bunnyscribe:

;3c

The ketchup bottle farts as the semi liquid pours out of it and over the sheets, covering them in slimy red goop.

Kris places the bottle on the floor momentarily and reaches down, spreading the ketchup across the bed like blood splatter. They stare as it dribbles down the side of the mattress, liking the way it looks.

After that, they go back into their inventory, pulling out a cheap pair of kiddy scissors. Mom would never let them have real ones, not after a dangerously close incident where they almost chopped their own ear off. But these would do. For now.

They cut a hole in the center of their shirt before grabbing the ketchup again. They pour it on themself, relishing in the the cold against their skin because they can actually feel it. It’s nice.

When they finish, they stare at the ketchup bottle in one hand and the scissors that lay in the other. They know if they place them back into their inventory, they’ll be gone just like everything else. They look over to their dusty, itemless shelves, then to Asriel’s, full of toys and photos and trophies.

Kris had started destroying all their stuff at the tender age of eight. They ripped the heads off all of their stuffed bears, crack plastic bats in half, even crushed a shiny, new piano the day after Christmas.

They had cried over the last one.

It had gotten to the point where Asriel held on to stuff they wanted to keep, like their game controller or their favorite cd. The only thing Kris kept any more was a simple ball of junk, the only belonging they had. It was just easier that way, no matter how often their mother tried to cajole them into filling their shelves again.

And now, again, they are faced with a choice. A bottle and a pair of scissors. They could probably save them if they buried them in the backyard or something. But, in the end, did it even really matter? It was simple stuff, stuff they had no emotional attachment to besides the desire to keep something, anything.

They tuck the items into their inventory and crawl into bed, pulling the comforter overhead. Just like clockwork, Asriel walks in immediately after.

“Kris!” he admonishes. “Are you still sleeping? Come on, you know we have church this morning.” His feet pad closer, and closer still. “Don’t make me-“ The comforter is ripped off, he cuts off with a scream, falling backward. “Oh gosh!”

Kris lets the moment sit for a moment longer, letting Asriel stew in the fear of it. Then they sit up, looking down at him with a blank face and piercing eyes.

“Oh Christ,” Asriel says in a wobbly voice, tears already blooming in the corners of his eyes. Kris can see the moment where fear turns to anger, shifting in his eyes so quickly. It was always so quickly. “You can’t do that Kris! You scared me!” The tears dribble down his cheeks.

Kris shrugs.

“No! Don’t just shrug!” Asriel says, pointing aggressively at them. “You have to apologize!”

Kris shrugs. “I will never do it again,” they say blandly.

There’s a moment of quiet, where the unstated “I will never do this again,” hangs in the air. There will be more pranks. There are always more pranks. This is just a practiced routine at this point, like two actors bumbling around stage with each other. Clumsily dancing around the true meaning.

Asriel blinks, more tears slipping out. Then he’s scrambling upward, huffing as he goes. He brushes himself off, wiping off the non-existent dirt. “Fine,” he says. “Don’t apologize.” He pokes a finger against their ketchupy chest, finger coming away red. He looks grossed out by it, as if not having expecting that outcome. He wipes it off on Kris’s comforter, saying, “But don’t expect me to wake you up for school tomorrow.”

He studies them, as if expecting some reaction to the threat. Kris stares blankly back.

“Ugh!” Asriel says, throwing his hands up in the air. “I don’t know what is wrong with you sometimes!” He looks down at their chest, huffing. “Just…just change your shirt and get downstairs.”

He storms out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him. Kris watches the door, almost expecting it to open up again any second. Then they hear the angry stomping down the stairs and knows it won’t.

They stand up, ripping out an extra shirt from their dresser. Suddenly, in their soul there is a tug, a familiar pull. And suddenly they know they will be apologizing later.

They will have no choice in the matter.