What are you looking for? What do you expect to find?

Something. Anything. It's obvious at this point I don't know enough about this situation, so I'm going to resolve that.

For once Edgar, listen to me. This is not something you can solve logically. If it was, it wouldn't be insanity.

I'm not insane.

That's right. You're not insane. Mmhmm. What are you looking for?

I'm going to find some books that will hopefully give me some perspective on why Nny reacted the way he did.

I don't think they write books about people like Nny, Edgar. Everyone that touches him dies.

...

Well, everyone except you.

Edgar wandered the shelves as he studied each title closely. His mental conversation was rather distracting and at points he would glance over the letters but not register the words. He had assumed at first that this bookstore, with its obviously darker atmosphere, would have something on this kind of problem. A book about rudimentary psychology, sociology, or perhaps sociopathology, anything that he could consider useful. Instead he found rows upon rows of fantasy and science fiction, each more similar then the last. A dragon on one, a maiden on the other, dragon and maiden together, a dragon, a maiden, and a warrior. Occasionally, a maiden and a maiden.

The bookstore also seemed to lack an accurate cataloguing system. Of the few sections marked out among the rows of books, he found that they contained things that only loosely related to their subject matter. A section titled "Psychological" ended up being ridiculous thriller novels which were no help to him. All of the serial killers in the books tended to be the same; hideously evil and sadistic, without redemption, and often sexually addicted to something or someone.

While Edgar could not vouch for Nny's sadism--considering the machine that he had once been trapped in--the other characteristics he found insulting.

What, do you think they went and found a real serial killer so their book can be more accurate? Of course not, Edgar. These are mockups, fantasies, cardboard pinups of horrors created so that the actual fear induced by such people is lessened. Go home. You know you won't find anything here.

Edgar ignored Scriabin and headed to a different section, this one titled "Reference." Hopefully, this would contain something of use to him.

Among books detailing vampires, werewolves, yetis, and aliens, he found a few books that at least looked slightly credible. A Beginner's Guide to Psychology, Psychological Disorders, What To Do When Your Spouse is Irredeemably Insane...

That last one sounds adorable. Get that one. I bet it'll suggest you dressing up all fancy and serving oysters.

Edgar picked up the three books, finding his cheeks itching and burning. He reached up to scratch at his familiar scars before remembering the bandages. He tried to scratch through them but it felt blunt and awkward, making the itching all that more irritating.

It's not your scars.

Edgar headed to the counter with some relief, finding the atmosphere of the store somehow stifling with each moment he spent inside. Despite the fact that there were few people here, he felt their presence to be somewhat irritating. A tall, gaunt boy dressed in black hanging around the vampire section. A frightened, mousy woman who seemed to be hiding from something. A young woman sitting in the corner devouring one of the cheap thrillers while chewing obnoxiously on her necklace.

Look at that, Edgar. Isn't that amazing? These people haven't done anything to you and you're already annoyed. I think our lovely maniac is rubbing off on you. That's unfortunate, but also very funny. Pain is funny, don't you think?

I'm not insane.

Yes, I know. You don't have to convince me.

"Excuse me?" The woman at the counter snapped her fingers at him in irritation. He returned from his mental argument with a start.

"Oh, I'm sorry...I drifted off for a moment there..."

"Yeah, um...is this all?" She looked down at the three books with some measure of suspicion.

Hey...

Edgar felt a sudden strange sense of unease, similar to when Scriabin had been moved. Odd. He couldn't place it exactly, except that somehow the woman had triggered it. Her physical appearance was not particularly offsetting--despite the fact she had purple hair--so that didn't seem to be the problem. Actually, she was rather attractive.

Aren't you going to make some kind of joke about that?

...

Scriabin?

"How are you going to pay for this?" Judging by her expression and her tone, she felt somewhat uneasy as well. Edgar could not explain this strange friction but it was definitely unsettling. He had never seen this girl before, so why would he react this way? And why would it affect Scriabin to the extent of silencing him entirely? Nothing had ever done that before, not that he could recall.

