Post-Neo Problems |

A Painful Soundbox

I don't like leaving messages before the story, but this one's important.

Content Warning for this chapter!
This chapter will be full of pure angst, please do not proceed if it could in any way trigger or discomfort you. 
Spamton has a breakdown, goes through extreme self-doubt and panic, minor body horror description, and even s.lf h.rm(Nothing major but he still hurts himself)

Stay safe my friends.

I will provide a summary when needed.

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Inside Spamton's chest, his soundbox was out of his control again. It was playing what seemed to be recordings. Recordings of Pink's voice. The weird thing was, Spamton didn't remember what he was hearing. It was talking to him, or at least about him. They were all small apologies, calming words, and questions. He knew it was all to him, but he didn't remember any of it, and that made his heart speed up. When was this, and why did he have it? Why was it playing back now?

He could feel his heart start to rattle, but his soundbox suddenly went silent. The rattling continued, yet it slowly dissipated as he came to terms with what happened. It was hard to accept that he'd missed something that seemed so important, but that was interrupted by a sharp tone.

His soundbox suddenly let out a burst of random sounds, everything from clips of songs to screaming to sound effects you would hear in a kids' show. The sudden cacophony alarmed Spamton greatly, he grabbed the sides of his head tight in fear. When it wasn't stopping, Spamton began harshly punching his chest, wanting the racket to leave. It echoed and bounced through his head, adrenaline coursing through his body in hopelessness. Running wouldn't escape the din, it was coming from his own chest.

It paused, yet before Spamton could sigh in relief, something else began to play. The dial tone of a phone. Already on the brink of tears, Spamton began feeling those tears fall down his face, each at their own pace.

Drip.   Drip.        Drip.

More began to flow and the puppet began gasping for air, trying to breathe through his sobs as the sound of a phone beeping, a call left unanswered, rang through the room.

What did he do to deserve this? Why was this happening?

Spamton shut his eyes tight, silently begging the noise to cease. His face felt like it was falling apart with each tear that dropped. Each tear that fell down his face, sliced through the air, and landed on his leg. Each tear that proved how weak he was.

Each tear made his longing to be in Pink's arms stronger. And each tear made him feel like he didn't deserve to be held.

The slow and agonizing transition from one form to another began once again, and Spamton braced himself for the worst. Wings sprouted, weighing down on his back until he felt like he would split at his ribcage. Limbs lengthened, stretching in unnatural and painful ways. His jaw dislocated along with his joints which crunched and split until they fit the new body.

Now in the neo form, the soundbox seemed to be amplified. The beeping and ringing grew louder, as if asking the whole world to listen to it's story.

A story of sorrow. A melancholy story that begged and begged and pleaded and wished for someone else to take on the pain, the crushing guilt that pulled Spamton down, down into the dumpster he knew he belonged in.

However, that wasn't the way life was going. He wasn't in a dumpster anymore. Spamton opened his eyes once again, gripping and throwing the glitching, static filled glasses across the room. His eyes darted across every object it could locate, desperate to prove to his heart and brain that he didn't belong in the trash. Someone cared about him enough to take him off the streets, to live with him. That had to mean something.