would even appear somewhat classy, if not for the terrible wet smell emitting from them. And it worked, too – ticked away minute by minute, showing almost the exact time. And one would imagine that it would be nice to have some background noise – and one would be wrong. Every hour, every minute of every day the ticking was there – and the whole day it worked normally, simply swaying the pendulum from side to side, from side to side, from side to side. The whole day. But, the moment he went to sleep, something changed – something small, almost impossible to notice if you’re not laying in complete darkness. The sound seemed to lose its rhythm. Going slightly faster, going slightly too late – making him cringe in bed and cover his ears with a pillow.

And every night he simply suffered through it. He stayed in bed, completely motionless, awkwardly trying to count down the minutes. Counting down until the very morning, until the birds start singing outside, singing him to sleep. And, when he woke up in a few hours, when the alarm screamed at him – beep, beep, beep – the clock, as if out of evil genius, stopped with the chaotic ticks. It worked normally, it showed time, it kept the rhythm, and this almost made him question his sanity all together – because the time was still right, because there was no evidence of the machine misbehaving at night.

And every day he thought he should search for an explanation. Every day he entertained the idea of visiting a clock shop, every day he was just about to write about his experience on some forum and ask for advice – but he didn’t. There was never enough time, his boss would kill him for slacking off at work – and at home he had… important business to attend to.

This continued. Of course it did – it would be stupid to think that the issue would resolve itself. Not to say that he didn’t try every tip in the book for ignoring it, though. He moved to another room, as far away from the noise – yet it followed him there, seemingly to resonating off the walls. He tried locking the door and hanging a blanket onto it, but this did not drown out the sound. Hell, he even tried earplugs, even though he found them terrible to the touch – but even these didn’t seem to help.

The clock stood there, ticking away. Mocking him every night and day, it towered over him as he walked past – the white mold smirking at him. Every tick felt like a slap to the face, every turn of a hand like a kick to the stomach. And still, he refused to open the clock – he refused to study the mechanism. He felt like this would mean admitting defeat.

And once again laid in bed, his sanity melting away with every sound. It made him flinch, it made him turn in bed, it made him mutter to himself and growl, biting at the pillow. It was 3 am, and he had to get up in 3 hours. Again. And he wouldn’t get enough sleep. Again. And he will have to explain this to his boss. Again. And again, and again, and again, until this goddamn clock…

Stops.

Yes, for sure, this is the only thing left for him to do. So he gets up and goes to the pantry, his steps soft in the middle of the night – as if he had something to hide. And the clock kept ticking, the sound seemingly doubling. He grabbed the axe – he grabbed it and he ran out of the room, down the hallway, straight to the clock – the weapon above his head, the man’s mouth open in a silent scream. Here it is, just one more turn and the ticking will stop. It will stop forever and ever. It will all be fine.

Tick-to-tick-tock.

He stopped. He stopped and stood in place, his face frozen with terror. The axe fell to the ground with a loud thump – and the man closed his mouth with a hand, taking an awkward step backwards. There’s no running away now.

He never thought that some of the ticks could belong to something else.

Ao3 link

Omori didn’t jump. Of course he didn’t – its crazy, who would do that, who would just leap into the darkness, just like that, leaving their friends behind? No one would do that, not a single person. Especially twice.

Even if he still remembers him. Even if he still remembers the blue eyes, the soft smile and the way flowers sometimes blended in with the soft hair – colors are a funny, funny concept here, aren’t they? Every object gives a little bit of its pattern to everything around – almost like a painting. Made with watercolor, still wet, the drops of colorful pigment dancing in the light – everything is pretty, unstable, almost fake. Almost. Right?

And, even if he remembers, his friends sure don’t. They don’t know anything about this way-too-soft boy, they don’t remember having fun with him, they don’t remember loving him.

“Well now, aren’t you just being egoistical?” – that’s what Omori thinks to himself, starring into the dark abyss.

And so, Omori didn’t jump. He went back, turned around, closed his eyes and shook it off – there’s no reason to be here, there’s nothing to see here. This place is going to die, going to disappear, the same way it did before – and he will stay. And his friends will stay as well – and his sister will watch over him, always waiting with the picnic basket.

 “Anyway, Sunny, I’m glad you came over to help!”

Basil looks happy. Gardening gloves on his hands, putting soil into the ceramic pot his movements gentle and caring. Sunny likes watching people work, he always did: hanging around the kitchen while Mari is cooking, staring at Aubrey’s hands while she’s making something out of paper – seeing these things, he would freeze, moving oh so slowly, almost scared to disturb the process. Other people fascinated him. Of course, Sunny wanted to be a part of the process – but, if he didn’t know how to help, he would just watch. Him being a “luck amulet” was a running joke among all friends – his presence brought comfort and stability, his stoic expression radiating comfortable coldness – just enough to stay put.

A white tulip looked a little sad in its plastic, temporary home. Basil said that the soil in that one is pretty bad, not up to the standard. “Don’t worry, Sunny. Tulips are not that picky when it comes to the ground they grow in,” – Basil says, scooping the tulip up. Its bulb is cowered in dirt – it looks like a squid, with the roots sticking out, like slim tentacles. – “They don’t need a lot of light, either – they can practically grow everywhere! You shouldn’t leave them out at sunny days, though, they, uh… Get overheated.”

Sunny liked listening to people, too. Always there, silent yet understanding – he would lay a hand, he would help, he would try to comfort his friends. And Basil went on, and on, and on about flowers, about photos, about problems – and Sunny was there.

“You know… They remind me of you, Sunny.”

 And, of course, Omori gets into another adventure. Help Orange Joe find his long-lost twin? Sure. Show the caretaker at the orphanage some love? Sure! Help a friend find something to make a weapon out of, finally find Hector, look at the stars, find a good joke somewhere, anywhere around here. That’s the world of endless imagination, there’s no limit to what you can do – it’ll never end, he will never leave, everything will be fine. Right here. Even without Basil.

 And yet, something drags the dreamer back. Something keeps him somewhere near the godforsaken hole in the floor – in the garden, looking at dead plants.

“Omori, why are we here again?” – Kel asks, almost nervous. Omori doesn’t answer – of course he doesn’t. He just stares at the flowers, already dead and dry. It’s foggy here, almost hard to breathe – or, maybe, it’s just the anxiety playing its tricks once again. Grabbing the watering can, Omori frowns – the water doesn’t smell that good. But it should do, right? It’s his world. It has to work, it has to, there’s no way it won’t – and so he pours muddy liquid onto the tulips, and he does that again, and he does that again and again and again, trying, desperately and painfully to fix what’s broken. There’s too much water in here, the soil is already getting washed away by the amount – Aubrey frowns, seeing a worm struggling in the dirt.

 Water hits off the gentle petals, crushing them. Leaves go away next – and then, the bulbs get washed out of the ground. This flower bed is now a mess – what would Basil think? Would he forgive his friend? He wanted to help, didn’t he? He didn’t mean to ruin everything. He didn’t mean to hurt anyone, he just…

 Mari’s body hits the floor. Hard. Omori hears a sickening crash – in a second, he’s already running down, calling out to his sister. There’s no way she’s dead, she has to be alright – she just needs some rest. He will fix this, he will put her to bed – everything is going to be just fine. He’s doing his best, it has to work.

  Omori stares at the mess of petals and dirt. Omori stares, dropping the watering can with force, angry at himself.

“Don’t worry, Omori, they were… I think they were beyond saving.” – Hero says, petting Omori’s shoulder lightly.