"Cash..." Edgar pulled out his wallet, noticing that the woman would occasionally stare off blankly, no doubt in the same fashion that he himself had only a short time before. His voice was quiet although somewhat shaky. "If...um, I hope you don't think I'm being rude, but...what's your name?"

"Huh?" She stared at him, confusion now entering her previous suspicious glare. "Why? I won't go out with you, so don't bother asking me."

"No no, nothing like that." Edgar held up one hand as some vague placating gesture, the strange sensation only intensifying with every second spent near her. He counted out his money almost three times before actually putting it down on the counter. "No, I'm..."

'I'm seeing someone.' Yes, I know what you were going to say, even if you didn't know the full ramifications of saying it.

Is leaving myself that open what it takes to bring you back? What happened?

Scriabin fell silent.

"I'm not...interested in that right now."

"Mmhmm." She obviously didn't trust him, counting out the money on the counter the same amount of times Edgar had. He noticed as he stared at her thin fingers that they shook almost imperceptibly. "Fine. I'm Devi, but don't get any ideas."

A sudden surge of panic rushed through Edgar's entire body, urging him to run immediately with or without his books.

Shut up SHUT UP stop being stupid and listen LISTEN. You need to be calm and act like nothing is wrong. I knew it, I knew it had to be her...listen, just buy your books and leave, all right? Leave and don't say anything.

"I...I won't. My name is Edgar..." He stumbled through his words and hoped she wouldn't notice the sudden change in his behavior. "Edgar Vargas."

"Well, nice to meet you, Edgar." He could not interpret her expression as she pushed the three books into a bag. She stared at him. "Can I assume those bandages are a result of your...spouse?"

"I-I guess you could say that."

I can't believe this is her. I can't believe it. What are the odds? Of all the bookstores in the entire city, I chose this one. Why?

More importantly, Edgar, why is she making you feel frightened? She can't hurt you. She's a victim as much as you are. In fact, you two are rather similar...

She...God, I wonder if she knows how Nny feels about her...she seems so normal. I don't know if she would understand if he explained it to her.

Well, she fought him off, something you never did. I think it's safe to assume she at least resisted Nny's everlasting love.

I should tell her...I should tell her how much Nny-

Don't you tell her a word. Don't you say a fucking thing or I swear to your God I'll make things very painful for you. Don't tell her anything and particularly, stop staring off into the distance like a mental-case. You get your books and you get out.

Why are you so frightened?

I'm not frightened.

Then why am I frightened?

When he finally came out of his mental conversation, he realized almost five minutes had passed without interruption. Devi had stared at him the entire time with an equally strange and distant expression on her face. Seeing Edgar jerk out of it apparently galvanized her back into action.

"Be sure to come again." Her words were jerky and hesitant as she handed him his bag. He couldn't read her face at all. All he knew was that she must be suffering the same growing sense of vertigo, nausea, panic, and fear that he was.

He had to get away from her. He had to get away. He felt almost like he was going to be sick, like something was struggling to get out of him, shredding his insides as it tried to crawl out of his body. He was getting increasingly dizzy and he had to reach out twice before he finally took hold of his bag.

"Thank you, I will."

He stumbled out of the store, breathing a sigh of relief.

Edgar leaned back against the glass that stated the store's name, breathed deeply, and hoped that the intense dizziness and anxiousness would pass. He eventually sank down to his knees while he stared at the dirty sidewalk and wished it would stop moving.

Calm down, Edgar. Jesus Christ, you're such a drama queen. Look, you're outside now. Calm down. She can't affect you here. You're safe now so stop making yourself sick and go home.

...Scriabin, what was that?

What was what?

What happened in there...what was that?

I told you to leave and instead you made small talk with her. You have no sense of self-preservation.

Scriabin...

You wouldn't believe me if I told you anyway. Don't ask me.

Back inside the store, Devi leaned down on the counter with her hands clasped behind her head, struggling to breath calmly and evenly. It took a few minutes before the woman could lift her head steadily and regain her composure.

By that time, Edgar had moved on down the street towards his car.

It was raining the day the world ended.

Edgar spent most of the next two days reading. For the first night he had felt exceedingly jumpy. He expected the phone to ring at any moment but it remained stubbornly silent.

