Squidward Is a F*ucking Mindreader

11. The Hideaway

*Becca's POV*

I climbed the rickety ladder, cautious of the low hanging branches and soft, billowing willows. When I reached the top, I saw a platform made entirely of wood. Hoisting myself up I scrambled awkwardly onto the platform and brushed myself off.

Then I looked up.

I was standing inside the cutest tree house I had ever seen. It had a large king sized bed with a grey duvet and pillow, situated next to a window facing away from the school and off into the countryside. Across the end of the bed, a large knit fluffy blanket was draped, the ends neatly tucked in along with the duvet under the mattress. Next to the bed, there sat on either side, a small table made also of wood, varnished and perfect. A hammock hung outside, on a balcony like thing, accessible only from outside the room. And inside the room, on the right hand wall, opposite the bed, was a wooden desk, mahogany in colour, with a typewriter and assorted vintage stationary arranged neatly on top. It was the perfect little home and I gasped in amazement.

I had never seen anything nearly as beautiful. The green grass sprawled across the hillside and the sun kissing every sheep shaped speck in the distance. 

A figure came up behind me, I could practically feel the enjoyment radiating off his body. He was relaxed here. I could feel it.

"Do you like it?" He asked, a nervous tone suddenly lacing his intentionally smug words. I smiled softly.

"Yeah... It's beautiful..." I whispered, my breath heavy with serenity. The whole room was calm. Unimaginably quiet, not a single sound, sans the birds' distant chirping in the sky. Not a plane, nor a sheep, nor the noisy campus made a single sound. It was quiet.

Daniel took a deep breath. "My Dad built this place, back when he was a student. He didn't have any friends, so he used to sit in that chair and write." He gestured to the large armchair situated in front of the desk. It was plush looking with turquoise velvet lining.

"He built every piece of furniture with his bare hands. He sanded each piece of wood and polished every surface till it shone as bright as the sun. And then, when it was built, he sat inside, every lunch, every break, late at night, just wondering around the room, or sitting at that desk, writing his novels. His memoirs. He was so proud of this place. Told me to find it when I got here. To sit in his chair, and write on his typewriter. To write my own memoirs, reflections on your junior years. He told me that one day, when I was old enough, he'd take me to see all the best starting points of writers. That he would show me that anyone could be a writer. And that I could be one too. He loved me. But not enough." He murmured that last part under his breath, sadness filling his glistening eyes as he looked out towards the hillside.

"You can see the sea from here." He said, after a moment's silence. "He used to describe it all so vividly. When I got here it felt like I'd been here a million times before, it was so homely, comfortable. I felt at ease. It was never like that at home." And he trailed off again, looking, this time, out at the thin line of blue on the horizon. He looked wistful, as if remembering simpler times.

I suddenly surprised us both, by reaching out to him and grabbing his hand. He looked down at our entwined fingers, then back up at me. I smiled at him, and a single tear escaped his sea blue eye. I could feel his hand gripping tighter and tighter. I wanted to be there for him but I had no idea what he was going through.

I pulled him closer to me and placed his arm around my shoulder. I leant my head on his shoulder and wrapped my arms around his waist. We stood there, in the middle of the room for heaven knows how long. Just me and him and the wind.

God knows how long we stood there for but by the time we were ready to move it was like eleven in the morning and I was hungry with a capital Q.

Turns out, Squidward's secret home didn't have a kitchen so we had to walk back across the field and into The Village, where we got Cornish pasties in the only true flavour. Cheese and Onion.

Squiddy was being a bit weird so I grabbed a stick on our way through the field and poked him with it. I'd had my moment of affection and emotion, so I could return to my natural form, as a savage bitch.

Squidward was becoming increasingly more annoyed and eventually, on the edge of The Village, he grabbed the stick from my hands and snapped it over his knee.

"Becca, what the fuck, why can't you just walk normally? Why do you have to be all moody and annoying as fuck? Just leave me alone!" He screamed at me.

Well...

There wasnt much else I could do. I hung back, plucking at the tall strands of yellow grass and stuck the wheat looking ones in my mouth.

"Get the farmer look..." I whispered, the hurt shining through my voice. Squidward kicked the grass with his feet.

I mean he's not going to kick with his hands is he. But at the same time it's like, if ninjas can do it, why can't Daniel?

And more importantly, why can't actual Squidward?

When and if I have a kid, I'm gonna name him something SpongeBob related. Like Patrick, or Bob, or Gary, or Edward.

Oh my god. Squidward is just the fish version of Edward!!!!

(A/N: I swear I actually only figured that out writing that. That's crazy!)

That's crazy!! I never realised that before. But it all makes sense now. Damn. That's deep.

Daniel was still silking ahead of me, his shoulders hunched and his eyes glaring into the ground like it's trying to distract him from tightrope walking.

I frowned. It wasn't like I was sorry for poking him, but I definitely felt something. Good, emotions are so tedious. If we could all be plain and boring like me, Fish fake Edward over there wouldn't be crying.

Ok maybe he isn't crying. But he's doing something equally as bad. Damn. Squidward really got issues.

I wanted to do something. I wasn't sure what I wanted to do, or why, or how.

It's possible this is that emotions crap again but whatever it is, it's telling me to help Daniel. And I think I will.