Of course, Johnny has every need to call you.

Scriabin had provided something of a running commentary on each book he was reading. He had refused to respond to him and, annoyed, the voice had eventually fallen silent. That was a relief.

Scriabin was waiting for any opportunity to attack him at this point, so to prevent any possible openings he tried to keep his thoughts clear and logical. It didn't work but it did make him feel better. As if he could control what Scriabin would and wouldn't react to.

That's so sad, Edgar. Seriously.

He put down the final book that he had purchased and rubbed at his forehead. He had suffered from a severe headache for most of the past two days and he wasn't sure why. It was hard to concentrate. Scriabin's snide voice didn't help.

Well, that's the last book. What have we learned?

Edgar disliked speaking to Scriabin and had made a particular point not to do so for the past two days. He believed that talking directly to him gave him more power somehow. But he decided he would indulge the figment of his imagination this once.

I think I may be able to deal with his outbursts and mood swings a bit better now...

Scriabin settled into his familiar sarcastic cant as if he had been waiting for Edgar to acknowledge his presence.

Oh? Really? How? By validating his decisions and his feelings and letting him discover the solution to his own problems? Watch him knock over a glass and respond "Oh no, the milk has spilled, we need a sponge?" It won't work, Edgar. You know it won't. You know as well as I do. Those books have no useful information on Nny because they were not written with Nny in mind. No one has written a book with someone like Nny in mind. This information won't work on him. These little reflection techniques and conflict resolutions tidbits won't solve the problem of him being insane. You can't fix him.

Edgar had not spoken out loud for some time, particularly not in his house. He disliked being faced with Scriabin's physical voice. It reminded him that things in his life were not quite...in order.

You're going insane, Edgar.

He had made a habit out of ignoring him.

I think I should call him. It says that I should try and make the first step sometimes, it would allow him to be able to communicate with me more easily. Maybe take some pressure off him.

This isn't going to work, Edgar.

He reached over and picked up his phone, staring at the slip of paper that Johnny had given him what seemed like ages ago. His fingers punched the buttons and he waited, the clicking sound of the phone ringing almost unbearably loud.

You're frightened he'll pick up.

Six rings.

There was a pause as Edgar tried to decide what to say. His mouth fell open and yet, he could not think of a single thing that would be appropriate considering what had happened last time. An apology? A greeting? A plea to stay on the line so he could explain himself?

Scriabin wasn't helping. He was counting backwards rather loudly in Edgar's head.

"...Hello?" Johnny's hesitant and confused voice came through the phone. Edgar barely had time to think of how strange it must be for Johnny to actually receive a call before something broke his concentration.

Wzzzz

BLAM!

Whump!

AAAAIEEEK!!

"Johnny?!" The strangled shout came from his throat without conscious effort. "Johnny, are you okay? What happened? Johnny? Nny? NNY?"

Panic.

"Oh my God, oh my God...oh my God, what happened? What could have happened?" He was talking to himself and he didn't remember starting. He hung up the phone at some point.

"I'm not quite sure." Scriabin's voice emanated from the small figurine the moment Edgar spoke aloud. "But you're going to go find out, aren't you?"

"Oh God, what if he's hurt?" Edgar threaded his arms through the sleeves of one his coats as he continued to ignore the toy. He found it hard to think and hard to breath. He had to focus. He had to remember. He had to remember where Johnny's house was. He had to find out what happened if Johnny was okay that sounded like a gunshot-

"What if-"

"Why do you care, Edgar?" Scriabin asked in an almost bored tone. "If this is all some grand scientific experiment for you, then why do you care? There are other subjects out there, after all."

He put Scriabin in his pocket without thinking about it and hurried to his car. His hands shook. He felt as if the streetlights above were jerking out of focus, felt that the entire world was shaking just to make this more difficult. The rain pouring outside was only to make the drive harder, to make him feel more uncomfortable as it soaked past his collar and into his shirt. The world was against him at this moment, it had completed its goal of finally killing Johnny and now that he had the chance to do something about it, it was trying to make this as difficult as possible, there was no way he'd have time, there was no way he could contest with the will of whatever greater being...

Scriabin...that was Scriabin's voice, not his own.

He fumbled with the keys in both the door and the ignition before he finally pulled back onto the road.

"I have to...if he's..." Edgar couldn't even form coherent sentences as he tried to focus on driving, worrying, and remembering at the same time. Where was Johnny's house? He knew that it was down this road but after this he always tended to blank...

"This is just so sweet. It really is." Scriabin was deep in the folds of his coat, but his voice was just as clear and annoying.

"Why can't I remember?!" Edgar felt his voice crack with frustration. He slammed a momentary fist against the steering wheel. Every minute he constructed worse and worse scenarios and as each one found its completion he found the guilt and worry only piling up higher. "Why can't I-"

"You're an idiot." Scriabin sighed. "If you'd just calm down...think. Where is Squee's house?"

Edgar struggled to follow Scriabin's advice, tried to remember the wide-eyed boy, where he had parked and waited, where he had dropped him off that one time. It came to him. It came to him clearly and quickly and he knew where he had to go.

"Why..." was the only word that he could force out.

Scriabin sounded amused. "A better question at the moment is what, really."

Edgar parked in front of Squee's house. In his rush to get out of his car and find out what happened he forgot to undo his seat-belt. He ended up spending a few awkward moments fumbling with the clasp while Scriabin laughed at him.

Once he had successfully extricated himself from his car, he noticed with some confusion that there were no other vehicles near the boarded-up house.

So whoever it was that had attacked Johnny didn't come by car...

Scriabin laughed spitefully and Edgar did not know why.

When he got there it was still raining. That would explain why he couldn't see any stars or even the moon. He knew they were missing because he had caught a glimpse of the curiously blank sky as he had glanced up to see if the streetlights were on. They weren't. That had to explain the encroaching darkness around Johnny's home.

Why aren't the streetlights on? Was there a blackout that I missed? How could I miss a blackout? I don't live that far away...

He was about to open the door to Johnny's house when he heard footsteps and screaming from inside.

Although initially Edgar had felt a rush of adrenaline that he was typically unfamiliar with, now he felt definite apprehension. He hadn't considered what he would do if someone else were there. He wasn't particularly physically gifted by any stretch of the imagination and if he did try to engage whoever was in the house in some kind of combat, it was most likely that he would wind up another victim. What to do?

This is not good.

Scriabin sounded worried...that was odd.

I suggest you get in the house.

But-

Just get in the house, Edgar.

Scriabin had the same authoritative tone in his voice that he had heard before when he encountered Devi. Considering the rarity of this tone, he decided it would probably be a good idea to follow Scriabin's orders although he wasn't sure what good it would do.

He gave the world outside one last perusal before he entered the house. It seemed to somehow be getting darker with each glance at the blank sky. He couldn't even see any clouds. He could hear something moving beneath his feet and the floor shook with a vibration that was oddly familiar.

He felt the need to question even though he was already opening the door. But what if-

Shut it behind you.

Edgar did so.

The house, although it had seemed empty before, seemed even more empty now. It was still filthy and covered with wrappers, discarded paper cups, and he could see the distinct patch of blood caused by his previous head wound. Something was missing. The television was still in the same place...

Where was Johnny?

He took a few steps further into the house and saw a bizarre contraption that seemed to be hooked up to the telephone. It involved a gun somehow.

So that was what happened.

For a moment he wondered why Johnny would hook up such a device, but it was only for a moment.

Does it hurt you inside to know that you couldn't stop him from killing himself, Edgar? Scriabin's voice sounded strained.

With another careless step into the room his foot encountered something. He looked down immediately and found that he had stepped into a rather large pool of blood.

How could you not notice that?

A trail led from the sticky pool into the adjoining room, bloody fingerprints stretched and distorted until they looked claw-like.

He felt sick.

Edgar swallowed hard and forced himself to follow the trail of gore into the next room. He could hear voices from somewhere else in the house although he wasn't sure where. Somewhere near the staircase.

There he was.

A pool of light from somewhere illuminated his crumpled thin body and the shriveled head of an infant rabbit near him. Curled slightly on one side with one hand still dripping blood. He had apparently had the energy to scrawl some words on the floor that were slightly smeared, perhaps from near-death convulsions. From the rasping, wheezing sounds coming from his throat, it seemed that Johnny was still alive.

Somehow.

Edgar didn't remember how he got to Johnny's side, only aware that he was there and shaking him gently.

"Johnny? Johnny, oh God, Johnny, are you okay...oh God..." Edgar's voice was shaky, thin, and high. Johnny took a deep breath that gurgled in his throat as his body twitched in an effort to respond to Edgar's voice. He tried to turn over but apparently could not find the energy.

"Edgh....ghaer..." He could hear the blood spattering from Johnny's lips. Edgar's grip on his arm tightened involuntarily.

Do you really want to see what happened? Do you, Edgar?

Johnny finally rolled over, with some gentle aid from Edgar.

He could not avoid or disguise the cry of horror and disgust that came from him at the sight of the demolished side of the maniac's face. The gunblast had taken out Johnny's eye entirely, leaving only a gaping, bleeding, ragged hole lined with fragments of bone. His hair was thick and matted with blood and peppered with small things that he could only assume were bits of his skull. Edgar could almost see through the gore to the hardwood floor, or maybe he did. It was hard to tell with the copious amounts of bleeding Johnny was doing currently. It ran down his face, across his ears, into his mouth. He gurgled at Edgar again; slight bubbles of blood mixed with spittle forming at his lips.

If this was how the front of his head looked...God, what did it do to the back...

"Edgar...." Johnny managed to say with some clarity. Although his face seemed to be almost destroyed, somehow Edgar got the feeling that Johnny was relieved that he was here.

He's going to die in a matter of moments, Edgar. Severe head trauma. Gunshot wound to the head. It's amazing he's alive at all now. You can't save him.

Seething hatred. Shut up. How dare you try and-

You never could save him, Edgar. You can't call 911 and get him help now. He's gone. He's going to die, right here, and there was nothing you could do. In fact, maybe it was even your fault! Because you had to make the first move. You shot him, Edgar. You shot Johnny in the head. He's only got a few moments. A few more seconds of life. Of disgusting, convulsing, bleeding life. And then he'll die. You can't save him. You never could save him. You won't save him.

Shut up. Edgar tightly closed his eyes until stars appeared in the darkness. I hate you so much. Why do you have to try and ruin this for me? Why do you...

The amount of hatred and frustration running through his body mixed with the wave of emotions that came with him desperately trying to deal with Johnny's imminent death. It made him shake uncontrollably. He could feel a familiar itching irritation running down his face. Maybe he was crying. He didn't intend to.

God, I hate you so much.

Johnny was staring at him--or in the general direction of him--with his one remaining eye which was getting increasingly clouded over with blood. His body was spasming slightly.

"Kkskk....n-nothing...behind the..." He coughed wetly, blood getting all over Edgar's shirt. "Veil?? ...Kgks....system...d-down..."

"Nny, try and stay with me."

You can't save him, Edgar.

SHUT UP.

"Try and stay awake. I'm going to go get help. I'm going to get you some help. Try and stay awake." He was repeating himself because he had nothing else to say.

Johnny's hand jerked upwards and grabbed the front of his shirt tenaciously. He tried to hiss at him but the blood in his mouth prevented it. He mostly ended up spraying blood in Edgar's face for a few moments before he realized how useless it was.

I have to go get help. I have to get help but what can I do, he grabbed me for a reason, what if Johnny dies while I'm gone...

He could see the muscles twitching around the ruined portion of Johnny's face, trying to control things that were no longer there. Nausea was beginning to overcome him which only made him feel worse.

"Kkkggx..." Johnny coughed as lines of pink saliva trailed from his mouth. "Don't....go. I...gmmfgg...am...you..."

"Johnny, stay still." Edgar wanted to pull Johnny's hand away, untangle his fingers from the fabric of his shirt, stop him from attempting to lift his head up to look at him with what remained of his functioning eye, but he couldn't move. He was paralyzed.

He didn't want to touch him.

Because you think he's disgusting, Edgar.

"Lissten..." If he were intact perhaps Johnny would have been giving Edgar one of his manic, intense looks. It was hard to tell now. All that Edgar could focus on was the hideousness of the wound. He could see blood as it pumped through Johnny's body to run down the side of his face.

The voices had been getting clearer. Edgar had not been paying a great deal of attention. The footsteps that entered the room, accompanied by a loud, arrogant voice, was finally enough to drag his eyes away from the jagged hole in Johnny's face.

Two people had walked into the room from somewhere below the house. Edgar wasn't sure where. A bald man who seemed incredibly irritated and a woman dressed and decorated primarily in black.

"Look what I found!"

Apparently the man had been so focused on Johnny's discovery that he hadn't noticed Edgar. The two exchanged blank looks for a minute until Johnny let go of Edgar's shirt, falling back against the floor with a moist squelching sound.

"Who the fuck are you?" He sounded annoyed at Edgar for even existing. Already he could guess how he had come to be imprisoned here.

"I'm Edgar. It doesn't matter." He was surprised at how calm his voice sounded. "Look, we don't have much time. You have to get to the phone-"

Why on earth do you think they'll help you, Edgar? Do you think Johnny kept such congenial relations with all his victims?

"Phone? Why the fuck would I want the phone? Did you get out of here too? Fucking skinny bitch!"

"Krik, we have to get out of here!" The woman in the back spoke up. "He'll die soon enough. That thing is probably right behind us, so let's go!"

I doubt this is going to turn out well for you, Edgar.

"You go on, get out of here." Krik stared at Johnny with pure hatred and took a few menacing steps towards him. "I want to put a few dents in this...uhh...this...fucker!"

Not well at all.

Edgar stood as Krik made his way towards him, vaguely offended at this man's lack of priorities. "What do you mean? He's bleeding to death as it is! Why would you need to..."

Johnny coughed again, his voice muffled and garbled. Eventually discernible words came through the gurgling noises. Even now, Johnny's voice sounded hateful. "You won't be going anywhere...you're dying too. Kkchh..."

Krik seemed torn between dealing with Edgar and dealing with Johnny. Eventually he turned to Johnny since that was where the majority of his hatred was focused. "What?! What the fuck did you just say? Oh, man, I'm gonna..."

Yes, what did Johnny just say, Edgar? I wouldn't think too hard about it.

"What? You'll kill him?"

"What? You'll kill me?"

Unintentional echo.

"He's dying as it is!" Edgar was trying to summon enough righteous anger to look intimidating. He stepped between Krik and Johnny and crossed his arms. "What would be the point? And what do you mean, 'that thing?' Is there something else here?"

Before the woman could respond, Krik had gotten rather close to Edgar and was shouting in his face.

"Do you know what that skinny fuck did? Huh? Do you?"

Of course you don't. But I wouldn't say that out loud.

"Just because he fucking looks like a goddamn fucking cocksucker he locked me in this fucking toilet bowl of a room! Fucker!" Krik stared down at Johnny as the wounded maniac attempted to stare back at him. "Making me eat shit every time I talked and those fucking Noodle Boy comics! FFFUCK!"

If Johnny wasn't slowly losing higher brain functions and his throat wasn't so clogged with blood and mucus, the sound he made would have been a much clearer laugh. Despite all that, Krik seemed to understand its significance.

"I'm going to fucking kick your ass!"

"What? No!" What are you doing? What do you think you're doing?! "No, this is stupid! You're going to beat up someone who's already received a shotgun blast to the head!"

"Krik, the thing!" The woman behind him reminded him with just a touch of hysterical panic in her voice. "Just get over it!"

"And you! What's your fucking story, you fag?" Krik did not appreciate Edgar blocking his path. "Just as skinny as he is. Fuck, bet you two were fucking queers-"

"No we weren't and is that really important right now?" Edgar felt anger edging into his voice and the familiar sense of adrenaline. He turned and looked at the woman. "What 'thing' are you talking about?"

"Don't ignore me!" Krik apparently found the fact that Edgar had focused on something else for a few precious seconds a grave affront. "You dick!"

Here we go.

"I wasn't-"

"I don't fucking care! Just get out of my way so I can teach this skinny fuck a lesson!"

Move.

Edgar didn't move.

"Killing someone who's bleeding to death...Fff....Fuck, you people...you...how stupid you are." A choking gasp for breath. "Resorting to the same old monkey brutality, afraid to look up from your bloody dicks. Afraid of transcendence..." Johnny coughed on the floor as his words escaped through a mix of blood, bile, and saliva. He choked for a moment and his entire body shook as he retched more blood. How much blood could such a thin man have?

Johnny looked at Krik who was glaring at him with as much hatred as humanly possible.

He coughed again, flecks of spittle flying from shaking lips. A feeble laugh.

"Heh...your head looks like a potato."

Edgar looked back at Johnny with some measure of confusion at the clarity of his previous words. How could he be able to say so much considering how much damage he had endured at this point?

Krik was either too shocked or too disgusted to react to Johnny's statement before the maniac spoke again. Despite Krik's desperate desire to acquaint Johnny's head with his foot repeatedly, he listened for a few more moments, almost as if for some impossible apology.

Johnny coughed again, trying to clear out progressively clogging passages. "And how stupid was I? I...actually paid attention to you. Devoted precious thought to it. God... I used to love the noises I heard in my head."

Didn't you, Edgar?

This is important.

"Hhh.... I never should've left my room.... my room, out there, I almost remember it, it's gone now... along with everything else... vanishing..."

Do you remember, Edgar?

What are you talking about?

Johnny managed another choked gasp of what might have been laughter. "Heh...Potato..."

A vein twitched on Krik's forehead as Johnny curled and retched again, this time vomiting on the floor, although from the small amount it seemed this hadn't been the first time recently. Most of its content was blood, which may have explained why.

His voice rasped across abused vocal chords. "Ukk... I never got to see it... the wall thing. This isn't pleasant... I'd rather not be dead... don't want to die... don't geez... This is worse than goth poetry... agg..."

"Johnny..."

Did I say that out loud?

Johnny tried to raise a skeletal arm to wipe away some of the blood and mucus that blocked his nasal passages, but his arm only spasmed violently before falling back down. "No more stars.....no...clouds...nothing.... It'sssssssss..." More flecks of blood from a body-shaking cough. "It's such an easy thing to say you hate something... so easy to hate... what a piece of shit I am... I ca.... I can't believe I went the easy way... I thought I knew... I wish I know something... anything.... Ehhh...."

Despite the growing vibration and shaking coming from below, all three of the intact people in the room seemed captivated by Johnny's last words. What they were hoping for was hard to say, although what he said did not fulfill any of their expectations.

He would never say what you want him to say.

Shut up.

There was a short silence that even Krik seemed to respect before Johnny coughed again, this time laughing more clearly as he stared at Krik.

"Actually.... your head looks more like a reject jelly bean."

"Oh, that's it!" Krik raised his foot with the intent on kicking Johnny's already mutilated face into further disrepair.

No don't DON'T STOP

Edgar moved in front of Krik. "Don't you understand? This is more important then-"

His fist smashed into Edgar's face.

With a sharp cry of pain Edgar fell back, sure that his nose was broken. He could feel blood running down his face and into his mouth. The rush of adrenaline and pain at the blow was phenomenally strong and easily surpassed any emotion that Edgar could remember. Unfortunately, the sudden blow had left him dizzy and had not improved his previous nausea in the least. He staggered back and tripped over one of Johnny's legs. While one hand remained on his face in an effort to staunch the steady flow of blood, his other arm windmilled through the air. Johnny didn't move.

Once his balance had returned, he tried to focus on his new enemy.

Oh God, don't do this. Please don't do this.

His glasses...wherever they were, he didn't have them now. They probably broke. But he could make out the shape of Krik about to begin his kicking assault on Johnny's head.

Don't don't don't DON'T

That rush of adrenaline gave him a sense of power and confidence that was sorely misplaced. As he struggled to see clearly Edgar rushed forward and pushed Krik away from Johnny's body.

Krik hadn't expected any more resistance from Edgar so he was shocked enough to allow himself to be pushed back. Edgar couldn't see his expression but he doubted that he was pleased.

"Krik! The thing! C'mon! We'll all be dead if you don't hurry up!"

"Fucker!"

Edgar balled his fist and tried to defend himself. He tried to hit Krik in the face but instead managed to hit the side of his head. The sharp stabbing pain that shot through Edgar's hand, particularly the joint in his thumb, gave him the impression that he wasn't doing this correctly.

That small voice of logic persuaded Edgar to try talking again. "Leave him al-"

Another blow, this time to the side of Edgar's temple. The entirely unfamiliar pain shot through his head and his body panicked. The blood clogged his throat for a second and he coughed to try and breath. Krik took this opportunity to kick Edgar in the gut.

He fell back against the floorboards entirely winded. Despite his body's desperate desire to retaliate Edgar couldn't make himself move. It was hard to think. His head ached to an extent he couldn't even describe and the blood in his mouth and throat wasn't making this any easier.

"You fucking queer, trying to fucking tell me what to do, I'll fucking put my boot up your fucking ass, you fucking queer bitch!" Krik kicked at Edgar's back viciously. The only thing that Edgar could do in his state was try to roll away ineffectively.

I told you not to.

When Edgar curled into a ball to try and minimize the damage being done, Krik focused on kicking his head.

At least, that's what he thought happened.

Things were getting hazy at that point.

Look at you. Scriabin's voice was faint. You can't even defend yourself, let alone someone else. You're pathetic.

He couldn't see anything anymore. His nasal passages must have collapsed because they weren't working anymore and he could only breathe through his mouth and that was getting increasingly difficult. The intense bleeding was very inconvenient as were some of the loose teeth that now rattled around in his mouth. Get rid of those quickly, they could be dangerous.

He was dimly aware of a tooth sliding from his lips in his best effort to spit it out.

Close enough.

He couldn't feel the collisions anymore so maybe Krik had stopped kicking him. That was a relief.

He's probably kicking Johnny. No wait, there he goes.

"You're too slow, bitch! I killed that fuck, and I'm getting out! Haaaa!" He could vaguely hear the man shout. The sound of footsteps towards the front door.

With the last of his conscious energy he rolled over and opened his swollen and puffy eyes.

What do you expect, my dear boy? Do you expect Johnny to be concerned over you? Over your welfare in any way? Do you expect him to be hovering over your body and weeping beautiful crystalline tears? Congratulations, Edgar, now you're BOTH dying.

His vision had worsened past its already horrible state due to the involuntary tears his eyes shed in an effort to clear them of the blood and mucus. He could see Johnny's back.

He hadn't moved at all.

Edgar heard a loud scream from the other room despite the fact that he felt as if his ears had been ripped off his head.

He saw Johnny's body shudder as if he was about to say something.

This is it, Edgar.

Goodbye.

And just like that, he didn't exist anymore.

Author's Note: That took forever to get up. Argh.
Anyway, I said I'd explain my weird anti-swearing problem, but I guess there really isn't a good explanation for it. I just don't swear myself. It's not cause I'm a prude or something, I think swearing is hilarious. I don't care if other people swear or not. It's just that I really can't and don't do it. Whenever I swear in real life, I feel sick and nauseus and frightened. I get this huge adrenaline rush. It feels absolutely horrible. Not only that, I also feel incredibly guilty, bad, and somewhat dirty. So I never do swear. There is ONE semiswear I do say on occasion, but it's in reference to only one person and he's the only person I'll ever call that. I can't type out swears without feeling the same way, so that's why all my swearwords were censored. Altho, now I've got my two lovely betas who write out the swears for me when I send them stuff to check, and then I copy and paste them into the correct places in the story. I can copy and paste stuff without too much of a problem. I just can't say stuff.
As ta WHY I'm so physically programmed against swearing, I have no idea. There are absolutely NO instances in my childhood that I can remember ever being punished for swearing cause I never did, not even as a kid. I have no idea where this whole strong anti-swearing thing came from cause I'm sure as heck not religious. Ah well. Now you know.
Hopefully next part will be up fairly soon. We'll see. <

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